The Desert Spear

CHAPTER 19 THE KNIFE

A FEW WEEKS AFTER Renna’s night in the outhouse, there was a visitor to the farm. Her heart jumped at the sight of a traveler on the road, but it wasn’t Cobie Fisher, it was his father, Garric.

Garric Fisher was a big, burly man, much like his son in appearance. In his fifties, he had only a few streaks of white in his thick curly black hair and beard. He nodded curtly to Renna as he pulled up in his cart.

“Your da around, girl?” he asked.

Renna nodded.

Garric spat over the side of his cart. “Run and fetch him, then.”

Renna nodded again and ran into the fields, her heart pounding. What could he want? Had he come to speak for Cobie? Did he still think of her? She was so preoccupied that she nearly crashed into her father as he emerged from a row of cornstalks.

“Night, girl! What in the Core’s gotten into you now?” Harl asked, catching her shoulders and shaking her.

“Garric Fisher just rode in,” Renna said. “He’s waitin’ for you in the yard.”

Harl scowled. “He is, is he?” He wiped his hands on a rag and touched the bone handle of his knife as if to reassure himself of its presence, then headed out of the fields.

“Tanner!” Garric called, still sitting in the cart when they came into the yard. He hopped down and held out his hand. “It’s good to see you lookin’ well.”

Harl nodded, shaking hands. “You, too, Fisher. What brings you out these ways?”

“I brought you some fish,” Garric said, gesturing to the barrels on the cart. “Good trout and catfish, still alive and swimmin’. Toss some bread in the barrels, and they’ll keep a good while. Reckon it’s been a while since you had fresh fish out here.”

“That’s real thoughtful,” Harl said, helping Garric unload the cargo.

“Least I could do,” Garric said. He wiped his sweaty brow when the work was done. “Sun’s hot today. Long trip out and I’m mighty thirsty. Think we might set a spell under the shade of your porch afore I head back?”

Harl nodded, and the two men went and sat on the old rockers on the porch. Renna fetched a pitcher of cool water and brought it out with a pair of cups.

Garric reached into his pocket, producing a clay pipe. “Mind if I smoke?”

Harl shook his head. “Girl, fetch my pipe and leaf pouch,” he said, and shared the pouch with Garric. Renna brought a taper from the fire to light them.

“Mmm,” Garric said, exhaling slow and thoughtfully. “That’s good leaf.”

“Grow it myself,” Harl said. “Hog buys most of his smokeleaf from Southwatch, and they always keep the best and sell him the stale dregs.” He turned to Renna. “Girl, fill a pouch for Mr. Fisher to take back with him.”

Renna nodded and went inside, but she hung by the door, listening. With the formalities done with, the real talk would begin soon, and she didn’t want to miss a word.

“Sorry it took me so long to come,” Garric began. “Meant no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Harl said, drawing on his pipe.

“Whole town’s buzzing about this business between the kids,” Garric said. “Got it from Hog’s daughter, or summat. Goodwives ent got nothin’ better to do with their time than gossip and rumormonger.”

Harl spat.

“Want to apologize for my boy’s behavior,” Garric said. “Cobie’s fond o’ tellin’ me he’s a grown man and can handle his own affairs, but grown is as grown does, I say. Wern’t right, what he done.”

“That’s undersaid,” Harl grunted, and spat again.

“Well, you ought to know that after you sent him runnin’ home with his tail between his legs, I caught wind and stepped in. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harl said. “I were you, I’d beat some sense into that boy.”

Garric scowled. “I were you, I’d tell my daughter to keep her skirts around her ankles, steada puttin’ sin in the mind of every man passes by.”

“Oh, I had my words with her,” Harl assured. “She won’t be sinnin’ no more. I put the fear o’ the Creator in her, honest word.”

“Been more ’n words, it was one of my girls,” Garric said. “I’da caned her backside raw.”

“You discipline your way, Fisher,” Harl said, “and I’ll do mine.”

Garric nodded. “Fair and true.” He drew on his pipe. “That sophearted Tender woulda married them, they made it to Boggin’s Hill afore you caught ’em,” he warned.

Renna gasped, and her heart skipped a beat. She covered her mouth in fright, holding her breath for a long moment until she was sure they hadn’t heard her.

“Harral’s always been too soft,” Harl said. “A Tender needs to punish wickedness, not condone it.”

Garric grunted his assent. “Girl ent been sick none?” He made it sound casual, but Renna could tell it was anything but.

Harl shook his head. “Still got her moon blood.”

Garric blew out a breath, clearly relieved, and suddenly Renna realized why he ’d waited so long to come. Her hand strayed to her stomach, and she wished her womb had quickened, but she ’d only had Cobie’s seed once, and Harl was always careful not to spend in her.

“No disrespect,” Garric said, “but my lazeabout son’s got prospects for the first time in his life, and Nomi and I aim to find him a proper bride, not some scandal.”

“Yer son ent got no prospects at all, he puts his hands on my daughter again,” Harl said.

Garric scowled, but he nodded. “Can’t say I’d think any different, it was one o’ my girls,” He tapped out his pipe. “Reckon we understand each other.”

“Reckon we do,” Harl said. “Girl! Where’s that leaf?”

Renna jumped, having forgotten all about the pouch. She ran to the smokeleaf barrel and filled a sheepskin pouch. “Coming!”

Harl scowled at her when she returned, and gave her a slap on the rump for being slow. He gave the pouch to Garric, and they watched him climb into his cart and trundle off.

“Do you think it’s true, Mrs. Scratch?” Renna asked the mother cat as she nursed her kits that night. They scrambled over one another in a great pile, fighting for the teats as Mrs. Scratch lay out behind the broken wheelbarrow in the barn where she’d hidden her litter. Renna called her Mrs. Scratch now, like a proper mam, though as expected the tabby that got the kits on her had made scarce since the birth.

“Do you think the Tender would really marry us if we went to him?” she asked. “Cobie said it was so, and Garric, too. Oh, could you imagine?” Renna picked up one of the kits, kissing its head as it mewed softly at her.

“Renna Messenger,” she said, trying on the name and smiling. It sounded good. It sounded right.

“I could make it to Town Square,” she said. “It’s a long way, but I could run it in four hours or so. If I went late in the day, Da could never make it out in time, not with his aching joints.” She glanced over at the cart.

“’Specially not if he can’t ride,” she added slyly.

“But what if Cobie’s away when I come?” she asked. “Or if he doesn’t want me anymore?” As she pondered that awful thought, the prodigal tabby returned, a fat mouse in its teeth. It laid the catch by Mrs. Scratch, and Renna thought it was a sign from the Creator himself.

She waited for days, in case her father suspected she ’d overheard Garric. She went through the plan over and over in her mind, knowing this would be her last chance to escape. If he caught her and threw her back in the outhouse, she doubted she ’d survive, much less dare to run again.

Her father came for lunch past noon each day, and took his time at eating before going back out into the fields. If she ran then, she could make it to Town Square with two hours of daylight left. Harl wouldn’t notice she was gone in time to follow before the corelings rose, and would have to wait till morning, or at least stop for succor along the way.

If Cobie was in the Square, that left them the rest of the day to go up Boggin’s Hill and see the Tender. If not, she would run on up the road to Jeph’s farm. She’d never been there herself, but Lucik had, and said it was two hours’ walk up the north road from the Square. She should be able to run it in plenty of time, and Ilain would hide her if Harl came looking. She knew she would.

When the day finally came, she was careful not to do anything out of the ordinary. She made her rounds and did her chores exactly as she had every day in the last week, careful to keep the pattern.

Harl came out of the fields for lunch, and she had stew ready. “Stay for seconds?” she asked her father, trying to appear unhurried. “Want to finish out the pot, so’s I can scrub it and start fresh for supper.”

“Ent gonna turn down another bowl o’ yer stew, Ren,” Harl said with a grin. “Shoulda had you at the pot all these years steada Beni.” He pinched her behind as she bent to fill his bowl. Renna wanted to dump the boiling stew in his lap, but she swallowed the urge and forced a giggle, giving him the stew with a smile.

“Nice to see a smile on you, girl,” Harl said. “You’ve had a sour puss since yer sister and the young’uns left.”

“Guess I’ve gotten used to things,” Renna managed, returning to her seat and having a second helping herself, though eating was the last thing she wanted to do.

She waited a count of a hundred after Harl left the table, then got up swiftly and went to the cutting board where she had piled vegetables for a stew she never meant to make. She took the knife and went out to the barn.

The only draft animals they had were the two mollies. Renna looked at them sadly, having cared for them ever since Harl brought the two foals home from Mack Pasture’s farm.

Could she really do this? Harl’s farm was the only world she knew. The few times she had been to Town Square or Boggin’s Hill, she had felt suffocated by all the people, unable to understand how anyone could keep their head in such a crowd. Would they accept her? Did she really have a reputation as a whore? Would men try and force themselves on her, thinking her witless and willing?

Her heart pounded so loud it was deafening, but she drew a deep breath and steadied herself until the knife in her hand stopped shaking, and she raised it determinedly.

She cut all the saddle girths, and the harnesses to the cart, and the bridles and reins. She hammered the pin out of one of the wheels on the wagon and kicked it free, splitting the wheel with a stone axe.

Letting the axe fall to the ground, she reached into her apron pocket, pulling out the long brook stone necklace Cobie had given her. She had known better to wear it when her father might see, but she had treasured it in her secret moments. She put it on now, and it felt right about her shoulders. A proper promise gift.

Then she took up the skin of water she had hidden, slipped out the barn door, lifted her skirts, and ran down the road as fast as she could.

The run was harder than Renna thought, if not longer. She was strong, but unused to running distances. Her lungs burned before long, and her thighs cried out in protest. She stopped when she had no choice, gulping water from the skin and panting hard, but she never rested more than a few minutes before setting off again.

By the time she made it to the bridge over the brook, her eyes were blurry, and she felt drunk on Boggin’s Ale. She collapsed on the bank, dunking her face in the cold running water and drinking deeply.

Her head clear for the first time in almost an hour, she looked up at the sky. The sun was dipping low, but there was time enough, if she kept on. Her legs and feet and chest all screamed as she rose, but Renna ignored the lances of pain and ran on.

She saw a few people as she ran through the Square, mostly folk checking their wards for the night. They looked at her curiously, and one called to her, but she ignored them, heading for the one place everyone in Tibbet’s Brook knew, Hog’s general store.

“Shopsh closhed,” Stam Tailor slurred at her, heading down Hog’s porch steps as Renna started her way up. He stumbled, and Renna had to stop to catch him.

“What do you mean, the shop’s closed?” she asked, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Hog’s supposed to be open till sunset.” If Cobie wasn’t at the store, she had no idea where to look for him, and would have to run on to Ilain.

“Thatsh what I shaid!” Stam shouted, nodding wildly. “Ay, sho I hadda bit too much ale, and sloshed up a bit. Like thatsh reason to kick poor Stam out and lock up early?”

Renna caught a whiff of him and recoiled. The vomit on his shirt was still wet. It seemed some gossip, like that about Stam being a drunk, was all too true.

Setting him on the rail, she ran up the steps and pounded on the door. “Mister Rusco!” she cried. “It’s Renna Tanner! I need to see Cobie Fisher!” She bashed her fist on the door until it hurt, but there was no response.

“He’sh alreddy gone,” Stam said, holding the banister as if for dear life. He was a sickly pale, and swayed. “Jusht been setting here on ’is porch a shpell, tryin’a…get my feet under me.”

Renna looked at him in horror, and Stam misunderstood the look. “Oh, don’ you worry yourshelf on account’a ol’ Shtam Tailor, girl,” he said, patting the air at her. “I been worsh off than thish plenny timesh. I’ll be find…fine!”

Renna nodded, waiting for him to stumble away before she ran around the back of the store. She doubted Hog would trust anyone, even Cobie, inside his store when he wasn’t there. If Cobie lived in the back, there had to be another entrance.

She was right, and found a little room next to the stables, probably meant to store tack, but big enough for a chest and a cot. She drew a breath and knocked. A moment later Cobie opened the door, and she laughed out loud in joy.

“Renna, what are you doing here?!” Cobie’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He stuck his head out the door and looked around, then grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. She moved in to embrace him, but he had not let go her arm, and kept her away.

“Did anyone see you come?” he asked.

“Just Stam Tailor out front,” Renna said, smiling, “but he ’s so drunk he probably won’t even remember.” She tried to move toward him again, but still he held her back.

“You shouldn’t have come, Ren,” Cobie said.

It felt as if he had hit her in the chest with a hammer.

“What?” she asked.

“You have to get out of here before someone finds you,” Cobie said. “If your da doesn’t kill me, mine will.”

“You’ve seen thirty summers, and you’re the size of a horse!” Renna cried. “Are you more scared of our das than I am?”

“Your da won’t kill you, Ren,” Cobie said. “He will me.”

“No, he’ll just make me pray I was dead!” Renna said.

“All the more reason you should go before he finds us together,” Cobie said. “Even if the Tender marries us, they won’t let it go. You don’t know my da. He has it in his head that I’m to marry Eber Marsh’s daughter, even if I do it with a pitchfork at my back. Paid Eber a lotta fish for the promise.”

“Then let’s run off,” Renna said, clutching at his arm. “Go to Sunny Pasture, or even the Free Cities. You could join the real Messengers’ Guild.”

“And sleep out in the naked night?” Cobie asked, aghast. “Are you mad?”

“But you said you loved me,” Renna said, clutching the brook stone necklace. “You said nothing could keep us apart.”

“That was before your da almost cut my stones off, and mine did worse,” Cobie said, looking around the room frantically. “I shouldn’t stay here tonight, either,” he muttered, “in case Harl comes looking before dark. You go to Boggin’s Hill and stay with your sister. I’ll run to my da, so he knows I din’t do nothing. Come on.” He put a hand behind Renna’s back, propelling her toward the door. She went along, shocked and bewildered.

Cobie opened the door, only to find Harl standing there, knife in hand. Behind him, one of the mollies lay collapsed and panting in the dirt. He had ridden her bareback.

“Caught you!” Harl cried, punching Cobie hard in the face. His fist, wrapped around the heavy bone hilt of his knife, turned Cobie’s head sharply to the side and knocked him to the ground. He grabbed Renna with his free hand, hard bony fingers digging painfully into her arm.

“Run on an’ beg yer sister’s succor,” he said, his face a mask of rage. “I’ll be along presently to deal with you.” His eyes flicked to Cobie as he shoved her toward the door.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Cobie cried, struggling to one knee and holding his hand out to ward off Harl. “I never asked her to come!”

“Core you didn’t,” Harl sneered, raising his knife. “Made you a promise, boy, and I aim t’keep it.”

He looked back at Renna, frozen in fear. “Get going!” he barked. “You’ll be a week in the outhouse as is. Don’t make it two!”

Renna recoiled in horror, and Harl turned from her. The night in the outhouse flashed through her mind again, seemingly endless hours of torment relived in barely a second. She thought about the aftermath, the smell of her father’s bed, and the weight of his wrinkled bones atop her as he grunted and thrust.

She thought of going back to the farm, and something inside her snapped.

“No!” she screamed, and leapt at her father, nails digging at his face like claws. He fell back in shock, knocking his head on the floor. She tried to wrest the knife from his hands, but Harl was stronger, and kept his grip.

Cobie was standing by then, but he made no move toward them. “Cobie!” she pleaded. “Help me!”

Harl punched Renna in the face, knocking her over, and leapt to pin her, but she bit his arm, and he howled in pain. His fist smashed into her face again, and then three times into her stomach until her teeth let go.

“Little bitch!” he cried, looking at the blood spurting from his arm. He growled and dropped the knife as his hands found her throat.

Renna thrashed as hard as she could, but Harl had locked on and wouldn’t budge. Blood ran down his arm and dripped onto her face as she gasped for air that could not come. She saw madness in her father’s eyes, and realized he meant to kill her.

Her eyes flicked to Cobie again, but he was still standing there, motionless. She managed to catch his eye, and pleaded with him silently.

With a start, Cobie seemed to find himself again, and moved toward them. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “You’ll kill her!”

“That’s enough of you, boy,” Harl said, letting go of Renna’s throat with one hand and grabbing his knife when Cobie came close. As Cobie reached for him, Harl pivoted and thrust the blade between his legs.

Cobie’s face went bright red, and he looked down in horror, blood pouring down the knife. He drew in a breath to scream, but Harl never gave him the chance, pulling the knife free and burying it in his heart.

Cobie gripped the blade protruding from his chest, mouthing a silent protest as he fell back, dead.

Harl got off Renna, leaving her gasping weakly on the floor, and went to Cobie, pulling the knife free. “I warned you more than once, boy,” he said, wiping the blade on Cobie’s shirt, “you shoulda listened.”

He slipped the knife back in its sheath, where it rested barely a moment before Renna pulled it free and buried it in his back. Again and again she stabbed, screaming and crying as blood spattered her face and soaked her dress.

CHAPTER 20 RADDOCK LAWRY

JEPH BALES FINISHED CHECKING the porch wards not a moment too soon. His family was already inside; children washing for supper, Iain and Norine in the kitchen. He looked out as the last rays of sun vanished and heat leached out of the ground, giving the demons a path up from the Core.

As those stinking gray mists began to rise, he moved inside, even though it would be a few moments more before the corelings solidified. Jeph didn’t believe in taking chances where demons were concerned.

But as he reached to close the door, he heard a wail and looked up. Down the road, someone was running hard for the farm, screaming all the way.

Jeph took his axe, always by the door, and moved out as far as the porch wards would allow, his eyes flicking nervously to the corelings coalescing in the yard. He thought of his eldest son, and how he would not have hesitated to run out and help the stranger, but Arlen was dead fourteen years now, and Jeph had never been so brave.

“Be strong and run on!” he called. “Succor is at hand!” Corelings, still more smoke than flesh, looked up at his call, and Jeph tightened his grip on the axe. He wouldn’t leave the safety of the wards, but he would strike a demon to clear the path if one came too close.

“What’s happening?” Ilain called from inside.

“Keep everyone inside!” Jeph shouted back. “No matter what you hear, stay inside!”

He pulled the door shut, then looked back. The screaming stranger was closer now. It was a woman, her dress soaked in blood, running as if her life depended upon it, as well it did. She had something in her hand, but Jeph couldn’t see what it was.

Corelings swiped at her as she passed, but their claws lacked substance, and merely scratched when they should have torn. The woman seemed not to notice—but then she was already screaming.

“Run on!” Jeph called again, hoping the feeble words gave some encouragement.

And then she was in the yard, and almost to the porch. Jeph recognized her just as a flame demon, fully formed, shrieked and leapt into her path.

“Renna,” he breathed, but when he looked again, it was not Renna Tanner he saw, but his wife, Silvy, murdered by a flame demon fourteen years ago in that very place.

Something hardened in him then, and he was off the porch before he knew it, swinging the steel axe with all his might. A flame demon’s armor could turn the edge of any weapon a man could take to hand, but the creature was small, and his blow sent it tumbling through the dust of the yard.

Other corelings shrieked and leapt for them, but the way back was clear. Jeph grabbed Renna’s arm and pulled her along behind him as he charged to safety. He tripped on the porch steps, and they went down in a heap, but when a wood demon came at them it struck the outer net, sending a spiderweb of silver magic through the air before it was thrown back.

Jeph cradled Renna in his arms, calling to her, but she kept on screaming, heedless of her safety. She was drenched in blood, her dress soaked and her arms and face covered, but he could see no injury on her. Clutched tightly in her right hand was a large, bone-handled knife. It, too, was coated in blood.

“Renna, are you all right?” he asked. “Whose blood is this?” The door opened, and Ilain came out, gasping at the sight of her sister.

“Whose blood is this?” Jeph asked again, but if Renna heard him at all, she gave no sign, continuing to scream and sob, the blood and dirt on her face streaked with tears.

“That’s Da’s knife,” Ilain said, indicating the bloody blade she clutched so tightly. “I’d recognize it anywhere. He never lets it out of his sight.”

“Creator,” Jeph said, blanching.

“Ren, what happened?” Ilain asked, leaning in and taking her sister’s shoulders. “Are you hurt? Where’s Da? Is he all right?”

But Ilain got no more response from her sister than Jeph had, and she soon fell silent, listening to Renna’s cries and the answering shrieks of the corelings at the wards.

“Best bring her inside,” Jeph said. “Put the young’uns in their rooms and I’ll take her to ours.” Ilain nodded and went in first as Jeph lifted Renna’s quivering form in his strong arms.

He laid Renna down on his straw mattress, and turned his back as Ilain came in with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. Renna had stopped screaming by this point, but she still gave no response as Ilain pried the bloody knife from her hand and laid it on the night table before undressing her and cleaning the blood from her with firm, even strokes of the cloth.

“What d’you suppose happened?” Jeph asked when she was bundled in the covers, still staring silently off into space.

Ilain shook her head. “Don’t know. Long run from here to Da’s farm, even if you leave the road and cut straight across. She must have been runnin’ for hours.”

“Looked like she came up from town,” Jeph said.

Ilain shrugged.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t corelings that done it,” Jeph said. “Not in the middle of the day.”

“Jeph,” Ilain said, “I need you to go out to the farm tomorrow. Maybe they were attacked by nightwolves or bandits. I don’t know. I’ll keep Renna hidden till you get back.”

“Bandits and nightwolves, in Tibbet’s Brook?” Jeph asked doubtfully.

“Just go and see,” Ilain said.

“What if I see Harl lying dead of a knife wound?” Jeph asked, knowing it was what they were both thinking.

Ilain sighed deeply. “Then you mop the blood and build a pyre, and for all anyone ever need know, he slipped off the hay ladder and broke his neck.”

“We can’t just lie,” Jeph said. “If she killed someone…”

Ilain whirled angrily on him. “What in the Core do you think we ’ve been doing all these years?” she snapped. Jeph put up his hands to placate her, but she pressed on.

“Have I been a good wife?” Ilain demanded. “Kept your house? Given you sons? Do you love me?”

“Course I do,” Jeph said.

“Then you’ll do this for me, Jeph Bales,” she said. “You’ll do it for all of us, an’ for Beni an’ her boys, too. There ent no need for anything what’s ever happened on that farm to reach the town’s ears. What they make up is bad enough, and to spare.”

Jeph was quiet for a long time as they matched stares and wills. Finally, he nodded. “All right. I’ll leave after breakfast.”

Jeph was up with the dawn, hurrying through his morning chores despite the tired ache in his bones. They had tried all night to get a response out of Renna, but she simply stared at the ceiling, neither sleeping nor eating. After breakfast, he saddled their best mare.

“Reckon I’ll avoid the road myself,” he told Ilain. “Take a shortcut through the fields southeast.” Ilain nodded, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. He returned the embrace, the pit of his stomach heavy with dread at what he might find. Finally, he let go. “Best to get going while there’s still time enough for a return trip.”

He had just mounted his horse when the sound of hoofbeats reached his ears. He looked up to see a cart approaching, carrying the Herb Gatherer, Coline Trigg, wringing her hands with worry, and the Town Speaker, Selia the Barren, looking grim. Selia was nearing seventy now, tall and thin, but still tough as boiled leather and sharp as a Cutter’s axe.

Beside the cart on one side rode Rusco Hog, and on the other Garric Fisher and Raddock Lawry, Garric’s great-uncle and the Speaker for Fishing Hole. On foot behind them were Tender Harral and what looked like half the men of Fishing Hole, armed with thin fishing spears.

Garric kicked his horse ahead when the farm came in sight, galloping right up to the porch where Ilain stood and pulling up so short the beast reared before settling.

“Where is she?” Garric demanded.

“Where is who?” Ilain asked, meeting his wild glare.

“Don’t play games with me, woman!” Garric snarled. “I’ve come for your whorin’, witchin’, murderin’ sister, and you well know it!” He got off his horse and strode up to her, shaking his fist.

