“His Grace ent got time to see every ragamuffin Tender in town,” one of them growled as they saw him approach in his hood and robes.
“He’ll see me,” the Painted Man said, holding up the Messenger pouch bearing Rhinebeck’s seal. The guards’ eyes widened, but then they turned back to him suspiciously.
“You ent any Royal Messenger I met before,” the first guard said, “and I met ’em all.”
“What kind of Messenger goes around in Tender’s robes, anyway?” the other asked.
The Painted Man, his mind still reeling from the encounter with Elissa, had no patience for the petty posturing of minor functionaries. “The kind who will crack your skull if you don’t open that gate and announce me,” he said, pulling off his hood.
The guards both took a step back as they saw his tattooed face. He ges tured to the gate, and they stumbled over each other in their haste to open it. One scrambled ahead to the palace.
The Painted Man pulled his hood back up, hiding a smile. There were some benefits to being a freak, at least.
He walked toward the palace at a steady pace, drawing eyes from all in the courtyard as their whispers reached his sharp ears. Before long the duke’s chamberlain, Mother Jone, appeared to greet him, led by the gate guard. Gaunt the last time the Painted Man had seen her more than a decade ago, Jone had become almost desiccated in the years since, her skin translucent and pale, thinly stretched over blue veins and liver spots. But her back was still straight, and her stride quick. Ragen had likened the chamberlain to her own breed of coreling, and none of his encounters with her had given him cause to doubt that assessment. Several steps behind her, a pair of guards followed discreetly.
“That’s him, Mother,” one guard said.
Jone nodded and dismissed the guard with a wave. He moved back to the gatehouse, but the Painted Man could see many from the courtyard drifting in his wake, eager for gossip.
“You are the one they call the Painted Man, are you not?” Jone asked.
The Painted Man nodded. “I come with urgent tidings from Duke Rhinebeck, and an offer of my own.”
Jone raised an eyebrow at that. “There are many who believe you are the Deliverer come again. How come you to be in the service of Duke Rhinebeck?”
“I serve no man,” the Painted Man said. “I carry Rhinebeck’s message because his interests and mine intersect. The Krasian attack on Rizon affects us all.”
Jone nodded. “His Grace agrees, and so he will grant you audience…”
The Painted Man nodded and began to move toward the palace, but Jone held up a finger. “…tomorrow,” she finished.
The Painted Man scowled. It was customary for dukes to make Messengers wait for short periods of time as a show of strength, but a Royal Messenger with grave tidings delayed a full day when the sun had yet to reach its zenith? Unheard of.
“Perhaps you mistake the importance of my news,” the Painted Man said carefully.
“And perhaps you mistake your own,” Jone replied. “You have quite a reputation south of the Dividing, but you’re in the lands of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Guardian of the Northland, now. He will see you when his schedule allows, and that is tomorrow.”
Posturing. Euchor wanted to show his power by turning the Painted Man away.
He could insist, of course. Claim insult and threaten to return to Angiers, or even force his way past the guards. None of them could hinder him if he did not wish it.
But he needed Euchor’s goodwill. Ragen would find the grimoire of battle wards he had given Elissa and know what must be done with them, but only Euchor could provide the needed men and supplies to Angiers before it was too late. It was worth a day’s wait.
“Very well. I’ll be waiting at the gates at dawn tomorrow.” He turned to go.
“We have curfew in Miln,” Jone said. “No one is allowed on the streets before dawn.”
The Painted Man turned back to face her, lifting his head to give her a view into his hood. His teeth showed bright against his tattooed lips as he smiled.
“Have the gate guards arrest me then,” he suggested.
They could both posture and flex their power.
Jone’s mouth was a hard line. If the sight of his tattooed flesh unnerved her, she did not show it. “Dawn,” she agreed, and turned swiftly, striding back to the palace.
Several guards followed him as he left the duke’s keep. They were discreet and kept distance, but there was no doubt they meant to track him back to where he was staying and make note of anyone he spoke to.
But the Painted Man had lived in Miln for years and knew the city well. He turned a corner into a dead-end alley and, once out of sight, leapt ten feet straight up to catch the sill of a second-floor window. From his perch there, it was an easy leap to the third-floor sill across the way, and from there to the opposite roof. He looked down over the roof ’s edge, watching the guards as they waited patiently for him to realize the dead end and emerge. Soon they would tire of waiting and one would go into the alley to investigate, but he would be long gone by then.
As he approached the third house on Mill Way, the Painted Man thought back to Elissa’s last, cryptic message about Jaik. Was he well? Had something happened to him?
Jaik and Mery had been his only friends while growing up. Jaik had dreamed of being a Jongleur, and the boys had made a pact to travel together when Arlen got his Messenger license, as Messengers and Jongleurs frequently did.
But while Arlen had pursued his goals with a single-minded tenacity, Jaik had never been willing to put in the long hard hours to master a Jongleur’s art. When the time came for Arlen to leave, Jaik could no more juggle than flap his arms and fly.
