Barren

by Peter V. Brett

  Dedication

  For John Brett Jr.

  1970–97

  It gets easier, but it never gets easy.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  1: Greatward

  2: The Square Girls’ Club

  3: The Hive

  4: Far as We Need

  5: The Vote

  About the Author

  By Peter V. Brett

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  1

  Greatward

  334 ar Summer

  Selia shifted, wrapping her arms tighter around the body next to her. Smooth skin with hard muscle beneath, warm like a crock filled with fresh-baked cookies. She put her nose into the thick braid of hair and inhaled. The scent was euphoric.

  Selia’s eyes popped open.

  “Night, girl!” She gave Lesa a shove to wake her. “Fell asleep again!”

  Selia glanced at the window, where a faint glow shone through the shutter slats of her house. “Nearly sunup! You’ve got to get—”

  “Shhhhhh.” Lesa reached a hand behind her, stroking Selia’s face until her callused fingers settled gently on Selia’s lips. “Mam and Da went up to Jeph Bales’ farm to help prepare. Never know I ent been home.”

  Lesa snuggled back into the feathered pillow, quickly falling back to sleep. Selia drew a deep breath and curled around her, attempting the same. Lesa was right.

  But Selia had never been good at sleeping when there were problems to worry at. Lesa’s parents might be away, but she was still living under their roof. The young woman had barely twenty summers, while Selia was laying stores against her sixty-ninth winter. Lying with another woman was already enough to ignite town gossip. Taking a lover less than a third her age might see folk strip her of the Speaker’s gavel—if they didn’t just put her out in the night and have done.

  Even as Selia squeezed her eyes shut, the sight of Renna Tanner, staked in Town Square for the demons, remained.

  No. We don’t do that anymore.

  But Selia remembered how quickly Jeorje had turned the town against Renna, and he had far more reason to want Selia staked than some barley-headed farm girl.

  Selia’s arm, tucked beneath Lesa, grew numb. The woman’s heat had them both sweating, a sticky bond to their skin. Too uncomfortable to sleep, Selia began the slow process of working her arm free without waking her partner.

  Already, she was planning the day. Lesa’s family wasn’t the only one to head up to Jeph Bales’ farm. It was new moon, and Jeph had called the town council to meet on his property that night.

  It was an unusual request for the council to meet outside Town Square—not to mention at night. But there were rumors about what Jeph was building on his farm, and all wanted to know the truth of it.

  Selia didn’t need to guess. Arlen Bales paid his father a visit last moon. She knew this because that same night, Renna Tanner had materialized in Selia’s yard, catching her and Lesa with their skirts up.

  The Brook’s prodigal children brought grave warnings. Smart demons. Shape changers. Corelings working in concert, dismantling wards like Baleses reaping a field. Tibbet’s Brook was still coming to grips with fighting even “normal” demons. The battle wards were spreading, but few had tested themselves against the night. Folk weren’t prepared for what was coming.

  Selia slipped from the bed, quietly padding to the washbasin. Lesa’s scent clung to her, evidence of their indiscretion. Renna had stayed hidden until Selia sent Lesa away, and offered no judgment over the tea and cookies, but it was a reminder of how careless they had become.

  Folk used to call you Barren, Renna told her, but tonight’s got me wonderin’ they got it wrong.

  If Selia and Lesa didn’t stop, it was only a matter of time before the town found out. She feared the graybeards might already be recalling old rumors and making guesses.

  Selia splashed her face. The water was cold, shocking away the last vestiges of sleep. She looked at her reflection in the same silvered mirror she’d used for almost seventy years, but the face staring back was only dimly familiar—a faded memory brought back to life.

  The deep lines in her face had shallowed to nothing. Her once-white hair was yellow at the roots and growing. That hair was a rarity in the Brook, a gift from her father Edwar, a Milnese Messenger who decided to make Tibbet’s Brook his home.

  Selia looked at her hands. The once-translucent skin was now thick and tough, spots of age melting away into sun-browned flesh.