“You stop right there, Garric Fisher,” said Norine Cutter, coming out of the house holding Jeph’s axe. She had lived on Jeph’s farm since before his wife died, and was as much a part of the family as any. “This ent your property. You keep back an’ state your business, ’less you’re looking to take a coreling by the horns.”

“My business is that Renna Tanner murdered her own da and my son, and I’ll see her cored for it!” Garric shouted. “Ent no point in hiding her!”

Tender Harral caught up and interposed himself between Garric and the women. He was young and strong, a match for the older if just as bulky Garric. “There’s no proof of anything yet, Garric! We just need to ask her a few questions, is all,” he told Ilain. “And you, if she ’s said anything since Jeph left.”

“We need to do more than that, Tender,” Raddock said, getting off his horse. He was born Raddock Fisher, but everyone in the Brook called him Raddock Lawry, because he was Speaker for the Hole on the town council, and legal arbitrator of disputes in his borough. A mass of grizzled hair from ears to chin, the crown of his head was bald as an egg. He was older than Selia but shorter-tempered, full of righteous passion with a knack for stirring it in others. “Girl needs to answer for her crimes.”

Hog was the next to dismount. He was imposing as always, the man who owned half of Tibbet’s Brook outright and held debts from the rest. “Garric speaks honest word when he says your father and Cobie Fisher are dead,” Hog told Ilain. “My girls and I went to investigate some shouting we heard at the store last evening, and found them in the back room I rented Cobie, dead. Not just stabbed, they was…mutilated. Both of them. Stam Tailor says he saw your sister there just before it happened.”

Ilain gasped, covering her mouth.

“Horrible,” Harral agreed, “and that’s why it’s best we see Renna right away.”

“So clear the door!” Raddock ordered, pushing forward.

“I am Speaker in Tibbet’s Brook, Raddock Lawry, not you!” Selia barked, silencing everyone. Jeph reached out to help her down from the cart. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she gripped her skirts to keep them from the dirt and strode over. The younger men, outweighing her several times over, shrank back at the force of her presence.

One did not get to be Selia’s age easily in Tibbet’s Brook. Life in the Brook was hard; only the sharpest, most cunning and capable folk survived to see full gray, and the rest treated them accordingly. When she was younger, Selia had been forceful. Now she was a Power unto herself.

Only Raddock stood his ground. He had ousted Selia as Town Speaker more than once over the years, and if age was power in Tibbet’s Brook, he was stronger, if not by much.

“Coline, Harral, Rusco, Raddock, and I will need to go in and see her,” Selia told Jeph. It wasn’t a request. The five of them were half the town council, and he could only nod and stand aside, allowing them entrance.

“I’m going, too!” Garric growled. The crowd of Fishers, his kith and kin, gathered angrily around him, nodding.

“No, you’re not,” Selia said, fixing them all with a steely glare. “Your blood is up and none can blame you, but we ’re here to learn what happened, not stake the girl without a trial.”

Raddock put a hand on Garric’s shoulder. “She ent getting away, Gar, I promise you that,” he said. Garric gritted his teeth, but he nodded and stepped back as they went inside.

Renna was still lying in the same position they had placed her in the night before, staring at the ceiling. She blinked occasionally. Coline went right to her.

“Oh, dear,” Selia said, spotting the bloody knife on the night table. Jeph cursed silently. Why had he left it there? He should have thrown it down the well the moment he saw it.

“Creator,” Harral breathed, and drew a ward in the air.

“And here,” Raddock grunted, kicking a basin by the door. Renna’s dress was soaking within, the water pink with blood. “Still think we’re just here to ask a few questions, Tender?”

Coline looked over the bruises on Renna’s face with a concerned eye and a firm hand, then turned to the others and cleared her throat loudly. The men stared dully for a moment, then gave a start and turned their backs as she drew back the covers.

“Nothing’s broken,” Coline said, coming over to Selia when her inspection was complete, “but she’s taken quite a beating, and there are bruises around her throat like she was choked.”

Selia went and sat down on the bed beside Renna. She reached out gently, brushing the hair from Renna’s sweating face. “Renna, dear, can you hear me?” The girl didn’t react at all.

“Been like this all night?” Selia asked, frowning.

“Ay,” Jeph said.

Selia sighed and put her hands on her knees, pushing to her feet. She took the knife, and then turned and ushered everyone out of the room, closing the door.

“Seen this before, after demon attacks, mostly,” she said, with Coline nodding along. “Survivors get more of a fright than they can handle, and are left staring off into the air.”

“Will she get better?” Ilain asked.

“Sometimes they snap out of it in a few days,” Selia said. “Sometimes…” She shrugged. “Won’t lie to you, Ilain Bales. This is the worst thing ever happened in Tibbet’s Brook as far back as I can recall. I’ve been Speaker on and off for thirty years, and seen a great many folk die before their time, but there ent never been one killed in anger. That kind of thing may happen in the Free Cities, but not here.”

“Renna couldn’t have…!” Ilain choked, and Selia took her shoulders, gentling her.

“That’s why I was hoping to talk to her first, dear, and get the story from her lips.” She glanced at Raddock. “The Fishers have come looking for blood, and they won’t be satisfied without it, or a good explanation.”

“We got reason,” Raddock growled. “It’s our kin dead.”

“Case you ent noticed, my kin’s dead, too,” Ilain said, glaring at him.

“All the more reason to want justice,” Raddock said.

Selia hissed, and everyone fell silent. She held the bloody knife out to Tender Harral.

“Tender, if you’d be so kind as to wrap this and hide it in your robes till we get to town, I’d be grateful.” Harral nodded, reaching for it.

“What in the Core you think you’re doing?” Raddock shouted, snatching the knife before the Tender could take it. “The whole town’s got a right to see this!” he said, waving it around.

Selia grabbed his wrist, and Raddock, outweighing her twice over, laughed until she drove her heel down on his instep. He howled in pain, letting go of the knife to clutch his foot. Selia caught it before it could hit the floor.

“Use your head, Lawry!” she snapped. “That knife’s evidence and all have a right to see it, but not with two dozen men outside with spears and a defenseless girl numb with fright. The Tender ent gonna steal it.”

Ilain fetched a cloth, and Selia wrapped the knife, giving it to the Tender, who stowed it safely in his robes. She gathered her skirts and strode outside, back arched and head up high as she faced the gathered men in the yard, who grumbled angrily and fingered their spears.

“She’s in no condition to talk,” Selia said.

“We ’re not looking to talk!” Garric shouted, and the Fishers all nodded their assent.

“I don’t care what you’re looking to do,” Selia said. “No one’s doing anything until the town council meets on this.”

“The council?” Garric asked. “This ent some coreling attack! She murdered my son!”

“You don’t know that, Garric,” Harral said. “Could be he and Harl killed each other.”

“Even if she didn’t hold the knife, she done it,” Garric said, “witchin’ my son into sin and shamin’ her da!”

“The law is the law, Garric,” Selia said. “She gets a council meeting, where you can make your accusations and she can say her piece, before we name her guilty. Bad enough we’ve had two killings, I won’t have your mob doing a third because you can’t wait on justice.”

Garric looked to Raddock for support, but the Speaker for Fishing Hole was silent, edging toward Harral. Suddenly he shoved the Tender against the wall, reaching into his robes.

“She ent tellin’ you all!” Raddock shouted. “The girl had a red dress soaking!” He held Harl’s knife up for all to see. “And a bloody knife!”

The Fishers gripped their spears and shouted in outrage, ready to push right into the house. “The Core with your law,” Garric told Selia, “if it means I can’t avenge my son.”

“You’ll murder that poor girl over my dead body,” Selia said, moving to stand directly in front of the door with the rest of the council and Jeph’s family. “That what you want?” she called. “To be named murderers yourselves? Every Fisher?”

“Bah, you can’t hang us all,” Raddock scoffed. “We’re taking the girl, and that’s that. Stand aside, or we’ll go clean through you.”

Hands in the air, Rusco stepped aside. Selia glared at him. “Traitor!”

But Rusco just smiled. “I’m no traitor, ma’am. Just a visiting businessman, and it isn’t my place to take sides in this kind of dispute.”

“You’re as much a part of this town as anyone!” Selia shouted. “You’ve been in Town Square twenty years, and on the council near all of ’em! If you’ve a place that’s more home than this, maybe it’s time you went back to it!”

Rusco just smiled again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I got to be fair to all. Standing against a whole borough is just bad business.”

“Once a year at least, half the town comes to me, ready to run you out for a cheat, like they did to you in Miln and Angiers and Creator knows where else,” Selia said, “and every year, I talk them out of it. Remind them what a benefit your store is, and how things were before you came. But you stand aside now, and I’ll see to it no decent person sets foot in your shop again.”

“You can’t do that!” Hog cried.

“Oh, yes I can, Rusco,” Selia said. “Just you try me if you think it ent so.” Raddock scowled, and it turned venomous when Hog went back to stand with Selia in the doorway.

Hog met his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it, Raddock. We can wait a day or two. Any man puts hands on Renna Tanner before the council meets is banned from the store.”

Selia turned to Raddock, her eyes blazing. “How long, Lawry? How long can Fishing Hole go without Bales’ grain and livestock? Marsh rice? Boggin’s Ale? Cutters’ wood? I’m betting not nearly so long as we can go without ripping fish!”

“Fine, you call the council,” Raddock said. “But we’ll lock the girl up in Fishing Hole until she has her trial.”

Selia barked a laugh. “You think I’d entrust her to you?”

“Then where?” he asked. “I’ll be corespawned before I let her stay here with her kin, where she could run off.”

Selia sighed, glancing back at the house. “we’ll put her in my spinning room. It’s got a stout door, and you can nail the shutters and set a guard, if you wish.”

“You sure that’s wise?” Rusco asked her, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, feh,” Selia said, waving dismissively. “She’s just a little girl.”

“A little girl that killed two grown men,” Rusco reminded her.

“Nonsense,” Selia said. “I doubt she could have killed one of those strong men herself, much less two.”

“Fine,” Raddock growled, “but I’m keeping this,” he held up the knife, “and that bloody dress, until the council comes.” Selia scowled, and their eyes met as they matched wills. She knew Raddock Lawry could whip the town into a frenzy with the items, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“I’ll send runners today,” Selia said, nodding. “we’ll meet in three days.”

Jeph carried Renna out to his cart and they took her down to Selia’s house in Town Square, locking her in the spinning room. Garric nailed the shutters closed from the outside himself, testing the wood carefully before grunting and agreeing to leave.

CHAPTER 21 TOWN COUNCIL

DAWN CAME THE NEXT day, and Selia’s bones ached as she swung her feet out of bed. The pain had come to her joints a few years past. It was worst when it was rainy or cold, but lately she felt a twinge of it even on the warmest, driest days. She supposed it would worsen ere she died.

But Selia never complained, not even to Coline Trigg. The pain was her burden to bear. She was Speaker in Tibbet’s Brook, and that meant folk expected her to be strong and stand up for what was right. No matter how her limbs screamed, no one ever saw any sign that Selia was anything other than what she had always been, a rock of support they could lean upon.

She felt that added weight heavily as she rose and made her ablutions, dressing in one of her heavy, high-necked gowns. She didn’t know Renna or her sisters well, but she knew their mother, and how Harl had treated her before the corelings took her. Some said she went to the demons willingly, to escape him. If he was at all the same with his daughters, Selia could well imagine Renna needing to kill in her own defense.

When she was done, she saw to Renna, dressing her in one of her own gowns and sitting her up to take some porridge. She wiped the girl’s mouth clean when she was done and left the spinning room, dropping the bar.

She had her own meal, then went outside. Rik Fisher was standing on her walk, holding his thin fishing spear. He was seventeen and not yet married, though Selia had seen him walking with Ferd Miller’s daughter Jan. If Ferd approved the match, they would likely be promised soon.

“Need you to run an errand for me,” Selia said.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Rik said. “Raddock Lawry said to stay right here and make sure the girl dunt leave, no matter what anyone said to me.”

“Oh, did he?” Selia asked. “And am I right to guess I would find your brother Borry around back, by my nice shutters that Garric nailed shut?”

“Yes’m,” Rik said.

Selia went back into the house, coming out with a broom and a rake. “Won’t have idle hands milling around my house, Rik Fisher. You want to stay here, you’ll sweep my front walk spotless and have your brother clear the leaves and dead grass out back.”

“I’m not sure I…,” Rik began.

“You’d leave an old woman to do work you’re too lazy to?” Selia asked. “Perhaps I’ll mention that to Ferd Miller, the next time I see him.”

Rik had taken the broom and rake before she finished the sentence. “That’s a dear boy,” she said. “When you’re done, you can check my wards. Anyone comes calling, have them set on my porch. I’ll be back soon.”

“Yes’m,” Rik said.

She took a crock of butter cookies and went to where the children played in the Square, sending the swiftest to deliver messages in exchange for a cookie. By the time she made it back to her house, Rik was done with the walk and was sweeping her porch. Stam Tailor, the first person she had summoned, sat slumped on her porch steps, clutching his head in pain.

“Regretting yesterday’s ale?” Selia asked, knowing the answer already. Stam was always regretting yesterday’s ale, even as he reached for today’s.

Stam only groaned in reply.

“Come inside then, and have a cup of tea to soothe your head,” Selia said. “Want to talk about what you saw, night before last.”

She interviewed Stam at length, and then the others who claimed to have seen Renna pass through on her way to the store. There were too many of these to believe, though, as if the whole town had seen her charge down the street, eyes ablaze and knife in hand. Raddock and Garric had been from one end of the Brook to the other with the bloody knife and dress, and everyone wanted to feel a part of the drama.

“Cobie may have been weak in the flesh,” Tender Harral told her, recalling the scene after Fernan Boggin’s funeral, “but he was honest in wanting to marry Renna, I saw it plain on his face. Hers, too. It was Harl that had murder in his eyes at the thought.”

“My Lucik got in a fight with two Fishers last night,” Meada Boggin told her later. “They said Renna planned to kill her da all along, and tried to trick Cobie into doing it for her. Lucik punched one on the nose, and they broke his arm.”

“Lucik punched one?” Selia asked.

“My boy lived with Renna Tanner nigh fourteen years,” Meada said, “and if he says she ent a killer, that’s enough for me.”

“You’ll speak for Boggin’s Hill, now that Fernan’s gone?” Selia asked.

Meada nodded. “Hill voted yesterday.”

Coline Trigg came next. “Keep asking myself,” the Herb Gatherer said, “why was poor Cobie stabbed twixt the legs? Must’ve been her done it; no man’d do that to another man. Expect she wasn’t as willing as folk say when Cobie visited. Reckon he forced himself on her, and she went to kill him for it. When her father tried to stop her, she must’ve killed him, too.”

In the afternoon, Jeph arrived with Ilain and Beni. He kept close to the women, interposing himself between Beni and Rik Fisher as they glared at each other.

“How’s Lucik?” Selia asked Beni as they came inside.

Beni sighed. “Coline says the splint comes off in a couple months, but it puts us in a bad place, we want to fill Hog’s ale orders. Worried for my boys, too, this feud goes on much longer.”

Selia nodded. “Best keep your boys close to hand. Raddock’s stirred the Fishers into a fine frenzy, and they reckon they’re owed blood. Might be they’re not picky about where they get it. Meantime, I’ll see if I can find any idle hands around town to throw in at the brewery.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” Beni said.

Selia gave all three a hard look. “We all have to do our part, when times try us.” She turned and led them to the spinning room. Renna sat in a chair, staring at the wall.

“She been eating?” Ilain asked, worry in her voice.

Selia nodded. “She ’ll swallow what you put in her mouth, and use the privy if you lead her to it. Even worked the pedal on my spinning wheel last night. Just her will that’s gone.”

“She was like that for me, too,” Ilain agreed. Beni looked at Renna and started to cry.

“Would you mind leaving us a spell, Speaker?” Jeph asked.

“Course not,” Selia said, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Jeph hung back, giving Ilain and Beni distance as they went to their sister. They spoke in hushed tones, but Jeph could hear a mole digging his fields at thirty yards, and he caught every word.

“She done it,” Beni said. “Never believe she hurt Cobie Fisher, but she was scared to death of what Da might do if they was alone. Begged me to take her away with us…” She sobbed again, and Ilain joined her. They held each other until it passed.

“Oh, Ren,” Ilain said, “why’d you have to go and kill him? I always just took it quiet.”

“You never took nothin’ quiet,” Beni snapped. “You took it like I did, hiding behind the first man I saw. And we both got away with it, because we left Da another plum.”

Ilain turned to her, horror in her eyes. “Din’t reckon he ’d turn to you,” she said, reaching out. “Thought you were too young.”

Beni slapped her hand away. “You knew,” she spat. “I already had paps bigger than most goodwives, and was old enough to promise. You knew, and you left anyway, ’cause you were thinkin’ more of yourself than your kin.”

“You din’t do the same?” Ilain accused. “If that ent the night callin’ things dark, dunno what is!”

They went at each other, but Jeph crossed the floor in an instant, pulling them apart by the necks of their dresses. “There ’ll be none of that!” he said, holding them out at arm’s length and glaring at them until they dropped their eyes. When he let go, the fight was out of them.

“Maybe it’s time to air this all before the council,” he said, making both women look up at him sharply. “Tell ’em the kinda man Harl was,” he thrust his chin at Renna, “and maybe they won’t blame her for what she done.”

Ilain slumped into the seat next to Renna, digesting the thought, but Beni glared at him. “You expect me to stand before the likes of Raddock Lawry and Lucik’s mam and say my da liked to treat his daughters like wives?” she demanded. “You expect I’ll trust that tale to the tavern keeper and that old gossip Coline Trigg? Night, how’ll I look my own husband in the eye after that, much less hold my head up in town? How could any of us? Worse ’n what happened, everyone knowin’ what happened!”

“Worse than seein’ your sister staked?” Jeph asked.

“Even if it wern’t,” Beni said, “ent no proof it would change one mind on the council, and might be it gets three sisters staked, steada just one.”

Jeph looked to Ilain, sitting very quiet as the image Beni painted danced before her eyes. “I think everyone knowing might be worse,” she said softly, her voice cracking into a sob with the last word. Jeph rushed to her, going to one knee to hold her as she cried.

“You best keep your mouth shut on this, too, Jeph Bales,” Beni said.

Jeph looked at his weeping wife, and nodded. “Not my place to make that decision for you two. I’ll hold my peace.”

Ilain looked at Renna and moaned, her face screwing up further. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed, and hurried out of the room.

“Are you all right, dear?” Selia asked Ilain as she stumbled out of the spinning room.

“Hate seein’ her like that,” Ilain mumbled.

Selia nodded, but she wasn’t satisfied. “Sit.” She pointed to a chair in her common room. “I’ll make tea.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” Ilain said, “but we have business—”

“Sit,” Selia said again, this time it was less an offer than a command, and Ilain complied instantly at the change in tone. “All of you,” Selia added, as Beni and Jeph caught up.

“Town council meets tomorrow,” Selia said when the tea was served. “Early, most like. If Renna ent talking by then, and I don’t ’spect she will be, Raddock’s going to demand a ruling without her words, and with so much evidence against her and nothing for, reckon he ’ll have his way. I’ll try and delay till she’s better, but that will be up to the council.”

“What’ll they rule, you reckon?” Jeph asked.

Selia blew out a breath. “Can’t say for sure. This ent ever happened before. But the Fishers are in arms, and it’s one more reason for Marshes and Watches to preach keeping their young’uns away from Town Square and its temptations. The Tender and Meada won’t turn on the girl, but there’s no telling what the rest will do. Expect she ’ll be strung from the nearest tree, with Garric hauling the rope.”

Ilain gave a little cry.

“This ent no small crime, girl,” Selia said. “We got two men dead, and one with angry kin. I’ll argue in moot until I’m blue-faced, but the law is the law. Once the council votes, there ent no choice but to hold peace and abide.”

She looked at Beni and Ilain. “So if there’s anything—anything—you can tell me that’ll help me when I am fighting for that girl, I need to hear it now.”

The sisters both glanced at Jeph, but neither said a word.

Selia huffed. “Jeph, Mack Pasture speaks for the farms in council. Go visit him; see if you can get an idea how he’ll vote. Make sure he’s got the story straight, and not whatever tampweed tale Raddock is spinning.”

“Mack’s farm is a long way,” Jeph said. “It’ll take the rest of the day just to get there.”

“Then succor there, and use the time wisely,” Selia said, the tone of command returning to her voice. She nodded to the door. “Now, dear. I’ll see Ilain and Beni get home safe.”

Jeph glanced nervously at Ilain, then nodded. “Yes’m,” he said, and headed out the door.

Selia turned back to the sisters but kept her eyes down. “Always wondered about your da,” she said, selecting a butter cookie from the crock on the table. “Learned to watch a man after corelings take his wife. Sometimes they…crack a bit. Start acting irrational. I asked folk to watch Harl, but your da liked to keep to himself, and all seemed well those first years.” She dipped the cookie in her tea, eyes still on her hands.

“But then, Ilain, when you ran off with Jeph, though his lost wife wasn’t even burned yet, I wondered again. What were you running from? And the Harl I knew would have fetched some men and come and dragged you home, kicking and screaming. I had half a mind to do it myself.” She ate the moist cookie with quick, neat bites, and wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin. Ilain just stared at her, mouth open.

“But he didn’t,” Selia said, setting down the napkin and meeting Ilain’s eyes. “Why?” Ilain recoiled from the force of Selia’s gaze, but she dropped her eyes and shook her head.

“Dunno,” she said.

Selia frowned, selecting another cookie. “And there was all the suitors that went to court Renna.” She dropped her eyes again. “She ’s a pretty enough girl, fit as a horse, with two elder sisters shown to give strong sons. Harl could’ve made a good match for her after Arlen Bales ran off. Could’ve had another man to help about the farm; even taken a widow to wed himself. But again, he didn’t. He drove them boys off time and again, sometimes at the end of a pitchfork, till your sister’s best breeding years were all but gone. By then, Cobie Fisher was as good a match as she could hope for, and the farm in desperate need of a strong back, but still he refused.”

Selia looked up at both of them. “I wonder what would make a man behave like that, and have my guesses, but what do I know? Saw your da maybe once or twice a year. You two lived with him every day. Reckon you know better than me. Anything to add to the slate?”

Ilain and Beni looked at her, and then at each other, and then at their hands. “No,” they mumbled together.

“Ent no one seen either of you shed a tear over your da,” Selia pressed. “That ent natural, when a girl’s father takes a knife in the back.” Ilain and Beni didn’t even lift their eyes.

Selia looked at them a moment, and then sighed deeply.

“Off with you, then!” she snapped at last. “Out of my house, before I take a cane to both your backsides! And Creator forbid you selfish little brats ever need someone to stand for you!”

The two sisters scurried out of the house, and Selia put her head in her hands, feeling her age as never before.

Selia had barely dressed the next morning before she found Raddock Lawry in her yard with Cobie’s parents, Garric and Nomi, and close to a hundred folk from Fishing Hole, which was just about everyone.

“Are your words so feeble, Raddock Lawry, that you need all your kith and kin to back them?” she asked, coming out on her porch.

There was a murmur of shock through the crowd, and they turned as one to Raddock for their cue. Raddock opened his mouth to reply, but Selia cut him off.

“I will not call the town council to order in front of a mob!” she shouted, her voice making grown men cringe. “You voted yourselves a Speaker for a reason, and apart from those making accusations, you will disperse, or I’ll put the meeting off until you do, even if you have to wait out the winter right on my doorstep!”

A sudden buzz of confusion started in the crowd, drowning out Raddock’s reply. After a moment, they began to trickle away, some heading back up toward the Hole but most heading down the road to the Square and the general store to await the verdict. Selia didn’t like that, but there was little she could do once they left her property.

Raddock scowled at her, but Selia only smiled primly, putting Nomi to work helping serve tea on the porch.

Coline Trigg was the next to arrive, having heard the commotion from her house down the road. Her apprentices, who were also her daughters, took over the tea at once while the three council members awaited the others.