He seemed to have done well for himself, even so. Though it was no great manse like that of Ragen and Elissa, Jaik’s cottage was sturdy and well kept, spacious by crowded Miln’s standards. Jaik was likely at the mill at this time of day, which was best. He would have family at home who could receive a packet of letters, people unlikely to recognize Arlen Bales, much less the Painted Man.
Nothing could have prepared him, though, for Mery answering the door.
She gasped at the sight of him, all hooded and covered, and took a step back. Just as frightened and surprised, he did much the same.
“Yes?” Mery asked, recovering. “May I help you?” She kept her hand on the door, ready to slam it shut in an instant.
She was older than he remembered, but that did nothing to diminish her. On the contrary, the Mery he remembered was a spring bud compared with the flower before him. The thin limbs of her youth had filled out into lush curves, and her rich brown hair fell in waves over a round face and the same soft lips he had kissed a thousand times. He could feel his hands shake at the sight of her, but however unprepared he had been for her beauty, the knowledge that came with her opening this door was far more shocking.
She had married Jaik. Jaik, who taught him Tackleball and stole sweets from the baker’s back window for them to share. Jaik who had followed him around with a kind of awe when Arlen told him he was going to become a Messenger. Jaik, who had always been invisible to Mery, her eyes for Arlen alone.
“Excuse me,” he said, too off balance to even disguise his voice. “I must have the wrong…” He turned and started away, long strides taking him back down Mill Way.
He heard her gasp behind him, and moved faster.
“Arlen?” she called, and he started to run.
But even as he took off, he heard her following. “Arlen, stop! Please!” she cried, but he paid no heed, seeking only to escape, his strong legs easily outpacing her.
There was a broken cart in the road, tipped over with two men arguing amid the mess. He lost precious seconds dodging around, and Mery shortened the gap between them. He darted between a pair of cottages, hoping to cut through, but the egress he remembered was gone, the alley ending now in a stone wall too high to jump.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to dematerialize
as he had in Leesha’s cottage, but the sun was upon him and the magic would not come. He doubled back, but it was too late. He ran face-first into Mery as she turned into the alley, and the both of them went sprawling to the ground. The Painted Man kept his wits as he fell, managing to hold his hood in place as he struck the cobbled street. He tensed, ready to spring back to his feet, but Mery threw herself upon him, wrapping him tightly in her arms.
“Arlen,” she wept, “I let you go once. I swore to the Creator I would never do it again.” She clutched him tighter, crying into his robes, and he held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth, sitting on the ground in the alley’s mouth. Though he had faced demons great and small, that embrace terrified him in ways he could not explain.
After a time, Mery regained herself, sniffing and wiping her nose and eyes with a sleeve. “I must look a mess,” she croaked.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words less a compliment than a simple truth.
She laughed self-consciously, dropping her eyes and sniffing again. “I tried to wait,” she murmured.
“It’s all right,” he said.
But Mery shook her head. “If I thought you were coming back, I would have waited forever.” She looked up at him, peering into the shadows of his hood. “I would never have…”
“Married Jaik?” he asked, perhaps less kindly than he had meant.
She looked away again, even as they both rose awkwardly to their feet. “You were gone,” she said, “and he was here. He’s been good to me all these years, Arlen, but…” She looked up at him, hesitating. “If you ask me…”
His gut wrenched. If he asked her what? Would she leave with him? Or stay in Miln but leave Jaik to be with him? The visions from his dream flashed before his mind’s eye.
“Mery, don’t,” he begged. “Don’t say it.” There was no going back for him now.
She turned away as if he had slapped her. “You didn’t come back for me, did you?” she asked, breathing deeply as if to hold back tears. “This was just a stop to see your old friend Jaik, to offer a slap on the back and a tale before taking to the road again.”
“It’s not like that, Mery,” he said, coming up behind her and taking her shoulders in his hands. The sensation was strange; familiar, yet alien. He could not remember the last time he had touched someone like that. “I hoped you had found someone while I was gone. I heard that you had, and didn’t want to spoil it.” He paused. “I just didn’t expect it to be Jaik.”
Mery turned and embraced him again, not meeting his eyes. “He ’s been good to me. Father spoke to the baron who owns the mill, and they made him a supervisor. I went to the Mothers’ School to do the slates so we could afford the house.”
“Jaik’s a good man,” the Painted Man agreed.
She looked up at him. “Arlen, why are you still hiding your face?”
This time it was he who turned away. For a moment, he ’d dared to forget. “I gave it to the night. It’s not something you want to see.”
“Nonsense,” Mery said, reaching for his hood. “You’re alive, after all this time. Do you think I care if you’ve been scarred?”
He drew back sharply, blocking her hand. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Arlen,” she said, putting hands to hips in the same manner she had long ago, when the time for nonsense was past, “it’s been eight years since you left Miln without a word to me. The least you can do is have the courage to show your face.”
“As I recall, it was you who did the leaving,” he said.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Mery shouted at him. “I’ve spent all these years blaming myself, not knowing if you were dead on the road or in the arms of another woman, all because I was selfish and upset one night! How long must I be punished for reacting badly when you told me you wanted to risk your life just to get away from the prison of living here with me?”
He looked at her, knowing she was right. He had never lied to her or anyone, but he had deceived nonetheless, letting her believe his dreams of becoming a Messenger had faded.
