The Desert Spear

CHAPTER 26 RETURN TO TIBBET’S BROOK

THE PAINTED MAN’S MOOD was black as Fort Miln receded in the distance. Any happiness he had felt upon leaving Ragen and Elissa’s manse was swept away by the meeting with Jaik. The conversation played out over and over in his mind, all the words he should have said presented themselves too late, and did little to dispel a nagging doubt that his friend was right.

To take his mind away, he read through the book Ronnell had given him, but that brought no comfort. Laid bare were Leesha’s coveted secrets of fire, with metalwork diagrams to turn their force into tools of precision killing. Tools designed for killing not demons, but men.

Did the corelings drive us to the brink of extinction, he wondered, or did we do it to ourselves?

He caught sight of a ruined keep off the side of the road as the sun began to set. One of Euchor’s predecessors had kept a garrison there, but the keep had fallen to demons and never been rebuilt. Most Messengers, convinced it was haunted, gave it a wide berth. A rusted gate hung bent and torn from twisted moorings, and great holes had been broken in the outer wall.

He rode into the keep, staking Twilight Dancer in a warded circle. He stripped to his loincloth, selecting a spear and bow. As darkness fell, the stinking mists began to seep up between the shattered stones of the courtyard. Corelings rose thickly in unwarded ruins, instinct telling them the odds were good prey might one day return. Fifty men had died when the wards of this keep fell, likely killed by the very demons rising now. They deserved vengeance.

The Painted Man waited until the demons spotted him and charged before lifting his bow. In the lead was a flame demon, but his first arrow blasted the life from it. Next was a rock that took several shots to put down.

When the rock fell, the other demons paused, some even backpedaling to flee, but wardstones the Painted Man had placed around the gaps in the wall and gate kept them trapped in the keep with him. When he was out of arrows, he charged with spear and shield, eventually abandoning that as well and fighting with bare hands and feet.

Heonlygrewstrongerasthenightworeonandheabsorbedmoreandmore magic. Lost in the killing frenzy, he thought of nothing else until at last, covered in demon ichor that sizzled on his wards, he found no more demons to kill. The sky began to lighten soon after, the few remaining corelings in the area fading into mist to flee the sun as it burned their taint away from the surface world.

But then the light reached him, and it was like fire on his skin. The glare stung his eyes, leaving him dizzy and nauseous, and his throat burned. Standing before it was agony.

This had happened before. Leesha said it was the sunlight burning the excess magic away from him, but there was another part of him, a primal part, that knew the truth.

The sun was rejecting him. He was becoming a demon, and no longer belonged on the surface of the world.

The Core called to him, beckoning with offers of succor. The paths, like vents of magic coming up from the ground, were unmistakable to his warded eyes, and they all sang the same song. No sun would burn him in the Core’s embrace.

The Painted Man started to dematerialize, slipping a bit of his essence down along a path, tasting it.

Just once, he told himself. To probe for weakness. To see if the fight can be taken there. It was a noble thought, if not entirely true. More likely, he would be destroyed.

World’s better off without me, anyway.

But before he could melt away, there was a pop and a flash of light as one of the smoldering bodies in the yard was caught in a sunbeam and burst into flame. He looked over at it, watching the bodies ignite one after another like festival flamework.

Even as the corelings burned, his own pain lessened. The sun left him weakened as it always did, but it did not destroy him.

Yet, he thought. But soon. Best give the Brook its wards while you still can.

Landmarks began to appear as the Painted Man drew closer to Tibbet’s Brook, bringing his mind, lingering on thoughts of the Core, back to the present. Here was the Messenger cave where he had succored with Ragen and Keerin. There were the ruins where they had found him. Those, at least, were free of demons. A pack of nightwolves had taken up residence there, and the Painted Man wisely gave them a wide berth. Even corelings thought twice before disturbing a pack of nightwolves. Centuries of demons culling the smallest and weakest had left the few remaining predators in the wild formidable indeed. Named after their jet-black fur, adult nightwolves could weigh three hundred pounds, and a pack of them could take down even a wood demon if cornered.

Next along the road came the small clearing where he had crippled One Arm. The Painted Man had expected the place to be just as he had left it: a scorched and blackened ruin surrounding the clear spot where he had built his circle.

But it had been better than fourteen years, and that bleak place now bloomed with rich life, brighter, even, than its surroundings. It might be a good omen, if he believed in such things.

In a far-flung hamlet such as Tibbet’s Brook, a Messenger, or any stranger—even someone from Sunny Pasture, the next town over—was a rare thing and apt to draw attention. When the Painted Man drew close to the town too early in the day, he pulled up and waited. Better to pass through the outskirts and town proper late in the day when folk were busy checking their wards rather than watching the road. He would arrive in Town Square close to dusk, with just enough time to rent a room at Hog’s tavern. Come morning, all he would have to do was find the Town Speaker and give him or her a grimoire of battle wards, handing out a few weapons to those who wanted them in the process, and then leave before half the folk even knew he was there. He wondered if Selia still spoke for the town, as she had when he was young.

The first farm he passed was Mack Pasture’s, but though he heard animals in the barn, he didn’t see anyone. He reached Harl’s not long after. The Tanner farm was deserted entirely. Recently, it seemed, since its wards were still intact and the fields unburned. But the livestock was gone, and the fields in disarray, as if they had not been properly tended in some time. There was no sign of a demon attack. He wondered what could have happened.

Harl’s farm had special meaning for him. For eleven years, Harl’s farm was the farthest he had ever gotten from home, but more than that, it was where he had kissed Beni and Renna the night before his mother died. It was ironic. He could no longer remember his mother’s face, but he remembered everything about those kisses. The way his teeth had clicked clumsily with Beni’s and they had both recoiled in shock, the softness and warmth of Renna’s mouth, the taste of her breath.

It had been a long time since he had thought of Renna Tanner. Their fathers had promised them to each other, and if Arlen had not run away they would likely be married now, raising children and tending Jeph’s farm. He wondered what had become of her.

Things only grew stranger as he went on. There was no reason for him to have taken any caution with his approach, because he didn’t see a single soul on his way through the Brook; every home was locked up tight. He mentally checked the date, but it was too early for the summer solstice festival. They must have been summoned by the Great Horn.

The Great Horn was in Town Square and was blown when there was an attack, giving directions so that those closest could come and help search for survivors and rebuild if possible. Folk would lock up their livestock and leave for that, sometimes even overnight.

The Painted Man knew he had judged his people harshly when he left home. They were no different from the folk of Cutter’s Hollow or any other of dozens of hamlets he had seen. Brook folk might not stand up to the core lings like Krasians, but they resisted in their own way, coming together time and again to reaffirm their bonds to one another. When they bickered, it was over petty things. No one in the Brook would allow a neighbor to go hungry or be left without succor, as happened so often in the cities.

The Painted Man sniffed the air and searched the sky, but there was no sign of smoke, the surest indicator of an attack. He strained his ears, but there was nothing to guide him, and after some casting about he headed on down the road to Town Square. There would be folk there who could tell him about the attack.

It was nearly dark as he approached Town Square, and the buzz of hundreds of voices came to his ears. He relaxed, realizing his fears were unfounded, and wondered what occasion could have drawn everyone in the Brook to spend a night in town. Had one of Hog’s daughters finally married?

The streets were clear, but it seemed all the Brook had gathered. Every porch and doorway and window facing the square was packed full of people. Some, like the Watches, had even drawn their own circles, standing apart from the others and clutching their Canons, deep in prayer. It was a sharp contrast with the folk from Boggin’s Hill, clutching only one another as they wept. He caught sight of Renna’s sister Beni among them, holding tight to Lucik Boggin.

He followed their gaze to the square’s center, where a beautiful young woman was bound to a stake in the ground.

And the sun was setting.

It was only an instant before the Painted Man recognized Renna Tanner. Perhaps it was because she had been on his mind, or that he had just seen her sister, but Renna’s round face, even after so long, was unmistakable, as was the long brown hair that fell nearly to her waist.

She hung limply, held up more by the ropes wrapped around her arms and chest than her own strength. Her eyes were open, but they stared blankly, focused on nothing.

“What in the Core is going on?” he roared, digging his heels into Twilight Dancer’s flanks. The giant stallion leapt forward into the square, digging great divots in the grass as he pranced before the shocked crowd. The square was lit with a dim, flickering glow from torches and lanterns, but above the sky was a deep purple. The corelings would rise in seconds.

He leapt from the horse’s back, rushing to the stake to undo Renna’s bonds. An old man strode out to him, waving a large hunting knife with a stained blade. The Painted Man’s sharp nostrils caught the scent of dried blood as he recognized Raddock Lawry, the Speaker from Fishing Hole.

“This ent your affair, Messenger!” Lawry said, pointing the knife at him. “That girl killed my kin, as well as her own da, and we aim to see her cored for it!”

The Painted Man glanced at Renna in shock, and like a slap in the face it all came back to him. The marriage games she and Beni had wanted to play with him in the hayloft, games they said they learned from watching Ilain with their father. Ilain’s secret, pleading words to Jeph, begging him to take her away. The grunting from Harl’s room deep in the night.

The memories flooded back, but this time he saw them as a grown man, and not a naïve boy. Horror struck him, followed quickly by anger. He reached out faster than Raddock could react, catching the man’s wrist in a sharusahk twist that flipped him to the ground even as the knife came free from his hands.

The Painted Man held the blade up for all to see. “If Renna Tanner killed her da,” he shouted, “then I tell you, he had it comin’!”

He moved to cut Renna’s bonds, but several Fishers, led by Garric, charged him with their thin spears. He stuck the bloody knife in the stake and turned to meet them.

To call it a fight would have been overly kind to the Fishers. They were strong men, but no warriors. The Painted Man was a trained fighter, and stronger than all of them together. It was only by his mercy that none of them were permanently injured when they hit the ground.

“Ent nobody getting cored while I’m around,” he barked. “I’m taking her, and there ent a corespawned thing you can do about it!”

There was a thump, and he looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief. Jeorje Watch stood there, looking much as he had the last time the Painted Man had seen him, though that had been over sixteen years gone, and Jeorje in his nineties then.

“Nothing we can do, may be,” he said, nodding and pointing with his stick, “but reckon we’re not the ones you need to contend with, boy. The Plague take you both!”

The Painted Man followed the stick and saw he was right. Mist was rising throughout the square, and already some corelings were solidifying. The Fishers on the ground shrieked and scrambled back behind the wards.

Jeorje Watch had a grim smile on his face, one of righteous satisfaction, but the Painted Man didn’t flinch. Instead he pulled off his hood and met the Southwatch Tender’s eyes.

“I’ve contended with worse, old man,” he growled, stripping off his robe, as well. The crowd gasped at the sight of his tattooed flesh.

As always, the first to come were the flame demons. One leapt at Renna, but the Painted Man caught its tail, hurling it across the square. Another pounced at him, but the wards on his skin flared to life and its claws could find no purchase. He caught the coreling’s jaws before it could bite, so it spat fire in his eyes.

The wards on his face glowed briefly, absorbing the attack and turning it into nothing more than a cool breeze. All the while the wards on his palms glowed more and more fiercely until he crushed the demon’s snout, hurling it aside.

A wood demon formed next, charging Twilight Dancer, but the stallion reared and trampled it, sparks flying from his warded hooves.

There was a shriek from above, and the Painted Man pivoted in time to grab the diving wind demon and turn its momentum against it, throwing it hard to the ground and crushing its throat with a stomp of his foot and a thunderclap of magic.