There were ten seats on the council. Each borough of Tibbet’s Brook held a vote each year, electing one of its own to the council, to sit with the Tender and Herb Gatherer. In addition, they cast a general vote for the Town Speaker. Selia held the head seat most years, and spoke for Town Square when she didn’t.

The council seats usually went to the oldest and wisest person in each borough and were rare to change from year to year, unless someone died. Fernan Boggin had held the seat for Boggin’s Hill almost ten years, and it was only natural for it to fall to his widow.

Meada Boggin was next to arrive, escorted by at least fifty from Boggin’s Hill who dispersed into the Square. She came up the walk with Lucik, his arm in a sling, and Beni, her shoulders covered in a black shawl to mark the death of her father. With them came Tender Harral and two of his acolytes.

“Parading your injured young’uns around ent gonna get you sympathy,” Raddock warned Meada as she took tea and sat.

“Parading,” Meada said, amused. “This from the man who’s ridden from one end of town to the other, waving a bloody dress like a flag.”

Raddock scowled, but his response was cut off as Brine Cutter, also known as Brine Broadshoulders, stomped up the walk. “Ay, my friends!” Brine boomed as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the porch roof. He embraced the women warmly, and squeezed the hands of the men until they ached.

A survivor of the Cluster Massacre, Brine had spent weeks in a fugue state similar to Renna’s, yet now he stood tall as Speaker for the Cluster by the Woods. A widower almost fifteen years, Brine had never remarried, no matter how often pressed, saying it wouldn’t be right to his lost wife and children. Folk said loyalty was rooted in him as the trees he cut were rooted in the ground.

An hour later, Coran Marsh came slowly up the walk, leaning heavily on his cane. At eighty summers, he was one of the oldest people in the Brook, and he was given every courtesy as his son Keven and grandson Fil helped him up the stairs. All of them came barefoot, as Marshes were wont to do. Toothless and shaky as he was, Coran’s dark eyes were still sharp as he nodded to the other speakers.

Next to arrive was Mack Pasture, at the head of quite a few other farmers, including Jeph Bales. Jeph leaned in to Selia as they came onto the porch.

“Mack’s come with no prejudice against Renna,” he whispered, “and promised me to judge fair, no matter what the Fishers shout.” Selia nodded, and Jeph went to stand with Ilain, Beni, and Lucik on the opposite side of the porch from Garric and Nomi Fisher.

As the morning wore on, a general buzz grew in the air, and it became clear that more than just Fishing Hole was out in force. Hundreds of folk walked the streets, trying to seem nonchalant as they glanced toward Selia’s porch on their way to the tailor, or the cobbler, or any of the other shops about the Square.

Last to arrive were the Watches. Southwatch was the farthest borough, practically a town unto itself, with near three hundred inhabitants and their own Herb Gatherer and Holy House.

They came in neat procession, marked by their stark clothing. Watch men were all thickly bearded and wore black pants with black suspenders over a white shirt. A heavy black jacket, hat, and boots finished the outfit, even in the harsh heat of summer. The women all wore black dresses reaching from ankle to chin to wrist, as well as white aprons and bonnets, with white gloves and parasol when not working. Their heads were bowed, and they all drew wards in the air, over and over, to protect them from sin.

At their head was Jeorje Watch. Speaker and Tender both, Jeorje was the oldest man in Tibbet’s Brook by two decades. There were children running around the Brook who hadn’t been born when he celebrated his hundredth birthday. Still, his back was straight as he led the procession, his stride firm and his eyes hard. He stood in stark contrast with Coran Marsh, a quarter century his junior and ravaged by time.

With his years and his solid bloc of votes from the largest borough, Jeorje should have been Town Speaker, but he never got a single vote outside Southwatch, and he never would, not even from Tender Harral. Jeorje Watch was too strict.

Selia rose as tall as she was able, and that was very tall, as she went to greet him.

“Speaker,” Jeorje said, biting back his displeasure at having to give that title to a woman, and an unmarried one at that.

“Tender,” Selia said, refusing to be intimidated. They bowed respectfully to each other.

Jeorje’s wives, some old and proud like him, others younger, including one great with child, flowed around them wordlessly and went into the house. They were heading for the kitchen, Selia knew. Watches always took over the kitchen, to ensure that their special eating needs were attended to. They kept to a strict diet of plain foods with no seasoning or sugar.

Selia signaled Jeph. “Go and pull Rusco from the store,” she told him, and Jeph ran off.

Selia was always elected Speaker for Town Square, but on years when she was also elected Town Speaker, she appointed Rusco Hog to speak for the Square, so that it would keep an independent voice, as prescribed in town law. Few people were pleased by this, but Selia knew the general store was the heart of the Square, and when one prospered, the other most often would, as well.

“Well come in, and let’s have supper,” Selia said when they’d had their ease a bit. “We’ll handle standing council business over coffee, and then on to this last affair when the cups are cleared.”

“If it’s all the same, Speaker,” Raddock Lawry said, “I’d just as soon dispense supper and the rest till the next council meeting and get on to the business of my dead kin.”

“It is not all the same, Raddock Fisher,” Jeorje Watch said, thumping his polished black walking stick. “We can’t just take leave of our customs and civility because someone died. This is the time of Plague, when death comes often. Creator punishes those what sin in his own time. The Tanner girl will have her judgment when the Brook’s standing business is done.”

He spoke with the authority of one who is never questioned, though Selia was Speaker. She accepted the slight—a common one from Jeorje—because he argued to her favor. The later the hour grew, the less likely Renna’s sentence, if death, would take place that very night.

“We could all use some supper,” Tender Harral said, though he and Jeorje were often at odds themselves. “As the Canon says, There’s no justice from a man with an empty stomach. ”

Raddock looked around to the other Speakers for support, but apart from Hog, who was always the last to arrive and the first to leave, all were resolute to keep the council meeting in its traditional fashion. He scowled but gave no further protest. Garric started to open his mouth, but Raddock silenced him with a shake of his head.

They had supper, and discussed the business of each borough in turn over the coffee and cakes that followed.

“Reckon it’s time to see the girl,” Jeorje said when the business of his borough, always handled last, was complete. The closing of old business was the Speaker’s to call, but again he spoke over Selia, thumping his stick like the Speaker’s gavel. She sent the witnesses out onto the porch, then led the nine council members in to see Renna.

“Girl ent faking?” Jeorje asked.

“You can have your own Gatherer examine her, if you like,” Selia said, and Jeorje nodded, calling for his wife Trena, the Herb Gatherer for Southwatch, who was near ninety herself. She left the kitchen and went to the girl’s side.

“Men out,” Jeorje ordered, and they all trooped back out to their seats at the table. Selia sat at the head, and Jeorje, as always, the foot.

Trena emerged some time later and looked to Jeorje, who nodded permission for her to speak. “Whatever she done, girl’s shock is true,” she said, and he nodded again, dismissing her.

“So you’ve seen the state of her,” Selia said, taking up the gavel before Jeorje could try to take over protocol. “I move that any decision should be postponed until she comes back to herself and can speak her own defense.”

“The Core it should!” Raddock shouted. He started to rise, but Jeorje cracked his walking stick on the table, checking him.

“Din’t come all this way to glance at a sleeping girl and leave, Selia,” he said. “Best we hear from the witnesses and accusers now, in proper fashion.” Selia scowled, but no one dared to disagree. Speaker or no, if she went against Jeorje, she would be doing it alone. She called in Garric to make his accusation, and the witnesses, one by one, for the council to question.

“I don’t pretend to know what happened that evening,” Selia said in her closing. “There ent no witness but the girl herself, and she ought to get to speak in her own defense before we pass judgment on her.”

“No witness?!” Raddock cried. “We just heard from Stam Tailor, who seen her heading toward the murder not a moment before!”

“Stam Tailor was rot drunk that night, Raddock,” Selia said, looking to Rusco, who nodded in agreement.

“He sloshed up on my floor, and I threw him out and closed early after that,” Rusco said.

“Blame the one who put the drink in his hand, I say,” Jeorje said. Rusco’s brow furrowed, but he was wise enough to bite his tongue.

“Either he saw the girl or he didn’t, Selia,” Coran Marsh said. Others nodded.

“He saw her in the vicinity, yes,” Selia said, “but not where she went or what she did.”

“You’re suggesting she’s not involved?” Jeorje asked, incredulous.

“Course she’s involved,” Selia snapped. “Any fool can see that. But ent none of us can swear by the sun at how. Maybe the men took to fighting and killed each other. Maybe she killed in her own defense. Coline and Trena both attest she was beat bad.”

“How don’t matter none, Selia,” Raddock said. “Two men can’t kill each other with the same knife. Does knowing which man she killed, if not both, make a difference?”

Jeorje nodded. “And let us not forget it was most likely by feminine wile that the men were taken to wrath. The girl’s promiscuity led them to this path, and she should be held to account.”

“Two men fight over who owns a girl, and we blame the girl?” Meada broke in. “Nonsense!”

“It ent nonsense, Meada Boggin, you’re just too shaded to see it, seeing how the accused’s your kin,” Raddock said.

“There’s the night calling it dark,” Meada said. “I can say the same of you.”

Selia banged her gavel. “If everyone related to a problem in the Brook had to be disqualified in moot, Raddock Fisher, there would be none to argue at all. Everyone has a right to speak. That’s our law.”

“Law,” Raddock mused. “Been reading the law,” he produced a book bound in worn leather, “ ’specially the law for killers.” He turned to a marked page, and began to read:

“And should the foul deed of murder be committed in the confines of Tibbet’s Brook or its purview, you shall erect a stake in Town Square, and shackle those responsible for all to see for a day of repentance, and a night, without ward or succor, that all may witness the Creator’s wrath upon those who violate this covenant.”

“You can’t be serious!” Selia cried.

“That’s barbaric!” Meada agreed.

“That’s the law,” Raddock sneered.

“See here, Raddock,” Tender Harral said. “That law must be three hundred years old.”

“The Canon is older still, Tender,” Jeorje said. “Will you discount that next? Justice is not meant to be kind.”

“We ent here to rewrite the law,” Raddock said. “The law is the law, ent that what you said, Selia?”

Selia’s nostrils flared, but she nodded.

“All we ’re here to debate is whether she’s responsible,” Raddock said, placing Harl’s bloody knife on the table, “and I say it’s clear as day she is.”

“She could’ve picked that up after, Raddock, and you know it,” Tender Harral said. “Cobie wanted Renna’s hand, and Harl threatened twice to cut the stones from him if he tried.”

Raddock barked a laugh. “You might convince some folk that two men could kill each other with the same knife, but they wasn’t just killed. They was mutilated. My great-nephew didn’t hack Harl near to pieces with his manhood gone and a knife in his heart.”

“Man has a point,” Hog said.

Raddock grunted. “So let’s vote and have done.”

“Second,” Hog said. “Town Square has never seen such crowds, and I need to get back to the store.”

“A girl’s life is at stake, and all you care is how many credits you can make off the folk come to gape?” Selia asked.

“Don’t preach to me, Selia,” Hog said. “I was the one had to mop up the blood out of my back room.”

“All in favor of moving to vote?” Jeorje said.

“I am Speaker, Jeorje Watch!” Selia snapped, pointing the gavel at him. But already there was a show of hands in favor of a vote, checking her. Jeorje accepted the rebuke with a mild nod.

“Fine,” Selia said. “I say the girl is innocent until we can prove otherwise, and there is no proof of anything.” She looked to her right for Tender Harral to continue the vote.

“You’re wrong, Selia,” Harral said. “There is proof of one thing: young love. I spoke to Cobie and looked in Renna’s eyes. They were both grown and wanted to decide the match for themselves, as is their right. Harl had no call to refuse, and I’ll stand in the sun’s light and state my belief that any bloodshed started with him, and ended with him, too. Innocent.”

Brine Cutter was next, the giant man’s voice uncharacteristically soft. “Seems to me that anything the girl done, she done in self-defense. I know what it’s like to see things so horrible that it makes your mind run for succor. I was much the same, after the corelings took my family. Selia saw me through that, and the girl deserves the same. Innocent.”

“Ent no innocent,” Coran Marsh said. “Whole town knows Renna Tanner’s a sinner, offerin’ herself to Cobie Fisher in fornication. Apt to make any man mad with lust! If she’s gonna behave like a coreling, we should put ’er out among them with easy hearts. Swamp demons have cored better’n her, and the sun still comes in the morning. Guilty.”

Jeorje Watch was next. “Harl’s daughters were ever a trial to him. It’s but by the grace of the Creator that this scene didn’t occur nigh fifteen years ago with her sister. Guilty.”

Raddock Lawry nodded. “We all know she’s guilty.” He turned to Rusco.

“Tying a girl out for the corelings, no matter what she’s done, is savage,” Hog said. “But if that’s how you do things here…” He shrugged. “Can’t just let people go around killing folk. I say put her out and have done. Guilty.”

“See if I let you speak for the Square next year,” Selia muttered.

“Sorry, ma’am, but I am speaking for the Square,” Hog said. “Folk need to feel safe when they come to shop in town. Ent no one going to feel safe with a killer about.”

“Harl was a sour old crow who never cared a whit for anyone but himself,” Meada Boggin said. “I tried to broker a match for Renna myself once, but Harl wouldn’t hear of it. Ent no doubt in my mind he killed young Cobie, and Renna did what she needed to keep him from killing her, too. Innocent.”

“Then why was Cobie stabbed in the stones?” Coline asked. “I think he raped her, and she came to town to get him back. Stabbed him between the legs, and then they fought until she could finish the job. Harl must’ve gone after her, and she caught him from behind. The girl’s got blood on her hands, Selia. She could have gone to one of us, or called for help, but she chose to solve her problems with a knife. I say she ’s guilty.”

All eyes turned to Mack Pasture. With four votes of innocent and five of guilty, it was in his power to deadlock the council, or pronounce her guilty. He sat quietly for a long time, his brow furrowed as he rested his face on his steepled fingers.

“All keep saying ‘innocent’ or ‘guilty,’ ” Mack said finally, “but the law don’t say that. We all just heard it. It said ‘responsible.’ Now, I knew Harl Tanner. Knew him long years, and never liked the coreling’s son one bit.” He spit on the floor. “But that don’t mean he deserved a knife in his back. Way I see it, that girl didn’t mind her da, and now two men are dead. Whether she swung a knife or not, she’s sure as the sun rises ‘responsible ’ for what happened.”

Shock stayed Selia’s hand, and the gavel lay on the table untouched, though the vote was done. Jeorje thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Guilty, six to four.”

“Then I’ll see her cored tonight,” Raddock growled.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Selia said, finding her voice at last. “The law says she’s to have a full day to make her peace, and today’s nearly over.”

Jeorje thumped his stick. “Selia is correct. Renna Tanner must be staked in Town Square tomorrow dawn, for all to see and bear witness until the Creator’s justice is done.”

“You expect people to watch?!” Hog was aghast.

“Folk can’t learn their lessons if they skip school,” Jeorje said.

“I’m not going to just stand there and watch the corelings tear someone apart!” Coline shouted. Others, even Coran Marsh, voiced protest as well.

“Oh, yes you are,” Selia snapped. She looked around the room, her eyes hard stones. “If we ’re going to…to murder this girl, then we’re all gonna watch and remember what we did; man, woman, and child,” she growled. “Law’s the law.”

CHAPTER 22 THE ROADS NOT TAKEN

IT WAS A FULL day’s ride from Fort Angiers to the bridge over the Dividing River, which separated the lands of Duke Rhinebeck from those of Duke Euchor. The Painted Man had left too late in the day to make it before sunset.

It was just as well. His farewell with Leesha had left him in a dark mood, and he welcomed the chance to show a few corelings the sun. Jardir had taught him the Krasian technique of embracing pain and it worked well enough, but there were few balms so sweet as choking the life from a demon with one’s bare hands.

The Hollow was in good hands with Leesha, at least until the Krasians advanced. She was brilliant and a natural leader, respected by all and governed by a pure heart and good common sense. If she was not yet a better Warder than he was, she soon would be.

And she’s beautiful, he thought. No denying that. The Painted Man had traveled far and wide, and never seen her equal. Perhaps he could have loved her once, before Jardir had left him for dead in the sand. Before he had been forced to tattoo his flesh to survive.

Now he was something less than human, and love had no place in his life.

Night fell, but his warded eyes saw clearly in the dark. He touched Twilight Dancer’s barding and the wards there glowed softly granting night vision to the giant stallion as well. He kicked into a gallop as the corelings rose, but there were thick trees to either side of the road, and wood demons kept pace with him, leaping from branch to branch or running just inside the tree line. Their barklike armor made them almost invisible, but the Painted Man could see the aura of their magic glowing softly, and did not mistake them. Above, wind demons shrieked, following his course and attempting to match speed for a dive.

The Painted Man let go the reins, steering the giant stallion with knees alone as he took up his great bow. A shriek from above provided ample warning, and he spun, putting a warded arrow through the head of a diving wind demon with an explosion of magic.

The flash of light seemed to bring the wood demons all at once. They exploded from the trees all around him, shrieking their hatred and leading with teeth and talons.

The Painted Man fired repeatedly, his warded arrows punching great, blackened holes in the corelings to either side. Twilight Dancer scattered those ahead, warded hooves sparking like festival crackers as they trampled through.

The demons gave chase, loping alongside the galloping horse. The Painted Man shoved his bow back in the harness and took up a spear, spinning it in a blur as he stabbed at corelings coming from every direction. One got in close, but he kicked it in the face, the impact ward on his heel throwing it back with a flash.

All along, Twilight Dancer continued to run.

Charged from the night’s killing, they remained fresh and alert when the Riverbridges came into sight at dawn, though neither man nor steed had rested all night.

It had been fifteen years since Riverbridge was destroyed. It had been a Milnese village then, but Rhinebeck had wanted a share of the bridge tolls, and had attempted to rebuild the village on the south side of the Dividing River.

The Painted Man remembered the audience where Ragen had told Duke Euchor of Rhinebeck’s plan. The duke had raged and seemed ready to burn Fort Angiers to the ground rather than let Rhinebeck toll his bridge.

And so arose two merchant towns, one on either side of the river and both calling themselves Riverbridge, with little love lost between them. There were garrisons for royal guardsmen, and mounted travelers were taxed on both sides of the river. Those who refused to pay could either hire a raft to ferry them and their goods—often for more than the tax—or swim.

The Riverbridges were the only walled villages in all of Thesa. On the Milnese side, the walls were piled stone and mortar; on the Angierian side, great tarred logs, lashed tight. Both went right to the river’s edge, and the guards who patrolled the walltops often called curses to their counterparts across the water.

The guards on the Angierian side had just opened the gate to greet the morning when the Painted Man rode through. His hands were gloved, and his hood pulled low to hide his face. It may have seemed odd to the guards, but he made no effort to explain himself, holding up Rhinebeck’s seal without slowing his steady pace. Royal Messengers were given free passage on both sides of the river. The guards grumbled at his rudeness but did not hinder him.

There was fog in the morning air, and most of the Bridgefolk were still warming their porridge as the Painted Man passed through the towns, all but unnoticed. It was easier this way. His painted skin tended to lead half of them to shun him like a coreling, and the other half to fall to their knees and call him Deliverer. He honestly didn’t know which was worse.

From Riverbridge, the road to Miln was a straight run north. The average time for a Messenger to make the ride was two weeks. His mentor Ragen’s average was better: eleven days. Astride Twilight Dancer and fearing no darkness, the Painted Man made the trip in six, a trail of demon ashes in his wake. He passed Harden’s Grove, the village a day south of Miln, at a full gallop in the dead of night, and it was still hours before dawn when Fort Miln came into sight.

As much his home as Tibbet’s Brook in some ways, the Painted Man was overwhelmed by the emotion he felt at again seeing the mountain city he had sworn so many times never to return to. Too distracted to fight, he set up a portable circle and made camp while he waited for dawn, trying to remember what he could about Duke Euchor.

The Painted Man had only met Euchor once, as a boy, but he had worked in Euchor’s Library, and knew the duke’s heart. Euchor hoarded knowledge as another man might hoard food or gold. If he gave Euchor the battle wards, the duke would not share them openly with his people. He would attempt to increase his own power by keeping them secret.

The Painted Man could not allow that. He needed to distribute the wards quickly to every Warder in the city. There was a network of Warders in Miln, a network he had helped build. If he got the wards to Cob, his former master, they could be everywhere before Euchor had time to suppress the knowledge.

Thinking of Cob opened a floodgate of memories he had long suppressed. He had not spoken to his master or anyone else in Miln for eight years. He had written letters but never found the strength to send them. Were Ragen and Elissa well? Their daughter Marya would be eight now. What of Cob, and his friend Jaik? What of Mery?

Mery. It was she who had kept him from coming back those early years. He could have faced Jaik again, or Ragen and Cob. Elissa would have railed at him for leaving without so much as a goodbye, but he knew that she would have forgiven him when she was done. It was Mery he did not want to see. Mery, the only girl he had ever allowed himself to love.

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.”

“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.

“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 tell 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.”

CHAPTER 23 EUCHOR’S COURT

THE PAINTED MAN LEFT the warding shop and walked some distance before again taking to the rooftops, ensuring he was not followed as he returned to Ragen and Elissa’s manse.

It was smaller than he remembered. When he had first come to Fort Miln at eleven years old, Ragen and Elissa’s home had seemed like a village unto itself with its great wall surrounding the gardens, Servants’ cottages, and house proper. Now even the courtyard, a seemingly endless space when he was young and learning to ride and fight, seemed claustrophobic. So used to walking free in the night, any walls felt stifling to him now.

The Servants at the gate let him in without a word. Elissa had sent a runner back to the manse, and had another go to fetch Twilight Dancer and his bags from the inn. He passed through the courtyard and entered the manse, ascending the marble steps to his old room.

It was exactly as he ’d left it. Arlen had acquired many things in his time in Miln—books, clothes, tools, bits of warding—too much to take Messaging, when a man was limited to what his horse could carry. He had left most of it behind, never looking back, and the room seemed untouched by time. There were fresh linens on the bed and not a speck of dust to be found, but nothing had been moved. There was even still clutter on his desk. He sat there a long time, basking in the safe familiarity of it and feeling seventeen again.

There was a sharp rap on the door, snapping him from the reverie. He opened it to find Mother Margrit, her meaty arms crossed in front of her as she glared at him. Margrit had cared for him since he first came to Miln, treating his wounds and helping him understand the ways of the city. The Painted Man was amazed to find she could still intimidate him after so long.

“Let’s see, then,” Margrit said.

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He steeled himself and pulled down his hood.

Margrit looked at him for some time, showing none of the horror or surprise he expected. She grunted and nodded to herself.

Then she slapped him full in the face.

“That’s for breaking my lady’s heart!” she cried. It was a surprisingly powerful blow, and he hadn’t fully recovered before she slapped him again.

“And that’s for breaking mine!” she sobbed, and clutched at him, pulling him close and crushing the air from him as she cried. “Thank the Creator you’re all right,” she choked.

Ragen returned soon after, and clapped the Painted Man on the shoulder, meeting his eyes and making no comment about his tattoos at all. “Good to have you back,” he said.

In truth, the Painted Man was more shocked by Ragen, who wore the keyward symbol of the Warders’ Guild as a heavy gold pin on his breast.

“You’re the Warders’ Guildmaster now?” he asked.

Ragen nodded. “Cob and I became partners after you left, and the ward brokering you started made us the dominant company in Miln. Cob served three years as guildmaster before the cancer took his strength. As his heir, I was the natural choice to succeed him.”

“A decision no one in Miln regrets,” Elissa put in, pride and love in her voice as she looked at her husband.

Ragen shrugged. “I’ve thrown in where I could. Of course,” he looked at the Painted Man, “it should have been you. It still can. Cob’s will made it clear his controlling share of the business was to be turned over to you, if you ever returned.”

“The shop?” the Painted Man asked, shocked that his old master would have included him in his last wishes at all after all this time.

