The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  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?”

  “Looking for a Warder named Cob,” he said. “I was told he owned this shop.”

  Elissa looked sad as she shook her head. “Cob has been dead almost four years,” she said, her words hitting harder than a demon’s blow. “Taken by a cancer. He left the shop to my husband and me. Who told you to seek him here?”

  “A…Messenger I knew,” the Painted Man said, reeling.

  “What Messenger?” Elissa pressed. “What was his name?”

  The Painted Man hesitated, his mind racing. No name came to him, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the risk he would be discovered. “Arlen of Tibbet’s Brook,” he blurted, cursing himself as he did.

  Elissa’s eyes lit up. “Tell me of Arlen,” she begged, placing a hand on his arm. “We were very close, once. Where did you last see him? Is he well? Can you get a message to him? My husband and I would pay any price.”

  Seeing the sudden desperation in her eyes, the Painted Man realized how deeply he had hurt her when he left. And now, stupidly, he had given her false hope that she might somehow see Arlen again. But the boy she knew was dead, body and soul. Even if he took off his hood and told her the truth, she would not have him returned. Better to give her the closure she needed.

  “Arlen spoke of you that night,” he said, his decision made. “You’re every bit as beautiful as he said.”

  Elissa smiled at the compliment, her eyes moist, but then she stopped, as what he had said fully registered. “What night?”

  “The night I was scarred,” he said. “Crossing the Krasian Desert. Arlen died, so that I might live.” It was true enough, after a fashion.

  Elissa gasped, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Her eyes, moist a moment before with joy, now brimmed with water as her face screwed up in pain.

  “His last thoughts were of you,” he said, “of his friends in Miln, his…family. He wanted me to come here and tell you that.”

  Elissa barely heard him. “Oh, Arlen!” she cried, and stumbled. The Painted Man darted forward to catch her, guiding her to one of the workbenches and easing her down as she sobbed.

  “Mother!” Marya cried, rushing over. “Mother, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked at the Painted Man, accusation in her eyes.

  He knelt before the girl, not sure if it was simply to appear less threatening to the child, or to allow her to strike him if she wished. He almost hoped she would. “I’m afraid I brought her some ill tidings, Marya,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s a Messenger’s duty to tell people of things they might not be happy to hear.”

  As if on cue, Elissa looked up at him, her sobbing cut short. She pulled herself together with a deep breath, drying her tears with a lace cuff and embracing her daughter. “He’s right, sweetest. I’ll be all right. Take your brother into the back a spell, if you please.”

  Marya shot the Painted Man one last dark glance, then nodded, gathering up her little brother and leaving the room. He watched them go, feeling wretched. He should never have come, should have sent an intermediary or found some other Warder to go to, though there were none he trusted like Cob.

  “I’m sorry,” the Painted Man said. “I never wished to bring you pain.”

  “I know,” Elissa said. “I’m glad you told me. It makes things easier in some ways, if you understand.”

  “Easier,” the Painted Man agreed. He fumbled in his pouch, pulling forth a handful of letters, and a grimoire of battle wards, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with stout cord. “These are for you. Arlen meant for you to have them.”

  Elissa took the bundle and nodded. “Thank you. Do you plan to stay in Miln long? My husband is out, but he will surely have questions for you. Arlen was like a son to him.”

  “I am only in town for the day, my lady,” he said, wanting no part of a conversation with Ragen. The man would press for details where there were none. “I have a message for the duke, and a few others to pay respects to, and then I am off.”

  He knew he should leave it lie there, but the damage was done, and his next words came unbidden. “Tell me…does Mery still live at the house of Tender Ronnell?”

  Elissa shook her head. “Not for many years. She—”

  “No matter,” the Painted Man cut her off, not wanting to hear more. Mery had found someone else. It was no great surprise, and he had no right to feel stung by the news.

  “What about the boy, Jaik?” he asked. “I’ve a letter for him, as well.�
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  “No more a boy,” Elissa said, looking at him with piercing eyes. “He’s a man now. He lives on Mill Way, in the third workers’ cottage.”

  The Painted Man nodded. “Then, with your permission, I’ll take my leave.”

  “You may not like what you find there,” Elissa warned.

  The Painted Man looked up at her, trying to read her meaning, but it was lost in her wet puffy eyes. She looked tired and guileless. He turned to go.

  “How did you know my daughter’s name?” Elissa asked.

  The question surprised him. He hesitated. “You introduced her when she came over.” The moment he said it, he cursed silently, for of course, Elissa had been cut off before she could introduce the girl, and he could have claimed the knowledge came from Arlen in any case.

  “I suppose I did,” Elissa agreed, surprising him. He took it as a stroke of luck and made for the door. His fingers were closing on the latch when she spoke again.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said quietly.

  He paused, fighting the urge to turn and run back, crushing her in his arms and begging her forgiveness.

  He left the warding shop without another word.

  The Painted Man cursed himself as he strode down the street. She had recognized him. He didn’t know how, but she had, and in walking out he had likely hurt her more deeply than news of his death ever could have. Elissa had been as a mother to him, and his leaving must have seemed the ultimate rejection of her love. But what could he have done? Shown her what he had done to himself? Shown her the monster her adopted son had become?

  No. Better she think he had turned his back on her. Better any lie than that truth.

  Even though she deserves to know? the nagging voice in his head asked.

  The question pained him, so he put it from his mind, focusing on the real reason he had come to Miln. Rhinebeck’s message. He presented himself at Duke Euchor’s keep, but the gate guards were not welcoming.