Two more wood demons came at him, and he kicked the first in the stomach, knocking it back with a blast of magic before grappling with the other. He caught one of its arms in a sharusahkhold and pulled with all his strength, tearing the demon’s arm clear off. This he threw at Jeorje Watch, though the limb bounced off the wards of the Southwatch Tender’s circle.

Three flame demons set upon the crippled wood demon, and soon the wounded coreling was shrieking as it was consumed in flame. The other wood demon recovered and made to come at the Painted Man, but he snarled at it, and the demon kept its distance.

“It’s the Deliverer!” someone in the crowd cried. Many others echoed his words, some even falling to their knees, but the Painted Man only scowled.

“Ent here to deliver anyone that would put a girl out in the night!” he roared. He turned to Renna, pulling the knife free from the stake and slashing through her bonds. She collapsed into his arms, and their eyes met for just a moment. Focus returned to Renna’s gaze, and she shook her head as if to clear it. He lifted her up onto Twilight Dancer’s back.

“That witch killed my son!” Garric Fisher cried.

The Painted Man turned, remembering all too clearly the many beatings he ’d suffered at Cobie Fisher’s hands as a child. “Your son was a bully, and never worth a coreling’s piss,” he said, climbing into the saddle behind Renna. She snuggled into him like a child, shivering though the night was warm.

He looked out over the crowd, scanning the terrified faces. He saw his father there, clutching Ilain Tanner, and felt another surge of anger. Nothing had changed, if Jeph could stand there and watch Renna staked, knowing what they both did of Harl.

“I came to teach you all to fight the corelings!” he called to the crowd. “But I see Tibbet’s Brook still raises only cowards and fools!”

He turned to ride off, but something gnawed at him, and he looked back, giving the crowd one last glance, one last chance.

“Any man, woman, or child who would rather kill corelings than feed them their neighbor, meet me here at dusk tomorrow,” he shouted. “If not, corespawn the lot of you!”

Jeph met his eyes then, though there was no recognition in his gaze. “Renna Tanner is my kin!” he called, drawing stares from all around. “Succor at my farm up the north road! Renna knows the way!” The Painted Man needed no directions to Jeph’s farm, but he nodded, turning Twilight Dancer north.

“Here now, you can’t go shelterin’ that murderin’ witch, Jeph Bales!” Raddock Lawry called. “The council voted!”

“Then it’s best I ent on the council,” Jeph shouted back, “ ’cause the night as my witness, you or anyone else comes to my farm looking for her, there ’ll be more bloodshed, and to spare!”

Raddock opened his mouth to reply, but there was an angry murmur from the crowd, and he looked around uneasily, unsure whose side they were on.

The Painted Man grunted and kicked Twilight Dancer into a gallop out of the Square and headed up the road to his father’s farm.

Renna was silent the whole ride, resting against him and clinging to his robes. A few demons came at them, but Twilight Dancer dodged and put on speed, quickly leaving them behind. Twice, the stallion simply trampled demons into the road without slowing.

His father’s farm was much as he remembered it, though an addition had been built onto the back of the house. Some of the wardposts in the barley field were still those he had carved himself, coated in fresh lacquer many times over the years. Jeph maintained his wards religiously, a habit he had instilled in his son that had saved Arlen’s life many times since and defined much of the course of his life.

Drawn to the house, a great many corelings were in the yard, testing the wards. The Painted Man shot two to clear the way to the barn, and once safe behind its wards, he stabled Twilight Dancer and stood in the doorway, picking off the others one by one with his bow. Soon the way was clear, and he escorted Renna to the house proper.

The Painted Man was shaking as he deposited Renna in the common room and lit the lanterns, kindling a fire in the hearth. Everything about the place was so familiar, it made his heart ache. It even smelled the same. He half expected his mother to come out of the cold room and tell him to wash for supper. An old cat came and sniffed him, purring and rubbing against his leg. He picked it up and scratched its ears, remembering how its mother had birthed the litter behind the broken cart in the barn.

He went over to Renna who was sitting right where he left her, playing with her skirts. “You all right?”

Renna shook her head, eyes on the floor. “Ent sure I’ll ever be all right again.”

“Know the feeling,” the Painted Man said. “You hungry?”

When she nodded, he set the cat down and went to the cold room, unsurprised to find it laid out just as he recalled. There was smoked ham and fresh vegetables, and bread in the bread box. He took everything to the chopping block and filled a pot from the water barrel. He soon had a stew simmering over the fire, filling the house with its aroma. He opened the cupboard and set bowls and spoons at the table. He went to fetch Renna and found the cat curled in her lap. She stroked it absently as she wept, her teardrops matting its fur.

Renna said little as they ate, and he found himself staring at her, wishing he knew what words could put life back in her eyes.

“Good stew?” he asked as she tore bread to soak the last of it from her bowl. “There’s more if you like.” She nodded, and he fetched the pot from the fire, ladling her another helping.

“Thanks,” she said. “Feel like I haven’t et in days. Haven’t, really. Ent been hungry.”

“You had a rough week, I imagine,” he said.

She met his eyes finally. “You killed those demons. Killed ’em with your bare hands.”

The Painted Man nodded.

“Why?” she asked.

The Painted Man raised a brow at her. “Need a reason to kill demons?”

“But they told you what I done,” Renna said. “And they’s right. None a this would’ve happened, I’d just minded my da. Maybe I deserve to be cored.” She looked away again, but the Painted Man grabbed her shoulders roughly and forced her to turn and face him. His eyes were blazing, and hers went wide with fright.

“You listen to me, Renna Tanner,” he said. “Your da din’t deserve mindin’. I know what he done to you and your sisters, out on that farm. That kind of man ent worth no mind at all. It’s him that brought these troubles about, not you. Ent never been you.”

When she just stared at him, he shook her. “You hear me?!”

For a moment more Renna just stared, and then slowly she nodded. And then again, more decisively. “Wasn’t right, what he done to us.”

“That’s undersaid,” the Painted Man grunted.

“And poor Cobie never done nothing wrong,” Renna went on, the words coming faster. She looked up at him. “He wan’t no bully, least not that I ever saw. All he ever wanted was to marry me proper, and Da…”

“Killed him for it,” the Painted Man finished, when she hesitated.

She nodded. “Man like that ent much more than a demon himself.”

He nodded. “And you got to fight demons, Renna Tanner. It’s the only way to live with your head held high. Can’t trust no one else to do what you won’t do for yourself.”

Renna was curled up by the fire, fast asleep, when Jeph’s cart pulled into the yard early the next morning. The Painted Man watched through the window, swallowing a lump in his throat as four children hopped down from the back of the cart, brothers and sisters he had never known.

They were followed off the cart by tough old Norine and Ilain. The Painted Man had shined on Ilain when he was young, and she was still beautiful now, but seeing his father help her down from the front seat the way he used to do for his mother gnawed at him. He didn’t blame Ilain for wanting to escape Harl—not anymore, at least—but that made it no easier to see how quickly she had taken his mother’s place.

He looked up the road, but there was no sign of anyone else following. He opened the door and went out to meet them. The children pulled up short, staring, as he walked over to Jeph.

“She’s asleep by the fire,” he said.

Jeph nodded. “Thank you, Messenger.”

“I’ll hold you to your promise to protect her from any looking to do her harm,” the Painted Man said, pointing a tattooed finger at his father.

Jeph swallowed, but he nodded. “I will.”

The Painted Man’s eyes narrowed. Jeph was full of sincere-sounding promises, ones he meant full well, yet when the time came for action he was apt to fail.

But with no other option, the Painted Man nodded. “I’ll fetch my horse and go.”

“Wait, please,” Jeph said, catching his arm. The Painted Man looked at the offending hand, and Jeph snatched it quickly away.

“I just…” He hesitated. “We ’d like it if you stayed for breakfast. Least we can do. Whole town might be at the square come evening, like you said. You can take your ease here, till then.”

The Painted Man looked at him, wanting to be gone from the place, but a part of him longed to meet his siblings, and his stomach rumbled at the thought of a proper Brook breakfast. Such things had meant little to him when he was a child, but now they were cherished memories.

“Reckon I can set a spell,” he said, and allowed himself to be escorted back inside as the children ran to their chores and Norine and Ilain headed to the cold room.

“This here’s Jeph Young,” Jeph said, introducing his oldest son when they were gathered around the breakfast table. The boy nodded at him, but mostly stared at his tattooed hands and tried to peek into the shadows of his hood.

“Next to him is Jeni Tailor,” Jeph went on. “They been promised near two seasons. At the end are our youngest, Silvy and Cholie.”

Seated opposite the children, next to Renna and Norine, the Painted Man coughed at the names, those of his lost mother and uncle. He took a sip from his water cup to cover his surprise. “You have beautiful children.”

“Tender Harral says you’re the Deliverer, come again,” little Silvy blurted.

“Well I ent,” the Painted Man told her. “Just a Messenger, come to spread good word.”

“Messengers all like you now, then?” Jeph asked. “All painted up?”

The Painted Man smiled. “I’m one of a kind like that,” he admitted. “But I’m just a man, all the same. Din’t come to deliver anyone.”

“You sure did for our Renna,” Ilain said. “Can’t thank you enough for that.”

“Shouldn’t have had to,” the Painted Man said.

Jeph sat quiet a moment at the rebuke. “You’re right at that,” he said at last, “but sometimes when a body’s in a crowd, and the crowd has its say…”

“Stop making excuses, Jeph Bales,” Norine snapped. “Man’s right. What do we got in this world, ’cept kith and kin? Ent nothing should keep us from standing by them.”

The Painted Man looked at her. This wasn’t the Norine he remembered, the one who had stood on the porch the night his mother was cored. Stood and done nothing, except try to keep Arlen from going to her aid. He nodded, his eyes flicking back to meet Jeph’s.

“She’s right,” he said. “You’ve got to stand up to those that would harm you and yours.”

“You sound like my son,” Jeph said, his eyes growing distant.

“Say again?” the Painted Man said, his throat tightening.

“Me?” Jeph Young asked.

Jeph shook his head. “Your elder,” he told his son, and everyone at the table except Renna and the Painted Man drew a quick ward in the air.

“Had another son, name of Arlen, years back,” Jeph explained, and Ilain took his hand in hers, squeezing to lend him strength. “Promised to Renna there, in fact.” He nodded to Renna. “Arlen’s mam was cored, and he ran off.” He looked down at the table, and his voice grew tight. “Always asking about the Free Cities, Arlen was. Like to think he mighta made it there…” He broke off, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“But you have this beautiful family now,” the Painted Man said, hoping to move the conversation toward something positive.

Jeph nodded, covering Ilain’s hand in both of his and squeezing. “I thank the Creator for them every day, but that don’t mean I ent carrying a weight for those gone before.”

After breakfast, the Painted Man went out to the stables to check on Twilight Dancer, more to escape for a moment than for any need. He had just started to brush the horse down when the barn door opened and Renna came in. She cut an apple and held the halves out for Twilight Dancer to eat, stroking the stallion’s flanks when she was done. He nickered softly.

“It was night when I came runnin’ here, few days ago,” she said. “Demons would’ve got me, Jeph hadn’t crossed the wards and hit one with his axe.”

“Honest word?” the Painted Man asked, and felt a lump in his throat when she nodded.

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” she asked.

“Tell him what?” the Painted Man asked.

“That you’re his son,” Renna said. “That you’re alive and well and you forgive him. He’s waited so long. Why are you still punishing him when I can see forgiveness in your eyes?”

“You know who I am?” he asked, surprised.