“The shop, the ward exchange, the warehouses and glasseries,” Ragen said, “everything down to the apprentice contracts.”

“Enough to make you one of the richest and most powerful men in Miln,” Elissa said.

An image flashed in the Painted Man’s mind, him walking the halls of the Duke Euchor’s keep, advising His Grace on policy and commanding dozens if not hundreds of Warders. Brokering power…building alliances…

Reading reports.

Delegating responsibility.

Surrounded by Servants to care for his every need.

Stifling in the city’s walls.

He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Any of it. Arlen Bales is dead.”

“Arlen!” Elissa cried. “How can you say that, standing right here?”

“I can’t just pick up my life where I left off, Elissa,” he said, pulling off his hood and the gloves as well. “I’ve chosen my path. I can never live inside walls again. Even now, the air seems thicker, harder to breathe…”

Ragen put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve Messaged, too,” he reminded him. “I know what the open air tastes like, and how you thirst for it behind city walls. But the thirst dies out in time.”

The Painted Man looked at him, and his eyes darkened. “Why would I want it to?” he snapped. “Why would you? Why lock yourself back in prison when you had the keys?”

“Because of Marya,” Ragen said. “And because of Arlen.”

“Arlen?” the Painted Man asked, confused.

“Not you,” Ragen growled, his own temper rising. “My five-year-old son. Arlen. Who needs a father more than his father needs fresh air!”

It was a blow as hard as Margrit’s slap, and the Painted Man knew he deserved it. For a moment, he had spoken to Ragen as if he were his true father. As if he were Jeph Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, the coward who had stood by while his own wife was cored.

But Ragen was no coward. He had proven that a thousand times over. The Painted Man himself had seen him face demons with nothing but his spear and shield. Ragen didn’t give up the night out of fear. He did it to conquer fear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I had no right to…”

Ragen exhaled. “It’s all right, boy.”

The Painted Man walked to the rows of portraits on the walls of Ragen and Elissa’s receiving room. They had one commissioned every year, to mark its passing. The first was only Ragen and Elissa, looking very young. The next was some years later, and the Painted Man looked at his own face staring back at him without wards, something he hadn’t seen in years. Arlen Bales, a boy of twelve, sitting on a chair in front of where Ragen and Elissa stood.

He grew progressively older in the portraits until one year, he stood between Ragen and Elissa, holding infant Marya.

The next year’s portrait, he was gone, but soon after, a new Arlen appeared. He touched the canvas gently. “I wish I’d been there to see him born. I wish I could be there for him now.”

“You can,” Elissa said firmly. “We ’re family, Arlen. You don’t have to live life like a Beggar. You’ll always have a home here.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I see that now. See it in a way I never did before, and for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than I gave, better than I can give. I’m leaving Miln once I’ve had my audience with the duke.”

“What?!” Elissa cried. “You’ve only just arrived!”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve got to walk to its end.”

“Where will you go then?” Elissa asked.

“Tibbet’s Brook, to start,” he said, “long enough to return battle warding to them. And then, if you can broker the wards throughout Miln and its hamlets, I’ll do the same for the Angierians and Laktonians.”

“You expect every tiny hamlet to rise up and fight?” Elissa asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. But if my da had owned a bow with warded arrows, my mam might be alive. I owe everyone the chance she didn’t have. Once the wards are everywhere, spread so far and wide that they can never be lost again, people can make their own decision about what to do with them.”

“And then?” Elissa pressed, her tone still hopeful that one day he might return for good.

“Then I fight,” the Painted Man said. “Any that stand beside me will be welcome, and we’ll kill demons until we fall, or until Marya and Arlen can watch the sun set without fear.”

It was late, and the Servants had long since retired. Ragen, Elissa, and the Painted Man sat in the study, the air thick with the men’s sweet pipe smoke as they shared brandy.

“I’ve been summoned to the duke’s audience with ‘the Painted Man’ tomorrow,” Ragen said, “though I must say I never in a century would have thought they were talking about you.”

He smirked. “I’m to have Warders disguised as Servants try to copy your tattoos while you’re distracted talking to His Grace.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I’ll keep my hood up.”

“Why?” Ragen asked. “If you mean for everyone to have them, why keep them secret?”

“Because Euchor will covet them,” the Painted Man said. “And I can use that to gain advantage. I want him distracted, thinking he is buying them from me, while you distribute them quietly to every Warder in the duchy. Spread them so far that Euchor can never suppress them.”

Ragen grunted. “Clever,” he admitted, “though Euchor will be livid when he learns you’ve double-dealed.”

The Painted Man shrugged. “I’ll be long gone, and it’s no less than he deserves for locking up all the knowledge of the old world in his library for only a handful to see.”

Ragen nodded. “Best for me to act as if I don’t know you in the audience, then. If your identity gets out, I’ll act as shocked as the rest.”

“I think that’s wise,” the Painted Man agreed. “Who else will be there, do you think?”

“As few people as possible,” Ragen said. “Euchor’s actually pleased you’re coming at dawn, so he can have you in and out before the Tenders and Royals even catch wind of the meeting. Apart from the duke and Jone, there will be myself, Messengers’ Guildmaster Malcum, Euchor’s daughters, and my Warders, dressed as Servants.”

“Tell me of Euchor’s daughters,” the Painted Man said.

“Hypatia, Aelia, and Lorain,” Ragen said, “all as thick-skulled as their father, and none of them prettier. Mothers all, with born sons. If Euchor doesn’t produce a son of his own, the Mothers’ Council will choose the next duke from among that group of unholy brats.”

“So if Euchor dies, a boy becomes duke?” the Painted Man asked.

“Technically,” Ragen said, “though truer is the boy’s mother becomes duchess in everything but name and rules in his stead until he reaches manhood…and perhaps longer. Don’t underestimate any of them.”

“I won’t,” the Painted Man said.

“You should know, too, that the duke has a new herald,” Ragen said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “What does that matter? I never knew the old one.”

“It matters,” Ragen said, “because the new one is Keerin.”

The Painted Man looked up sharply. Keerin was Ragen’s Jongleur partner when they found young Arlen on the road, unconscious and dying of demon fever after crippling One Arm. The Jongleur had been a coward, curling under his bedroll and whimpering as demons tested the wards, but years later the Painted Man had caught him giving a performance where he claimed to have crippled the demon himself, a demon that nightly tried to break into the city to revenge itself upon Arlen, and one time even succeeded in breaching the wall. Arlen had called Keerin a liar publicly, and he and Jaik were badly beaten by Keerin’s apprentices as a result.

“How can a man who refuses to travel herald the duke?” the Painted Man asked.

“Euchor holds tight to power by hoarding people as well as knowledge,” Ragen said. “Keerin’s stupid little song about One Arm made him sought after by Royals, and that got Euchor’s attention. Keerin had a ducal commission soon after, and now performs solely at the duke’s pleasure.”

“So he doesn’t truly herald,” the Painted Man said.

“Oh, he does,” Ragen said. “Most of the hamlets can be reached without ever leaving proper succor, and Euchor even built some way stations on the way to others to accommodate the stoneless little weasel.”

The gates to the Duke’s Keep opened at dawn, and the person who strode out to greet the Painted Man was none other than Keerin.

Keerin was much as the Painted Man remembered, tall even for a Milnese, with carrot-colored hair and bright green eyes. He had fattened a bit, no doubt due to the benefits of his new patron. His thin wisp of a mustache still refused to join with the curl of hair at his chin, though powder crinkled in the lines of his face, attempting to preserve a fading youth.

But where he had last seen Keerin in a Jongleur’s patchwork motley, he was now a royal herald, and dressed accordingly. His tabard was patched in Euchor’s gray, white, and green, cutting a much more somber figure, though his pantaloons were still loose, should he be called upon to tumble, and the inside of his black cloak was sewn with patchwork colored silk that could be revealed with a twirl.

“An honor to meet you, sir!” Keerin said, bowing formally. “His Grace is preparing for the arrival of a few of his key councilors before your audience. If you’ll come with me, I will escort you to a waiting salon.”

The Painted Man followed him through the palace. The last time he had walked here, it was a bustle of activity as Servants and Mothers scurried to and fro on the duke’s business. But this early in the morning, the halls were still empty save for the occasional Servant, trained to be all but invisible.

Buzzing lamps lit the way with a pulsing glow. These needed no oil or wick, no Herb Gatherer’s chemics. Lectrics, it was called, another bit of old science Euchor kept only for himself. It seemed like magic, but the Painted Man knew from his time in the Duke’s Library that it was just harnessed magnetics, no different from wind or running water turning a mill.

Keerin ushered him into a room plush with velvet and a warm hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a mahogany writing desk. If he were alone, it might be a pleasant place to wait.

But Keerin made no move to leave. He went to a silver service, pouring goblets of spiced wine, and returned to hand one to the Painted Man. “I, too, am a demon fighter of some renown. Perhaps you have heard the song I composed about it, titled ‘One Arm’?”

Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Painted Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the shoulder. “An honor to meet one so brave. Come out with me tonight, and we will find a quake of rock demons to show the sun!”

Keerin paled at the offer, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The Painted Man smiled in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps he was not so far above such things after all.

“I…er, thank you for the offer,” Keerin stammered. “And I would be honored, of course, but my duties to the duke would never allow for it.”

“I understand,” the Painted Man said. “A good thing you were not so bound when you saved the life of that young boy in the song. What was his name again?”

“Arlen Banes,” Keerin said, regaining his composure with a practiced smile. He moved in close, putting a hand around the Painted Man’s shoulder and speaking in a low voice.

“One demon fighter to another,” he said, “I would be honored to immortalize your deeds in song, if you would grant a short interview when your business with His Grace is concluded.”

The Painted Man turned to face him, lifting his head to allow the lectric lamplight to show into his hood. Keerin gasped and removed his arm, drawing away sharply.

“I don’t kill demons for glory, Jongleur,” he growled, advancing on the poor herald who backed away until his back hit the bookshelf, causing it to rock unsteadily. “I kill demons,” he leaned in close, “because they deserve killing.”

Keerin’s hand shook, spilling his wine. The Painted Man took a step back and smiled. “Write a song about that, perhaps,” he suggested.

Keerin still did not leave, but the herald did not speak again, and for that the Painted Man was thankful.

Euchor’s great hall was smaller than the Painted Man remembered, but still impressive, with soaring pillars holding up a ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It was painted to look like blue sky, with a yellow-white sunburst in the center. Mosaics covered the floor, and tapestries the walls. There was room for a crowd, as the duke held a great many balls and parties there, watching the proceedings from his high throne at the hall’s end.

Duke Euchor was waiting on his throne as the Painted Man approached. Behind him on the royal dais stood three women whose uncomely faces, so like the duke’s, and expensive gowns covered in jewels made it clear they were his daughters. Mother Jone stood at the foot of the dais stairs holding a writing board and pen. Opposite her were Guildmasters Ragen and Malcum. The men, retired Messengers both, stood easily with each other. Ragen whispered something to Malcum, who snickered, drawing a glare from Jone.

Next to Jone stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian. And Mery’s father.

The Painted Man cursed himself. He should have expected to see Ronnell. If Mery had told him…

But while Ronnell looked at him with interest, there was no recognition in his eyes. His secret was safe, at least for now.

Two guards closed the door behind them and crossed their spears over it from the inside. “Servants,” all with writing boards, drifted on the far side of the pillars, unobtrusive as they watched him closely.

Up close, Euchor had grown fatter and older by far than the Painted Man remembered. He still wore jewels on every stubby finger and a fortune in gold chains, but there were fewer hairs underneath his golden crown. Once an imposing figure, he now looked as if he could barely rise from his throne without help.

“Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln,” Keerin called, “may I present to you the Painted Man, Messenger on behalf of Duke Rhinebeck, Guardian of the Forest Fortress and Lord of Angiers.”

Ragen’s voice came to him, as it always did when meeting a duke. Merchants and Royals will walk all over you if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.

With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and strode forward. “Greetings, Your Grace,” he called without waiting to be addressed. His robes whipped out as he sketched a graceful bow. There was a murmur from some at his audacity, but Euchor acted as if he did not notice.

“Welcome to Miln,” the duke said. “We have heard much about you. I confess I was one of many who thought you a myth. Pray, indulge me.” He mimed removing a hood.

The Painted Man nodded and removed his hood, drawing gasps from around the room. Even Ragen managed to look suitably awed.

He waited, letting them all have a good look. “Impressive,” Euchor said. “The tales do not do justice.” As he spoke, Ragen’s Warders went to work, dipping their pens to copy every symbol they saw while trying to seem inconspicuous.

This time it was Cob’s voice in his mind. Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy. Here, things cost money. He didn’t think they would get much—the multitude of symbols were too small and close together—but he pulled his hood up casually, his eyes never leaving the duke’s. The message was clear. His secrets would not come free.

Euchor glanced at the Warders and scowled at their lack of subtlety.

“I bring message from Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers,” the Painted Man said, producing his sealed parcel.

The duke ignored him. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. “Where are you from?”

“I am the Painted Man,” he said. “I come from Thesa.”

“That name is not spoken in Miln,” the duke warned.

“Nevertheless, it is so,” the Painted Man replied.

Euchor’s eyes widened at his audacity, and he leaned back, considering. Euchor was different from the other dukes the Painted Man had met in his travels. In Lakton and Rizon, the duke was little more than a figurehead to speak the will of the city council. In Angiers, Rhinebeck ruled, but it seemed his brothers and Janson made as many decisions as he. In Miln, Euchor made all the decisions. His advisors were clearly his, and not the other way around. The fact that he had ruled so long was a testament to his canniness.

“Can you really kill corelings with your bare hands?” the duke asked.

The Painted Man smiled again. “As I was telling your Jongleur, Your Grace, come out beyond the wall with me after dark, and I’ll show you personally.”

Euchor laughed, but it was forced, the color draining from his red, doughy face. “Perhaps another time.”

The Painted Man nodded.

Euchor looked at him a long time, as if trying to decide something. “So?” he asked at last. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

“Your Grace?” the Painted Man asked.

“The Deliverer,” the duke clarified.

“Surely not,” Tender Ronnell scoffed, but the duke made a sharp gesture, and he quieted immediately.

“Are you?” he asked again.

“No,” the Painted Man replied. “The Deliverer is a legend, nothing more.” Ronnell looked ready to speak up at that, but the librarian glanced at the duke and remained silent. “I am just a man who has found wards once lost.”

“Battle wards,” Malcum said, his eyes alight. The only one in the room besides Ragen to have faced corelings alone in the night, his interest was no surprise. The Messengers’ Guild would likely pay anything to arm their men with warded spears and arrows.

“And how did you come by these wards?” Euchor pressed.

“There is much to be found in the ruins between cities,” the Painted Man replied.

“Where?” Malcum asked. The Painted Man only smiled, letting them settle on the hook.

“Enough,” Euchor said. “How much gold for the wards?”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I will not sell them for gold.”

Euchor scowled. “I could have my guards persuade you otherwise,” he warned, nodding toward the two at the door.

The Painted Man smiled. “Then you would find yourself with two less guards.”

“Perhaps,” the duke mused, “but I have men to spare. Enough, perhaps, to pin even you down while my Warders copy your flesh.”

“None of my markings will help you ward a spear, or any weapon,” the Painted Man lied. “Those wards are here,” he tapped his hooded temple, “and there are not enough guards in all Miln to force them from me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Euchor warned, “but I can see you have a price in mind, so name it and be done.”

“First things first,” the Painted Man said, handing Rhinebeck’s satchel to Jone. “Duke Rhinebeck requests an alliance in driving out the Krasian invasion that has taken Rizon.”

“Of course Rhinebeck wants to ally,” Euchor snorted. “He sits behind wooden walls, in green lands the desert rats will covet. But what reason have I to march?”

“He invokes the Pact,” the Painted Man said.

Euchor waited as Jone took the letter to him, snatching it and reading it quickly. He scowled and crumpled it in his hand.

“Rhinebeck has already broken the Pact,” he growled, “when he tried to rebuild Riverbridge on his side of the river. Let them pay back the tolls from the last fifteen years, and then perhaps I will give thought to his city.”

“Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, swallowing the urge to leap onto the dais and throttle the man, “the matter of Riverbridge can be settled another day. This is a threat to both your peoples far beyond that petty dispute.”

“Petty?!” the duke demanded. Ragen shook his head, and the Painted Man immediately regretted his choice of words. He had never been as good at handling royals as his mentor.

“The Krasians don’t come for taxes, Your Grace,” he pressed. “Make no mistake, they come to kill and rape until the entire Northland is levied into their army.”

“I fear no desert rats,” Euchor said. “Let them come and break themselves against my mountains! Let them lay siege in these frozen lands, and see if their sand wards can battle snow demons while they starve outside my walls.”

“And what of your hamlets?” the Painted Man said. “Will you sacrifice them as well?”

“I can defend my duchy without aid,” Euchor said. “There are books of war sciences in my library, plans for weapons and engines that can break the savages with little loss to us.”

“If I may have a word, Your Grace,” Tender Ronnell said, drawing all eyes to him. He bowed deeply, and when Euchor nodded, he darted up the dais steps and bent to whisper.

The Painted Man’s sharp ears caught every murmured word.

“Your Grace, are you sure it’s wise to return such secrets to the world?” the Tender asked. “It was the wars of men that brought the Plague.”

“Would you prefer a plague of Krasians?” Euchor hissed back. “What will become of the Tenders of the Creator if the Evejans come?”

Ronnell paused. “Your point is well taken, Your Grace.” He bowed away.

“So you hold the Dividing,” the Painted Man said. “But how long can Miln survive without grain, fish, and lumber from the South? The Royal Gardens may supply your keep, but when the rest of the city begins to starve, they will dig you out of your own walls.”

Euchor snarled, but he did not immediately reply. “No,” he said at last, “I won’t send Milnese soldiers to die in the South for Rhinebeck’s sake without something in return from him.”

The Painted Man seethed inwardly at the man’s shortsightedness, but this was not unexpected. Now it was just a matter of negotiation.

“Duke Rhinebeck has empowered me to make some concessions,” the Painted Man said. “He will not remove his people from their half of Riverbridge, but he will turn fifty percent of the tolls over to you for a period of ten years, in exchange for your aid.”

“Only half, for a decade?” Euchor scoffed. “That will barely buy rations for the soldiers.”

“There is some room to negotiate, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said.

Euchor shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough by far. If Rhinebeck wants my help, I want that and something more.”

The Painted Man inclined his head. “And that is, Your Grace?”

“Rhinebeck has still failed to produce a male heir, has he not?” Euchor said bluntly. Mother Jone gasped, and the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably at the unseemly topic.

“Much as Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, fighting words that Euchor waved away.

“I have grandsons,” Euchor said. “My line is secure.”

“Your pardon, but what has this to do with an alliance?” the Painted Man asked.

“Because if Rhinebeck wishes one, he will have to marry one of my daughters,” Euchor said, looking back at the women standing unprettily behind his throne. “With the bridge tolls as her promise gift.”

“Aren’t your daughters all Mothers?” the Painted Man asked in confusion.

“Indeed,” Euchor said, “proven breeders, all of whom have given sons, but still in the flower of their youth.”

The Painted Man glanced at the women again. They didn’t seem in the flower of anything, but he made no comment. “I mean, Your Grace, aren’t they all wed?”

Euchor shrugged, “To minor Royals, all. I can dissolve their vows with a wave, and any of them would be proud to sit the throne beside Rhinebeck and give him a son. I’ll even let him choose which one.”

Rhinebeck will die first, the Painted Man thought. There will be no alliance.

“I have not been empowered to negotiate such matters,” he said.

“Of course not,” Euchor agreed. “I’ll put the offer in writing this very day, and send my herald to Rhinebeck’s court to deliver it personally.”

“Your Grace,” Keerin squeaked, again a sickly pallor, “surely you need me here for—”

“You will go to Angiers, or I will throw you from my tower,” Euchor growled.

Keerin bowed, attempting a Jongleur’s mask though his distress still shone through. “Of course it is my great honor to go, if I am absolved of my local duties.”

Euchor grunted, then turned his eyes back to the Painted Man. “You still haven’t given me a price for your battle wards.”

The Painted Man smiled and reached into his satchel, producing a grimoire of hand-sewn pages bound in leather. “These?”

“I thought you said they weren’t with you,” Euchor said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “I lied.”

“What do you want for them?” the duke asked again.

“Warders and supplies sent to Riverbridge with your herald on the way to Angiers,” the Painted Man said, “along with a royal decree accepting all refugees from across the Dividing without toll, and a guarantee of food, shelter, and succor through the winter.”

“All that, for a book of wards? ” Euchor demanded. “Ridiculous!”

The Painted Man shrugged. “If you wish to buy those I sold Rhinebeck, you’d best treat with him soon, before the Krasians burn his city down.”

“The Warders’ Guild will defray the costs to Your Grace, of course,” Ragen said on cue.

“The Messengers’ Guild, as well,” Malcum added quickly.

Euchor’s eyes narrowed at the men, and the Painted Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.

“I would never ask such of my guilds,” the duke said. “The crown will cover the expense. After all,” he nodded to the Painted Man, “the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.”

The Painted Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.

“Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers?” the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Painted Man to be gone.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.” He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.

It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Painted Man headed for the Duke’s Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.

As always, the Duke’s Library filled the Painted Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons burning the libraries during the Return. Science. Medicine. Magic. History. Everything. The dukes of Miln had collected all that knowledge and locked it away, denying its benefits to all mankind.

As a journeyman Warder, the Painted Man had warded the stacks and furniture of the Library, earning permanent placement in the book of access to the archives. Of course, he had no desire to reveal his identity, even to some acolyte clerk, but his objective wasn’t in the stacks this time. Once inside the building, he slipped out of sight and headed down a side passage.

He was waiting in Tender Ronnell’s office when the librarian returned, clutching the grimoire of battle wards. Ronnell didn’t notice him at first, moving quickly to lock the door behind him. He exhaled then, turning and holding the book out before him.

“Odd that Euchor would give the book to you and not the head of his Warders’ Guild, who would be better able to decipher it,” the Painted Man said.

Ronnell yelped at the sound and stumbled back. His eyes widened farther when he saw who stood before him. His hand sketched a quick ward in the air before him.

When it became clear that the Painted Man intended no attack, the Tender straightened and regained his composure. “I am well qualified to decipher this book. Warding is part of an acolyte’s studies. The world may not be ready for what is contained within. His Grace commanded that I assess it first.”

“Is that your function, Tender? To decide what mankind is ready for? As if you or Euchor might have a right to deny men the ability to fight back against the corelings?”

Ronnell snorted. “You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.”

The Painted Man walked to Ronnell’s desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender’s personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.

The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell’s faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind’s sins.

In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.

He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:

“There is no man in creation who is not your brother

No woman not your sister, no child not your own

For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike

And all must band together to withstand the night.”

The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from that?”

“You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”

“Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Painted Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”

“Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”

“Already have,” the Painted Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”

Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”

“But you won’t,” the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.

Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”

“To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Painted Man said.

Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”

The Painted Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”

“The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.

The Painted Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”

Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon. “For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh…”

“And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,” the Painted Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”

Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.

The Painted Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.

“Of course, of course…” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.

“Seen what?” the Painted Man asked.

“You.” Ronnell dropped to his knees. “You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!”

The Painted Man scowled. “I’ve said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.” He leaned in close to the Tender. “And I’ll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the ‘Plague.’ ”

“Of course not,” Ronnell agreed. “The Deliverer must believe the opposite.”

“I’m not the ripping Deliverer!” the Painted Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.

“You are,” Ronnell said. “It’s the only way to explain your miracles.”

“Miracles?” the Painted Man asked, incredulous. “Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender? What miracles?”

“Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,” Ronnell said. “You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders’ trap.”

The Painted Man shrugged. “So what? Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.”

“I can’t think of anyone who ever did,” Ronnell said. “And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.”

“I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,” the Painted Man said.

“You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,” Ronnell said. “The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.”

“What trial?” the Painted Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.