Slowly, he lifted his hands, and drew back his hood.
Mery’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to stifle her gasp as the tattoos were revealed. There were dozens on his face alone, running along his jaw and lips, over his nose and around his eyes, even on his ears.
She recoiled instinctively. “Your face, your beautiful face. Arlen, what have you done?”
He had imagined this reaction countless times, seen it before from people all across Thesa, but despite all, he was not prepared for how it cut him. The look in her eyes passed judgment on everything he was, making him feel small and helpless in a way he had not in years.
The feeling angered him, and Arlen of Miln, who had been gaining strength for the first time in years, fled back into darkness. The Painted Man took control, and his eyes grew hard.
“I did what I had to, to survive,” he said, his voice deepening into a rasp.
“No you didn’t,” Mery said, shaking her head. “You could have survived here in Miln, safe in succor. You could have lived in any of the Free Cities, for that matter. You didn’t…mutilate yourself to survive. Truer is you did it because you hate yourself so much you think you deserve no better than to be out in the naked night. You did it because you’re terrified of opening your heart and loving anything the corelings might take from you.”
“I’m not scared of anything the corelings can do,” he said. “I walk free in the night and fear no demon, great or small. They run from me, Mery! Me!” He struck his chest for emphasis.
“Of course they do,” Mery whispered, tears running down her smooth, round cheeks. “You’ve become a monster, yourself.”
“Monster?!” the Painted Man shouted, making her flinch back in fright. “I’ve done what no man has done in centuries! What I’ve always dreamed! I’ve brought back powers lost to mankind since the First Demon War!”
Mery spat on the ground, unimpressed. The sight was unnerving; he had seen it the night before, in his third vision.
“At what cost?” she demanded. “Jaik’s given me two sons, Arlen. Will you ask them to march and die in another demon war? They could have been yours, your gift to the world, but instead all you’ve given it is a way to destroy itself.”
The Painted Man opened his mouth to let fly an angry retort, but none came. Had anyone else said such things to him, he would have lashed out, but Mery stabbed through his defenses with ease. What had he given the world? Would thousands of young men march with his weapons, only to be slaughtered in the night?
“It’s honest word you’ve done what you always dreamed, Arlen,” Mery said. “You’ve made sure no one will ever get close to you again.” She shook her head, and her face twisted. A sob broke from her soft lips, and she covered her mouth, turning and running from him.
The Painted Man stood a long time, staring at the cobbles as people walked by. They saw his tattooed face and the sight sparked animated conversation, but he hardly noticed. For the second time, Mery had left him in tears, and he wished the ground would swallow him.
He wandered the streets aimlessly, trying to come to grips with what Mery had said, but there was nothing for it. Was she right? Since the night his mother was cored, had he truly opened his heart to anyone? He knew the answer, and it lent weight to her accusations. People gave him a wide berth as he walked, his painted flesh as much a barrier to them as to corelings. Only Leesha had tried to break through, and he had pushed even her away.
After a time, he glanced up and realized he ’d wandered instinctively back to Cob’s shop. The familiar place called to him, and he had no strength to resist. He felt empty inside. Void. Let Elissa rail and beat at him with her fists. She could do no worse than had already been done.
Elissa was sweeping the floor of the shop when he entered. She was alone. She looked up as the chimes rang, and their eyes met. For a long time, neither of them said a word.
“Why didn’t you tel
l me they were married?” he asked finally. It was petulant and lame, but he could think of nothing else to say.
“You didn’t see fit to tell me everything, either,” she returned. There was no anger in her voice, no accusation. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing what she’d eaten for breakfast.
He nodded. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?” Elissa asked gently, laying aside her broom and gliding over to him. She put a hand on his arm. “Scarred? I’ve seen them before.”
He turned from her, and she let her hand fall away. “My scars are selfinflicted.”
“We all have those,” she said.
“Mery took one look at me and fled as if I were a coreling,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Elissa said, coming behind and wrapping her arms around him.
The Painted Man wanted to pull away, but that part of him melted away in her embrace. He turned and held her in return, inhaling the familiar scent of her and closing his eyes, opening himself up to the pain and letting it flow out of him.
After too short a time, Elissa pulled back. “I want to see what you showed her.”
He shook his head. “I…”
“Hush,” Elissa said softly, reaching into his hood to put a finger on his lips. He tensed as her hands came up, slowly, and gathered the hood, easing it down. Fear ran through him, chilling his blood, but he stood like a statue, resigned to it.
Like Mery, Elissa’s eyes widened and she gasped, but she did not recoil. She simply looked at him, taking it in.
“I never used to appreciate wards,” she said after a time. “Before, they were just another tool, like a hammer, or fire.” She reached out, touching his face. Her soft fingers traced the wards on his eyebrows, his jaw, his skull. “It’s only now, working in this shop, that I see how very beautiful they can be. Anything that protects our loved ones is beautiful.”
He choked, lurching clumsily as he started to sob, but Elissa caught him in a firm embrace, supporting him.
“Come home, Arlen,” she said. “Even if only for a night.”
The Desert Spear (demon) Page 47