“Course I know!” Renna snapped. “Ent stupid, no matter what everyone thinks. How would you’ve known about my da and what he done, you weren’t Arlen Bales? How would you know Cobie was a bully, or which farm was Jeph’s? Night, you strolled around the cupboards like it was still your house!”

“Din’t mean for anyone to know,” the Painted Man said, suddenly realizing that his Brook accent, which he ’d dropped while living in Miln, had returned. It was an old Messenger’s trick to put folk in the hamlets at ease, shifting accent to match theirs. He had done it a hundred times, but this time was different, like he ’d been doing the trick since he left and was finally speaking in his own voice again.

Renna kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped in pain.

“That’s for thinkin’ I din’t know, and not sayin’ anythin’!” she shouted, shoving him so hard he fell into the pile of hay at the back of the stall. “Fourteen summers I waited for you! Always thought you’d come back for me. We was promised. But you din’t come back for me at all, did you? Not even now! You was gonna just stop in and leave thinkin’ no one knew!” She kicked at him again, and he scrambled quickly to his feet, moving to put Twilight Dancer between them.

She was right, of course. The same as his visit to Miln, he had thought he could look in on his old life without touching it, like removing a bandage to see if the wound underneath had healed. But truer was he had left those wounds to fester, and it was time they were bled.

“Five minutes’ talk between our das don’t make us promised, Ren,” he said.

“I asked my da to talk to Jeph,” Renna said. “I told you we was promised then, and I said the words on the porch at sunset the day you left. That makes it so.”

But the Painted Man shook his head. “Sayin’ something at sunset doesn’t make it so. I never promised to you, Renna. Everyone got a say that night but me.”

Renna looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes. “Maybe you din’t,” she conceded, “but I did. It was the only thing I ever done that was really mine, and I ent gonna take it back. I knew it when we kissed, that we was meant to be.”

“But you’d have married Cobie Fisher,” he said, failing to keep some bitterness from his voice, “who used to beat on me with his friends.”

“You fixed ’em for that,” Renna said. “Cobie was always nice to me…” She sniffed, touching the necklace she wore. “Din’t even know you were alive, and I needed to get away…”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “I know, Ren. Din’t mean it like that. Don’t blame you for doing what you did. Just meant that nothing’s ‘meant to be.’ We all just go through life doing what we think’s best.”

She looked at him. “I want to go with you when you leave. That’s what I think’s best.”

“You know what that means, Ren?” the Painted Man asked. “I don’t just hide behind a circle when the sun sets. Ent a safe life.”

“Like I’m safe here?” Renna asked. “Even if they don’t stake me again soon as you leave, who I got to turn to now? Who, that wern’t willing to stand by and watch me get cored?”

He looked at her a long time, trying to find the words to refuse her. The Fishers were no different from any bullies—he would cow them come nightfall, if he hadn’t already. Renna would be safe in the Brook. She deserved to be safe.

But was simple safety enough? It wasn’t for him, so who was he to say it was for her? He ’d always looked with derision on those who spent their lives in fear of the night.

Being around Renna was like salt in the wound, a reminder of everything he had given up when he began warding his flesh. It was hard enough around those who never knew him before. Renna made him feel like he was still eleven years old.

But she needed him, and that kept the call of the Core away. Today was the first dawn he had looked forward to since Miln. In his heart, the Painted Man knew he would never survive if he tried to enter the demon world, but seeing his own people put Renna out at night made him want to leave humanity behind forever. If he left Tibbet’s Brook alone, he might.

“All right,” he said at last, “so long as you keep the pace. You slow me down, and I’ll leave you at the first town we come to.”

Renna looked around the barn, spotting a beam of sunlight streaming in through the hayloft doors above. She stepped carefully into the sunlight and met his eyes. “I ent gonna slow you,” she promised, drawing Harl’s knife, “sun as my witness.”

“You clutch that knife like it could help you against a coreling,” the Painted Man said. “Let me ward it for you.” Renna blinked, looking at the knife, then held it out. He reached for it, but she drew it back suddenly, clutching it protectively.

“Knife’s one of the only things in the world that’s mine,” she said. “Like to ward it myself, if you’ll teach me.”

The Painted Man looked at her doubtfully, remembering her poor warding when they were children. Renna noted the look and scowled.

“I ent nine years old anymore, Arlen Bales,” she snapped. “Been warding my property nigh ten years now and ent no demon ever got past, so you quit looking down. Reckon I can draw a ripping circle or a heat ward good as you.”

Shocked, the Painted Man shook his head to clear it. “Sorry. The Warders in the Free Cities treated me the same way when I left the Brook. Forgot how insulting it was.”

Renna went over to where his gear was stored, pulling a warded knife from a sheath on his saddle. “Here,” she said, coming over to him. “What’s this’un do?” She pointed to the single ward at the tip. “And why’s the rest of the edge just a repeat of this other ward, only rotated? How’s it form a net without connectors?” She turned the weapon over in her hands, running her finger over the dozens of wards on the flat.

The Painted Man pointed to the tip. “This is a piercing ward, to break the armor. Those on the side are cutting wards, to let the blade slide in once the armor is broken. Cutting wards are self-linking, if you rotate them proper.”

Renna nodded, her eyes dancing along the lines. “And these?” She pointed to the symbols inside the cutting edge.

After supper, Jeph hitched his cart, and the whole family climbed in to head to Town Square. Renna rode with the Painted Man, seated behind him on Twilight Dancer.

They arrived scant minutes before sunset. If the square had been packed the day before, it was near bursting now. Every borough of Tibbet’s Brook was represented in full, man, woman, and child. They filled the street and most of the square, more than a thousand souls in all, succored only by hastily hauled and painted wardstones.

Everyone looked up when they rode in, ignoring Jeph’s family entirely as they stared at the hooded stranger on his enormous warded stallion, and the girl who rode behind him. The crowd parted as the Painted Man rode through to the center of the square, turning Twilight Dancer back and forth a few times so all could see them. He reached up and pulled his hood down, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

“I came from the Free Cities to teach the good people of Tibbet’s Brook to kill demons!” he shouted. “But so far, I’ve seen no ‘good people.’ Good people do not feed helpless girls to the corelings! Good people do not stand by while someone is cored!” As he spoke, he continued to turn his horse back and forth, meeting as many eyes as possible.

“She wern’t no helpless girl, Messenger!” Raddock Lawry shouted, coming to the fore of those from Fishing Hole. “She’s a cold killer, and the council voted to have her staked for it.”

“Ay, they did,” the Painted Man agreed loudly. “And none stood up against them for it.”

“Folk trust in their Speakers,” Raddock said.

“That true?” the Painted Man asked the crowd at large. “You folk trust your Speakers?”

There was a chorus of passionate Ays from every section. The folk of Tibbet’s Brook were proud of their boroughs and the surnames they shared.

The Painted Man nodded. “Then I reckon it’s your Speakers I’ll test.” He leapt down from the horse and, from the harnesses on Twilight Dancer’s saddle, selected ten light spears he stuck point-down to stand quivering in the dirt.

“Every man or woman of the town council who stands with me and fights tonight, or their heir if they’re killed, will get a battle-warded spear,” he said, raising one of the weapons, “and the secrets of combat warding, so they can make their own.”

There was a shocked silence as everyone looked to their Speaker.

“Kin we have some time to think on it?” Mack Pasture asked. “Don’t care to be hasty.”

“Of course,” the Painted Man said, looking at the sky. “I’d say you have…ten minutes. By this time tomorrow, I intend to be back on the road to the Free Cities.”

Selia Barren came out of the crowd. “You expect us, the Brook’s elders, to stand in the naked night with naught but them spears?”

The Painted Man looked at her, still tall and intimidating after all these years. She ’d switched his backside more than once, and always for his own good. The idea of standing up to Selia Barren was more alien to him than staring down a rock demon, but this time it was her that needed a switching.

“It’s a sight more’n you gave Renna Tanner,” he said.

“Not all of us voted her out, Messenger,” Selia said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “You let it happen, all the same.”

“Ent no one above the law,” Selia said. “When the council voted, we had to put the town first, no matter how we felt.”

The Painted Man spat at her feet. “The Core with your law, if it says to throw your neighbor to the night! You want to put town first, come out here and show you can get as you give. Elsewise, I’ll take my spears and go.”

Selia’s eyes narrowed, and then she picked up her skirts, striding firmly into the square. There were gasps of shock from all sides, but Selia ignored them, taking up one of the spears. She was followed immediately by Tender Harral and Brine Broadshoulders. The giant Cutter took up his spear with a hungry look in his eyes. The Squares and Cutters gave a cheer.

“Anyone else have a question?” the Painted Man asked, looking around. As a boy in Tibbet’s Brook, he’d had no voice, but now he finally meant to speak his mind. The crowd had suddenly become animated, but he picked the Speakers out easily, islands in the brook.

“Reckon I do,” Jeorje Watch said.

The Painted Man faced him. “Ask, and I’ll answer with honest word.”

“How are we to know you’re really the Deliverer?” Jeorje asked.

“Like I said, Tender,” the Painted Man said, “I ent. Just a Messenger.”

“The Messenger of whom?” Jeorje asked.

The Painted Man hesitated, seeing the trap. If he said no one, many would assume it was because he was a Messenger of the Creator. His best choice would be to name Euchor as his patron. Tibbet’s Brook was technically part of Miln, and the people would assume the combat wards were a gift of his. But he had promised to speak honest word.

“No patron for this message,” he admitted. “Found the wards in a ruin of the old world, and took it upon myself to spread them to all good folk, so we can start fighting back.”

“The Plague cannot end without the coming of the Deliverer,” Jeorje said, as if the Painted Man were caught in a logic trap.

But the Painted Man simply shrugged, handing Jeorje a warded spear. “Could be it’s you. Kill a demon and find out.”

Jeorje dropped his walking stick and took the weapon, a hard glint in his eyes.

“Seen a hundred years and more of the Plague,” he said. “Seen everyone I know pass on, even my own grandkin. Always wondered why it was, Creator kept me alive so long when he called so many others to his side. Reckon it was on account of me having something left to do.”

“They say in Fort Krasia that a man can’t get to Heaven, ’less he takes a coreling with him,” the Painted Man said.

Jeorje nodded. “Wise folk.” He went to stand beside Selia, and the Watches all drew wards in the air as he passed.

Rusco Hog stomped into the square next, rolling his sleeves up thick and meaty arms. He grabbed a spear of his own.

“Da, what are you doing?” his daughter Catrin cried, running out to grasp his arm.

“Use your head, girl!” Hog snapped. “Anyone selling warded weapons is gonna make a fortune!” He yanked his arm away and went to stand by the other Speakers.

There was movement from the Marsh contingent, where Coran Marsh sat in a hard-back chair. “My da can’t even stand without his cane,” Keven Marsh called. “Let me fight for him.”

The Painted Man shook his head. “Spear’s as good a cane as any for a man thinks he can sit in council and play Creator.” The Marshes began to shake their fists and shout angrily at him, but the Painted Man ignored them, keeping his eyes on Coran, daring him to step forward. The aged Marsh Speaker scowled, but he stood up from his chair and hobbled slowly over to take a spear. He left his cane on the ground beside Jeorje ’s walking stick.

The Painted Man’s eyes came to Meada Boggin as she broke an embrace with her son and strode out of the cluster from Boggin’s Hill. She looked to Coline as she passed, but the Herb Gatherer shook her head. “I got sick to tend,” she said, “not to mention any of you lucky enough to make it back out of there.”

Mack Pasture shook his head as well. “Ent fool enough to step over them wards,” he said. “Got folk and livestock dependin’ on me. Din’t come here to be cored.” He stepped back, and there was a roar of discontent from Baleses and Pastures alike.