“A Beggar boy found on the road,” the librarian went on, “yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!” He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.

“You warded the Holy Library,” he said in awe, pointing. “A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.”

“Just the furniture,” the Painted Man said.

Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. “The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!”

“That’s nonsense,” the Painted Man said.

Ronnell got to his feet. “Pray, put your hood up,” he said, going to the door.

The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.

The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.

Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive—original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.

The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night’s reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.

The acolyte bowed low at the Tender’s approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke’s Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read: Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.

“The Age of Science had terrible weapons,” Ronnell said. “Weapons that could kill hundreds, even thousands of men. It is no wonder the Creator grew wroth with us.”

The Painted Man ignored the comment. “Euchor will seek to rebuild them?”

“The most terrible are beyond our ability to re-create, requiring vast refineries and lectric power,” Ronnell said. “But there is much that can still be built by any man with access to simple chemics and a steel forge. That book,” he pointed to the volume in the Painted Man’s hands, “is a detailed account of those weapons and how they are built. Take it.”

The Painted Man raised an eyebrow. “What will Euchor do when he learns it’s gone?”

“He will grow wroth, and demand I re-create it from the original texts,” Ronnell said, gesturing to the rows of glass bookcases. Glass the Painted Man had etched with wards himself.

Tender Ronnell followed his gaze. “When the Warders’ Guild began charging glass, I had them put out in the night. Your wards made those cases indestructible. Another miracle.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone who I was,” the Painted Man said. “You would endanger everyone I ever knew.”

Ronnell nodded. “It is enough for now that I know.”

If he hadn’t told Ronnell who he was, Mery likely would have, but he had never expected the strict man to honestly believe that he, Arlen Bales, was the Deliverer. The Painted Man scowled as he put the book in his satchel.

It was the last night of the new moon when the mind demon tracked the Painted Man to Fort Miln. The coreling prince could only rise on the three darkest nights of the cycle, but it picked up its quarry’s trail quickly, following a lingering scent in the air, even days after his passing. It was an intriguing scent—not quite human and warm with stolen Core magic.

Atop its winged mimic, the mind demon stared down at the net atop the human breeding ground. The walls were powerfully warded, but there were large gaps in the lines of magic crisscrossing the rooftops. A winged drone, unable to see the net unless it activated, might never find the gap save by accident, but to the coreling prince the pattern was clear, and it guided its mimic to slip neatly through into the city proper.

Windows were shuttered closed, streets dark and empty. The mind demon felt the pull as the house wards tried to leech its magic, but the mimic glided by so quickly that they could find no draw. Clumsy wardnets were cast throughout the city, but the coreling prince avoided them as easily as a man might step around a puddle.

They passed through the city following the invisible path in the air. They paused at a great inner keep, but a sniff at the gate made it clear it was not their final destination. Next they came to a giant building whose wards were so powerful, the coreling prince hissed as it felt their pull even from a distance. There was usually at least one such place at the center of every breeding ground, and they were places best avoided, especially since his quarry had not remained there. A fresher scent headed away from the building.

The trail led at last to another wardwall, this one tightly crafted and without flaw. The wards were not keyed to their castes, but the coreling prince knew they would still activate and cause great pain should it or its mimic cross the net. The demon was forced to disable some of the wards so they could pass the barrier safely.

They drifted silently up to the dwelling, and in the window, the mind demon caught sight of its quarry at last. Those with him were dull and colorless creatures, but the one had warded his flesh, and glowed fiercely with stolen magic.

Too fiercely. The coreling prince was thousands of years old, a creature of caution, consideration, and decisive action. This deep in the breeding ground, it could not summon drones to attack, and the mind demon was loath to risk its mimic. Having seen the human, there was no question he must be killed, but there would be better chances in the coming cycles when he was less protected, and there were unanswered questions about his power to answer first.

It moved to the window, absorbing the crude grunts and gestures of the human stock.

“ ‘You would find yourself with two less guards?’ ” Ragen said with a deep, rich laugh. “I thought Euchor was going to burst a vein right there! I told you to act like a king, not a suicidal Krasian!”

“I didn’t expect him to demand a marriage,” the Painted Man said.

“Euchor knows full well he is not going to produce a direct heir,” Ragen said, “so it’s wise to get at least one of his daughters out of the city before they tear Miln apart for his throne. Whichever girl Rhinebeck chooses, she ’ll likely welcome the escape, and the chance to put her own issue on the throne of Angiers.”

“Rhinebeck will never accept it,” the Painted Man said.

Ragen shook his head. “Depends on how much of a threat the Krasians prove,” he said. “If it’s half as bad as you say, Rhinebeck may have no choice. Will you share Euchor’s book of weapons with him?”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I have no interest in ducal politics, or helping the men of Thesa kill one another with the Krasians in our lands and the corelings clawing at the wards. I’ve more interest in turning these weapons against the corelings, if it can be done.”

“No wonder Ronnell thinks you the Deliverer,” Ragen said.

The Painted Man looked at him sharply.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ragen said. “I believe it no more than you do. At least, not that you’re divine. But perhaps it’s natural that when the time is right, a man of sufficient will and drive appears to guide the rest of us.”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I don’t want to guide anyone. I just want to see the fighting wards spread wide so they can never be lost again. Let men guide themselves.”

He moved to the window and glanced out the curtains at the sky. “I’ll leave before first light, so none will mark my…”

He almost missed it, his eyes on the sky and not the ground. It was just a glimpsed thing, vanished before he got a good look, but there was no mistaking the glow to his warded eyes.

There was a demon in the yard.

He turned and ran for the door, pulling off his robe and throwing it on the marble floor as he went. Elissa gasped at the sight of him.

“Arlen, what is it?” she cried.

He ignored her, lifting the bar off the heavy oak door and flinging it open as if it were weightless. He leapt out into the yard, looking about frantically.

Nothing.

Ragen was at the door an instant later, spear in hand and warded shield on his arm. “What did you see?” he demanded.

The Painted Man turned a slow circuit, scanning the courtyard for signs of magic, and straining his other senses to catch some hint confirming what he had seen.

“There’s a demon in the yard,” he said. “A powerful one. Stay behind the wards.”

“Good advice for you as well,” Elissa called. “Come inside before my heart stops.”

The Painted Man ignored her, moving about the yard, scanning. There were Servants’ houses inside Ragen’s wall, as well as his garden and stables. Many places to hide. He drifted through the darkness, seeing all with absolute clarity, even better than he did in the light.

There was a presence in the air, like a lingering stench, but it was insubstantial and impossible to pinpoint. His muscles grew tight, ready to flex at an instant’s notice.

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

“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.

This wasn’t the first talisman Rojer had carried. For years, he had kept a puppet of wood and string topped with a lock of his master’s golden hair in a secret pocket in the waistband of his motley pants. Before that, it was a puppet of his mother, capped with a lock of her red.

But with the medallion, Rojer could feel both Arrick and his parents looking over him, and he spoke to them through the fiddle. He played his love and played his loneliness and regret. He told them all the things he had never been able to in life.

When he finally finished, Leesha and the others were staring at him, their eyes glazed like charmed corelings. It was only after a few moments of silence that they shook their heads and came back to themselves.

“Ent never heard anything beautiful as that,” Wonda said. Gared grunted, and Leesha produced a kerchief, dabbing at her eyes.

The rest of the journey to Deliverer’s Hollow was filled with music, with Rojer playing every minute his hands weren’t otherwise occupied. He knew they were returning to all the same problems they had left, but with the promise of aid to come from the duke and the Jongleurs’ Guild, as well as the comfort of the medallion around his neck, he held new hope that all their problems could be solved.

They were still a day from the Hollow when the way became choked with refugees, many of them with tents and warding circles pitched right in the road. Leesha knew them immediately as Laktonians, for as a whole they were stocky folk, short and round-faced, and they stood as those more used to walking on a boat’s deck than dry land.

“What’s happened?” Leesha demanded of the first person they came to, a young mother pacing to calm a crying infant. The woman looked at her with hollow, uncomprehending eyes as Leesha got down from the cart. Then she took note of Leesha’s pocketed apron and a light came back to her.

“Please,” she said, holding out the screaming child. “I think he’s sick.”

Leesha took the babe in her arms, running sensitive fingers over it to check pulse and temperature. After a moment, she simply sat it up in the crook of one arm and stuck a knuckle in its mouth. The child quieted immediately, sucking vigorously.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” she said, “apart from sensing the stress of his mum.” The woman relaxed visibly, breathing a sigh of relief.

“What’s happened?” Leesha asked again.

“The Krasians,” the woman said.

“Creator, have they marched on Lakton so soon?” Leesha asked.

The woman shook her head. “They’ve spread out through Rizon’s hamlets, forcing the women to cover up, and dragging the men off to fight demons. They pick and choose Rizonan girls to take as wives like a rancher picking a chicken to slaughter, and march the boys to training camps where they’re taught to hate their own families.”

Leesha scowled.

“Hamlets ent safe anymore,” the woman said. “Those that could moved on to Lakton proper, and a few stayed to fight for their homes, but the rest of us went to the Hollow looking for the Deliverer. He wan’t there, but folk said he had gone on to Angiers, so that’s where we’re headed. He ’ll put things right, you see if he doesn’t.”

“So we all hope,” Leesha sighed, though she had her doubts. She handed back the baby and climbed back into the cart.

“We need to get to the Hollow immediately,” she told the others. She looked at Gared.

“Clear the road!” the giant Cutter bellowed, a lion’s roar, and folk fell over themselves to move out of his path as he stomped his garron toward them. Tents, blankets, and wards were snatched quickly away. Leesha regretted the need, but the cart could not go off-road, and her children needed her.

They galloped the horses when they finally cleared the press of refugees, thousands in number, but they were still well short of the Hollow by nightfall. It only took a mild look from Leesha to make Rojer take up his fiddle, and they rode on through the darkness with only Leesha’s light staff to guide them and his music to keep the corelings at bay.

Leesha could see the demons at the edge of the light, swaying in time to the music as they ambled slowly after Rojer, mesmerized.

“I’d rather they were attacking,” Wonda said. She had her great bow strung and a warded arrow nocked and ready.

“Ent natural,” Gared agreed.

They made it to Leesha’s cottage on the outskirts of the Hollow by midnight, and paused only long enough for Leesha to store the most precious of their cargo before they pressed on through the darkness to the village proper.

If things had seemed cramped before, they were many times worse now. The refugees from Lakton came better equipped, with tents and warding circles and covered wagons laden with supply, but they spilled over the edges of the forbidding on almost every side, weakening the greatward.

Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Find the other Cutters and make a sweep of the forbidding. Any tent or carriage within ten feet of the greatward needs to be moved, or we could have corelings in the streets.” The two nodded and moved off.

She turned to Rojer. “Find Smitt and Jona. I want a council meeting tonight; I don’t care who’s in bed.”

Rojer nodded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ll be, I suppose.” He hopped from the cart and pulled up the hood of his warded cloak as she turned the cart for the hospit.

Jardir looked up as Abban limped into the throne room. “You seem almost spry today, khaffit.”

Abban bowed. “The spring air gives me strength, Shar’Dama Ka.”

Ashan snorted at Jardir’s side. Jayan and Asome kept their distance, having learned not to antagonize Abban in their father’s presence.

“What do you know of the place called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Jardir asked, ignoring them.

“You seek the Painted Man?” Abban asked.

Ashan lunged at Abban, taking him by the throat. “Where did you hear that name, khaffit?!” he demanded. “If you’ve been bribing the nie’dama for information again, I’ll—”

“Ashan, enough!” Jardir shouted as Abban gasped and struggled weakly. When the Damaji did not comply fast enough, Jardir did not ask again, kicking him hard in the side. Ashan was knocked away and hit the polished stone floor hard.

“You would strike me, your loyal Damaji, over a pig-eating khaffit?” Ashan asked, incredulous, when he had found his breath again.

“I struck you for not attending my command,” Jardir corrected, and swept his gaze over the rest of those in the room. Aleverak and Maji, Jayan and Asome, Ashan, Hasik, even the door guards. Only Inevera, stretched out in her diaphanous robes on a bed of bright silk pillows beside his throne, escaped his gaze. “I tire of this game, so I say now for all to hear, I will kill the next person to strike someone in my presence when I have not given them leave to do so.”

Abban began to smirk, but Jardir whirled on him, glaring. “And you, khaffit,” he growled. “The next time you answer a question with a question, I will tear out your right eye and make you eat it.”

Abban paled as Jardir strode angrily to his throne, sitting down hard. “How did you learn of the one they call the Painted Man? The dama required intensive interrogation to pull his name from the chin Holy Men’s lips.”

Abban shook his head. “It’s all the chin talk about, Deliverer. I doubt the interrogations discovered anything a few crumbs of bread or words of kindness couldn’t have gathered freely on the street.”

Jardir scowled. “And the stories agree he is in the village called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Abban nodded. “What do you know of it?”

“Until a year ago, it was called Cutter’s Hollow,” Abban said, “a small village of men beholden to the duke of Angiers who felled trees for lumber and fuel. Wood is impractical to ship through the desert, so I had little business with them, though I do have one contact who might remain. A seller of fine paper.”

“What good is that?” Ashan demanded.

Abban shrugged. “I do not know that it is, Damaji.”

“And what have you heard of the place since its name changed?” Jardir demanded.

“That the Painted Man came to them last year when the village was rife with flux and the wards failing,” Abban said. “That he killed hundreds of alagai with his bare hands alone, and taught the villagers to fight alagai’sharak.”

“Impossible,” Jayan said. “The chin are too weak and cowardly to stand up in the night.”

“Perhaps not all,” Abban said. “Remember the Par’chin.”

Jardir glared at him. “No one remembers the Par’chin, khaffit,” he growled. “You would do well not to remember him, either.”

Abban nodded, bowing as low as his crutch would allow.

“I will see for myself,” Jardir decided, “and you will come with me.” Everyone looked at him in surprise. “Hasik, find Shanjat. Tell him to assemble the Spears of the Deliverer.” Jardir’s Maze unit had taken the name when they became his personal bodyguard. The Spears of the Deliverer were fifty of the finest dal’Sharum in Krasia, serving under kai’Sharum Shanjat.

Hasik bowed, leaving immediately.

“Are you certain this is wise, Deliverer?” Ashan asked. “It is not safe to separate yourself from your armies in enemy lands.”

“Nothing in life is safe for those who fight Sharak Ka,” Jardir said. He put a hand on Ashan’s shoulder. “But if you are concerned, you may come with me, my friend.”

Ashan bowed deeply.

“This is foolishness,” Aleverak growled. “A thousand weakling chin can overwhelm even the Spears of the Deliverer.”

Jayan snorted. “I doubt that very much, old man.”

Aleverak turned to Jardir, who nodded his permission. The ancient Damaji reached out to Jayan, and suddenly the boy was on his back.

“I’ll kill you for that, old man,” Jayan growled, rolling quickly to his feet.

“Try it, boy,” Aleverak dared, setting his feet in a sharusahk stance and beckoning with his one arm. Jayan snarled, but at the last moment, he glanced at his father.

Jardir smiled. “By all means, try and kill him.”

A vicious smile broke out on Jayan’s face, but a moment later he was back on the floor, Aleverak pulling on his arm to increase the slow pressure of his heel on Jayan’s windpipe.

“Enough,” Jardir said, and Aleverak immediately released the hold and stepped back. Jayan coughed and rubbed his throat as he rose.

“Even my own sons must respect the Damaji, Jayan,” Jardir warned. “You would be wise to hold your tongue in the future.”

He turned to Aleverak. “The Damaji will rule Everam’s Bounty in my absence, with you leading the council.”

Aleverak narrowed his eyes, as if deciding whether or not to continue his protest. Finally, he bowed deeply. “As the Shar’Dama Ka commands. Who will speak for the Kaji until Damaji Ashan returns?”

“My son, Dama Asukaji,” Ashan said, nodding to the young man. Asukaji was not yet eighteen, but he was old enough for the white robe, which meant he was old enough for the black turban, if he was strong enough to hold it.

Jardir nodded. “And if Jayan will be humble, he will serve as Sharum Ka.”

All eyes turned to Jayan, whose face betrayed his shock. After a moment, he put one hand and one knee on the ground, perhaps for the first time in his life. “I will serve the council of Damaji, of course.”

Jardir nodded. “See to it the lesser tribes continue to subjugate the chin while I am gone,” he said to Asukaji and Aleverak. “I need fresh warriors for Sharak Ka, not bickering tribes stealing one another’s wells.” The two men bowed.

Inevera rose from her bed of pillows, her face serene behind the diaphanous veil.

“I would speak to my husband in private,” she said.

Ashan bowed. “Of course, Damajah.” He ushered the others quickly out of the room, all save Asome, who stood fast behind.

“Something troubles you, my son?” Jardir asked when the others were gone.

Asome bowed. “If Jayan is to be Sharum Ka while you are gone, then by rights I should be Andrah.”

Inevera laughed. Asome’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to cross her.

“That would put you above your elder brother, my son,” Jardir said. “Something no father does lightly. And Sharum Ka are appointed. Andrah is a title that must be earned.”

Asome shrugged. “Summon the Damaji. I will kill them all, if that is what is required.”

Jardir looked into his son’s eyes, seeing ambition, but also a fierce pride that might indeed carry the boy, barely past his eighteenth born day, through eleven death challenges, even if it meant killing one of his own brothers or Asukaji, who was his closest friend and rumored to be his lover. Asome’s white robe might forbid him to touch a weapon, but he was deadlier than Jayan by far, and even Aleverak would do well to step carefully around him.

Jardir felt a swell of pride in the boy. Already he thought his second son might well prove a better successor than Jayan, but not until he was seasoned, and firstborn Jayan would never allow his brother to surpass him while he still drew breath.

“Krasia needs no Andrah while I live,” Jardir said instead. “And Jayan will only wear the white turban while I am gone. You will assist Asukaji in maintaining control of the Kaji.”

Asome opened his mouth again, but Inevera cut him off.

“Enough,” she said. “The matter is closed. Leave us.”

Asome scowled, but he bowed and left.

“He will be a great leader one day, if he lives long enough,” Jardir said when the door closed behind his son.

“I often think the same of you, husband,” Inevera said, turning to face him. The words stung, but Jardir said nothing, knowing it was pointless until his wife had said her piece.

“Aleverak and Ashan were right,” Inevera said. “There is no need for you to lead the expedition personally.”

“Is it not the duty of the Shar’Dama Ka to gather armies to Sharak Ka?” Jardir asked. “By all accounts, these chin fight the Holy War. I must investigate.”

“You could at least have waited until I had a chance to throw the dice,” Inevera said.

Jardir scowled. “There’s no need to throw the dice every time I leave the palace.”

“Perhaps there is,” Inevera said. “Sharak Ka is no game. We must command every advantage, if we are to succeed.”

“If Everam wills me to succeed, that is all the advantage I need,” Jardir said. “And if He does not…”

Inevera lifted her felt pouch of alagai hora. “Pray, indulge me.”

Jardir sighed, but he nodded and they retreated to a chamber off the throne room that Inevera had claimed as her own. As always, the room was filled with bright pillows and cloying incense. Jardir felt his pulse quicken, his body conditioned to associate the smell with Inevera’s sex. The Jiwah Ka was more than happy to share him when she was sated, but she was almost a man in her hunger, and the side chamber was used frequently for that purpose, often while the Damaji and Jardir’s councilors waited in the throne room without.

Inevera moved to pull the curtains, and he watched her body through the translucent veils that were all she ever wore anymore. Even at more than forty years of age—she never said for certain—she was the most beautiful of his wives by far, her curves still round and firm, her skin smooth. He was tempted to take her right there, but Inevera was single-minded when the dice were concerned, and he knew she would only rebuff him until they were thrown.

They knelt on the silk pillows, allowing a broad space for the dice to fall. As always, Inevera needed his blood for the spell, releasing it with a quick slash of her warded knife. She licked the blade clean and returned it to her belt sheath, pressing her palm to the wound, and then emptying the dice into it. They glowed fiercely in the dark as she shook her hands and threw.

The demon bones scattered on the floor, and Inevera scanned them quickly. Jardir had learned that the pattern of the fall was as important as the symbols that showed, but his understanding of the dice ended there. He had seen his wives argue many times over the meaning of a throw, though none ever dared question Inevera’s interpretations.

The Damajah hissed angrily at the pattern before her, looking up sharply at Jardir.

“You cannot go,” she said.

Jardir scowled, moving to the window and grabbing the curtain angrily. “Cannot?” he demanded, pulling the heavy drapes aside and flooding the room with bright sunlight. Inevera barely got her dice back in the pouch in time.

“I am Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “There is nothing I cannot do.”

There was a flash of rage on Inevera’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “The dice promise disaster if you go,” she warned.

“I tire of following your dice,” Jardir said. “Especially since they always seem to tell you more than you deem me worthy to know. I will go.”

“Then I am going with you,” Inevera said.

Jardir shook his head. “You will do no such thing. You will stay here and keep your sons from killing one another until I return.”

He strode up to her and took her shoulder in a firm grip. “I would have one last taste of my wife, though, before the trek north.”

Inevera twisted, seeming only to tap his arm, but his grip lost strength for an instant, and she stepped away. “If you go alone, you can wait,” she said, a cruel smile on her face. “More reason to come back alive.”

Jardir scowled, but he knew better than to try to force the issue, Shar’Dama Ka and husband or no.

Wonda opened the door to Leesha’s cottage, letting Rojer and Gared in. Once the girl heard the Painted Man had commanded Gared to guard Rojer, she had insisted on doing the same for Leesha, sleeping at the cottage every night. Leesha had begun assigning her chores to try to dissuade the girl’s smothering, but Wonda did the work gladly, and Leesha had to admit she had grown accustomed to her looming presence.

“The Cutters finished felling trees to clear space for the next greatward,” Rojer said as they sat at her table and took tea. “It’s a mile square, just like you asked.”

“That’s good,” Leesha said. “We can start laying stones to mark the edges of the ward immediately.”

“Land’s thick with woodies,” Gared said. “Hundreds of ’em. The cuttin’ drew ’em like flies to a dungpile. Oughta gather the town and wipe ’em out ’fore we build.”

Leesha looked at Gared closely. The giant Cutter was always recommending battle, as the notched and dented gauntlets at his belt showed. But Leesha was never certain if it was for love of carnage and the jolt of magic that he acted, or for the good of the town.

“He’s right” Rojer added when Leesha remained silent. “The demons will be pushed to its edges when the ward activates, making them thicker still, ready to kill anyone who stumbles off the forbidding. We should just annihilate them in the open rather than try to hunt them through the trees later.”

“S’what the Painted Man’d do,” Gared said.

“The Painted Man would do half the killing himself,” Leesha said, “but he’s not here.”

Gared nodded. “That’s why we need yur help. Gonna need thundersticks and liquid demonfire. Lots of it.”

“I see,” Leesha said.

“Know yur busy,” Gared said. “Got folk to do the mixing, if yu’ll give ’em the recipe.”

“You want me to give you the secrets of fire?” Leesha barked a laugh. “I would sooner let the knowledge pass from the world!”

“What’s the difference ’tween that and my warded axe?” Gared asked. “Yu’ll trust folk with one and not the other?”

“The difference is that your axe doesn’t explode and destroy everything within fifty feet if you drop it or leave it out in the sun,” Leesha said. “My own apprentices will be lucky if I teach them the secrets of fire one day.”

“So we should build the refugee town on demon-infested land?” Gared asked.

“It’s going to be an extension of the Hollow, not a refugee town,” Leesha corrected, “and of course not. Draw up a plan, and if it’s sound, I’ll make what’s needed. But,” she added, “I’ll be on hand to make sure no wood-brained idiot sets himself or the ripping woods on fire.”

Gared shook his head. “Ent safe. Need you at the hospit, case anyone’s hurt.”

Leesha folded her arms. “Then you’ll be fighting without the flamework.”

Wonda crossed her arms as well. “Ent no demon going to lay a claw on Mistress Leesha while I’m around, Gared Cutter, and I don’t mean to wait at the hospit, either.”

