The Desert Spear

“That doesn’t explain why it should be the Painted Man and not a Royal Messenger,” Leesha said. “I assure you, if he even agrees to go—and you may find him harder to steer than you think—he will go with his own agenda, and not yours.”

“Of course he will,” Araine said, “which is precisely why I want that man as far from my city as possible. Whether he means it or not, his very presence will incite people to mad zealotry, and that’s no way for a state to run. Let him go and cause a stir in Miln; Euchor may agree to whatever we want, just to be rid of him.”

“And what, exactly, do ‘we’ want?” Leesha asked.

Araine eyed, her, and Leesha could not tell if she was more amused or annoyed at her audacity. “An alliance against the Krasians, of course,” the duchess mum said at last. “It’s one thing to bicker over some carts of wood and minerals, but quite another for the sheepdogs to keep nipping at one another when there are wolves at the pen.”

Leesha looked at the woman, wanting to argue, but she found herself agreeing. Part of her felt so safe when Arlen was around, she never wanted him to leave the Hollow. But there was another part of her, a growing part, that found his presence…stifling. Just as he had feared, the Hollowers and refugees were looking to him to save them rather than saving themselves, and hadn’t Leesha done the same? Perhaps it was best for all that he go for a short while.

When the moment for Leesha to reply had passed with no word spoken, Araine nodded and turned back to her tea. “I have yet to decide what to do with Arrick’s boy. His so-called fiddle magic bears closer examination, but I have no designs on it as yet.”

“It’s not magic,” Leesha said. “Not as we know it, anyway. He just…charms the corelings, like a Jongleur works a crowd’s mood. It’s a useful skill, but it works only so long as he continues to play, and he hasn’t been able to teach the trick to others.”

“He might make a good herald,” Araine mused. “Better than Janson’s fop nephew, at any rate, though that says little.”

“I would prefer that Rojer stay with me, Your Grace,” Leesha said.

“Oho! Would you?” Araine asked, amused. She reached over the table and pinched Leesha’s cheek. “I like you, girl. Not afraid to speak your mind.” She sat back, looking at Leesha a moment, and then shrugged. “I’m feeling generous,” she said, refilling their teacups. “Keep him. Now, for this ‘Deliverer’ business.”

“The Painted Man does not claim to be the Deliverer, Your Grace,” Leesha said. She snorted. “Night, he’ll bite the head from any that suggest it.”

“Whatever he claims, folk believe it,” Araine said, “as evidenced by the sudden change of your hamlet’s name…without royal permission, I might add.”

Leesha shrugged. “That was the town council’s decision and none of mine.”

“But you did not oppose it,” Araine noted.

Leesha shrugged again.

“Do you believe it?” Araine asked, meeting her eyes. “Is he the Deliverer come again?”

Leesha looked at the duchess mum for a long time. “No,” she said at last. Wonda gasped out loud, and Leesha scowled.

“It appears your bodyguard does not agree,” Araine said.

“It’s not my place to tell people what or what not to believe,” Leesha said.

Araine nodded. “Just so. Nor is it your town council’s. Janson has already penned a royal condemnation of the name change. If your council is wise, they will repaint their signs in a hurry.”

“I’ll inform them, Your Grace,” Leesha said. Araine narrowed her eyes at the vague response, but said nothing.

“And the refugees?” Leesha asked.

“What about them?” Araine asked.

“Will you take them in?” Leesha asked.

The duchess mum snorted. “And put them where? Feed them what? Use your head, girl. Angiers accepts them, but the fort cannot hold so many. Let them swell the hamlets like yours. The Warders and soldiers I send the Hollow will show the duke’s full support for our neighbors in this time of need, and we’ll forgive the lumber shipments the Hollow has failed to make.”

Leesha pursed her lips. “We need more than that, Your Grace. We have groups of three sharing blankets, and children running about in rags. If you have no food to spare, then send clothing. Or wool from Shepherd’s Dale, that we might make our own. It’s their shearing season, is it not?”

Araine thought a moment. “I’ll have a few carts of raw wool sent, and drive a hundred head of sheep, as well.”

“Two hundred,” Leesha said, “at least half of breeding age, and a hundred milking cows.”

Araine scowled, but she nodded. “Done.”

“And seed from Farmer’s Stump and Woodsend,” Leesha added. “It’s planting season, and we have the labor to clear land and grow a full crop, if they have sufficient seed to plant.”

“That’s in everyone’s interest,” Araine agreed. “You’ll get as much as we can spare.”

“How can you know the men will come to these terms?” Leesha asked.

Araine cackled. “My sons couldn’t tie their shoes without Janson, and Janson answers to me. Not only will they decide as he advises, they’ll go to their graves thinking it was all their own ideas.”

Leesha still felt doubtful, but the duchess mum only shrugged at her. “Hear it for yourself, when your men come out and tell you what they ‘negotiated.’ Until then, let’s finish our tea.”

“Why have you come before the ivy throne?” Rhinebeck asked.

“The Krasian advance threatens us all,” the Painted Man said. “Refugees flood the countryside, more than the hamlets can easily absorb, and when they move on Lakton—”

“This is ridiculous,” Prince Mickael cut him off. “At the very least, show your face when addressing the duke.”

“Apologies, Highness,” the Painted Man said with a slight bow. He drew back his hood, and in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the wards seemed to crawl across his skin like living things. Thamos and Janson, having seen this before, kept composure, but the other princes could not entirely hide their shock.

“Creator,” Pether whispered, drawing a ward in the air before him.

“Since you have no name, I suppose you’ll want us to call you Lord Ward?” Mickael asked, twisting the surprised look on his face into a sneer.

The Painted Man shook his head, smiling wanly. “I’m as peasant as they come, Highness. No lord in any land.”

Mickael snorted. “Circumstances of birth notwithstanding, I find it hard to believe a man who styles himself the Deliverer doesn’t think himself as much a lord as any of royal blood. Or do you think yourself above such things?”

“I’m not the Deliverer, Highness,” the Painted Man said. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”

“That’s not what your Tender in Cutter’s Hollow believes, by his own reports,” Shepherd Pether noted, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

“He’s not my Tender,” the Painted Man said, scowling. “He can believe as he wishes.”