“Let us call a new Speaker, if this one ent got the sack!” someone cried.

“Why should I?” the Painted Man shot back at them. “None of you had the sack to stand up for Renna Tanner!”

“That ent true!” Renna called, and the Painted Man turned to her in surprise. She met his eyes with a hard look. “Jeph Bales stood in front of a flame demon for me not five nights hence.”

All eyes turned to Jeph, who shrank under the glare. The Painted Man felt like Renna had kicked him in the teeth, but his father was under the test now, and he wanted to know the result more than any.

“That honest word, Bales?” he asked. “You fight a demon in your yard?”

Jeph looked at the ground a long time, then glanced to his children. He seemed to draw strength from the sight, and his back straightened. “Ay.”

The Painted Man looked to the Baleses and Pastures, farmers and shepherds from every end of the Brook. “You make Jeph Bales Speaker before sundown, and I’ll let him stand.”

The roar of approval was immediate, and Norine gave Jeph a shove to get him walking. The Painted Man turned at last to Raddock Lawry.

“Ent no proof them spears even work!” Lawry shouted.

The Painted Man shrugged. “You come out on trust, or you don’t come out.”

“Don’t know you, Messenger,” Lawry said. “Don’t know where yer from or what you believe. Don’t know nothin’ but what you say, and what you say is Fishers get no justice!” Many of the Fishers nodded and grunted their agreement.

“So you’ll forgive me,” Raddock went on, striding into the square and looking out at not just the Fishers, but other Brook folk as well, “if I don’t entirely trust your word.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I forgive you.” He pointed to the mist beginning to rise at the Speaker’s feet. “Now I’d advise you either pick up a spear or head back to your wards.”

Raddock Lawry made a most undignified sound and scampered back to the Fishers’ wards as fast as his old legs would carry him.

The Painted Man turned to regard the Speakers who had stepped forward. They gripped their spears awkwardly, used to holding tools and not weapons, but there was a surprising lack of fear. Except for Jeph who looked white as a snow demon’s scales, they seemed at peace. Speakers didn’t question decisions once they were made.

“The demons are most vulnerable now, when they are half formed,” the Painted Man said. “If you are quick…”

Before he even finished speaking, Hog grunted, striding over to a solidifying wood demon. The Painted Man remembered the summer solstice festivals each year from when he was a boy. Hog would have whole pigs on great spits he paid the children to turn over the fire. He lifted his spear and stuck it in the coreling’s chest with the same calm efficiency he used to skewer those pigs.

The wards on the spearhead flared and the coreling screamed. The crowd roared, seeing in the semi-translucent demon’s body how the magic rocked through it like forked lightning. Hog held tight as the demon thrashed, magic dancing up his arms as the spear came alive with glowing wards. Finally, the coreling’s jerking stopped and Hog yanked the spear back out, letting the now solid demon drop to the ground.

“Could get used to that feeling,” Hog grunted, spitting on the corpse.

Selia moved next, choosing a flame demon that was beginning to take form. She stabbed down repeatedly as if she were churning butter, and the magic flared, arcing death through it.

Coran did the same, stabbing at another forming flame demon the way he might try to spear a frog in the Marsh, but his leg buckled and he threw himself off balance, missing the demon completely. It made a gurgling noise as it solidified, hawking firespit.

“Da!” Keven Marsh cried, running out into the square. He grabbed one of the two spears still sticking in the dirt and swung it like an axe, knocking the spit right out of the demon’s mouth as it rolled with the blow. The spit left a line of fire in the dirt that Keven followed, sticking the demon the same way his father had tried to.

He looked up at the Painted Man, his eyes hard. “Weren’t gonna just let my da get cored,” he said, baring his teeth and daring protest. His son Fil fetched Coran and helped him back behind the wards.

The Painted Man bowed to him, instead. “Good man.”

Jeph hurried to stab at a nearly solid flame demon, but he was not quick enough and it spat flame at him. Jeph screamed, his spear held out diagonally as if to block the fire.

The crowd cried out in fear, but the wards along the shaft of Jeph’s spear flared, and the flame was turned into nothing more than a cool breeze. Jeph recovered quickly, spearing the coreling as if he were driving a hoe through a troublesome root. He stepped on its smoking back as he pulled out the spear same as he might step on a batch of hay stuck to the teeth of his rake.

A wind demon solidified, and the Painted Man dropped his robe, grappling and driving the demon into the Boggin wardstones, where it convulsed against the wardnet before falling stunned to the ground. “Meada Boggin,” he called, pointing to the prone and helpless demon.

A wood demon swept a branchlike arm at him, but the Painted Man caught its wrist and turned its force against it, flipping it onto its back in front of Jeorje Marsh, who struck his spear as if he were thumping his cane. Magic rocked through him, and his eyes took on a fanatical light.

Tender Harral and Brine Broadshoulders escorted Meada to her kill, standing ready with their spears in case it should recover itself before she could strike her blow. They needn’t have worried. She leaned into the blow like she was putting a prybar into an ale barrel.

Another wood demon formed, and Brine and Harral struck it together.

The demons were all solid now. A fair number had formed in the square, but more than half were dead, and the wardstones of the crowd prevented reinforcements from coming.

A flame demon came at Renna and she cried out, but she was still astride Twilight Dancer, and the stallion reared up, trampling it.

“Group, close!” the Painted Man ordered the Speakers. “Spears out ahead of you!” They did as they were told, and cornered two wind demons, sharing the kills. The Painted Man calmly guided them around the square, directing kills, ready to step in if needed.

But he was not called upon to act again, and the remaining demons were quickly dispatched. The Speakers looked around, gripping their spears quite differently now.

“Ent felt so strong in twenty years, when I used to split my own firewood,” Selia said. The others grunted in agreement.

The Painted Man looked out at the gathered crowd. “Your elders done it!” he cried. “You remember that, the next time there’s a demon in your yard!”

“Ent no demons left in the square,” Hog noted. “We done our part of the bargain, so the second part of your payment’s due.”

The Painted Man bowed. “Now?”

Hog nodded. “I’ve a stack of blank vellum we can fill in my back room.”

“All right,” the Painted Man said, and Hog bowed and gestured toward his store. The other Speakers and the Painted Man began to head that way, but Hog turned to face the crowd.

“Come morning,” he called, “I’ll be taking orders for warded spears at the general store, and hiring folk with a steady warding hand to make them! First come, first served!” A buzz went through the crowd at the news.

The Painted Man shook his head. He knew Hog’s business would be brisk. Hog always found a way to profit off things folk could just do for themselves.

CHAPTER 27 RUNNIN’ TO

RENNA SAT IN A corner as Arlen taught the council combat warding in Hog’s back room. Dasy and Catrin were in and out serving fresh pots of coffee. They watched Renna suspiciously, as if expecting her to suddenly leap up and attack them with Harl’s knife, which lay on the table beside her. She ’d painted wards on the blade in a neat hand and now worked with one of Arlen’s fine etching tools, slowly imprinting them onto the metal. Arlen came by once, trying to see her work, but she turned away from him. She was done asking for help.

Dawn’s light was creeping through the cracks in the shutters by the time the Speakers finished, each standing up with a roll of vellum in their hands.

Arlen spoke with Hog a few moments longer, then came over to her. “You all right?”

Renna nodded, swallowing a yawn. “Just tired.”

Arlen nodded and put his hood back up. “Might be you can catch a couple hours’ sleep back at the farm while Hog readies the supplies we need to head back.” He snorted. “The old crook had the stones to charge for them, even after I handed him means to make a fortune.”

“Dunno why you expected different,” Renna said.

“Leaving town then?” Selia asked as they went for the door. “You turn the Brook on its head, and then ride off before you see what comes of it?”

“Town was already on its head when I arrived,” Arlen said. “Reckon I set it aright.”

Selia nodded. “Maybe you did at that. What news from the Free Cities? Are they all warding weapons and killing corelings?”

“The Free Cities ent your concern right now,” Arlen said. “When the Brook is free of demons, you can look to the wider world.”

Jeorje Watch thumped his new spear on the floor. “Tend your own field, before you look to you neighbor’s,” he quoted, a popular verse from the Canon.

Arlen turned to Rusco Hog. “I want copies made and sent to the Speakers of Sunny Pasture.”

“Well, that won’t be cheap,” Hog began. “The vellum alone will cost near twenty credits, plus having them penned—”

Arlen cut him off, holding up a heavy gold coin. Hog’s eyes bulged at the size and thickness of it. “If they don’t get their wards, I’ll hear of it,” he said when Hog took the coin, “and make vellum out of your hide.”

Renna saw Hog’s ruddy complexion pale, and even though he was larger by far, he shrank back from Arlen’s stare and swallowed hard. “Two weeks,” he said. “Honest word.”

“Learned to bully a bit, yourself,” she noted quietly when he came back to her. He didn’t look at her, and his hood was still up. For a moment, she thought he might not have heard.

“Got whole lessons on it, during my Messenger training,” he said, dropping the gravelly pitch he used when speaking to everyone else. She could picture the grin on his warded lips.

Hog opened the doors to the store, and there was a huge crowd waiting on the steps. “Back!” he bellowed. “Clear a path for the Speakers! Ent taking a single order until you do!” Folk grumbled at the risk of losing their places in line, but they made way, letting them pass.

Raddock Lawry was waiting at the front of the crowd as Renna descended the steps of Hog’s porch. “This ent over, Renna Tanner! Can’t hide up at Jeph’s farm forever.”

“Ent hidin’ from no one no more,” Renna said, looking him in the eye. “I’m leavin’ this corespawned town, and ent ever comin’ back.” Raddock opened his mouth to reply, but Arlen raised a warded finger at him and he fell silent, glaring at them as Arlen laced his hands into a step to help her onto Twilight Dancer’s back.

He pulled a small book from his saddlebag, turning and scanning the crowd. Spotting Coline Trigg, he strode over to her. The Herb Gatherer stumbled back from him, tripping over those behind her and going down in a shrieking heap.

Arlen waited for her to right herself, face flushed red with embarrassment, and then pressed the book into her hands. “Everything I know about treating demon wounds is in there,” he told her. “You’re smart, you’ll learn it quick and pass it on.”

Coline’s eyes were wide, but she nodded. Arlen grunted and leapt into the saddle.

Arlen left Jeph’s farm around noon to fetch the promised supplies from Hog. “Pack your things,” he said as he left. “we’ll leave as soon as I get back.”

Renna nodded and watched him go. She had nothing to pack, not even back at Harl’s farm. Only Selia’s dress on her back, her father’s knife at her waist, and the brook stone necklace Cobie had given her, still looped twice around her neck. She wished she had something to offer Arlen in exchange for taking her, but she had nothing but herself. Cobie had thought it enough, but she doubted Arlen would be so easily paid.

Ilain came out onto the porch to stand next to her as she sat etching her father’s blade.

“Brought somethin’ to eat on your trip,” she said, holding out a basket. “Hog cooks so food’ll keep more’n he does for taste. His bacon’s more smoke than meat.”

“Thanks,” Renna said, taking the basket. She looked at her sister, whom she ’d missed desperately for so many years, and wondered why she had nothing else to say to her.

“You don’t have to go, Ren,” Ilain said.

“Yes I do,” Renna said.

“That Messenger’s a hard man, Renna, and we don’t know nothin’ about him other than he kills demons,” Ilain said. “Could be worse ’n Da a long sight. You’re safer here with us. After last night, folk’ll hold their peace with you.”

“Hold their peace,” Renna said. “Reckon that makes it sunny they tried to stake me.”