“we’ll scour in a week,” Leesha said. “Plenty of time to prepare the land and mix the chemics. Let Benn know, as well. Might as well let the demons charge some glass before we show them the sun.”

Neither Gared nor Rojer seemed pleased, but Leesha knew they had no choice but to nod and agree. Perhaps not as subtle as Duchess Araine, who would have had the men convinced it was their own idea to have her at the scene, but not bad. She wondered if Bruna had secretly been the same, ruling the Hollow from her tiny hut without anyone even realizing.

They galloped across the land on black desert chargers, fifty warriors following Jardir and Ashan on their white stallions. Trailing behind but keeping them in sight, if barely, came Abban on his long-legged camel. They were forced to stop several times to allow him to catch up, usually by a stream where they could water the horses. Such things were almost commonplace in the green lands, something that never ceased to amaze the desert warriors.

“Everam’s beard, these roads are stony,” Abban whined when he finally reached one stream. He practically fell from his seat and groaned as he rubbed at his prodigious backside.

“I do not see why we needed to bring the khaffit, Deliverer,” Ashan said.

“Because I want someone other than you and I who can count past his toes,” Jardir said. “Abban sees things that other men do not, and I need to see all in the green lands if I am to make best use of them in Sharak Ka.”

Abban continued to complain at every bump in the road or chill breeze, but Jardir found it easy to ignore the endless tirade as they rode on. He felt freer than he had in a decade, like an incredible weight had been taken from his shoulders. For however long this expedition took, weeks perhaps, he was responsible for nothing except Abban, Ashan, and the fifty hardened dal’Sharum at his back. Part of him wanted to keep on riding forever, away from the politics of chin, Damaji, and dama’ting.

They encountered some greenland refugees on the road, but these fled their path, and Jardir saw no gain in pursuing them. On foot and afraid to travel at night, there was little danger of them getting ahead and warning the Hollow, and none of them would dare attack the Spears of the Deliverer. Even the corelings at night shied from their path, for Jardir did not call halt when the sun set. Abban somehow managed to keep up in the night, though. He put his camel right in the center of the warriors, tolerating their jeers and spittle for the succor they offered.

It was on such a night that they came upon the Hollow. Shouts echoed down the road, along with sounds like thunder and great flashes of light.

They slowed their pace, and Jardir turned into the trees to follow the cacophony, his warriors following. Eventually, they came to the edge of a great swath of cleared land filled with the stumps of trees, where the chin fought their Northern alagai’sharak.

Great fires blazed in trenches, and coupled with the constant flare of wards throughout the battlefield, the clearing was lit as if it were daylight and littered with dead alagai. The fires and wards funneled demons into places where the Northerners stood ready to cut them to pieces.

“They’ve prepared their battlefield,” Jardir mused.

Abban looked around, finding a suitable space, and staked his camel, removing a portable warding circle from its saddlebags, which he began to set up around them both.

“Even among so many warriors, you must hide behind wards like a coward?” Jardir asked him.

Abban shrugged. “I am khaffit,” he said simply. Jardir snorted and turned back to watch the Northerners fight.

Unlike the chin from Everam’s Bounty, these Northerners were tall and heavily muscled. The largest of them fought not with spear and shield but with great warded axes and mattocks. The men were of a size with the wood demons, and chopped at them like trees.

The Northerners fought well, but there were hundreds of wood demons coming at them. It seemed the chin would be overwhelmed when they broke apart, clearing ground for a line of archers to scour the field.

Jardir gaped to see the archers were clad in the long dresses the Northern women favored, displaying their faces and half their breasts like harlots.

“Their women join in alagai’sharak?” Ashan asked in shock. Jardir looked closer at the battlefield and saw that even some of those fighting in close quarters were female.

And there was a great giant, even among these tall people, who led every charge with a bellow that resonated for miles. He swung a great two-headed axe in one hand like a hatchet, and in the other he swung a machete as if it were a pocketknife.

One of the Northerners went down on one knee at the blow of an eightfoot-tall wood demon, and the giant tackled it away before it could land a killing blow. He lost his weapons in the tumble, but it made no difference as the alagai leapt at him. With one hand, the giant stopped the demon short, grabbing it, and with the other he landed a blow that flared with magic and sent the alagai reeling. Jardir saw he wore heavy gloves banded with warded metal.

The giant gave the wood demon no time to recover, falling on it and pummeling it about the head until he was covered in ichor and the demon lay still. He roared into the night, and with his thick mane of yellow hair and beard, he looked like nothing if not a lion atop its kill.

Another demon approached, but a slender boy with bright red hair and pale skin, dressed like a khaffit in a patchwork of bright color, stood before it and put up an instrument of some sort. He made a jarring sound, and the alagai grasped its head and shrieked in agony. The noise continued, and the demon fled as if in terror, right into another chin’s waiting axe.

“Everam’s beard,” Abban breathed.

“What magic does that one carry?” Ashan asked.

“We must find out,” Jardir agreed.

“Allow me to kill the giant and bring the boy to you, Deliverer,” Hasik begged, his eyes taking on the mad light they always did before battle.

“Do nothing,” Jardir said. “We are here to learn, not fight.” He could tell his warriors did not like that answer, but he did not care, because two other figures had caught his eye. One was clearly a woman, carrying no weapon, only a small basket. The other was much larger, and dressed like a man, but carried a bow like the northern women. Her face was demon-scarred.

Both were clad in fine cloaks embroidered with hundreds of wards, and they wandered through the carnage unmolested by alagai and given a respectful berth by the other Northerners.

“They are unseen to the alagai as if they wear the Cloak of Kaji,” Ashan said.

A demon clawed through the chest of a man, and he cried out and went down, dropping his axe. The cloaked women hurried to the man, the taller one putting an arrow in the demon as the slender one knelt by the man’s side. She pulled back her hood, and Jardir saw her face.

She was even more beautiful than Inevera, her skin white like cream, a sharp contrast with her hair, black like the armor of a rock demon.

The woman tore the man’s shirt, tending his wound while her female bodyguard stood watch over her, shooting any alagai that dared draw close.

“Some sort of Northern dama’ting?” Jardir mused aloud.

“A heathen parody of one, perhaps,” Ashan said.

After a moment, the beautiful woman gave a command to her bodyguard, who slung her bow across her shoulders and lifted the wounded man in her arms. The way back out was blocked by a group of alagai, but the Northern dama’ting reached into her pouch and removed an object. Fire appeared in her hand, setting spark to it, and she drew back her arm and threw. An explosion blasted the alagai from her path, leaving them littering the ground, unmoving.

“Heathen, perhaps,” Jardir said, “but these Northerners are not without power.”

“The men must be cowards worse than khaffit, to depend on women for their rescue,” Shanjat said. “I would rather die on the field.”

“No,” Jardir said, “the cowards are us, hiding here in the shadows while chin fight alagai’sharak.”

“They are our enemies,” Ashan said.

Jardir looked at him and shook his head. “Perhaps by day, but all men are brothers in the night.” He put up his night veil and lifted his spear, giving a war cry as he charged into the fight.

There was a surprised hesitation in his men, and then they, too, roared and followed.

“Krasians!” Merrem the butcher’s wife screamed, and Rojer looked up in surprise, seeing that she was right. Dozens of black-clad Krasian warriors were charging into the clearing, brandishing spears and whooping. His blood went cold, and the bow slipped from his fiddle.

A demon almost killed him in that moment, but Gared cut the arm that swiped at him clean off with his machete.

“Eyes on the demons!” Gared bellowed for all the Cutters to hear. “Krasians ent gonna get a fight if we let the corelings do their work for ’em!”

But it quickly became apparent that the Krasians had no intention of attacking the Hollowers. Led by a man with a white turban and a warded spear that looked as if it was made entirely of polished silver, they fell upon the wood demons like a pack of wolves breaking into a chicken coop, killing with practiced efficiency.

The leader waded out alone into clusters of wood demons, but his fearlessness seemed justified, for he laid waste to them as easily as the Painted Man could have, his spear a blur and his limbs moving inhumanly fast.

The other warriors linked shields in fighting wedges, mowing demons like summer barley. One group was led by a man in a pristine white robe, a stark contrast with the black-clad warriors. The man in white held no weapons, but he strode through the battlefield confidently. A wood demon leapt at him and he stepped to the side, tripping it and shoving as it passed him by, driving it onto the spear of one of his warriors.

Another demon attacked him, but the man in white swung his torso left, then right, his feet never moving as he smoothly dodged the demon’s clawed swipes. On its third swing, he caught its wrist and twisted, turning its own attack against it and flipping it over onto its back where a warrior casually skewered it.

Rojer and the others had assumed the scouring would take all night, and planned for reserves of fighters to be brought in as needed and much of Leesha’s flamework used.

With the Krasians fighting, the battle was over in minutes.

Krasian and greenlander alike stood frozen when the last demon fell, staring at one another in shock. All continued to clutch their weapons, as if unsure the time for battle was past, but none dared make the first move, waiting for word from their leaders.

“The chin watch us with one eye,” Jardir said to Ashan.

Ashan nodded. “The other eye looks to the giant and the red-haired khaffit boy who made the alagai run in terror.”

“They stand as frozen as the others,” Jardir noted.

“Not the true leaders, then,” Ashan guessed. “Kai’Sharum, or the heathen equivalent. The giant might even be their Sharum Ka.”

“Men still worthy of respect, then,” Jardir said. “Come.”

He strode over to the two, slipping his spear into his shoulder harness and showing his hands to indicate he meant no harm. When he stood before the men, he dipped a polite bow.

“I am Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, of the line of Jardir, son of Kaji,” he said in perfect Thesan, seeing the men’s eyes flare in recognition. “This is Damaji Ashan.” He gestured to Ashan, who imitated his shallow bow.

“Honored,” Ashan said.

The two greenlanders looked at each other curiously. Finally, the red-haired boy shrugged, and the giant relaxed. Jardir realized with surprise that the boy was dominant.

“Rojer, son of Jessum, of the Inns of Riverbridge,” the red-haired boy said, sweeping back his multicolored cloak. He set one leg forward and the other back, lowering himself in some sort of greenland bow.

“Gared Cutter,” the giant said. “Er…son of Steave.” He was even less civilized, stepping forward and sticking out his hand so quickly Jardir almost caught his wrist and broke his arm. It was only at the last moment that he realized the giant merely wanted to clasp hands in greeting. He squeezed hard, perhaps in some primitive test of manhood, and Jardir returned the pressure until both men felt their bones grinding together. The giant gave him an extra nod of respect when they finally broke apart.

“Shar’Dama Ka, more chin approach,” Ashan said in Krasian. “One of their heretic clerics and the heathen healer.”

“I’ve no wish to antagonize these people, Ashan,” Jardir said. “Heathens or no, we will respect them as if they were dama and dama’ting.”

“Shall I wash the feet of their khaffit, as well?” Ashan asked, disgusted.

“If I command it,” Jardir replied, bowing deeply to the new arrivals. The red-haired boy stepped in smoothly to facilitate introductions. Jardir met the Holy Man, bowed, and forgot his name instantly, turning to the woman.

“Mistress Leesha Paper,” Rojer introduced, “Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow.” Leesha spread her skirts and dipped low, and Jardir found himself unable to take his eyes from her displayed cleavage until she rose. She looked him boldly in the eyes, and he was shocked to find hers were blue like the sky.

On impulse, Jardir took her hand and kissed it. He knew it was bold, especially among strangers, but Everam favored the bold, it was said. Leesha gasped at the move, and her pale cheeks reddened slightly. If it was possible, she became even more beautiful in that moment.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Leesha said, nodding her head at the hundreds of alagai corpses in the clearing.

“All men are as brothers in the night,” Jardir said, bowing. “We stand united.”

Leesha nodded. “And during the day?”

“It seems the Northern women do more than just fight,” Ashan murmured in Krasian.

Jardir smiled. “I believe all people should stand united in the day, as well.”

Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “United under you?”

Jardir felt Ashan and the greenland men tense. It was as if no one else on the scene mattered. Only they two would determine if the black demon ichor on the field of battle would soon be covered with red human blood.

But Jardir had no fear of that, feeling as if this meeting was destined long ago. He spread his hands helplessly. “If it is Everam’s will, perhaps someday.” He bowed again.

The corner of Leesha’s mouth quirked in a smile. “You’re honest, at least. Perhaps it’s best, then, that the night is young. Will you and your councilors share tea with us?”

“We would be honored,” Jardir said. “May my warriors pitch horses and tents in this clearing while they wait?”

“At the far end,” Leesha said. “We have work yet to do on this side.”

Jardir looked at her curiously, and then noted the greenlanders who had come out after the battle was complete. These were smaller, weaker men than the axe-wielding warriors, and they began gathering glittering objects off the battlefield.

“What are they about?” he asked, more to hear her voice again than because he actually cared what the Northern khaffit were doing.

Leesha looked to the side, then bent to retrieve a stoppered glass bottle, which she handed to Jardir. It was an elegant blow of glass, beautiful in its simplicity.

“Smash it with the butt of your spear,” she said.

Jardir’s brow furrowed at that, not understanding the significance of destroying something so beautiful. Perhaps it was some sort of friendship ritual. He pulled free the Spear of Kaji and complied with her request, but the butt of the spear ricocheted off the bottle with a clang, leaving the glass intact.

“Everam’s beard,” Jardir murmured. He tried repeatedly to smash the bottle, but failed every time. “Incredible.”

“Painted glass,” Leesha said, picking the bottle back up and giving it to him.

“A princely gift,” Ashan noted in Krasian. “They are respectful, at least.” Jardir nodded.

“Our peoples could learn much from each other, if we kept peace by day as well as night,” Leesha said.

“I agree,” Jardir said, staring into her eyes. “Let us discuss that, among other things, at our tea.”

“Did you see his crown?” Leesha asked.

Rojer nodded. “And his metal spear. He’s the one Marick and the Painted Man were talking about.”

“Obviously,” Leesha said. “I meant the crown itself. The Painted Man has the same wards on his own forehead.”

“Really?” Rojer asked in surprise.

Leesha nodded, dropping her voice for only him to hear. “I don’t think Arlen told us everything he knows about that man.”

“Can’t believe you invited him to tea,” Wonda said.

“Should I have spat in his eye instead?” Leesha asked.

Wonda nodded. “Or had me shoot him. He’s killed half the men in Rizon, and had his men force themselves on every flowered woman in the duchy!”

Wonda stopped short, then turned to Leesha suddenly, leaning in close. “You’re going to drug him, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes glittering. “Take him and his men prisoner?”

“I’m going to do no such thing,” Leesha said. “Everything we know about that man is hearsay. All we know for sure is that he and his men helped us fight off two hundred wood demons. He’s our guest until his actions show he should be treated otherwise.”

“Not to mention that kidnapping their Deliverer is the surest way under the sun to bring the Krasian army straight down on the Hollow,” Rojer added.

“There’s that, as well,” Leesha agreed. “Ask Smitt to clear his taproom, and summon the town council. Let everyone see and judge this supposed demon of the desert for themselves.”

“He’s not what I expected, at all,” Tender Jona said.

“Polite, like,” Gared agreed. “All falsefaced, like the servants in the duke’s palace.”

“It’s called manners, Gared,” Leesha said. “You and the other men could use a few lessons in them yourselves.”

“He has a point,” Rojer said. “I expected a monster, not some royal smiling through his oiled beard.”

“I know what you mean,” Leesha said. “I certainly didn’t expect him to be so handsome.”

Jona, Rojer, and Gared all stopped short. Leesha walked several more steps before she noticed they were not keeping pace. She looked back to find the men staring at her. Even Wonda had a surprised look on her face.

“What?” she asked.

“We ’re just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Rojer said after a moment. He resumed walking, the others following his lead. Leesha shook her head and followed.

“These greenlanders are worse than we thought,” Ashan said as they walked back to join the other men. “I cannot believe they take orders from a woman!”

“But what a woman!” Jardir exclaimed. “Powerful and exotic and beautiful as the dawn.”

“She dresses like a harlot,” Ashan said. “You should have killed her simply for daring to meet your eyes.”

Jardir hissed and waved the thought away. “It is death to kill a dama’ting.”

“Your pardon, Shar’Dama Ka, but she is not a dama’ting,” Ashan said. “She is a heathen. All these greenlanders are infidel, praying to a false god.”

Jardir shook his head. “They follow Everam whether they know it or not. There are only two Divine Laws in the Evejah: Worship one god, and dance alagai’sharak. Beyond that, every tribe is entitled to their own customs. Perhaps these greenlanders are not so different from us. Perhaps their customs are simply foreign to us.”

Ashan opened his mouth to protest, but a look from Jardir made it clear the discussion was over. Ashan’s mouth snapped shut, and he bowed. “Of course, if the Shar’Dama Ka says it, it must be so.”

“Go and tell the dal’Sharum to make camp,” Jardir ordered. “You, Hasik, Shanjat, and Abban will join me for their tea.”

“We ’re bringing the khaffit?” Ashan scowled. “He is not worthy to take tea with men.”

“He is more fluent in their tongue than you are, my friend,” Jardir said, “and Hasik and Shanjat barely have a handful of greenland words between them. This is the very reason I chose to bring him. He will prove invaluable at this meeting.”

It seemed the whole town had gathered around Smitt’s Tavern by the time the Krasians arrived. Leesha let only the town council and their spouses attend, but coupled with Smitt’s small army of children and grandchildren who were setting and serving, they outnumbered the Krasians greatly.

The crowd rumbled ominously as Jardir walked to the tavern. “Go back to the sand!” someone shouted, and many voices grunted in agreement.

If the Krasians were bothered at all, they gave no sign. They strutted through the crowd with their heads held high, unafraid. Only one, a rotund man clad in bright colors and limping on a cane, looked at the Hollowers warily as he passed. Leesha stood by the door, ready to rush out if the crowd turned ugly.

“You’re right, he is handsome,” Elona said at her ear.

Leesha turned to her in surprise. “Who told you I said that?” Elona only smiled.

“Welcome,” Leesha said, when Jardir made it to the door. She and her mother gave identical curtsies. Jardir looked at Elona, then glanced over to Leesha. They were similar enough that no one could mistake their relation.

“Your…sister?” Jardir asked.

“My mother, Elona,” Leesha rolled her eyes while Elona tittered and allowed Jardir to kiss her hand. “And my father, Ernal,” she nodded to her father. Jardir bowed to him.

“Allow me to introduce my councilors,” Jardir said, gesturing to the men behind him. “You have met Damaji Ashan. These are kai’Sharum Shanjat and my dal’Sharum bodyguard, Hasik.” The men bowed with the introduction. Jardir made no effort to introduce the fifth member of his entourage, moving on down the receiving line with his men, bowing and making introductions.

The fifth was unlike any of the others. Where they were lean, he was fat. Where they dressed in somber, solid colors, he was clad as brightly as any Jongleur. And where they were fit and strong, he leaned on his crutch so heavily that it seemed he would fall over without it.

Leesha opened her mouth to greet the man as he entered, but his eyes passed over her, and he bowed to her father. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Ernal Paper.”

Erny looked at him curiously. “Do I know you?”

“Abban am’ Haman am’Kaji,” the man introduced himself.

“I…used to sell you paper,” Erny stumbled after a moment. “I, ah…actually still have your last order sitting in my shop. I was waiting on payment when the Messengers stopped coming from Rizon.”

“Six hundred sheets of your daughter’s flower press, I believe,” Abban said.

“Night, that was you?!” Leesha exclaimed. “Do you know how many hours I slaved over those sheets, only to have them sitting in the dryhouse like…like compost!”

Jardir was there in an instant, breaking away from an introduction to Smitt as if it were meaningless.

“What have you said to offend our host, khaffit?” he demanded.

Abban bowed as low as his crutch would allow. “It seems I owe her father some money, Deliverer, for paper she and her father made for me years ago that I was not able to claim after our borders closed.”

Jardir snarled, backhanding him viciously to the ground. “You will pay him triple what you owe, immediately!” Abban cried out as he struck the floor, spitting blood.

Leesha shoved Jardir aside, running to Abban’s side and kneeling beside him. He tried to pull away, but she took his head firmly in her hands, examining him. His lip was split, but she didn’t think it would require stitching.

She rose quickly and glared at Jardir. “Just what in the Core is the matter with you?!”

A shocked look came over Jardir’s face, as if Leesha had suddenly grown horns. “He is only khaffit,” he explained. “A weakling without honor.”

“I don’t care what he is!” Leesha snapped, storming up to Jardir so their noses practically touched, her eyes ablaze like blue flame. “He is a guest under our roof, as are you, and if you wish to remain so, you’ll mind your ripping manners and keep your hands to yourself!”

Jardir stood there, stunned, and his councilors looked equally shocked. All turned to their leader for a cue on how to react. The warriors flexed their hands, as if readying them to reach for the short spears slung over their shoulders, and Leesha’s fingers itched to reach into one of the many pockets of her apron for a handful of blinding powder in case they did.

But Jardir broke the stare and stepped back, bowing deeply. “You are right, of course. I apologize for bringing violence to your table.” He turned to Abban. “I will purchase the pages from you at triple what you must pay her father,” he said loudly, turning to eye Leesha. “Anything so precious to Mistress Leesha must be a treasure indeed.”

Abban touched his forehead to the floor, and then braced himself on his cane to rise. Erny rushed over to help him, though the small man could do little to shift the other’s great bulk.

Jardir turned and smiled at Leesha, beaming with pride as if he honestly thought he could impress her any more with a display of wealth than he had with one of violence.

“Handsome or no, he’s a pompous ass,” Leesha muttered quietly to Rojer.

“Perhaps,” Rojer agreed, “but an ass who can crush the Hollow like a bug if he wishes.”

Leesha scowled. “Don’t go betting on that.”

“The Northern women have steel in them,” Hasik observed in Krasian as they were ushered to one of the tall greenland tables with its hard benches.

“Ours do as well,” Jardir replied, “they simply hide it beneath their robes.” All of them, even Abban, laughed at that and did not disagree.

Tea was served by children, along with plates of hard biscuit. The Northern Holy Man cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. Ashan stared at the Tender like a raptor watching a rodent. The greenland cleric paled under the dama’s gaze, but he pressed on.

“It is our custom to pray before meals,” he said.

Elona snorted, and Jona glared at her. Jardir ignored the woman, though he was shocked at her rudeness. “That is our custom as well, Tender,” he said, bowing. “It is right to give thanks to Everam for all things.”

Jona’s lip twitched slightly at the name Jardir attached to the Creator, but he nodded, mollified for the most part.

“Creator,” Jona intoned, holding up his teacup in both hands like an offering, “we thank you for the food and drink before us, a symbol of the life and fruitful bounty you have given. We pray for the strength to better serve you, and ask your blessings for ourselves, and all those who have no table to gather at this night.”

“Not so fruitful a bounty this year,” Elona muttered, picking up one of the hard biscuits, her nose crinkling with distaste. The woman gave a sudden start, and Jardir guessed from the way she glared at Leesha that her daughter had kicked her under the table.

“I am sorry we cannot offer you better fare,” Leesha said when Jardir caught her eye, “but depredations of war have been hard on our village, with thousands of refugees having senselessly lost everything they own, and many loved ones, as well.”

“Senselessly?” Ashan whispered in Krasian. “They insult you and your holy path, Deliverer!”

“No!” Abban hissed. “It is a challenge. Answer carefully.” Ashan glared at him.

“Be silent, both of you!” Jardir hissed. He took his eyes from both Leesha and her mother, turning to nod to the Tender.

“Your prayer over bread is much the same as ours,” he said. “In Krasia, we pray over even an empty bowl, for with Everam’s will, it can strengthen in ways a full one cannot.”

He looked back to Leesha. “I am told your village was small and little different from any other a year ago,” he said. “And yet now you are large and powerful. I see no hungry on your streets. No beggars or wailers or cripples. Instead, you stand tall in the night, fighting demons by the hundred. Like steel, my coming has tempered your village and made it stronger.”