  She straightened, but there wasn’t so much as a twinge as her back aligned. No ache in her shoulders and knees. No sparks of pain as her knuckles flexed.

  Next to the basin, within easy reach, was the spear Arlen Bales had given her. She brushed her fingertips over the delicate wards carved into its length, shivering in remembrance of the rush of magic that traveled up its shaft when she struck her first demon with it. The power was wild—intoxicating. In its grip she moved with strength and speed that were . . . inhuman, fighting with animal passion.

  The feeling of invincibility faded soon afterward, but a bit of the strength lingered. She woke the next day feeling stronger than she had in years.

  Selia had killed many demons since, leading the Town Square militia to victory after victory. Corelings were slowly being cleansed from every yard and field in the Brook.

  The rush of magic was addictive, as many folk were learning. Even Selia was caught in its grip. It did more than strengthen the body; it heightened passion as well.

  She drew her hand back from the weapon as if it had suddenly grown hot, and looked back at Lesa, snoring contentedly.

  Any fool who’d seen a Jongleur’s show knew magic came with a price.

  * * *

  “Out of bed, lazy girl.” Selia gave Lesa a shove. “Tea is hot and there will be the Core to pay if you let it get cold.”

  Lesa flung back the covers, shameless as she slipped out of bed and bent to pick up her trousers. She glanced up, smiling as she caught Selia staring.

  Selia snatched the blouse from her bedpost and threw it at the girl, but she was smiling, too. “Get dressed while I take the butter cookies from the oven.”

  Lesa entered the kitchen soon after. Even with her back turned, Selia could tell the young woman was reaching for the batter-covered spoon resting in the mixing bowl. Without looking up, Selia snatched the spoon and used it to swat the back of Lesa’s hand.

  “Ow!” Lesa snatched her hand away.

  “Licking the spoon’s a reward, not a privilege.” Selia laid a plate of cookies on the windowsill to cool. “Set the table and pour the tea. Yesterday’s batch is in the crock.”

  Lesa held up a fist, turning it to show the batter splashed across the back. Then she deliberately licked it clean.

  Selia raised the spoon threateningly, and Lesa laughed, darting to the cookie crock on the table. “Forget sometimes, you’re still Old Lady Barren.”

  Selia raised a brow. “That what children call me now?”

  Lesa colored. “Din’t mean . . .”

  Selia waved the apology away. “What will your young friends say, when they learn you’ve been sleeping in Old Lady Barren’s bed?”

  Lesa winked. “Ent done much sleeping.”

  “Know what I mean,” Selia said.

  “You say ‘when’ like it’s written somewhere folk are gonna find out,” Lesa said.

  “Live to be an old lady, you’ll learn folk find everything out eventually.”

  Lesa threw up her hands. “So what if they do? You’re Speaker for the Brook, and every night you go out and kill corelings to keep folk safe. Town couldn’t do without you. And I done everything my parents eve
r asked, and got demon scars to show what I’ve given this town. Who cares, folk find out we’re square girls?”

  Selia winced at the term. “Where did you hear that? Do you even know what it means?”

  Lesa shrugged. “Everyone knows. Means girls who kiss girls.”

  Selia bit her tongue. “Schoolyard talk’s changed since I was teaching.”

  Lesa blinked. “You were schoolmam?”

  “No.” Selia shook her head. “That was Lory, my mother.”

  Lesa splashed tea as she dunked a cookie, cramming it into her mouth before it had time to soften. Crumbs sprayed as she spoke. “Want to hear all about her.”

  Selia swatted the air with the wooden spoon. “Ent story time. Sun’s coming up. Finish your tea and head out the back before someone sees you. Take Dyer’s Way.”

  Lesa wrinkled her nose. The alley behind Dyer’s shop where Jan kept his chemical vats stank, discouraging casual traffic. The perfect path for one wishing to be unseen.

  “Don’t want to go,” Lesa said. “Just tell folk I came at dawn to escort you.”

  “Since when do I need an escort to walk down the street to Town Square?” Selia gave Lesa the look. Her wrinkles might have smoothed away, but her gray hair still carried weight in the Brook.

