“What else can you do?” the Warded Man asked quietly.

Rojer smiled, as content to perform for an audience of two as he was for a cheering crowd. He softened his music again, the chaotic notes smoothly flowing back into the haunting melody. The corelings reappeared, drawn to the music once more.

“Watch this,” Rojer instructed, and changed the sound again, the notes rising high and grating, causing even Leesha and the Warded Man to grit their teeth and lean away.

The reaction of the corelings was more pronounced. They grew enraged, shrieking and roaring as they threw themselves at the barrier with abandon. Again and again the wards flared and threw them back, but the demons did not relent, smashing themselves against the wardnet in an insane attempt to reach Rojer and silence him forever.

Two rock demons joined the throng, shoving past the others and hammering at the wards as yet more added to the press. The Warded Man rose silently behind Rojer and lifted his bow.

The string hummed, and one of the heavy, thick-headed arrows exploded into the chest of the nearest rock demon like a bolt of lightning, brightening the area for a moment. Again and again the Warded Man fired into the horde, his hands a blur. The warded bolts blasted the corelings back, and the few that rose again were quickly torn to pieces by their fellows.

Rojer and Leesha stood horrified at the slaughter. The Jongleur’s bow slipped from the fiddle’s strings, hanging forgotten in his limp hand as he watched the Warded Man work.

The demons were screaming still, but it was pain and fear now, their desire to attack the wards vanished with the music. Still the Warded Man fired, again and again until his arrows were all gone. He grabbed a spear, throwing it and striking a fleeing wood demon in the back.

There was chaos now, the few remaining corelings desperate to escape. The Warded Man stripped off his robe, ready to leap from the circle to kill demons with his bare hands.

“No, please!” Leesha cried, throwing herself at him. “They’re running!”

“You would spare them?” the Warded Man roared, glaring at her, his face terrible with wrath. She fell back in fear, but she kept her eyes locked on his.

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t go out there.”

Leesha feared he might strike her, but he only stared at her, his breath heaving. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he calmed and took up his robe, covering his wards once more.

“Was that necessary?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“The circle wasn’t designed to forbid so many corelings at once,” the Warded Man said, his voice again a cold monotone. “I don’t know that it would have held.”

“You could have just asked me to stop playing,” Rojer said.

“Yes,” the Warded Man agreed, “I could have.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Leesha demanded.

The Warded Man didn’t answer. He strode out of the circle and began cutting his arrows from the demon corpses.

Leesha was fast asleep later that night when the Warded Man approached Rojer. The Jongleur, staring out at the fallen demons, gave a startled jump when the man squatted down next to him.

“You have power over the corelings,” he said.

Rojer shrugged. “So do you,” he said. “More than I ever will.”

“Can you teach me?” the Warded Man asked.

Rojer turned, meeting the man’s gimlet eyes. “Why?” he asked. “You kill demons by the score. What’s my trick compared to that?”

“I thought I knew my enemies,” the Warded Man said. “But you’ve shown me otherwise.”

“You think they may not be all bad, if they can enjoy music?” Rojer asked.

The Warded Man shook his head. “They are no patrons of art, Jongleur,” he said. “The moment you ceased to play, they would have killed you without hesitation.”

Rojer nodded, conceding the point. “Then why bother?” he asked. “Learning the fiddle is a lot of work to charm beasts you can just as easily kill.”

The Warded Man’s face hardened. “Will you teach me or not?” he asked.

“I will …” Rojer said, thinking it through, “but I want something in return.”

“I have plenty of money,” the Warded Man assured him.

Rojer waved his hand dismissively. “I can get money whenever I need it,” he said. “What I want is more valuable.”

The Warded Man said nothing.

“I want to travel with you,” Rojer said.

The Warded Man shook his head. “Out of the question,” he said.

“You don’t learn the fiddle overnight,” Rojer argued. “It’ll take weeks to become even passable, and you’ll need more skill than that to charm even the least discriminating coreling.”

“And what do you get out of it?” the Warded Man asked.

“Material for stories that will fill the duke’s amphitheater night after night,” Rojer said.

“What about her?” the Warded Man asked, nodding back toward Leesha. Rojer looked at the Herb Gatherer, her breast gently rising and falling as she slept, and the Warded Man did not miss the significance of that gaze.

“She asked me to escort her home, nothing more,” Rojer said at last.

“And if she asks you to stay?”

“She won’t,” Rojer said quietly.

“My road is no Marko Rover tale, boy,” the Warded Man said. “I’ve no time to be slowed by one who hides at night.”

“I have my fiddle now,” Rojer said with more bravery than he felt. “I’m not afraid.”

“You need more than courage,” the Warded Man said. “In the wild, you kill or be killed, and I don’t just mean demons.”

Rojer straightened, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Everyone who tries to protect me ends up dead,” he said. “It’s time I learned to protect myself.”

The Warded Man leaned back, considering the young Jongleur.

“Come with me,” he said at last, rising.

“Out of the circle?” Rojer asked.

“If you can’t do that, you’re no use to me,” the Warded Man said. When Rojer looked around doubtfully, he added, “Every coreling for miles heard what I did to their fellows. It’s doubtful we’ll see more tonight.”

“What about Leesha?” Rojer asked, rising slowly.

“Twilight Dancer will protect her, if need be,” the man said. “Come on.” He moved out of the circle and vanished into the night.

Rojer swore, but he grabbed his fiddle and followed the man down the road.

Rojer clutched his fiddle case tightly as they moved through the trees. He had made to take it out at first, but the Warded Man had waved for him to put it away.

“You’ll draw attention we don’t want,” he whispered.

“I thought you said we weren’t likely to see any corelings tonight,” Rojer hissed back, but the Warded Man ignored him, moving through the darkness as if it were broad day.

“Where are we going?” Rojer asked for what seemed the hundredth time.

They climbed a small rise, and the Warded Man lay flat, pointing downward.

“Look there,” he told Rojer. Below, Rojer could see three very familiar men and a horse sleeping within the tight confines of an even more familiar portable circle.