“Wern’t you that tempered it,” Gared snapped. “Painted Man done that, back when you were still eating sand out in the desert.”

Hasik tensed. Jardir doubted he understood fully what the greenlander had said, but the giant’s tone was clear. He whisked his fingers at Hasik, calming him.

“I would know more of this Painted Man,” Jardir said. “I have heard much of him in Everam’s Bounty, but nothing from one who had actually seen the man.”

“He’s the Deliverer, that’s all ya need t’know,” Gared growled. “Gave us back the magic we lost all them years ago.”

“Combat wards to fight the alagai,” Jardir said. Gared nodded.

“May I see a weapon he has warded?” Jardir asked.

Gared hesitated, his eyes flicking over to Leesha. Jardir’s naturally followed, and again her blue eyes, like cool water, threatened to drown him in their hidden depths. She smiled, and a thrill went through him.

“We will show you,” Leesha said, smiling coyly, “if you will show us something of yours. Your spear, perhaps.”

Even Abban gasped at her audacity, but Jardir only smiled. He reached for his spear, but Ashan grabbed his hand.

“Deliverer, no!” Ashan hissed. “The Spear of Kaji is unfit for the hands of chin.”

“It is no longer the Spear of Kaji, Ashan,” Jardir said in Krasian. “It is the Spear of Ahmann, and I will do with it as I please. It will not be the first time it has been touched by chin hands, and its blessings remain.”

“What if they try to steal it?” Hasik asked.

Jardir looked at him, his eyes calm. “If they try, we will kill every man, woman, and child in this village and raze it to the ground.”

The matter closed, he lifted the spear horizontally before him. In response, Gared reached to his belt, pulling free a long blade. Hasik and Shanjat tensed, ready to strike, but the giant flipped the weapon over, holding the blade to offer Jardir the hilt. As one, they switched.

There was no pretense of decorum, then, as those skilled in warding on both sides rushed to examine the weapons.

Jardir turned the long blade over to catch the light as it ran in glittering rivers along the intricate wards etched in its surface. He saw immediately that most of the wards were the same his people used to ward their own weapons, symbols taken from the Spear of Kaji, which held almost every combat ward in existence.

But the warding went beyond cold functionality, like the harshly etched spears of the dal’Sharum. There was an artistry to it that rivaled anything Jardir had ever seen outside the Spear itself, hundreds of wards flowing in harmony to weave a net of incredible power that was both beautiful to look upon and terrible for an alagai to behold.

“Exquisite,” Jardir murmured.

“Priceless,” Abban said.

“Could this Painted Man have stolen the symbols from Anoch Sun?” Ashan wondered.

“Ridiculous,” Jardir said. “No one has been there in a thousand years, except…”

He looked at his men, and all eyes had lit with the same thought.

“No,” Jardir said at last. “No, he is dead.”

“Of course, it must be so,” Ashan echoed after a slight pause, and the others all nodded.

They looked up to see Leesha and her father, now wearing spectacles, examining the Spear of Kaji a little too closely. They had held it long enough to appreciate the grandeur, but he saw no reason to give away all its secrets yet.

“These wards are strong,” he said, holding the blade back out to Gared, handle-first. He looked pointedly at the spear, and the greenlanders grudgingly returned it. The look of longing in Leesha’s eyes as the spear was returned was gratifying. She was hungry for its secrets.

“Where is this Painted Man?” Jardir asked Gared when the spear was again tucked safely over his shoulder. “I would very much like to meet him.”

“He comes and goes,” Leesha cut in before the giant could answer.

Jardir nodded at her. “Was it he that gave you your wondrous cloak? Truly, it is like the Robe of Kaji, himself, to let you walk past alagai unseen.”

Leesha’s cheeks colored, and Jardir realized he had just complimented her in some way.

“The Cloaks of Unsight are my own creation,” she said. “I altered wards of confusion and sight, along with a mild forbiddance, so that no coreling big or small can see one wearing it.”

“Incredible,” Jardir said. “Everam must speak in your ear, if you are altering wards, especially to make something of such divine beauty and power.”

Leesha looked down at her cloak, fingering it absently. Finally, she clucked and got to her feet, unfastening the silver ward clasp at her throat. “Take it,” she said, holding the cloak out to Jardir.

“Are you crazed?!” Elona shouted, moving to block her way, much as Ashan had done to him before.

“The cloak’s only good against demons,” she said, as much to her mother as Jardir. “Take it to remind you who the real enemy is, when the sun rises tomorrow.” She pulled her arm away from her mother and held the cloak out to Jardir.

Jardir put his hands flat on the tabletop and bowed. “That is too great a gift, and I have nothing to give in return. By Everam, I cannot accept.”

“The reminder is all I want in return,” Leesha said. Jardir bowed again, taking the wondrous cloak with widening eyes. If the wards on this so-called Painted Man’s weapon were a harmony, Leesha’s Cloak of Unsight was a symphony. He folded the cloak carefully and tucked it in his robe before he or any of his councilors began to study the gift to distraction.

“Thank you, Mistress Leesha, daughter of Erny, Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow,” he said, bowing again. “You honor me greatly with your gift.”

Leesha smiled and returned to her seat. For a moment, the greenlanders made a great pretense of sipping their tea, murmuring to one another as they did. Jardir allowed them this conference time, looking to Abban.

“Tell me of the red-haired boy who dresses like a khaffit,” he commanded.

Abban bowed. “He is what the greenlanders call a Jongler, Deliverer. They are traveling storytellers and music makers who dress in bright colors to announce their craft. It is considered an honored profession, and its practitioners are often highly regarded figures of inspiration.”

Jardir nodded, digesting the knowledge. “He had power over the alagai with his music. Commanded them with it. What of that?”

Abban shrugged. “The tales of the Painted Man speak of such a one, who charms alagai with his magic, but I know nothing of this power. It is not common, I imagine.”

Rojer watched uneasily as the Krasians cast furtive glances his way. It was obvious they were talking about him, but while Rojer’s trained ear had already begun to isolate the sounds and patterns of their surprisingly musical tongue, understanding was still far off.

The Krasians both terrified and fascinated him, much as the Painted Man did. Rojer was a teller of stories as much as a fiddler, and he had woven many a tale of Krasia yet he had never met someone from that land. A thousand questions shouted in his head, but caught in a jumble before they could reach his tongue, because these weren’t the exotic princes of his stories. Rojer had ridden the road to Rizon and seen their handiwork. Cultured or no, these were murderers, rapists, and bandits.

Jardir glanced his way again, and before Rojer could avert his gaze, their eyes met. Rojer started, feeling like a cornered hare.

“Forgive me, we have been impolite,” Jardir said, bowing.

Rojer pretended to scratch his chest, but it was just an excuse to touch his talisman. He drew strength both from the medallion and the reassuring presence of Gared at his side. Not for the first time, Rojer was glad for the mighty woodcutter’s oath to keep him protected.

“No offense taken,” he said, nodding.

“There are no Jonglers among my people,” Jardir said. “Your profession interests us.”

“You don’t have musicians?” Rojer asked, shocked.

“We do,” Jardir said, “but in Krasia, music is used only to praise Everam, not to charm demons on the battlefield. Tell me, is this power common in the North?”

Rojer barked a laugh. “Not in the least.” He threw back his tea, wishing the cup held something stronger. “I can’t even teach it. Don’t know quite how I do it myself.”

“Perhaps Everam speaks to you,” Jardir suggested. “Perhaps He has blessed your line with this power. Have any of your sons shown promise?”

Rojer laughed again. “Sons? I’m not even married.”

The Krasians seemed shocked at this. “A man of your power should have many brides to bear him sons,” Jardir said.

Rojer chuckled, lifting his cup to them. “Agreed. I should have many brides.”

Leesha snorted. “I’d like to see you handle one.” Everyone on both sides of the table had a laugh at Rojer’s expense. He weathered it silently; jokes at his expense were nothing new in the Hollow, but he felt his cheeks coloring all the same. He looked at Jardir, only to find that the Krasian leader was not among those laughing.

“May I ask you a personal question, son of Jessum?” Jardir asked.

Rojer touched the medallion at his father’s name, but he nodded.

“How did you get that scar?” Jardir asked, pointing at the crippled hand Rojer had raised, missing two fingers and part of the palm besides. “It looks old, too old for you to have gotten it fighting alagai as a man, and it hinders you little, as if you’ve had it for many years.”

Rojer felt his blood run cold. His eyes flicked to the fat merchant prince in his bright silks; treated with such derision by his fellows because he was crippled. He wondered if the Krasians thought him less a man for having only half a hand.

Everyone else had stopped talking, waiting on Rojer’s answer. They had all been half listening anyway, but now everyone stared at them openly.

Rojer scowled. Are the Hollowers so different? he wondered. None of them, not even Leesha, had ever so much as mentioned his crippled hand, trying to pretend it didn’t exist, and then staring when they thought he wasn’t watching.

At least he’s honest about his curiosity, Rojer thought, looking back to Jardir. And I don’t give a coreling’s shit what he thinks of me.

“Demons broke through our wards when I was a child of three,” he said. “My father stood with an iron fireplace poker to hold them off while my mother fled with me. A flame demon leapt upon her back, biting though my hand and into her shoulder.”

“How did you survive this?” Jardir asked. “Did your father save you?”

Rojer shook his head. “My father was dead by then. My mother killed the flame demon, and pushed me into a bolt-hole.”

There were gasps around the table, and even Jardir’s eyes widened sharply.

“Your mother killed a flame demon?” he asked.

Rojer nodded. “Pulled it off me and drowned it in a water trough. The water boiled and left her arms blistered and red by the time its thrashing stopped.”

“Oh, Rojer, how terrible!” Leesha moaned. “You never told me any of that!”

Rojer shrugged. “You never asked. No one’s ever asked me about my hand before. Everyone, even you, avoids it with their eyes.”

“I always thought you wanted privacy,” Leesha said. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by calling attention to your…”

“Deformity?” Rojer supplied, irritated by the pity in her voice.

Jardir stood sharply, his face enraged. Everyone on both sides of the table tensed, ready in an instant to fight or flee.

“That is an alagai scar!” he shouted, reaching across the table and grabbing Rojer’s hand, holding it up for all to see. “Nie take any who look upon you in pity; this is a badge of honor!

“Scars show our defiance of the alagai!” he shouted. “And of Nie Herself! They tell Her we have looked at the maw of Her abyss, and spit in it.

“Hasik!” Jardir pointed to the largest of his warriors. At his command, the warrior stood and opened his armored robe, showing a semicircle of tooth marks that covered half his torso.

“Clay demon,” he said, his accent thick. “Big,” he added, spreading his arms.

Jardir turned to Gared and narrowed his eyes in challenge.

“Not bad,” Gared grunted. “Reckon I got it beat, though.” He pulled the shirt from his muscled chest, turning to reveal a thick line of claw marks running from his right shoulder to his left hip. “Woodie got me good,” he said. “Smaller man mighta been cut in half.”

Rojer watched in wonder as it went around the room like a little ripple, people on both sides of the table standing up to show scars and shouting their stories, arguing over whose were bigger. After the last year in the Hollow, there was hardly a person in town who didn’t have at least one.

But there was no air of regret in the room. People were roaring with laughter as near misses were recalled and sometimes pantomimed, even the Krasians slapping their knees in delight. Rojer looked to Wonda, the girl’s face horribly scarred, and saw her smiling for the first time he could recall.

When the cacophony was at it highest, Jardir stood upon his bench like a master Jongleur. “Let the alagaisee our scars, and despair!” he cried, removing his own robe.

Muscles rippled along his olive skin, but it was not that which drew amazed gasps from every mouth in the room. It was his scars. They were wards. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, cut into his skin like the tattoos of the Painted Man.

“Night, maybe he is the Deliverer,” Rojer muttered.

CHAPTER 25 ANY PRICE

“YOU’D BEST LIMP QUICKER,” Hasik told Abban with a laugh, “or you will be left behind in the darkness.”

Abban grimaced in pain, sweat running in rivulets down his thick-jowled face. Ahmann set a brutal pace back to the Krasian camp, and he strode ahead with Ashan, leaving poor Abban stuck between Hasik and Shanjat, two men who had tortured him since childhood and did worse now.

Just a week earlier, Hasik had raped one of Abban’s daughters when he came to their pavilion to deliver a message. The time before, it was one of his wives. Jurim and Shanjat had made a point of taking Abban’s nie’Sharum sons under their wing in the Kaji’sharaj, instilling in them such a disgust of their khaffit father that Abban’s heart felt torn. All the Spears of the Deliverer jeered and spat at him, striking him at their pleasure when the Shar’Dama Ka was not about. They all knew Ahmann from of old, and resented that Abban had the Deliverer’s ear as they did not. Abban knew that if he ever fell from Ahmann’s favor, his life would be short indeed.

But the moment they left the forbidding generated by the giant ward of Deliverer’s Hollow, Abban felt his skin crawling, and he was forced to accept that there was nothing the Sharum could do to him that would make him too prideful to beg their protection in the night.

Such was the fate of khaffit.

“I do not understand why you treat these chin weaklings as though they were true men,” Ashan said to Ahmann as they walked.

“These people are strong,” Ahmann replied. “Even their women have alagai scars.”

“Their women are brazen like harlots,” Ashan said, “and should see more of the back of their husbands’ hands. The one who leads them is worst of all! I cannot believe you let her scold you like a…a…”

“Dama’ting?” Ahmann asked.

“More like the Damajah,” Ashan said. “And this woman is neither.”

Ahmann’s face twitched slightly, a barely noticeable sign of irritation that nevertheless would have sent Abban running for cover if there had been any to run to.

But Ahmann kept his temper. “Think, Ashan,” he said. “Should I waste warriors conquering these people for Sharak Ka when they fight the alagai already?”

“They do not fight under you, Shar’Dama Ka,” Ashan pointed out. “The Evejah commands that all warriors obey the Deliverer for Sharak Ka to be won.”

Ahmann nodded. “And so it shall be. But I did not unite the tribes of Krasia by killing men. Unity came from mixing my blood with theirs by marrying their dama’ting. I see no reason not to do the same in the North.”

“You would marry that…that…” Ashan was incredulous.

“That what?” Ahmann asked. “That beautiful woman who kills alagai with a wave of her hand, and wards like a sorceress of old?” He lifted the warded cloak she had given him and held it up to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “Even the scent of her intoxicates me. I must have her.”

“She isn’t even Evejan!” Ashan spat. “She is an infidel!”

“Even infidels are part of Everam’s plan, my friend,” Ahmann said. “Can you not see it? The only tribe in the North that fights alagai’sharak is led by a woman, a Northern healer blessed with powers never before seen. By marrying her, I can add their strength to our own without a drop of red blood spilled. It is as if Everam Himself has arranged the match. I can feel His will thrumming in me, and it will not be denied.”

Ashan looked ready to argue further, but it was clear Ahmann considered the matter closed. He scowled, but he bowed. “As the Deliverer wills,” he said through gritted teeth.

They reached the camp at last, and Abban breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Ahmann’s pavilion was raised and waiting. The dal’Sharum surrounded it, sleeping in shifts and ever alert for any threat, demon or otherwise.

“Abban, meet with me,” Ahmann said. “Shanjat and Ashan, see to the men.”

Damaji and kai’Sharum exchanged a bitter look, but they gave no argument and left to comply. Hasik moved to follow Ahmann, but Ahmann stopped him with a look.

“I do not require a bodyguard to meet with a khaffit,” Ahmann said.

Hasik bowed. “When you did not give me another assignment, Deliverer, I assumed my place was with you.”

“My pavilion could use raising,” Abban suggested.

Ahmann nodded. “Hasik, see to it.”

Hasik looked up at Abban, murder in his eyes, but Abban, safe behind Ahmann, gave not the obsequious bow of a khaffit but a full mocking grin.

Abban turned and stepped into the pavilion, holding the tent flap for Ahmann to enter. The impotent rage on Hasik’s face as he closed the flap was poor recompense for his daughter’s virginity, but Abban took his revenge where he could find it.

Jardir turned to Abban once they were alone.

“I apologize for striking you,” he said. “It was—”

“Meant to impress the woman, I know,” Abban cut him off. “And it would have been a fair bargain had it worked, but these chin see the world differently than we do.”

Jardir nodded, thinking of how the Par’chin used to defend Abban. “Our cultures are a natural insult to each other. I should have known better.”

“One must take especial care when dealing with chin,” Abban agreed.

Jardir lifted the Spear of Kaji. “I am a warrior, Abban. My strategies are for conquering men and killing alagai. I am not good at the sort of…manipulation,” he spat the word, “that you and Inevera excel at.”

“Lies have always been bile on your lips, Ahmann,” Abban agreed, with a bow that seemed equal parts deferential and mocking.

“So how do I claim this woman?” Jardir asked. “I saw her eyes upon me. Do you think she has the liberty of dama’ting to choose her husband, or should I approach her father?”

“Dama’ting have their liberty because their fathers are not known,” Abban said. “Mistress Leesha made a point of introducing us to her father, and then gave you the cloak, a clear sign she is open to courting. An ordinary maiden might give a fine robe to a suitor, but her gift is one worthy of the Deliverer.”

“So it should only be a matter of arranging a dower with her father,” Jardir said.

Abban shook his head. “Erny is a hard negotiator, but he will be the simple part. I would be more concerned that the Damajah might oppose the match, and the Damaji support her.”

“I will kill any Damaji who defies me in this,” Jardir said, “even Ashan.”

“What message will that send to your army, Ahmann,” Abban asked, “when their leader kills his own Damaji for the sake of a chin woman?”

Jardir scowled. “What does it matter? Inevera has no reason to oppose it.”

Abban shrugged. “I only suggest it because the Damajah may find she has difficulty dominating this Northern woman as she does your other Jiwah Sen.”

Jardir knew Abban was right. He had always thought Inevera the most powerful woman in the world, but this Leesha of Deliverer’s Hollow seemed to rival her in every way. She would not play the role of a lesser wife, and Inevera would tolerate nothing less.

“But it is that very indomitability that I must have beside me, if I am to lead the chin to Sharak Ka,” Jardir said. “Perhaps I can marry her in secret.”

Abban shook his head. “Word of the union would reach the Damajah eventually, and she could cancel it with a word, which Leesha’s tribe might take as an unbearable insult.”

Jardir shook his head. “There is a way. This is Everam’s will. I can feel it.”

“Perhaps…” Abban began, twisting his fingers through the curl of his oiled beard.

“Yes?” Jardir asked.

Abban was silent a moment, but then shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “Only a thought that did not hold water when filled.”

“What thought?” Jardir asked, and his tone made it clear he would not ask again.

“Ah,” Abban said, “I had only wondered, what if the Damajah were only your Krasian Jiwah Ka? If that were so, there might be wisdom to appointing a Northern Jiwah Ka as well, to arrange marriages to chin in the green lands.”

Abban shook his head. “But not even Kaji ever had two Jiwah Ka.”

Jardir rubbed his fingers together, feeling the smooth scars of the wards cut into his skin as he pondered.

“Kaji lived three thousand years ago,” he said at last, “and the sacred texts are incomplete. Who is to say for certain how many Jiwah Ka he had?”

When clever Abban did not immediately reply, Jardir smiled. “You will go tomorrow to the house of Leesha’s father to settle your debt,” he commanded, “and to learn what dower he asks for her.”

Abban bowed and turned to go.

Abban smiled to the greenlanders as he limped through the village on his camel-headed crutch. They stared at him, many mistrustful, but while his crutch was an invitation for violence against him in Krasia, it seemed to have the opposite effect among the chin. They would be ashamed of themselves to hit a man who could not properly defend himself, just as they were ashamed to hit a woman. It explained why their women took such liberties.

Abban found he liked the green lands more and more as time went by. The weather was neither unbearably hot nor unbearably cold, whereas the desert held both extremes, and there was abundance in the North like nothing Abban had ever dreamed. The possibilities for profit were endless. Already his wives and children were making a fortune in Everam’s Bounty, and most of the green lands were as yet untapped. In Krasia, he was wealthy, but still only considered half a man. In the North, he could live like a Damaji.

Not for the first time, Abban wondered at Ahmann’s true thoughts. Did he truly believe himself the Deliverer, and that such things as marrying this woman were Everam’s will, or was that just a pretense for power?

If it were any other man, Abban would have thought the latter, but Ahmann had always been naïvely true about such things, and might well harbor such delusions of grandeur.

It was ridiculous, of course, but the belief in his divinity shared by almost every man, woman, and child in Krasia gave Ahmann such tremendous power that it almost didn’t matter if it was true or not. Either way, Abban served the most powerful man in the world, and if they had not returned to their old friendship, they had at least fallen into its patterns.

But there was a new thread to the pattern now, the Damajah, and Abban was far too skilled a manipulator not to know another one on sight. Inevera twisted Ahmann to her own ends, and those ends were opaque even to Abban, who had made fortunes on his ability to see the desires in others’ hearts.

The Damajah had some unknown power over Ahmann, but it was tenuous. He was Shar’Dama Ka. Dama’ting or no, if he commanded it, the people would not hesitate to tear her apart to please him.

Abban knew better than to come between them, of course. He had survived too long to make so foolish a mistake. The moment Inevera sensed his disloyalty to her, she would crush him like a scorpion beneath her sandal, and not even Ahmann could stop it. Abban was as far beneath the Damajah as she was below Ahmann. Farther.

The only man who can truly handle a woman is a woman, Abban’s father had said to him many times before he died. It was good advice.

Leesha Paper would shake the very foundations of Inevera’s power, perhaps freeing Ahmann of her entirely. And the best part was, the Damajah would never see Abban’s hand in it.

Abban’s smile widened.

Abban was pleased to learn Erny was as formidable a haggler in person as he had been through his Messengers. Abban had contempt for anyone who could not haggle. He excluded only Ahmann from that rule, because it was less that Ahmann could not haggle than that he would not.

The result was a fair price, but after Abban tripled it as Ahmann had commanded, it was a sizable sum. Erny and his wife seemed quite pleased as Abban counted out the gold.

“Stock’s all here,” Erny said, putting the box of Leesha’s flower-pressed paper on the counter and lifting off the lid.

Abban ran his fingers lightly over the top sheet of the colorful paper, feeling the imprint of the artfully arranged flowers embedded in the weave. He closed his eyes and inhaled. “Still smells sweet after all this time,” he said, smiling.

“Keep it dry, and it will last forever,” Erny said, “or close enough for mortal men.”

“Your daughter seems touched by Everam,” Abban said. “Perfect in every way, like a Heavenly Seraph.”

Elona snorted, but Erny glared at her and she fell silent.

“She is,” Erny agreed.

“My master would like to purchase her as a bride,” Abban said. “He has empowered me to negotiate her dower, and will be most generous.”

“How generous?” Elona asked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Erny snapped. “Leesha isn’t for sale like some horse!”

“Of course, of course,” Abban said, bowing to buy himself some time to consider the situation. Erny’s reaction was unexpected, and it was difficult to tell if Abban had given honest offense, or if this was just a haggling tactic to drive up the price.

“Please forgive my poor sense of words,” Abban said. “Your language eludes me at critical times, it seems. I meant no offense.”

Erny seemed mollified at that, and Abban drew his face into the smile that had beguiled thousands of customers into thinking he was their friend. “My master understands that your daughter leads your tribe, and is not some common piece of merchandise,” he said. “He intends her and your tribe great honor, mingling your blood with his own. At his side, your daughter would be first of all the women in the North, and wield influence in both the Deliverer’s court and bed to prevent unnecessary bloodshed as my master comes north.”

“Is that a threat?” Erny demanded. “Are you saying your master will come kill us to take her, if I don’t sell her to you?”

Abban’s face heated. He hadgiven offense, and deeply. The Par’chin had always told him the Krasians were quick to temper, but it seemed the Northerners were no less so if one spoke to them too truly.