  “Ay, Speaker.” Lesa wiped her mouth and left without another word.

  You’ll pay for that later. Selia let out a breath of relief when the door closed behind the girl. Another moment successfully stolen. How many more would they have?

  Her appetite lost, Selia set the cookies aside and took out her writing kit, continuing a series of letters to kin in Fort Miln. There hadn’t been a Messenger for over a year, but sooner or later one would come, and her father taught her better than to be unprepared.

  After an hour she packed the fresh cookies and went to the stable where Butter, her spirited gelding, waited. Her father’s old Messenger armor was stowed in the saddlebags she slung from Butter’s back. The Smiths removed some plates and shifted others, hammering until it all fit her, but the smell of oil, steel, and old sweaty leather still reminded Selia of Edwar. There was comfort knowing the same metal that succored her father on his journeys now protected her.

  His shield was goldwood covered in a layer of fine Milnese steel, defensive wards still strong after decades of use and fifty years above the mantel. Only his spear hung there now, the fine weapon no match for the one Arlen Bales gifted her.

  Selia led her horse down the road to Town Square. She was thankful for her discretion when she saw Tender Harral, Meada Boggin, and Coline Trigg already waiting in the square with the militias. It would not have done for so many to see her arrive with Lesa.

  Meada’s son Lucik was with them, along with his wife Beni, and nearly a dozen men and women from Boggin’s Hill. Their round shields had two concentric rings of wards, with a frothing mug of ale painted at their center. The Boggins wore boiled armor with wards burned into the leather, and kept their warded spears close to hand.

  The change magic wrought on Selia was more pronounced, but any fool could see the power at work here, too. Folk she’d known their whole lives were changing in noticeable ways. Tender Harral’s armor was hung from an acolyte’s horse, but he kept spear and Canon close. Muscles strained the sleeves of his once-loose robe.

  Meada’s gray hair was streaked with brown. She led the Boggin militia in clearing the demons from Boggin’s Hill, but had since given her spear to her son. Lucik was always a strapping boy, but he’d added fifty pounds of muscle in recent months. A quiet lad, he was fierce when fighting corelings.

  “Speaker.” Lucik dropped his eyes when he noticed Selia’s gaze. Fierce in battle, yes, but still loyal as a pup.

  “Good boy.” She resisted the urge to scratch him behind the ears.

  Meada snorted as Lucik’s ears colored. “Good to see you, Speaker.”

  “And you, Meada. Sorry I ent been up the hill recently.” As she spoke, Selia’s eyes scanned the assembled Square militia, mounted five wide and five deep. Twenty-five of her best fighters to keep the peace and stand guard when the sun set. The wards on their wooden shields were a perfect square, a map of Tibbet’s Brook painted in the center of its succor.

  “Don’t think on it,” Meada said. “Creator knows you’ve been busy clearing corelings out of town, and it’s got everyone feeling sunnier.”

  “Credit for that goes to a lot of folk, you and your son included.” Selia spotted Lesa in her assigned place in the second row of the formation—close enough to see, but far enough to mask any hint of favoritism. Normally Lesa would meet her eyes and give Selia a private smile, but today the girl had her eyes studiously forward.

  She was still upset.

  Perhaps that’s best, while the council meets.

  “Brine sent word not to wait on the Cutters,” Harral said. “They’ll come in their own time. Hog left at dawn with a dozen store security.”

  Selia harrumphed. “Store security,” Hog called them, but they were fast becoming his personal army. The Square militia was all volunteers, men and women with normal day lives, coming out to fight for their town when the sun set. Most made and warded their own weapons and equipment, with varying degrees of quality.

  Hog’s store security all wore armor of thick leather, studded with warded silver. Their matching spears were of the finest quality, etched expertly with wards. The three concentric ward circles on their steel-covered shields had in their center a painting of the original General Store Hog built when he first came to Tibbet’s Brook.

  Store security pulled their weight in town, keeping the square clear of demons and aiding the militia in culling corelings from valuable land, but there was no illusion about whom they answered to.

