The Desert Spear

But there was nothing. He searched the compound from one end to another, and found nothing. Had he imagined it?

“Anything?” Ragen asked, when he returned. The guildmaster was still in the doorway, safe behind the wards, but ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.

“Empty my pockets,” the Painted Man said with a shrug. “Maybe I imagined it.”

Ragen grunted. “No one gets cored for being too careful.”

The Painted Man took Ragen’s spear as he came back inside. A Messenger’s spear was his trusted companion on the road, and Ragen’s, though he had not Messaged in nearly a decade, was still well oiled and sharp.

“Let me ward this before I leave,” he said. He glanced outside. “And you check your wardnet come morning.” Ragen nodded.

“Must you go so soon?” Elissa asked.

“I draw too much attention in town, and I don’t want it to lead back here,” the Painted Man said. “Better I be gone before sunrise, and out the dawn gate the moment it opens.”

Elissa did not look pleased, but she embraced him tightly and kissed him. “We expect to see you again before another decade passes,” she warned.

“You will,” the Painted Man promised. “Honest word.”

The Painted Man felt better than he had in years when he left Ragen and Elissa just before dawn. They had refused sleep and stayed up with him through the night, filling him in on the goings-on in Miln since his departure, and asking after the details of his life. He told them stories of his early adventures, but never spoke of his time in the desert, when Arlen Bales had died and the Painted Man been born. Or the years after.

Still, there were enough tales to fill the remainder of the night and to spare. He barely made it away before the dawn bell, and had to trot to be far enough from the manse not to draw suspicion as people began to open warded doors and unshutter warded windows.

He smiled. Likely, his missing the bell and being forced to stay another day had been Elissa’s plan all along, but she had never been able to cage him.

The guards at the day gate were still stretching out morning kinks when he arrived, but the gate was open. “Seems everyone’s up early this morn,” one said as he passed.

The Painted Man wondered what he meant, but then he rode past the hill where he had first met Jaik and found his friend waiting there, sitting on a large rock.

“Looks like I made it out just in time,” Jaik said. “Had to break curfew to do it.”

The Painted Man dropped from the horse’s back and came over to him. Jaik made no effort to rise or extend a hand, so he simply sat on the rock beside him. “The Jaik I met on this hill would never break curfew.”

Jaik shrugged. “Didn’t have much choice. Knew you’d try and skulk off with the dawn.”

“Didn’t Ragen’s man bring you my letters?” the Painted Man asked.

Jaik pulled out the bundle and threw it to the ground. “Can’t read, and you know it.”

The Painted Man sighed. In truth, he had forgotten. “Came to see you in person,” he offered. “Wasn’t expecting to find Mery there, and she wasn’t eager that I stay.”

“I know,” Jaik said. “She came to me at the mill in tears. Told me everything.”

The Painted Man hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Jaik said. He sat quietly for a time, looking out over the land spread out before them.

“Always knew she was just settling for me,” he said at last. “You were gone a year before she saw me as anything more than a shoulder to cry on. Two more before she agreed to be my wife, and another after that before we made our vows. Even on the day she was holding her breath, hoping you’d storm in and break up the ceremony. Night, I half expected it myself.”

He shrugged. “Can’t blame her. She was marrying down a class, and I ent educated or much to look at. There was a reason I followed you around when we were kids. You were always better than me at everything. I wasn’t even fit to be your Jongleur.”

“Jaik, I’m no better than you are,” the Painted Man said.

“Yeah, I see that now.” Jaik spat. “I’m a better husband than you ever could have been. Know why? Because unlike you, I was there for her.”

The Painted Man scowled, and any feelings of contrition fled from his thoughts. Anger and hurt he would accept from Jaik, but the condescension in his tone burned.

“That’s the Jaik I remember,” he said. “Shows up and does the least he can. Heard Mery’s da had to call favors at the mill so you could afford to move off your parents’ carpet.”

But Jaik stood fast. “I was there for her here,” he snapped, pointing to his temple, “and here!” He pointed to his heart. “Your head and heart were always out there.” He swept a hand out over the horizon. “So why don’t you just go back there? No one needs your delivering here.”

The Painted Man nodded, leaping back up onto Twilight Dancer’s back. “You take care of yourself, Jaik.” He rode off.

CHAPTER 24

BROTHERS IN THE NIGHT

333 AR SPRING

“HEY! WATCH THE BUMPS, I’m tuning!” Rojer cried as the cart trundled along the road. He had carefully cleaned and waxed the ancient fiddle the Painted Man had given him, and purchased expensive new strings at the Jongleurs’ Guildhouse. His old fiddle had belonged to Master Jaycob, and the cheap workmanship had him forever tuning it. Before that, he had used Arrick’s fiddle, which was finer, though it had seen many years of use and was worn down even before Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices smashed it.

This one, rescued from some forgotten ruin, was another class entirely. The neck and body curved differently than Rojer was used to, but the workmanship was exquisite, and the wood had passed the centuries like days. A fiddle fit for a duke to play.

“I’m sorry, Rojer,” Leesha said, “but the road just doesn’t seem to care that you’re tuning. I don’t know what’s gotten into it.”

Rojer stuck his tongue out at her, gently turning the last peg between the thumb and forefinger of his crippled hand while the thumb of his other hand plucked at the string.

“Got it!” he shouted at last. “Stop the cart!”

“Rojer, we have miles to go before dark,” Leesha said. Rojer knew that every moment away from the Hollow ate at her, worried over its citizens as a mother worried over her children.

“Just for a minute,” Rojer begged. Leesha tsked, but she complied. Gared and Wonda pulled up as well, looking at the cart curiously.

Rojer stood on the driver’s seat, brandishing the fiddle and bow. He put the instrument under his chin and caressed the strings with the bow, bringing them to a resonant hum.

“Listen to that,” he marveled. “Smooth like honey. Jaycob’s fiddle was a toy by comparison.”

“If you say so, Rojer,” Leesha said.

Rojer frowned for a moment, then dismissed her with a wave of his bow. His two remaining fingers spread wide for balance, it fit his crippled hand like a part of it as it danced across the strings. Rojer let the music soar from the fiddle, sweeping him up in its whirlwind.

He could feel Arrick’s medallion resting comfortably against his bare chest, hidden under his motley tunic. No longer a trigger to painful memories, it was a reassuring weight, a way to honor those who had died for him. He stood straighter knowing it was there.