Abban bowed deeply, spreading his hands. “Please, my friend, let us begin again. My master makes no threats and wishes to give no offense. Among our people, it is the father’s duty to arrange the marriages of his daughters. Part of the arrangement is that the groom’s family provide the father and bride with dower symbolic of her value. I was given to understand that Northerners shared this custom.”

“We do,” Elona cut in before Erny could reply.

“Some folk might do that sort of thing,” Erny corrected, “but that’s not how I raised my Leesha. Your master wants to marry my girl, he ’ll have to court her just like anybody else, and if she decides she wants him, then he can come and ask my blessing on it.”

It seemed backward to Abban, but it made little difference. He bowed once more. “I will make your terms clear to my master. I expect he will begin to court your daughter immediately.”

Erny’s eyes widened. “I didn’t…ow!” he cried as Elona dug her nails into his arm most unsubtly. Abban noted the move with interest. His wives were by no means docile, but they would never dare unman him so in front of a customer.

“Ent hurtin’ anyone, he comes bringin’ flowers,” Elona said. “You said yourself it’s Leesha’s choice.”

Erny looked at her a long moment, then he sighed and nodded. He took the box cover and slipped it back over Leesha’s paper.

“It’s a heavy box,” he said. “You want me to get a boy to carry it for you?”

Abban bowed. “Please.”

“I think the boys are all busy,” Elona said, “and I could use a stroll. I’ll carry the paper.”

Again Abban was confused. In Krasia, it was expected that women do such labor, but from the way Erny goggled at his wife, Abban could tell he was shocked.

He watched Elona as she came around the counter, taking in her beauty, even with her youth fading. Perhaps she was a pillow-wife, given light work to be kept close at hand should her husband’s lust be aroused. Many Krasian men kept such, but Abban had never tolerated that sort of laziness, expecting his youngest and most beautiful wives to work as hard as the rest.

As they walked down the isolated path from Erny’s shop, Abban turned to her. “I pray to Everam my misunderstanding of your ways gave you and your husband no lasting offense.”

Elona shook her head. “We ent much different from you, only here, fathers approve marriages, but mothers arrange them. Erny ent blessing anything until the dower’s set.”

Abban stopped short, finally understanding. “Of course. I regret that my master’s mother, Kajivah, is still in Everam’s Bounty with his wives. May I negotiate in her stead?”

Elona nodded, but she raised an eyebrow. “He has other wives?”

“Of course,” Abban said. “Ahmann Jardir is the Shar’Dama Ka.”

Elona frowned. “Tell him if he’s wise, he ’ll never so much as mention his other wives to my daughter. Girl gets jealous like a thundercloud.”

Abban nodded. “I will be sure to advise him, thank you. I assume your daughter is a virgin?”

“Course she is,” Elona snapped.

Abban bowed. “Please, take no offense. In Krasia, a man’s First Wife will inspect prospective brides personally, but if that is not your custom, your word will suffice.”

“It sure as the Core ent our custom to let anyone but husbands and Herb Gatherers look between our legs,” Elona said, “so don’t you or your master go getting any ideas about sampling the milk.”

“Of course,” Abban said, nodding and smiling now that the haggling had begun.

Jardir paced his pavilion like an animal, waiting for Abban to return.

“What did he say?” he demanded the moment the khaffit entered the tent. “Is it done?”

Abban shook his head, and Jardir took a deep breath to embrace the disappointment and let it pass through him without harm.

“Mistress Leesha is more like dama’ting than I thought,” Abban said. “She has liberty to choose her own husband, though you must still pay a dower for her father’s blessing.”

“I will pay any price,” Jardir said.

Abban bowed. “So you have said,” he agreed, “but I, your humble servant, have nevertheless begun negotiations to minimize the impact on your treasury.”

Jardir waved his hand dismissively. “So I may approach her directly?”

“Her father has given you permission to court her,” Abban said, and Jardir smiled, snatching up his spear and pausing to check himself in a silvered mirror.

“What will you say to her?” Abban asked.

Jardir looked back at him. “I have no idea,” he said honestly. “But this is Everam’s will, so I trust that whatever I say will be the right thing.”

Abban frowned. “I do not think it works that way, Ahmann.”

Jardir looked at Abban, knowing all the words unspoken. Abban was much like the Par’chin in that regard. Polite. Tolerant. And utterly disbelieving.

Jardir looked at his old friend and felt great pity in his heart, understanding at last what it meant to be khaffit. Everam did not speak to them. Abban might use the Creator’s name in every other sentence, but had never truly heard His voice or felt the rapture of submitting to His divine will. Only profit spoke to Abban, and he would ever be its slave.

But that, too, was part of Everam’s plan, for the khaffit saw things no other man did, things essential to Jardir, if he was to win Sharak Ka.

Jardir put a hand on Abban’s shoulder, smiling sadly. “I know you do not, my friend, but if you do not trust in the Creator, hold faith in me.”

Abban bowed. “Of course. But at the very least, avoid mention of your other wives. Her mother tells me that Mistress Leesha’s jealousy is like a storm.”

Jardir nodded, not surprised in the least that such a woman would know her own worth and expect other women to make way for her. It only made him want her more.

Rojer led his apprentices through their exercises halfheartedly. They had improved a little, but whenever Kendall bent to her fiddle case, he could see the tops of the scars that ran across her chest. A mark of honor demon scars might be, but they were also a reminder to Rojer of just how far his apprentices had yet to come before they could be of any real use in the night. He hoped the instructors from the Jongleurs’ Guild arrived soon.

Across the way, the Cutters trained in the Corelings’ Graveyard. There was plenty of work to be done to build the new greatward, but so long as the Krasians were camped in the clearing, none of the Cutters had any interest in doing it. Gared had groups of them patrolling the town, and the rest had gathered at the graveyard to train and stand ready if needed. Leesha would be furious when she saw the work wasn’t getting done, but even after all she had been through, Leesha was too trusting of people.

There was a shout, and Rojer looked up to see the Krasian leader approaching, followed by his two bodyguards, Hasik and Shanjat. They wore their spears and shields on their backs, but while Jardir looked relaxed and serene, the warriors had the look of men surrounded by enemies. Their hands flexed unconsciously for want of a spear.

Jardir headed toward Rojer, and Gared gave a shout as he and a few Cutters hurried to intercept. Jardir’s bodyguards whirled to face them, spear and shield appearing in their hands instantly. The Cutters lifted their own weapons at the sight, and it seemed a clash was inevitable.

But Jardir turned, taking in Cutter and Sharum alike. “We are guests of Mistress Leesha!” he cried. “No blood will be shed between our peoples until she decrees otherwise.”

“Then tell your men to put their spears down,” Gared said, holding an axe in one hand and his warded blade in the other. Dozens of Cutters hurried across the graveyard and gathered at his back, but Hasik and Shanjat seemed unfazed—more than willing to fight the lot of them. Having seen the Krasian warriors fight, Rojer expected they would give far better than they got.

But then Jardir shouted something in Krasian, and his bodyguards sheathed their spears, though they kept their shields out.

“Din’t say put ’em away, I said put ’em down,” Gared growled.

Jardir smiled. “Guests are not asked to leave their knives at the door, Gared, son of Steave.”

Gared opened his mouth to reply, but Rojer cut him off.

“Of course, you are correct,” he said loudly, looking at Gared. “Put up your axe,” he told the giant Cutter.

Gared’s eyes widened. It was the first time Rojer had ever publicly given Gared an order, and it was one the Cutter might well refuse to accept, for if he put up his weapon, every other Cutter would as well.

Their eyes met, and Gared challenged him in that look, but Rojer was a mummer, and his face easily imitated the harsh look of the Painted Man, his voice deepening to the rasp Arlen used to frighten people and distance himself from them.

“Ent gonna tell you again, Gared,” he said, and he felt it as the giant’s will broke. Gared nodded and stepped back, returning his axe to its harness and his blade to its sheath. The other Cutters looked at him in surprise, but they did the same, taking comfort in their numbers.

Rojer turned to face Jardir. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Indeed,” said Jardir, bowing. “I wish to speak with Mistress Leesha.”

“She’s not in town,” Rojer said.

“I see,” Jardir said. “Can you tell me where I might find her?”

“The Core we will!” Gared growled, but Rojer and Jardir both ignored him.

“Why?” Rojer asked.

“She has given me a gift of incredible value in the cloak,” Jardir said. “I wish to bestow a gift of equal value upon her.”

“What gift?” Rojer asked.

Jardir smiled. “That is a matter between Mistress Leesha and myself.”

Rojer considered him. Part of him screamed not to trust this smiling desert demon who had slaughtered and raped so many, but Jardir seemed to have his own code of honor, and he did not think the man would try to harm Leesha while the truce held. And if the gift he offered was truly magic of equal value, they might be fools to refuse it.

“I’ll take you to her if you leave your warriors behind,” Rojer said.

Jardir bowed. “Of course.” The guards gave a cry of protest, as did Gared and a few of the Cutters, but again Rojer and Jardir ignored them. “My intentions toward Mistress Leesha are honorable, and I will of course accept a chaperone while in her presence.”

It seemed an odd choice of words, but Rojer could not find further cause to argue. Soon they were walking the path to Leesha’s cottage. Gared insisted on coming along, and glared at Jardir the whole way, though the Krasian leader seemed thankfully oblivious.

“Why does the mistress not live on your village’s wondrous greatward?” Jardir asked. “I would think her too valuable to risk to the alagai.”

Rojer laughed. “If all the Core rose up tonight, you’d be safer in Leesha’s cottage than anywhere else in the world.”

Jardir found that hard to believe, but as they came close to the cottage, he found the path laid with a walkway of stone wards, each large enough to stand upon without marring it.

Jardir stopped short, looking at the stones in amazement. He squatted, pressing against the stone with his hand. “Everam’s beard. It must have taken a thousand slaves to carve these.”

“We ent a bunch of filthy desert slavers like you,” Gared muttered. Jardir’s first impulse was to kill the man, but that was no way to impress the mistress. He embraced the insult instead and gave it no further thought, returning his focus to the path.

“The wards were poured, not carved,” Rojer said, “made from a mixture of stone and water called crete, which hardens as it dries. Leesha cut them into the ground herself, and free men poured the stone.”

Jardir scanned the path ahead in amazement. “These are combat wards. And linked.”

Rojer nodded. “Any demon that sets foot on this path might as well step into a sunbeam.”

Jardir realized he had been arrogant and naïve to scoff before. For all their savage ways, not even Sharik Hora held the power of some of the Northern woman’s wardings.

The yard was no less stunning, filled with more crete walkways that wove a complex wardnet around the cottage and its environs. A large garden bloomed brightly, the herbs and flowers arranged in neat groupings, their lines forming yet more wards. Jardir couldn’t recognize many of them, but he saw enough to know that these did far more than banish or kill corelings.

Stronger than ever, he felt Everam’s will thrumming within him. This woman was destined to be his bride. With her and Inevera behind him, what in the world could he not accomplish?

Leesha listened to the comforting rhythm of Wonda chopping firewood as she prepared lunch. The simple task helped give her mind clarity as she went over the night’s events and compared the men she had met with the tales of the refugees and Arlen’s words of warning.

It was not that she did not trust the accounts, but Leesha preferred to form her own opinions. Many of the refugees spoke hearsay and exaggeration, and Arlen’s heart could be hard and unforgiving at times. Something had happened to him in Krasia, some hurt done he could not forgive, but since he would not speak of it, Leesha could only guess as to what it was.

Whatever else might be true of the Krasians, they were warriors without equal. Leesha had seen that instantly as she watched them fight. The Cutters were generally larger and more heavily muscled, but they moved with none of the precision that marked the dal’Sharum. The fifty camped in the clearing could cut a swath of destruction across the Hollow before they were pulled down, and if the rest of Jardir’s army had half their skill, the Hollowers would stand little chance against them, even with all the secrets of fire she could muster.

And so she had determined that they must not fight, if it could be avoided. It was one thing to kill demons, but every human life was precious. The books of the old world said mankind had once numbered in the billions, but how many remained after the Return? A quarter million? The thought of the last men in the world fighting one another sickened her.

Yet neither could she surrender. She would not spit on her hand and wet the Hollow for the Krasians. She had worked too hard to hold the Hollowers together after the flux to assimilate the refugees from Rizon and Lakton to just turn them over. If there was a way to negotiate a peace, she had to find it.

The first meeting with the Krasian leader had seemed to indicate that was a possibility. He was cultured and intelligent, nothing like the rabid animal the accounts had portrayed, and clearly held true to his beliefs, even if Leesha thought them brutal and cruel at times. She had looked deeply into his eyes, and there was no cruelty there. Like a stern father administering a needed spanking, Ahmann Jardir was doing what he thought best for humanity.

Leesha paused in her work, realizing that the chopping outside had stopped. She looked up as the door opened and Wonda stood in the threshold.

“Wash up and set the table,” Leesha said. “Lunch will be another few minutes.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, mistress, but Rojer and Gared are here to see you,” Wonda said.

“Tell them to come in and set another pair of places at the table,” Leesha said.

But Wonda just stood there. “They’re not alone.”

Leesha set her knife on the cutting board and toweled her hands clean as she went to the door. Ahmann Jardir stood on her front porch, standing calmly and ignoring the way Gared glared at him. He wore a fine white robe over his warrior blacks, matching the white turban his crown nestled within. Leesha’s eyes danced across its wards, but she forced herself not to stare. She dropped her gaze to his eyes, but that was worse, for they bored into her with such intensity that she felt as if he could see her very soul.

Jardir bowed deeply. “Forgive my appearing unannounced, mistress.”

“Just say the word and I’ll haul him back where he came from, Leesha,” Gared said.

“Nonsense,” Leesha said. “Welcome,” she told Jardir. “Wonda and I were about to sit down to lunch. Would you care to join us?”

“I would be honored and delighted,” Jardir said, bowing again. He followed Leesha into the cottage, pausing to remove his sandals and leave them by the door. Leesha noted that even his feet were covered in ward scars. A kick from him would likely do as much to a coreling as one by the Painted Man.

The meal Mistress Leesha had prepared was a meatless stew served with fresh bread and cheese. Jardir bowed his head as she invoked a blessing over the food, and then everyone began eating at once. He began to lift his bowl to drink when he noticed the greenlanders were leaving theirs on the table, using some sort of tool to bring the food to their lips.

He glanced at his own setting, and saw a similar utensil there—a wooden strip with a depression at the end. He looked at Leesha and mirrored her actions as he tasted the stew. It was delicious, with heavy vegetables he had never tasted. He began to eat more vigorously, using the thick greenland bread to soak the last drops from his bowl as he saw Gared and Wonda do.

“Exquisite,” he told the mistress, and felt a thrill run through him as he saw her pleasure at the compliment. “We do not have such food in Krasia.”

Leesha smiled. “There is much we could learn from each other, if we can find a way to live in peace.”

“Peace, mistress?” Jardir asked. “There is no such thing on Ala. Not while the alagai hold the night and men cower before them.”

“So the tales are true?” Leesha asked. “You mean to conquer us and levy our people for Sharak Ka?”

“Why should I wish to conquer you?” Jardir asked. “Your people are humble before the Creator, stand tall in the night, and shed blood in alagai’sharak alongside my warriors. That makes you Evejan, though you know it not.”

“It don’t!” the giant growled. “We ent got nothin’ to do with your filthy—”

“Gared Cutter!” Leesha’s voice snapped like a dama’s whip, silencing him. “You’ll keep a polite tongue at my table or I’ll give it such a dose of pepper you can’t talk for a month!”

Gared recoiled, and again Jardir was amazed at the power of the woman. She made the dama’ting seem timid.

Leesha turned to him. “I apologize, Ahmann.” She seemed taken aback when he smiled brightly at her. “What did I say?”

“My name,” Jardir said simply.

“I’m sorry,” Leesha said. “Was that improper of me?”

“On the contrary,” Jardir said. “It sounds beautiful, coming from your lips.”

With no veil to cover her cheeks, Jardir saw how her pale skin reddened at his words. He had never courted a woman before, but it seemed as if Everam himself guided his words.

“More than three thousand years ago,” Jardir said, “my ancestor Kaji ruled this land from the Southern Sea to the frozen waste.”

“So the histories say,” Leesha agreed, “though three thousand years is a long time, and accounts can become…blurred.”

“Perhaps here in the North,” Jardir said, “but the temple of Sharik Hora in the Desert Spear has stood that long and more, and our records are sharp. Kaji did rule this land, sometimes by the spear, and sometimes by building alliance with its tribes and sealing it with blood.”

He looked around the table. “Kaji’s blood is still strong here. Even your name, Deliverer’s Hollow, honors him. You are not chin to be conquered, but lost brethren to be welcomed into our fold. I name you Hollow tribe, and accord you all the rights therein.”

“What rights?” Leesha asked.

Jardir reached into his robe, producing his personal Evejah. Its cover was of supple leather embossed with wards, and its pages were gilded in gold. A red ribbon hung ready to mark a page. The pages were soft and thin from daily use.

“These rights,” he said, giving her the volume.

Leesha took the book as one who knew its value, and he recalled she was a bookbinder’s daughter as she turned it to examine the spine. She pushed her bowl aside and spread the cloth from her lap over the table before laying the book upon it and paging through.

“It’s beautiful,” she said after a time. “But much as I would love to learn the language, I’m afraid I can’t understand a word.” She closed the book and held it out to him.

Jardir held up a hand to forestall her. “Keep it. What better book to help you learn? You may find its truths more in line with your own beliefs than you imagine.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Leesha said. “This is too precious!”

Jardir laughed. “You give me a cloak that rivals Kaji’s own, and you balk at a book of his truths? I can pen another.”

Leesha looked back down at the book, and then up at him. “You penned this yourself?”

“In my own blood,” Jardir said, “during the years I studied in Sharik Hora.”

Leesha’s eyes widened.

“It is not gold or jewels, I understand,” Jardir said. “I would shower them upon you if I could, but I brought no such trinkets north. This is the most valuable thing I own, apart from my crown, spear, and new cloak. I hope you will accept it while Abban negotiates a proper dower with your mother.”

“Dower?” Leesha asked in surprise.

“Of course,” Jardir said. “Your father gave me permission to court you, and your mother will see your price is met. Did they not tell you?”

“No they corespawned didn’t!” Leesha cried, rising to her feet so fast her chair skidded out behind her. In an instant everyone was on their feet. Jardir felt a sudden flash of fear. He had given offense to her, but without understanding how, he could not even apologize.

“Son of the Core!” the giant cried, and swung his meaty fist across the table at Jardir.

Jardir could not remember the last time a man had dared to strike at him. Had they been anywhere but at Mistress Leesha’s table, Jardir would have killed him for the affront, but remembering Leesha’s abhorrence of violence, he acted only in his own defense. He caught Gared’s wrist and pivoted, pulling him clear across the table and flipping him onto his back. He put a single toe into Gared’s throat and held his log of a wrist with only two fingers, but though the giant thrashed, he was held firmly prone and helpless, his face reddening more with every second.

“Your betters are speaking, Sharum,” he said. “I have tolerated your constant rudeness out of respect to Mistress Leesha, but if you try to lay hands on me again, I will tear your arm off.” He gave a slight tug, and Gared roared in pain. Everyone looked to Leesha for how to react.

Leesha crossed her arms. “Serves you right, Gared Cutter. No one asked you to attack anyone in my home.” She nodded to the door. “Out with you. Rojer and Wonda, too. You can all wait in the yard.”

“The Core we will!” Rojer cried, Wonda nodding along with him. “If you think we ’re leaving you alone with this—”

There was a bang and a flash at their feet, and they jumped in shock. Leesha said nothing, but her face was a storm cloud as she pointed at the door. Both were gone in an instant. Jardir released Gared, and he, too, scurried out.

Jardir turned to Leesha and bowed long and deep. “I apologize, mistress, though I do not understand why I have given distress. I have come to you and your family honorably, yet you act as if I tried to carry you off after stealing a well.”

Leesha did not respond for a long time, and her anger was terrible to behold, such that Jardir had an urge to shield his eyes as if in a sandstorm. Slowly, she embraced the feeling, and her features grew calm once more.

“I apologize as well,” she said. “My distress is not directed at you, but at being the last to find out you had come courting.”

“Abban told your parents I would come immediately,” Jardir said. “I assumed they sent you word.”

Leesha nodded. “I believe you. My mother has a history of trying to make such arrangements without my knowledge.”

Jardir bowed. “If you need time to consider, you need not answer now.”

“Yes…,” Leesha began, “I mean, no. That is, I’m flattered, but I can’t marry you.”

You will, Jardir thought. You are destined to love me as I already do you.

“Why not?” he asked her instead. “Your mother says you are unspoken for, and I will meet any dower your family desires. Soon I will control all the Northland, and you with me. What husband could offer you more?”

Leesha paused for a moment, then shook her head as if to clear it. “It doesn’t matter. I barely know you, dowers mean nothing to me, and frankly, I don’t know that I want you ‘controlling’ anything.”

“Come with me to Everam’s Bounty,” Jardir said. “Come see my people and what we are building. I will teach you our language as you asked, and you can come to know me and decide what I am…worthy to control.”

Leesha looked at him a long time, but Jardir waited patiently, knowing her answer was inevera. “All right,” she said at last, “but with proper chaperone, and no decision until I am safely returned to the Hollow.”

Jardir bowed. “Of course. I swear it by Everam.”

Rojer paced the yard, staring at Leesha’s cottage. Gared’s clenched fists were like two hams, and even Wonda had fetched and strung her bow. Finally, the door opened, and Leesha followed Jardir out onto the porch. “Wonda, escort Mr. Jardir back to town,” she said. “Gared, you can finish cording the woodpile.”

Gared grunted and picked up Wonda’s axe as she and Jardir headed down the path. Rojer looked at Leesha, who nodded her head back to the door. She went inside, and he followed as she went right to Bruna’s rocker and put on her shawl. Never a good sign.

“How did he take your refusal?” Rojer asked, not bothering to sit.

Leesha sighed. “He didn’t. Told me to take my time and think it through. He’s invited me back to Rizon with him.”

“You can’t go,” Rojer said.

Leesha raised an eyebrow at that. “You have no more say over who I marry than my mother, Rojer.”

“Are you saying you want to marry him?” Rojer asked. “After a single tea and an awkward lunch?”

“Of course not,” Leesha said. “I have no intention of accepting his proposal.”

“Then why in the Core would you deliver yourself into his hands?” Rojer asked.

“There’s an army at our doorstep, Rojer,” Leesha said. “You don’t see value in looking at them with our own eyes? Counting tents and learning how their leader thinks?”

“Not at the cost of our own leader,” Rojer said. “Duke Rhinebeck doesn’t personally go to Miln to see what Euchor’s up to. He sends spies.”

“I don’t have any spies,” Leesha said.

Rojer snorted. “You have over a thousand Rizonans who owe you their lives, many who left family behind. Surely a few could be persuaded to return home and keep their ears open.”

“I won’t order people to put themselves at risk,” Leesha said.

“But you’ll put yourself?” Rojer asked.

“I don’t think Ahmann would harm me,” Leesha said.

“Two days ago, he was the demon of the desert,” Rojer said. “Now he’s Ahmann? What, do you just shine on any man who thinks he ’s the Deliverer?”

Leesha scowled. “I don’t want to hear any more of this, Rojer.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Rojer snapped. “You’ve heard how the Krasians treat women. No matter what that oily snake tells you, the moment you’re out of range of the Hollowers’ bows you’ll be his property, and anyone with you will get a spear in the eye.”

“So you won’t be coming with me?” Leesha asked.

“Night, haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying?” Rojer demanded.

“Every word,” Leesha said, “but I’m still going. If that’s the kind of man Ahmann is, then war is inevitable and it doesn’t matter what we do. But if there’s even a chance he meant what he said at the table, then there’s a chance we can find a way to coexist without killing each other, and that’s worth more to the world than the fate of Leesha Paper.”

Rojer sighed, plopping down in a chair. “When do we leave?”