The Desert Spear (63 page)

As much his home as Tibbet's Brook in some ways, the Painted Man was overwhelmed by the emotion he felt at again seeing the mountain city he had sworn so many times never to return to. Too distracted to fight, he set up a portable circle and made camp while he waited for dawn, trying to remember what he could about Duke Euchor.

The Painted Man had only met Euchor once, as a boy, but he had worked in Euchor's Library, and knew the duke's heart. Euchor hoarded knowledge as another man might hoard food or gold. If he gave Euchor the battle wards, the duke would not share them openly with his people. He would attempt to increase his own power by keeping them secret.

The Painted Man could not allow that. He needed to distribute the wards quickly to every Warder in the city. There was a network of Warders in Miln, a network he had helped build. If he got the wards to Cob, his former master, they could be everywhere before Euchor had time to suppress the knowledge.

Thinking of Cob opened a floodgate of memories he had long suppressed. He had not spoken to his master or anyone else in Miln for eight years. He had written letters but never found the strength to send them. Were Ragen and Elissa well' Their daughter Marya would be eight now. What of Cob, and his friend Jaik' What of Mery'

Mery. It was she who had kept him from coming back those early years. He could have faced Jaik again, or Ragen and Cob. Elissa would have railed at him for leaving without so much as a goodbye, but he knew that she would have forgiven him when she was done. It was Mery he did not want to see. Mery, the only girl he had ever allowed himself to love.

Does she still think of me'
he wondered.
Did she wait, thinking I might return'
He had asked himself those questions a thousand times over the years, but after she had rejected him once, he had never dared seek the answers.

And now'he looked down at the tattoos covering his skin. Now he could not face any of them, could not bear for them to see the freak he had become. He would trust Cob, because he had no other choice, but better for all if the rest thought him gone forever, or even dead. He thought of the letters in his pouch. They said enough. He would see them delivered, and let all know the sender had died a good death.

A great weariness overcame him, and he lay down. As sleep took him, he saw Mery's face in his mind's eye. Saw the night they had broken.

But his dreams changed that past. This time, he did not let her go. He gave up his aspiration to become a Messenger, staying on to run Cob's warding business, and instead of feeling confined, he felt freer than he did walking the naked night.

He saw Mery's beauty in her wedding dress, saw the graceful swell as her belly grew, saw her laughing, surrounded by happy, healthy children. He saw the smiling customers whose homes he made safe, and he saw the pride in Elissa's eyes. A mother's pride.

His limbs twitched in the dirt, trying vainly to call his mind back from the vision, but the dream had hold of him, and there was no escape.

He saw the night they had broken again, this time as it truly was, with him riding off without another word after their argument. But as he left, his mind's eye followed Mery instead, watching her over long years spent walking the walls of Miln, looking out for his return. All the joy and color was washed from her face, and at first the sadness only made her more beautiful. But as the seasons passed, that sad, beautiful face grew gaunt and hollow, with lines of sorrow about her mouth and dark circles beneath lifeless eyes. The best years of her life she spent waiting atop the wall, praying, weeping.

He saw the night they broke a third time, and with this last vision the dream turned into full nightmare. For in it he left, but there was no sorrow, no great pain. Mery had spit in the dirt at the city gate and turned away, finding another instantly and forgetting he had ever existed. Ragen and Elissa, so wrapped up in their infant daughter, had not even noticed he was gone. Cob's new journeyman was more grateful, wanting nothing more than to be like a son and take over his shop. The Painted Man started awake, but the image remained, and he was ashamed of his horror, for he knew it was selfish of him.

That last vision would be best for all,
he thought.

After a dozen years of beating elements, the place where One Arm had breached the wardnet of Miln was still a different color from the rest of the wall, the Painted Man noted as he broke camp in the morning, packing away Twilight Dancer's warded barding.

The three dreams still haunted his thoughts. Which would he find inside' Should he try to find out, for his own peace, if none other'

Don't,
the voice in his head advised.
You came to see Cob, so see him. You're not here for the others. Spare them the pain. Spare yourself.
The voice was with him always, urging caution. He thought of it as his father's voice, though he had not seen Jeph Bales in close to fifteen years.

He was used to ignoring it.

Just a look,
he thought.
She won't even see me. Wouldn't recognize me even if she did. Just one look, to take back into the night.

He rode as slowly as he could bear, but even so the day gate was only just opening as he arrived. City guards came out first, escorting groups of Warders and apprentices to clearly demarcated sections of ground, where they bent and began to collect pieces of warded glass, checking quickly to ensure they had been charged by a coreling's touch. The Painted Man himself had brought the glass wards to Miln, but even he was shocked at this efficiency of production, as good as they had in the Hollow, if less practical. The Milnese Warders seemed to make mostly objects of luxury: walking sticks, statues, windows, and jewelry. When the blood of the bait was washed from them, all would be as clear as polished diamond, and infinitely harder.

The guards looked up as he approached. In the cool damp of morning, it did not seem so strange that he should have his hood up, but seeing the weapons in Twilight Dancer's harnesses, they raised their spears until the Painted Man showed them the pouch with Rhinebeck's seal.

'You're out early, Messenger,' one guard said as they relaxed.

'Raced and tried to make it without stopping at Harden's Grove,' the Painted Man said, the lie coming easily. 'Thought I had it, but then I heard the last bell from afar, and knew I'd never make the gate before sunset. Set up my circles just a mile back and spent the night.'

'Ripped luck,' the guard said. 'Cold night to be stuck outside, a mile from warm walls and sweet succor.'

The Painted Man, who had not felt heat nor cold in years, nodded and forced himself to shiver, pulling his hood lower as if to ward off a lingering chill. 'I could use a warm room and a hot coffee. I'd even settle for it the other way around.'