“So you gonna just run off with some stranger crazy enough to scar himself with wards?” Ilain asked.

Renna stood up and snorted. “If that ent the night calling it dark! You din’t love Jeph Bales when you ran away with him, Lainie. Din’t know anything other than he was the sort would take a new wife when the old one wasn’t even cold.”

Ilain slapped Renna, but she didn’t flinch, her eyes hard, and it was Ilain who recoiled.

“Difference ’tween us, Lainie,” she said, “is I ent running away. I’m runnin’ to.”

“Runnin’ to?” Ilain asked.

Renna nodded. “Tibbet’s Brook ent a place I want to live, where folk let a man like Da do as he will, and put me out in the night. I dunno what the Free Cities are like, but they got to be better than here.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice so none might overhear.

“I killed Da, Lainie,” she said, holding up the half-warded knife. “I did. Killed that son of the Core good. He needed killing, not just for what he done, but what he woulda done, I hadn’t. Da never paid for anything an ounce of cruelty could take.”

“Renna!” Ilain cried, recoiling as if her sister had become a coreling.

Renna shook her head and spat over the porch rail. “You had any stones, you’d’ve done it yourself long since, when Beni and I were still young’uns.”

Ilain’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, and Renna couldn’t tell if it was guilt or shock. Renna turned away, looking out at the yard.

“Don’t blame you,” she said after a bit. “I’d had stones, I’d’ve done it myself the night he stuck me. But I din’t, ’cause I was scared.”

She turned back and met Ilain’s eyes. “But I ent scared no more, Lainie. Not of Raddock Lawry or Garric Fisher, and not of this Messenger. I expect he’s a good man, but he turns out like Da, I’ll do the world a favor and kill him, too. Sure as the sun rises.”

The Painted Man came riding fast into the yard a couple of hours later. Renna was waiting on the porch, and came out to him as Twilight Dancer pranced and kicked up dust in the yard.

“Light’s wasting,” he said, not even bothering to dismount. He held a hand out to her.

“You’re not even going to say goodbye?” Renna asked.

“Life’s about to get real interesting in the Brook,” he said. “Best no one have cause to think I got anything more to do with Jeph and Lainie Bales than stealing you.”

But Renna shook her head. “Your da deserves better than you’ve given him.”

He glared at her. “Ent gonna tell him who I am,” he growled.

Renna was uncowed. “Least tell him his son ent dead, or you got no call judgin’ which folk are good enough for your wards and which ent.” The Painted Man scowled, but he dismounted. Renna was right and he knew it, much as he hated to admit it.

“We ’re off!” she cried, and everyone came running from all over the yard. The Painted Man looked at his father and nodded away from the press. Jeph followed.

“Rode caravan with an Arlen Bales in the Messengers’ Guild,” he said when they were alone. “Mighta been your son. Bales name is common everywhere, but Arlen not so much.”

Jeph’s eyes lit up. “Honest word?”

The Painted Man nodded. “It was years ago, but I recall he worked for Cob’s Warding Company in Fort Miln. Might be you can still get word of him there.”

Jeph reached out, grabbing one of the Painted Man’s hands in both of his own. “Sun shine on you, Messenger.”

The Painted Man nodded and pulled away, going over to Renna. “Light’s wasting,” he said again. She nodded this time and let him lift her into Twilight Dancer’s saddle. He climbed in ahead of her, and she held his waist as he trotted to the road and turned north.

“Ent the road to the Free Cities south?” Renna asked.

“Know a shortcut,” he said. “Faster, and we avoid the town altogether.” Twilight Dancer opened up his stride, and they flew up the road. The wind whipped through Renna’s hair, and he joined her as she gave a laugh of exhilaration.

True to his word, Arlen remembered every path and pasture of the local farms in the north of Tibbet’s Brook. Before Renna knew it, they were on the main road out of town, past even Mack Pasture’s farm.

They rode hard for the rest of the day and were well on the way to the Free Cities when he finally pulled up, with barely a quarter hour before sunset.

“Ent we cutting it close?” she asked.

Arlen shrugged. “Got time enough to set the circles. I was alone, might not stop at all.”

“Then don’t,” Renna said, swallowing her fear at the thought of the naked night. “Promised I wan’t gonna slow you.”

He ignored her, dismounting and pulling two portable circles from the saddlebags. He threw one over Twilight Dancer and the other in a small clearing, quickly aligning the wards.

Renna swallowed, but she did not protest. Stiffening, she clutched her knife and looked around, waiting for the demon mist to rise. Arlen glanced up and noticed her discomfort. He straightened from his work, going over and rummaging through his saddlebags.

“Ay, there it is,” he said at last, opening a cloak with a snap and throwing it over Renna’s shoulders. He tied it in place and put up the hood.

The cloth against her cheek was impossibly soft, like a kitten’s fur. Used to rough homespun, the fabric was finer than she imagined possible. She looked down and gasped again. There were wards sewn into the fabric with stitches impossibly small. Hundreds of them.

“That’s a Cloak of Unsight,” Arlen said. “So long as you keep wrapped in it, no demon will even know you’re there.”

“Honest word?” she asked, amazed.

“Swear by the sun,” Arlen said, and suddenly she realized that she was still clutching her knife. Her knuckles ached from the grip when she finally relaxed and let go. She took her first full breath in what seemed like an hour.

Arlen bent back to the circles and quickly had them ready, while she laid a firepit and took out Ilain’s basket. They sat together a time, sharing cold meat pies and ham, fresh vegetables, bread, and cheese. Corelings threw themselves at the wards occasionally, but Renna trusted in Arlen’s warding and paid them no mind.

“You sit the saddle awkward in that big dress,” Arlen said.

“Eh?” Renna said.

“Can’t give Dancer his full head with you not seated right,” he explained.

“He goes even faster?” Renna asked in disbelief.

Arlen laughed. “Much.”

She leaned over to him, putting her arms around his shoulders. “If you’re looking to get me out of my dress, Arlen Bales, just say so.” She smiled, but Arlen recoiled, putting his hands on her waist and lifting her off him like she might lift Mrs. Scratch from her lap. He was on his feet immediately.

“Din’t bring you for that, Ren,” he said, backing away.

“You ent takin’ advantage,” she said, confused.

“Ent about that,” Arlen said, taking a sewing kit out of a saddlebag. He threw it to her, turning away. “Divide your skirts, and do it quick. We have business yet tonight.”

“Business?” Renna asked.

“You’re killing a demon by dawn,” Arlen said, “or I’m dropping you in the next town.”

“Done,” Renna called. She ’d removed her petticoat and shortened the skirt, slitting it high on each side. Arlen looked up from where he sat warding an arrow at the edge of the circle, and his eyes danced across her bared thighs.

“Like what you see?” she asked, and smirked at his discomfort as he started and quickly met her eyes. “Come into the firelight, you want a better look.”

Arlen looked at his hand for a moment, slowly rubbing his warded fingers together, his eyes in distant thought. Finally he shook his head and got to his feet, coming over to her.

“You trust me, Ren?” he asked.

She nodded, and he took out a brush and some thick, viscous ink. “This is blackstem,” he said. “It will stain your skin for a few days; perhaps a week.”

Carefully, almost lovingly, he brushed her long hair from her face and painted wards around her eyes. When he was finished, he blew gently on them to dry the ink. His lips were inches from hers, and she wanted to put her mouth against them, but she still felt the sting of his rejection and dared not.

When his warding was done, he looked at her. “What do you see beyond the firelight?”

Renna looked around. The night was near pitch dark. “Nothing.”

Arlen nodded and laid his hands on her eyes. They were rough hands, scarred and callused, but gentle, as well. There was a soothing tingle in her skin where he touched, and she shivered in pleasure. He took his hands away, and the sensation faded, but the wards around her eyes felt warm now.

“What do you see now?” he asked.

Renna looked around, amazed. Trees and plants now glowed of their own accord, and there was a glowing mist seeping about her feet like a low and lazy fog. “Everything,” she said in wonder. “More’n I see in the sun. It’s all glowing.”

“You’re seeing magic,” Arlen said. “It seeps up from the Core and gives all living things a spark of it that makes them glow.”

“Their soul?” Renna asked.

Arlen shrugged. “I ent a Tender. Corelings are infused with it, and will flare brightly to your eyes now.”

Renna turned toward a rustle in the brush, and a wood demon there, invisible a moment before, now shone in the magic-lit world. She looked at her own hands, glowing only faintly. Twilight Dancer was brighter, wards on his hooves and harness glowing like stars in the sky.

But it was Arlen who shone brightest, the wards on his skin positively brimming over with power. It looked as if they were written in light, permanently activated.

“Too many wards,” Arlen said, noticing her stare and putting his hood up. “Soaked up too much demon magic to ever be just a man again.”

“Why would you want to give up such power?” Renna asked.

Arlen paused, seeming confused. He opened his mouth and closed it.

“Don’t know I would,” he admitted at last. “But it ent a choice you can take back, and I wan’t in my right head when I made it.” He pointed at Renna. “You ent in your right head, either.”

“Who are you, Arlen Bales, to tell me when my head is right?” Renna demanded.

He ignored her in that infuriating way he had, taking up a spear and handing it to her. She looked at it doubtfully, and made no effort to take it.

“Speakers all done it,” Arlen reminded her.

“Know that,” Renna said, “but if I’m gonna fight, it’ll be with my own knife.” She had finished etching the piercing and cutting wards, if nothing else. She held it out for him to inspect.

“It’s a fine blade,” Arlen noted when he took it. He touched the edge to his thumb, drawing blood with almost no pressure. “Sharp enough to shave.”

“Da cared for it better than he did his own kin,” Renna said.

Arlen looked at her but said nothing. He held the knife this way and that, inspecting the etched wards. “Good warding,” he admitted with a touch of contrition. “Good as any I’ve seen. Could do with more, but this is enough to start.” He handed it back, pommel-first, and Renna grunted as she took it.

“All that’s left is to test it,” Arlen said. “Time to leave the circle.”

Renna had known all along it would be necessary, but she could not suppress the wave of fear that overcame her at that moment, like welling vomit. She ’d told her sister that she wasn’t scared of anything anymore, but it wasn’t entirely true. She might not be scared of men, but corelings…Memories of her night in the outhouse still haunted her, startling her sometimes even when she was awake.

Arlen put a hand on her shoulder. “We ’re miles from nowhere, Ren. Corelings cluster where there’s people to hunt, or big game. Won’t be but a few out here. You got your cloak, and I’m right here.”

“To save me,” Renna said. He nodded, and she felt a flash of anger. She was tired of waiting for others to save her, but she looked at a wood demon stalking the edge of the road and shivered. “Ent ready for this,” she admitted, hating to show her weakness.

But Arlen didn’t berate her as he did the Speakers. “Know you’re scared spitless,” he said. “I was, too, my first time. But I learned in Krasia to embrace my fear.”

“How’s that?” Renna asked.

“Open yourself to the feeling,” he said, “and then step your mind back to a place beyond.”

Renna snorted. “That don’t make any sense.”

“Does,” Arlen said. “Seen boys half my age charge demons with nothing more than a wardless spear between ’em. Seen ’em ignore pain and keep fighting like everything’s sunny till they win or drop dead. Fear and pain can only touch you if you let them.”

“Honest word?” Renna asked.

He nodded, and Renna closed her eyes, opening herself up to the sick feeling of her fear. The tension in her limbs and rolling of her stomach. The clenching of her fists and the coldness of her face. When she felt she was aware of it all, she ignored the lot.

