The Desert Spear

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.