The Desert Spear

“We could retreat to Angiers,” Leesha said. “Hide within the city walls.”

The Painted Man shook his head. “We can’t give them any ground. I know these people. If we show fear and retreat, they will think us weak, and only press the attack harder.”

“I still don’t like it,” Leesha said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “Your liking it is irrelevant. The good news is that I doubt they have more than six thousand warriors of fighting age. The bad news is that the least of those can outfight any three Cutters, and when they’re ready to move, they’ll have levied thousands of slave troops from Rizon.”

“How are we supposed to fight against that?” Rojer said.

“Unity,” the Painted Man said. “We need to open dialogue with Lakton now, while the lines of communication are still clear, and petition the dukes of Angiers and Miln to put aside their differences and commit to a common defense.”

“I don’t know the duke of Miln,” Rojer said, “but I grew up in Rhinebeck’s court when my master Arrick was his herald. Rhinebeck is more likely to put aside his differences with the corelings than with Duke Euchor.”

“Then we’ll have to convince him personally,” Leesha said. She looked at the Painted Man. “All of us.”

The Painted Man sighed. “Just as well I not go to Lakton. I’m…not very welcome there.”

“So the tale’s true then?” Rojer asked. “The dockmasters tried to kill you?”

“After a fashion,” the Painted Man said.

Rojer sat in the music shell that night, playing to soothe the hundreds of refugees still living in tents in the Corelings’ Graveyard. Many of them drifted over to sit by the shell, basking in the warm glow of the greatward as they fell under Rojer’s spell. His music swept them up and carried them far away to forget, at least for a short time, that their lives had been shattered.

It seemed a terribly inadequate gift, but it was all he had to give. He kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, letting them see nothing of the bleakness he felt inside.

Tender Jona was waiting for him when he finished playing. The Holy Man was young, not yet thirty, but he was well loved by the Hollowers, and no one had worked harder to bring comfort and necessities to the refugees. In addition to organizing most of the food and shelter rationing, the Tender walked among the refugees, learning their names and letting them know they were not alone. He led prayers for the dead, found caregivers for orphans, and married lovers brought together by tragedy.

“Thank you for doing this,” Jona said. “I could feel their spirits lifting as they watched you play. My own, as well.”

“I’ll perform every evening I’m not needed elsewhere,” Rojer said.

“Bless you,” Jona said. “Your music gives such strength to them.”

“I wish it could give some to me,” Rojer said. “Sometimes I think in my case the opposite is true.”

“Nonsense,” Jona said. “Strength of spirit is not some finite thing, where one man must lose for another to gain. The Creator grants strength and weakness to us all. What has you feeling weak, child?”

“Child?” Rojer laughed. “I’m not part of your audience, Tender. I have my fiddle,” he held up the instrument, “and you have yours.” He pointed with his bow at the heavy leather-bound Canon that Jona held in his hands.

Rojer knew his words hurt the Tender, and that the man deserved better, but his mood was black and Jona had picked the wrong time to condescend. He waited for the Holy Man to shout at him, ready and willing to shout right back.

But Jona never grew vexed. He slipped the book into a satchel he wore for just that purpose, and spread his hands to show they were empty. “As your friend, then. And someone who understands your pain.”

“How could you possibly understand my pain?” Rojer snapped.

Jona smiled. “I love her, too, Rojer. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who didn’t. She used to come almost every day to read at the Holy House, and we would talk for hours. I’ve seen her shine on men who didn’t deserve her, never even noticing that I was a man as well.”

Rojer tried to keep his Jongleur’s mask in place, but there was an honesty in Jona’s tone that cut through his defenses. “How did you deal with it? How do you stop loving someone?”

“The Creator didn’t make love conditional,” Jona said. “Love is what makes us human. What separates us from the corelings. There is value in it, even when it is not requited.”

“You love her still?” Rojer asked.

Jona nodded. “But I love my Vika and our children even more. Love is as infinite as spirit.” He put his hand on Rojer’s shoulder. “Do not waste years lamenting what you do not have with her. Instead, cherish what you do. And if ever you need to speak with someone who understands your trial, come to me. I promise to leave the Canon in its satchel.”

He slapped Rojer on the shoulder and walked off, leaving Rojer feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him.

The lamps were lit in Leesha’s cottage when Rojer arrived, and the front door was open. Neglecting his warded cloak, Rojer had held the corelings off with his fiddle, which meant Leesha had heard him coming long before he arrived.

It was a ritual they shared. Leesha was always awake and working, but she would leave the door open when she heard his fiddle in the distance. Rojer would find her with her nose in a book or embroidering, grinding herbs or tending her gardens.

Rojer stopped playing when he reached Leesha’s warded path, and the cold night grew quiet save for the distant shrieks of demons. But in the silence between the sounds of corelings, Rojer heard weeping.

He found Leesha curled in an ancient rocking chair, wrapped in a tattered old shawl. They had belonged to her teacher, Bruna, and Leesha always went to them when she had doubt.

Her eyes were red and puffy, the crumpled kerchief in her hand soaked through. He looked at her and understood what Jona meant about cherishing what they had. Even when she was at her lowest, she left her door open for him. Could the other men in her life say the same?

“You’re not still mad at me?” Leesha asked.

“Course not,” Rojer said. “We both did a little spitting, is all.”

Leesha gave a strained smile. “I’m glad.”

“Your kerchief is soaked,” Rojer said. He flicked his wrist, pulling out one of the many colored kerchiefs in his sleeve. He held it out to her, but when she reached for it, he tossed it into the air, quickly adding several more as if from empty air. Rojer began to juggle them, creating a circle of colored cloth floating in the air. Leesha laughed and clapped.

Arrick, Rojer’s master, could have juggled anything in the room, but with Rojer’s crippled hand, kerchiefs were the only thing he could keep going indefinitely. “Pick a color.”

“Green,” Leesha said, and faster than her eye could see his hand snatched that cloth and tossed it her way, making it seem to have leapt from the circle of its own accord. Rojer caught the rest and tucked them back away as Leesha dried her face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Bad enough that demons hunt us at night,” Leesha said, “but now men are killing one another in the daylight. Arlen wants us to make war with both, but how can I support that?”