Arlen lifted a finger, pointing to a small wood demon clinging to a nearby tree. It would otherwise have blended with the trunk perfectly, but now it glowed fiercely to her warded eyes, a stark contrast with the dimmer glow of the tree.

Trusting in her cloak, Renna left the circle and walked calmly to the demon. It sniffed the air with a look of vague curiosity, but gave no sign it sensed her proximity. Before she realized what she was doing, she stabbed it in the back. The wards flared, and the demon’s barklike armor parted easily. There was a shock up her right arm as if she had just put the whole arm in a roaring fire, a pain that pulsed with ecstasy.

The demon threw back and shrieked, but Renna pulled the blade free and stabbed again. And again. A moment later, the demon hit the ground, sending the magic mist flowing away in tiny eddies and whorls.

Renna straightened, inhaling a breath sweet with summer air. She felt stronger, more alive, than she ever had in her life.

Across the road, she caught a glimpse of a flame demon’s glowing eyes, and this time, she didn’t hesitate, her eyes hard as she charged and dropped to one knee, putting the blade right through its head. This time, she relished the pain of the magic as the demon thrashed and collapsed. Black ichor struck the ground, smoking and starting small fires where it landed.

The original wood demon she had seen on the road was six feet tall, and noticed the commotion. She could have hidden behind her cloak, but the thought never occurred to her as Renna snarled and launched herself at it. The demon roared and took a swipe at her, but Renna was fast and strong like she had never dreamed, and she laughed as she dodged the clumsy attack and put her knife in its chest. This time, it was just like gutting a pig.

She looked around, breathing hard, but not in exhaustion. It felt more like…lust. She wantedthere to be more demons. Wanted there to be a horde of them.

But there were none.

“Told you,” Arlen said, smiling. He gathered the circles back up and took Twilight Dancer’s reins. “Let’s go for a ride in the naked night. Free.”

Renna nodded, vaulting easily into the giant stallion’s saddle without touching the stirrup. She took the front position, leaving room for Arlen to climb in behind her. He laughed and leapt into place as easily as she had. He put his arms about her and she kicked Twilight Dancer, giving a whoop of glee as the stallion leapt forward and they galloped down the glowing night road.

It had been a full turn since the coreling prince glimpsed its prey in the walled breeding ground. It was forced to spend two nights tracking the one, coming at last to soar above an abandoned ruin thick with his scent. Fresh wards protected the structure, strong ones, but easily breached nonetheless.

There was no need, however, as the mind demon spotted the human mind moving through the woods far from the walls.

With a flap of it gargantuan wings, the mimic banked and soared toward the human, silent as death. The mind demon reached out with its thoughts, seeking access to the one’s thoughts, but it was turned away by powerful warding. It hissed, but as it spread its probe wider, it discovered he was not alone. The human mind traveled with a female whose mind was as open as the sky. It slipped quietly into her thoughts and rested unnoticed, seeing through her eyes.

Renna stabbed hard into the wood demon, twisting the blade up into its heart. Next to her, Arlen had wrestled the other one to the ground, holding it prone while the killing wards all over his body did their work.

There was a growl, and Renna looked up to see a third demon appear in the branches above her. She twisted as it dropped, but caught the hilt of her knife on the ridged armor of the first demon. The coreling fell dead, and the weapon was twisted from her grasp.

“Demonshit,” she said, dropping to her back and coiling her legs as Arlen had taught her. She caught the wood demon’s branchlike arms and pulled them aside as she kicked out, using its own momentum against it. The demon landed right in front of Arlen, who crushed its skull.

“You’d let me paint my knuckles, I could do that myself,” Renna said.

“Ent no need to ward your skin,” he told her. “Knife’s good enough for now.”

Renna went over to the wood demon, pulling her knife free. She held it up for Arlen to see. “Din’t have the knife.”

“You handled it well enough without.”

“Only because you wern’t still wrestlin’ that other one,” Renna said. “Ent looking to use a needle, only a brush and some blackstem.”

Arlen frowned at her. “Feedback’s different when the wards are on your skin, Ren. Strong enough to lose yourself in. I was lost a long time after I started doing it, and I ent myself even now. Don’t want to see that happen to you. You mean too much to me.”

“I do?” Renna asked.

“Good to have someone to talk to other than Dancer,” Arlen said, oblivious to her sudden interest. “I…get lonely.”

“Lonely,” Renna echoed. “Know what that’s like. Apt to lose yourself there, too. World’s full of things to lose yourself in. Don’t mean we should spend our whole lives behind the wards.”

Arlen looked at her a long time. Finally, he shrugged. “Can’t tell you what to do, Ren. You want to ignore me and paint your hands, it’s on you.”

The coreling prince observed the courting for several more minutes, amused by human mating rituals. It was clear the one barely understood his magic, oblivious to the mind demon’s presence or the extent of his own powers. He had the potential to be a unifier, but here in the wilderness he was no threat and could be safely observed.

The demon let go the female’s surface thoughts, probing more deeply into her mind for information on the one, but there was little of value. It planted a question on her lips.

“How’d you bring back the lost wards?” Renna asked, surprising herself. She knew Arlen hated to talk about what had happened to him after he left the Brook.

“Told you. Found them in a ruin,” Arlen said.

“What ruin? Where?” she pressed.

“What does it matter?” Arlen snapped. “It ent some Jongleur’s saga.”

Renna shook her head to clear it. “I’m sorry. Dunno why I got so interested. Dun’t matter. Ent lookin’ to pry.”

Arlen grunted and headed off toward the keep they had spent the last few weeks warding while he trained her to hunt demons.

The coreling prince hissed as the one refused the question. Logic said to kill them both, but there was no urgency. The number of wards around their shelter suggested they would not leave soon. It could observe another few cycles.

As the humans crossed the wards, the mind demon was cut off from the female’s mind. A moment later the mimic landed in a clearing and turned to mist, guarding the path as the coreling prince slipped back down to the Core to consider.

CHAPTER 28 THE PALACE OF MIRRORS

IT WAS WELL AFTER dark by the time the council meeting ended. As Leesha expected, they had voted unanimously against her going back to Rizon with Jardir, and had all been appropriately shocked when she reminded them their votes meant exactly nothing.

Leesha was without the benefit of her warded cloak for the walk back to her cottage, but Rojer layered a protective field of music around the group as potent as any wardnet. His powers seemed to have increased tenfold with his new fiddle, but Wonda and Gared kept their weapons ready as they escorted Darsy and Vika.

“Still say you’re out of your skull,” Darsy growled. She was as intimidating as Wonda—wider if not as tall and every bit as homely, though without the scars to account for it.

Leesha shrugged. “You’re welcome to your opinion, but it isn’t open for debate.”

“What’re we s’posed to do if they take you?” Darsy asked. “Ent like we can mount a rescue, and you’re what holds this town together, especially with the Deliverer gone off to Creator knows where.”

“Prince Thamos and the Wooden Soldiers will be here soon,” Leesha said.

“They ent gonna come for you, either,” Darsy said.

“I don’t expect them to,” Leesha said. “You’ll just have to trust me to take care of myself.”

“I’m more worried about the rest of us,” Vika said. “If you marry this man, we lose you forever, and if you don’t…We’ll likely lose you that way, as well. What are we to do?”

“That’s why I brought you here tonight,” Leesha said. Her cottage came into sight, and they were barely inside before she signaled Wonda to lift the trapdoor to her basement workshop.

“Everyone but Vika and Darsy stays up here,” Leesha ordered. “This is Gatherers’ business.” The others nodded, and Leesha escorted the women down the stairs, lighting her cool chemic lamps on the way.

“Creator,” Darsy breathed. She had not seen the cellar in many years, since Bruna had dismissed her as an apprentice. Leesha had expanded it greatly since then, and it now covered the whole underside of the cottage and most of the yard as well, an enormous space. Painted support pillars ran along the walls of the main chamber and the many offshoot tunnels.

Where once Bruna had stored a handful of thundersticks for removing unruly stumps from the ground and a couple of jugs of liquid demonfire, Leesha had what seemed like an endless stockpile.

“There’s enough flamework here to turn the Hollow into the face of the sun,” Vika said.

“Why do you think I’ve kept my cottage so far from town?” Leesha asked. “I’ve been brewing demonfire and rolling thundersticks every night for a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Vika asked.

“Because no one else need know,” Leesha said. “I won’t have the Cutters or the town council determining how this should be used. It’s Gatherers’ business, and you’ll dole it out sparingly while I’m gone, and only when it will preserve lives. And I’ll have your words that you’ll keep the same silence or I’ll dose your tea so you don’t remember being here at all.”

The two women looked at her as if trying to determine whether she was serious, but Leesha was, and knew they could see it in her eyes.

“I swear,” Vika said. Darsy hesitated a moment longer, but finally nodded.

“Swear by the sun,” she said. “But even this won’t last, you don’t come back.”

Leesha nodded, turning to a table piled high with books. “These are the secrets of fire.”

Jardir smiled broadly as Leesha and her escort arrived. It was a smaller group than he had anticipated for such a powerful woman: just her parents, Rojer, giant Gared, and the female Sharum, Wonda.

“That one will set the dama in a frenzy,” Abban said, indicating Wonda. “They will demand she give up her weapons and cover herself. You should ask that she stay behind.”

Jardir shook his head. “I promised Leesha that she could choose her chaperone, and I will not go back on my word. Our people must begin to accept the ways of the Hollow tribe. Perhaps showing them a woman who fights alagai’sharak is a good way to begin.”

“If she acquits herself well before them,” Abban said.

“I’ve seen the woman fight,” Jardir said. “With proper training, she could become as formidable as any Sharum.”

“Tread carefully, Ahmann,” Abban said. “Force change on our people too quickly, and many of them will reject it.”

Jardir nodded, knowing well the truth of Abban’s words.

“I want you to keep close to Leesha on the trip back to Everam’s Bounty,” he said. “Use the pretext of teaching her our language, as she has requested. It would be unseemly for me to attend her too closely, but her greenland chaperones should accept you.”

“Better than the dal’Sharum, I’m sure,” Abban muttered.

Jardir nodded. “I want to know everything about her. The food she likes to eat, the scents that give her pleasure, everything.”

“Of course,” Abban said. “I will see to it.”

While the dal’Sharum broke camp, Abban limped over to the covered wagon Leesha and her parents rode in. The woman drove the horses herself, Abban noted in surprise. No servants to attend her, nor keep her hands from work. His respect for her grew.

“May I ride with you, mistress?” he asked, bowing. “My master has asked that I instruct you in our language, as you requested.”

Leesha smiled. “Of course, Abban. Rojer can take a horse.” Rojer, seated next to her in the driver’s seat of the cart, groaned and made a face.

Abban bowed deeply, holding tight to his crutch. As the dama’ting had feared, his leg had never truly healed, and even now it could buckle at inopportune times.

“If you prefer, son of Jessum, you may ride my camel,” he said, gesturing to where the beast was tethered. Rojer looked at the animal dubiously until he saw the canopied and pillowed seat, spacious and richly appointed. A glitter came to his eyes.

“She is a gentle beast who will follow the other animals without direction,” Abban noted.

“Well, if it will be a favor to you…” Rojer said.

“Of course,” Abban agreed. Rojer grabbed his fiddle and somersaulted off the cart, running over to the camel. Abban had lied, of course, the beast was ill tempered at best, but no sooner had it spit at him than Rojer lifted his instrument, calming it as easily as he might an alagai. Leesha might have greater value to Ahmann, but Rojer, too, was an asset to cultivate.

“May I ask you a question, Abban?” Leesha asked, breaking him from his reverie.

Abban nodded. “Of course, mistress.”

“Have you used that crutch since birth?” she asked.