  “Let’s not waste time, then.” Selia mounted and they set off north.

  Jeph’s farm was already bustling when they arrived. Hog’s pavilion was set, his thick-armed daughters, Dasy and Catrin, selling food and ale. Security was still unloading carts, and Hog himself carried a keg in each arm.

  “Night,” Coline said. “He looks thirty again.”

  Hog had always been robust, but he carried more than sixty winters, and in recent years it had begun to show. But, as with Selia, the seasons had melted away with the lines on his face. His hair and beard were coal-black, any last vestiges of gray trimmed away. Thick curls grew on his crown where not long ago there had been bare skin.

  “It’s unnatural,” Coline said. Harral grunted in agreement. Even Meada was nodding.

  Selia turned to them, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s different and you know it, Speaker,” Coline said. “You’re out every night, riskin’ your life to keep folk safe. Ent the same as payin’ store security to drag you a chained-up demon every Fifthday to suck on like a skeeter.”

  “Ay, maybe,” Selia said. “But Hog’s always pulled his weight with this town. I’d have run him out for a cheat long ago if he hadn’t.”

  “Ay,” Meada agreed. “But don’t forget he voted Renna Tanner into the night because he thought it was better for business.”

  Coline dropped her eyes, losing bluster. For, of course, she had voted Renna out, too. No one, not even Selia, had entirely forgiven her for it.

  “Creator plans our trials as well as our triumphs,” Harral cut in. “Could be He put Hog here to cast that vote. Might be that’s what brought the Deliverer to heal our divisions.”

  “If that Messenger was the Deliverer I’ll eat my cookie crock,” Selia said. “Didn’t heal a corespawned thing. Brook’s more divided than ever.”

  “That, too, is the Creator’s plan,” Harral said. “Brook’s been evening a long while. Might be it needed to get dark before the dawn.”

  Selia wrinkled her nose. “Can’t know the Creator’s plan, my da used to say, but we do know He’s not going to come down from Heaven to carry the mail.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Coline asked.

  “Means we own our problems.” Seli
a locked eyes with the Herb Gatherer. “And our choices.”

  Coline flinched and dropped her eyes. “Ay, Speaker.”

  Jeph Bales was showing off his new greatward like a prize pig at the summer Solstice festival. Bales’ property was one massive ward of protection now, formed by fences, shrubs, hedges, stone paths, and curve-roofed storage sheds, not to mention the barley fields, manicured from the straight rows of their original planting. Simple shapes flowed seamlessly into one another, creating something altogether more complex. Folk walked around eyes agog as they waited for a turn to climb the watchtower to see the greatward from above.

  Jeph broke away from a group of guests when he noticed Selia arrive. “Speaker.”

  “You’re a Speaker now, too, Jeph Bales,” Selia reminded him. “You can call me Selia.”

  Jeph shook his head. “Ent ready for that. Not looking to lead this town.”

  “Ready or not, Jeph Bales, that’s what you’re doing. There’s more to leading than fancy words. Folk need an example, and you’ve impressed everyone with this monstrosity you’ve built.”

  “Wait till sunset,” Jeph said.

  There was a shout, and they saw Mack Pasture storming away from Hog, who had his arms crossed. Behind him, two store security guards loomed.

  Mack headed their way and Selia sighed. Pasture had become a thorn in everyone’s side since he was voted off the council as Speaker for the farms in favor of Jeph.

  “Everything all right, Pasture?” Selia called.

  “No, it corespawned ent!” Mack cried. “Hog won’t sell me a warded spear on credit.”

  “Could have had your own,” Jeph said, “you’d had the stones to stand when the Messenger came.” There was no divide in town deeper than those who wanted to protect Renna Tanner and those who voted her into the night.

  “Din’t need it,” Mack snapped, “till Hog bought the old Tanner farm and sent store security to sweep the property. Sent all the corelings runnin’ my way, scarin’ the cattle and apt to overload the wards. And now he won’t so much as rent me a spear.”