The guard nodded and seemed about to wave him on when he looked up suddenly. The Painted Man tensed, wondering if he would ask him to lower his hood.

'Things in the South as bad as they say'' the guard asked instead. 'Rizon lost, Beggar refugees everywhere, and this new Deliverer doing nothing for it''

Even this far north, rumors had flown. 'That's news for the duke, before I can share it with anyone else,' the Painted Man said, 'but ay, it's bad in the South.'

The guard grunted and waved for him to head on into the city.

The Painted Man found an inn and led Twilight Dancer to the stable. There was a boy already there, mucking the stalls. He couldn't have been more than twelve years old, and he was filthy.

Servant class,
the Painted Man thought, which explained why he was working so early. The boy likely slept in the stables, and counted himself lucky at that. He reached into his purse and took out a heavy gold coin, putting it in the boy's hand.

The boy's eyes bulged as he looked at the coin. It was likely more money than he had ever held in his hand, enough to purchase new clothes, food, and succor for a month.

'See my horse is well cared for, and there 'll be another when I claim him,' the Painted Man said. It was extravagant and might draw attention, but money meant nothing to him anymore, and he knew how easily the Servants of Miln could become Beggars. He left the boy and headed into the inn.

'I need a room for the next few nights,' he told the innkeeper, pretending as if his saddlebags and gear were a troublesome weight when they felt like feathers.

'Five moons a night,' the innkeeper said. He was young, seeming too young to run a business, and he bowed conspicuously, trying to peek under the Painted Man's hood.

'Flame demon spat in my face,' the Painted Man said, the real irritation in his voice driving the man back. 'It ent a pretty sight.'

'Of course, Messenger,' the innkeeper said, bowing again. 'I apologize. Wern't right of me to stare.'

'It's fine,' the Painted Man grunted, carrying his gear up the steps and locking it in his room before heading out into the city.

The streets of Miln were bright and familiar, the stench of dung fires and coal from the ironworks almost welcoming. It was just as he remembered, and yet alien.

He
was different.

The way to Cob's shop was second nature even now, but the Painted Man was shocked by what he found. Large extensions had been built to either side. The small house behind the shop that he and Cob had lived in had been torn down and replaced with a warehouse many times its size. Cob had been prosperous when Arlen left, but it was nothing compared with this. Steeling himself, he went to the main entrance.

Chimes rang as the door opened, and the sound, like a part of his soul that had been missing, sent a shudder through him. The shop was larger now, but still filled with familiar sights and scents. There was the workbench he had hunched over for countless hours. The small handcart he had pulled all over the city. He walked over to a windowsill and reverently ran his gloved fingers over wards he had etched in the stone. He felt he could almost pick up a warding tool and return to work as if the last eight years had never happened.

'Can I help you'' asked a voice, and the Painted Man froze, his blood turning to ice. He had been lost in another time and hadn't heard anyone approach, but without turning, he knew who it was. Knew, and was terrified. What was she doing here' What did it mean' Slowly, he turned to face her, keeping his face shadowed by his hood.

The years had been kind to Mother Elissa. With forty-six winters behind her, her long hair was still dark and rich, and her cheeks smooth, with only the faintest lines about her eyes and mouth. Smile lines, he 'd heard them called, and it gave some relief.

Let her have spent the last eight years smiling,
he thought.

Elissa opened her mouth to speak, but a young girl with long brown hair and large brown eyes came running over to them, stealing her attention. The girl wore a dress of maroon velvet, with a matching ribbon in her hair. The ribbon was askew, thick locks of hair falling in front of her face, and her cheeks and hands were white with chalk that streaked her dress as well. The Painted Man knew in an instant that she was Marya, Ragen and Elissa's daughter, whom he had held mere moments after her birth. She was innocent and beautiful, and he ached, seeing in her all the joy of the years he had missed.

'Mother, see what I drew!' the girl cried. She held out a slate, upon which a warding circle had been drawn. The Painted Man scanned the wards in a blink and knew they were strong. More, he saw that many of them were his, brought with him from Tibbet's Brook. He took comfort knowing that in some small way he had touched her life.

'These are beautiful, sweet one,' Elissa congratulated, bending to secure her daughter's hair in the ribbon once more. She kissed Marya's forehead when she was done. 'Soon your father will be taking you on his Warding calls.' The girl gave a little squeal of delight.

'We have a customer to attend, sweet,' Elissa said, turning back to the Painted Man, her arm around the girl. 'I am Mother Elissa.' The pride in that title was still evident in her voice after all these years. 'And this is my daughter''

'Are you a Tender'' the girl asked him, cutting her mother off.

'No,' the Painted Man said, using the deep rasp of a voice he had adopted since warding his flesh. The last thing he needed was for Elissa to recognize his voice.

'Then why do you dress like one'' the girl demanded.

'I am demon-scarred,' he told her, 'and I don't want to frighten you.'

'I'm not scared,' the girl said, trying to peek under his hood. He took a step back, pulling the hood lower.

'You're being rude!' Elissa scolded her. 'Run along and play with your brother.'

The girl took on a rebellious look, but Elissa stared her down and she darted back across the room to a worktable where a boy of perhaps five winters was stacking blocks with wards painted on their sides. The Painted Man saw Ragen in his young face, and felt a profound gladness for his mentor, mixed with a terrible regret that he would never know the boy, or the man he would become.

Elissa looked abashed. 'I am sorry for that. My husband, too, has scars he does not care for the world to see. You're a Messenger, then''

The Painted Man nodded.

'What can I help you with, today'' she asked. 'A new shield' Or perhaps repairing a portable circle''