Abban was more than a little surprised at her boldness. Among his people, his infirmity was either mocked or ignored. No one cared enough about a khaffit to ask such things.

“I wasn’t born this way, no,” Abban said. “I was injured during Hannu Pash.”

“Hannu Pash?” Leesha asked.

Abban smiled. “As good a place as any to begin your lessons,” he said, climbing into the cart and taking a seat next to her. “In your tongue, it means ‘life’s path.’ All Krasian boys are taken from their mothers at a young age and brought to their tribe’s sharaj, a…training barrack, to learn if Everam has meant them to be Sharum, dama, or khaffit.”

He tapped his lame leg with his crutch. “This was inevitable. I was never a warrior, and knew it, right from the first day. I was born a khaffit, and the…rigors of Hannu Pash proved it.”

“Nonsense,” Leesha said.

Abban shrugged. “Ahmann thought much as you do.”

“Did he?” Leesha asked, surprised. “I wouldn’t guess it from the way he treats you.”

Abban nodded. “I beg that you forgive him for that, mistress. My master was called to Hannu Pash the same day I was, and he fought against Everam’s hand time and again, carrying me through the Kaji’sharaj on his back. He gave me chance after chance, and I let him down every time I was tested.”

“Were they fair tests?” Leesha asked.

Abban laughed. “Nothing on Ala is fair, mistress, a warrior’s life least of all. Either you are weak, or you are strong. Bloodthirsty or pious. Brave or cowardly. Hannu Pash reveals a boy’s inner man, and in my case, at least, it was successful. I am not Sharum in my heart.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Leesha said.

Abban smiled. “Indeed not, and I am not. Ahmann knows my value, but it would be…unseemly for him to show me kindness in front of the other men.”

“Kindness is never unseemly,” Leesha said.

“Life in the desert is harsh, mistress,” Abban said, “and it has made my people equally so. I beg you, do not judge us until you know us well.”

Leesha nodded. “That is why I am coming. In the meantime, let me examine you. I might be able to do something for your leg.”

An image flashed before Abban’s eyes, of Ahmann catching sight as Abban lowered his silken pants for Leesha’s examination. His life wouldn’t be worth a bag of sand after that.

Abban waved her away. “I am khaffit, mistress. Not worthy of your attentions.”

“You are a man like any other,” Leesha said, “and if you’re going to spend any time with me, I’ll not suffer to hear you say otherwise.”

Abban bowed. “I knew another greenlander once who thought as you do,” he said, making it seem an offhand comment.

“Oh?” Leesha asked. “What was his name?”

“Arlen son of Jeph, from the Bales clan of Tibbet’s Brook,” Abban said, and saw her eyes flare with recognition, even though her face showed no other sign.

“Tibbet’s Brook is far from here, in the duchy of Miln,” she said. “I have never had the pleasure to meet anyone from there. What was he like?”

“He was known to my people as the Par’chin, or ‘brave outsider,’ ” Abban said, “equally at home in the bazaar and the Sharum’s Maze. Alas, he left our city years ago, never to return.”

“Perhaps one day you will meet him again,” Leesha said.

Abban shrugged. “Inevera. If Everam wills it, I would be pleased to see my friend again and know that he is well.” They rode together for the rest of the day, speaking of many things, but the subject of the Par’chin never rose again. Leesha’s silence on the matter told Abban much.

Slowed as they were by the trundling cart, the dal’Sharum could not give their chargers their head when the sun set, leaving them vulnerable to demons. Ahmann gave the order that they stop and make camp. Abban was erecting his tent when Ahmann summoned him.

“How went your first day?” he asked.

“She has a fast mind,” Abban said. “I started by teaching her simple phrases, but she was dissecting the sentence structure in minutes. She ’ll be able to introduce herself to anyone and discuss the weather by the time we reach Everam’s Bounty, and proficient by winter.”

Ahmann nodded. “It is Everam’s will that she learn our tongue.”

Abban shrugged.

“What else did you learn?” Ahmann asked.

Abban smiled. “She likes apples.”

“Apples?” Ahmann asked, confused.

“A Northern tree fruit,” Abban said.

Ahmann frowned. “You spoke to the woman all day, and all you learned was that she likes apples?”

“Red and hard, fresh picked from the tree. She laments that with so many mouths to feed, apples have become scarce.” Abban smiled as Ahmann’s face deepened into a scowl. He reached into his pocket, holding up a piece of fruit. “Apples like this one.”

Ahmann’s smile nearly reached his ears.

Abban left Ahmann’s tent, feeling a slight twinge of guilt at withholding Leesha’s reaction to his mention of the Par’chin. He had not lied, but even in his own heart Abban could not explain the omission. The Par’chin was his friend, it was true, but Abban had never let friendship stand in the way of prosperity, and his prosperity was inextricably tied to Ahmann’s success in conquering the North. The surest road to that success would be for Ahmann to find and kill the Par’chin quickly. The son of Jeph was not an enemy any man should take lightly.

But Abban had survived as khaffit by keeping secrets and waiting for the proper opportunity to exploit them, and there was no secret in all the world greater than this one.

Leesha was stirring a cookpot when Jardir came to her circle. Like the Painted Man, he walked casually through the unwarded areas of the Krasians’ haphazard camp. He wore Leesha’s warded cloak about his shoulders, but it was thrown back, offering him no protection from coreling eyes.

Not that he was likely to need protection, unless a wind demon spotted him from above. The dal’Sharum made sport of hunting the field demons that infested the camp when the sun set, piling the bodies of those stunted offshoots of wood demons into what would be an enormous bonfire when dawn came to set them alight.

“May I join you at your fire?” Jardir asked in Thesan.

“Of course, son of Hoshkamin,” Leesha replied in Krasian. As Abban had taught her, she broke a piece from a fresh loaf of bread and held it out to him. “Share bread with us.”

Jardir smiled widely, bowing low as he accepted the bread.

Rojer and the others came to the pot for their meal as well, but all drifted away at a meaningful look from Leesha. Only Elona stayed in earshot, which Jardir seemed to think was perfectly proper, even if Leesha resented the spying.

“Your food continues to delight my tongue,” Jardir said when he finished scraping the stew from his second bowl.

“It’s a simple stew,” Leesha said, but she couldn’t help but smile at the compliment.

“I hope your belly is not too full,” Jardir said, pulling out a large red apple. “I have grown fond of this Northern fruit, and would share it with you, as you shared your bread.”

Leesha felt her mouth water at the sight. How long since she had eaten a ripe apple? With starving refugees scouring the land around Deliverer’s Hollow like locusts, apples were gone from the trees the moment they became edible, and often before.

“I would like that,” she said, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice. Jardir produced a small knife, cutting neat round slices for them to enjoy. Leesha savored the sweet crunch of every bite, and it took them some time to finish the fruit. Leesha noticed that however fond he might be of apples, he left almost all of it to her, nibbling only on the irregular cuts and watching her chew with delight in his eyes.

“Thank you, that was wonderful,” Leesha said when they were done.

Jardir bowed from where he sat across from her. “It was my pleasure. And now, if you wish, it would be my pleasure to read to you passages from the Evejah, as I have promised.”

Leesha smiled and nodded, producing the slender leather-bound book from one of the deep pockets of her dress. “I would like that very much, but if you are to read me your book, you must start from the beginning, and swear to read it through, omitting nothing.”

Jardir tilted his head at her, and for a moment Leesha worried that she might have offended him. But then, slowly, a smile crept across his face.

“That will take many nights,” he said.

Leesha looked around at the camp and the empty plains. “My nights seem to be rather free at the moment.”

Surprisingly, it was not Wonda who garnered the most attention when they reached Everam’s Bounty, but Gared. Jardir watched the eyes of the Sharum take in the Cutter’s enormous frame and powerful muscles, searching for weaknesses, sizing him up for the kill as they did everyone. It was the Sharum way to be ready to fight anyone—enemy, brother, father, or friend. Every one of his warriors would be eager to test his strength against the giant Northern warrior. The Sharum who brought him down would carry great honor.

It was only after the warriors had assessed Gared, the most obvious threat, that their eyes slipped to Wonda, and a few did a double take, realizing she was a woman.

They sent no word ahead, but when they rode into the courtyard of Jardir’s palace, Inevera and the Damaji’ting were there waiting for them. Inevera lay on a pillowed palanquin held up by muscular chin slaves clad only in bidos and vests. She was dressed as scandalously as ever, and even the greenlanders gasped and colored at the sight of her as her slaves set the palanquin down and she rose to her feet. Her hips swayed hypnotically as she came to Jardir with her hands outstretched.

“Who is that?” Leesha asked.

“My First Wife, Damajah Inevera,” Jardir said. “The others are my lesser wives.”

Leesha looked at him sharply, and as Abban had warned, her face became a storm cloud.

“You’re already married?!” she demanded.

Jardir looked at her curiously. Surely she had understood that much, even if she was prone to jealousy. “Of course. I am Shar’Dama Ka.”

Leesha opened her mouth to retort, but Inevera reached them, and she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

“Husband,” Inevera said, embracing him and kissing him deeply. “How I have missed your warmth in our bed.”

Jardir was taken aback for a moment, but he saw how Inevera’s eyes kept flicking to Leesha, and felt as filthy as if he had been marked by a dog.

“Allow me to present my honored guest,” he said. “Mistress Leesha, daughter of Erny, First Herb Gatherer of the Hollow tribe.” Inevera’s eyes narrowed at the title, and she glared at Jardir, then Leesha.

For her part, Leesha acquitted herself well, not backing down an inch as she met Inevera’s gaze with a calm serenity and dipped into the skirtspreading bow the women of the green lands favored. “An honor to meet you, Damajah.”

Inevera’s smile and return bow were equally unreadable, and Jardir knew then that Abban was right. Inevera would not accept this woman as a Jiwah Sen, and would certainly not take it well when Jardir married her anyway and gave her dominion over the women of the North.

“I would speak with you in private, husband,” Inevera said, and Jardir nodded. Now that the moment to face her had come, he had no desire to delay. He thanked Everam that the sun was still high and she could not use her hora magic in its light.

“Abban, see to it that the Palace of Mirrors is made ready for Mistress Leesha and her entourage during their stay,” he said in Krasian. The palace was unfit for one such as Leesha, but it was the best Everam’s Bounty had to offer, three stories, richly appointed with carpets, tapestries, and silvered mirrors.

“I believe Damaji Ichach is using the Palace of Mirrors at the moment,” Abban said.

“Then Damaji Ichach will need to make new arrangements,” Jardir said.

Abban bowed. “I understand.”

“Please excuse me,” Jardir said, bowing to Leesha. “I must consult with my wife. Abban will see to your accommodations. When you are settled, I will come to call on you.”

Leesha nodded, a cool gesture that warned of fire beneath. Jardir felt his pulse quicken at the sight, and it gave him strength as he and Inevera strode into his palace.

“What is the purpose of bringing that woman here?” Inevera demanded when they were alone in her pillow chamber beside the throne room.

“The bones have not told you?” Jardir smirked.

“Of course they have,” Inevera snapped, “but I hold out hope that this once, they are wrong, and you are not such a fool.”

“Marriages cemented my power in Krasia,” Jardir said. “Is it so foolish to think that they would serve the same in the Northland?”

“These are chin, husband,” Inevera said. “Fine for the dal’Sharum to breed, but there is not a woman among them worthy to carry your seed.”

“I disagree,” Jardir said. “This Leesha is as worthy as any woman I have ever met.”

Inevera scowled. “Well it does not matter. The bones have spoken against her, and I will not approve the match.”

“You are correct, it matters not,” Jardir said. “I will still marry her.”

“You cannot,” Inevera said. “I am Jiwah Ka, and I decide who else you may marry.”

But Jardir shook his head. “You are my Krasian Jiwah Ka. Leesha shall be my greenland Jiwah Ka, and have dominion over all my wives in the North.”

Inevera’s eyes bulged, and he thought for a moment they would pop right out of her face. She shrieked and came at him, long painted nails leading the way. Jardir’s back, often clawed by those nails under much different circumstances, could attest to their sharpness.

He was quick to pivot out of the way. Remembering the last time she had struck him, he blocked and dodged with minimal contact as Inevera pressed her attack. Her long legs, clad only in thin, diaphanous silk, kicked high and fast as her fingers stabbed at him, seeking the weak points where a man’s muscles and nerves joined. If she managed to connect, his limbs would cease to obey him.

It was the first real display of dama’ting sharusahk Jardir had ever seen, and he studied the precise, deadly moves with fascination, knowing Inevera could likely kill a Damaji before he knew she had even struck.

But Jardir was Shar’Dama Ka. He was the greatest living sharusahk master, and his body was stronger and faster than it had ever been thanks to the magic of the Spear of Kaji. Now that he respected her ability as a warrior and kept his guard, even Inevera was no match for him. Eventually he caught her wrist and flipped her onto the pile of pillows.

“Attack me again,” he said, “and dama’ting or no, I will kill you.”

“The heathen harlot has bewitched your mind,” Inevera spat.

Jardir laughed. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she has begun to set it free.”

Damaji Ichach sneered at them as he left the Palace of Mirrors with his wives and children.

“If eyes could core you, his would,” Rojer said.

“You’d think he hadn’t stolen that manse from some Rizonan royal,” Leesha replied.

“Who knows with these people?” Rojer asked. “He might have taken it as an honor if we had done him the courtesy of killing him and his family first.”

“That isn’t funny, Rojer,” Leesha said.

“I don’t know that I was joking,” Rojer said.

Abban came out of the manse soon after, bowing deeply. “Your palace awaits, mistress. My wives will be preparing the lower floors for your entourage, but your private chambers, the entire top floor, are ready to receive you.”

Leesha looked up at the giant manse. There were dozens of windows on the top floor alone. That whole floor was for her personal use? It was easily ten times the size of the entire cottage she shared with Wonda.

“She gets the whole floor?” Rojer asked, gawking along with her.

“Of course your chambers shall be richly appointed as well, son of Jessum,” Abban said, bowing, “but tradition dictates a virgin bride be kept alone on the top floor with her chaperones below, to ensure that she don her wedding veil with her honor intact.”

“I have not agreed to Ahmann’s proposal,” Leesha pointed out.

Abban bowed. “That is so, but neither have you refused, and so you remain my master’s intended until you make your decision. The rules of tradition are unbending here, I am afraid.”

He leaned in close, shielding his lips by pretending to stroke his beard. “And I strongly advise, mistress, that unless your answer is yes, you make no final decision while in Everam’s Bounty.” Leesha nodded, having already come to the same conclusion.

They entered the manse, seeing black-clad women everywhere as they polished and straightened. The main entry hall was lined on either side with mirrors, reflecting the walls into infinity. The carpet running along the center of the polished stone floor was rich and thick, with bright dyes in the weave, and the banister of the wide stairwell leading up was painted in gold and ivory. Portraits, presumably of the previous owners, lined the wall, watching them ruefully as they ascended the steps. Leesha wondered what had become of them when the Krasians came.

“If you would be so kind as to wait up here with your entourage, mistress,” Abban said, “I will return shortly to escort them each to their own chambers.”

Leesha nodded, and Abban bowed and left them in a massive sitting room whose windows overlooked all of Rizon proper.

“Step outside and guard the door, Gared,” Leesha said as Abban left. When the portal was closed, Leesha whirled on her mother.

“You told them I was a virgin?” she demanded.

Elona shrugged. “They assumed it. I just let them keep the assumption.”

“And if I do marry him and he learns I am not?” Leesha asked.

Elona snorted. “You wouldn’t be the first bride to go to her marriage bed a woman. Ent no man going to turn away a woman he covets over that.” She glanced at Erny, who was studying his own shoes as if they were covered in writing.

Leesha scowled, but she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be just another bride in a harem. The nerve of him, bringing me here without telling me!”

“Oh, for night’s sake!” Rojer snapped. “You’ve got no excuse for not knowing. Every Krasian tale ever told starts with a lord with dozens of bored wives locked in a harem. What difference does it make, anyway? You already said you had no intention of marrying him.”

“No one asked you,” Elona snapped. Leesha looked at her in surprise.

“You already knew he was married, didn’t you?” Leesha accused. “You knew and you still tried to trade me off like a piece of livestock!”

“I knew, yes,” Elona said. “I also know that he could burn the Hollow to ashes, or make my daughter a queen. Was my choice so bad?”

“Who I marry isn’t your choice to make,” Leesha said.

“Well, someone has to make it,” Elona snapped. “You sure as night weren’t going to.”

Leesha glared at her. “Just what have you promised them, Mother? And what did they offer in return?”

“Promised?” Elona laughed. “It’s a marriage. All the groom wants is a bed toy and baby maker. I promised you were fertile and would provide sons. That was all.”

“You’re disgusting,” Leesha said. “Just how could you know that, anyway?”

“I might have mentioned your six older brothers,” Elona admitted, “all tragically killed fighting demons.” She tsked wistfully.

“Mother!” Leesha shouted.

“Do you think six was too many?” Elona asked. “I was worried I overplayed, but Abban accepted it right away, and even seemed disappointed. I think I could have gone even higher.”

“Even one is too many!” Leesha said. “Lying about dead children; have you no respect?”

“Respect for what?” Elona asked. “The poor souls of children who don’t exist?”

Leesha felt the muscles twinge behind her left eye, and knew a terrible headache was coming on. She massaged her temple. “It was a mistake coming here.”

“It’s a little late to see that,” Rojer said. “Even if they let us go, it would be the same as spitting in their faces if we left now.”

The pain behind Leesha’s eye flared sharply, bringing on a wave of nausea. “Wonda, fetch my herb pouch.” Her mother would be easier to deal with after she had taken a tincture for blood flow to ease the headache.

Jardir arrived soon after the lower rooms were ready and her friends escorted down to them. Leesha wondered if he had purposely waited until she was alone before visiting.

He stood in the doorway and bowed, but did not enter. “I do not wish to give dishonor. Would you prefer to have your mother present to chaperone?”

Leesha snorted. “I’d as soon be chaperoned by a coreling. I think I can handle you if you put a hand where it doesn’t belong.”

Jardir laughed and bowed again, entering. “Of that, I have no doubt. I must apologize for the meanness of your accommodations. I wish I had a palace worthy of your power and beauty, but alas, this poor hovel is the best Everam’s Bounty has to offer at the moment.”

Leesha wanted to tell him she had never seen a place so beautiful short of Duke Rhinebeck’s keep, but she bit back the compliment, knowing the Krasians had stolen the place and deserved no praise for its splendor.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were already married?” she asked bluntly.

Jardir started, and she saw honest surprise on his face. He bowed deeply. “Your pardon, mistress. I assumed you knew. Your mother suggested I not speak of it because your jealousy rivals your beauty, and thus must be terrible indeed.”

Leesha felt her temple throb again at the mention of her mother, though she could not deny a flash of pleasure at the compliment, sugared though it might be.

“I was flattered by your proposal,” Leesha said. “Creator, I even considered it! But I do not fancy being a part of a crowd, Ahmann. Such things are not done in the North. Marriage is a union of two, not two dozen.”

“I cannot change what is,” Jardir said, “but I beg you still to not rush to decision. I would make you my First Wife in the Northland, with power of refusal to all who come after. If you wish me to take no other greenland brides, it shall be so. Think carefully on this. If you bear me sons, my people will have no choice but to accept the Hollow tribe.”

Leesha frowned, but she knew better than to refuse him flatly. They were in his power and knew it. Again, she found herself regretting her rash decision to come.

“Night will fall soon,” Jardir said, changing the subject when she did not reply. “I have come to invite you and your bodyguards to alagai’sharak.”

Leesha looked at him for a long moment, considering.

“Our war with the alagai is the common ground our people stand on,” Jardir said. “It will help my warriors to accept you, if they see we are…siblings in the night.”

Leesha nodded. “All right, though my parents will stay behind.”

“Of course,” Jardir said. “I swear by Everam’s beard that they will be safe here.”

“Is there a reason to worry to the contrary?” Leesha asked, remembering the glare of Damaji Ichach.

Jardir bowed. “Of course not. I was simply stating the obvious. Forgive me.”

Leesha was impressed with the tight units the Krasian warriors formed for inspection as Jardir led Leesha and the others to alagai’sharak. Abban limped at her side, and Leesha was grateful as ever for his presence. Her understanding of the Krasian language was progressing rapidly, but there were hundreds of cultural rules she and the others did not understand. Much like Rojer, Abban could speak without moving his lips, and his whispered hints of when to bow and when to nod, when to placate and when to stand fast, had kept them all from conflict so far.

But more than that, Leesha found she liked Abban. Despite an injury that put him in the lowest echelon of his society, the khaffit had managed to keep his spirits and his humor, and had risen to new power, of a sort.

“That can’t be all of ’em,” Rojer murmured, looking at the assembled Sharum, over a thousand in number. “No way that many men took a whole duchy. We can field that many fighters in the Hollow.”

“No, Rojer,” Leesha whispered, shaking her head. “We can field carpenters and bakers. Laundresses and seamstresses who will pick up a weapon at need to defend in the night. These men are professional soldiers.”

Rojer grunted and looked out at the assembled men again. “Still ent enough.”

“You are correct, of course,” Abban said, obviously having heard every word of their whispered conference. “You see but a tiny fraction of the warriors at my master’s command.” He gestured to the twelve units of men in the courtyard by the great gate. “These are the most elite fighters of each of the twelve tribes of Krasia, chosen as honor guards to their Damaji in the city proper. Before you is the most invincible fighting force the world has ever seen, but even they are nothing compared with the million spears the Shar’Dama Ka can muster. The rest of the tribes have dispersed throughout the hundreds of villages in Everam’s Bounty.”

A million spears. If Jardir could field even a quarter of that, the Free Cities would be best off to surrender quickly, and she should get used to the idea of being Jardir’s bed toy. Arlen had seemed convinced the Krasian army was much smaller than that. Leesha looked at Abban, wondering if he was being honest. Dozens of questions popped into her mind, but she wisely kept them to herself, lest they reveal even more of her inner counsel.

Never let anyone know what you’re thinking till they’ve a need to, Bruna had taught her, a philosophy Duchess Araine seemed to agree with.

“And the people living in those villages?” Leesha asked. “What became of them?”

“They live there still,” Abban said, sounding genuinely hurt. “You must think us monsters, to fear we are slaying the innocent.”

“There are such rumors in the North, I’m afraid,” Leesha said.

“Well they are untrue,” Abban said. “The conquered people are taxed, yes, and the boys and men trained in alagai’sharak, but their lives are otherwise unchanged. And in return, they have pride in the night.”

Again Leesha studied Abban’s face for a hint of where exaggeration might become lie, but she found nothing. Levying boys and men to war was a horror, but at least she could tell the distraught refugees back in the Hollow that their captured husbands, brothers, and sons were likely still alive.

There was a buzz through the ranks of warriors at the sight of Leesha and the others, but their white-veiled leaders barked, and the Sharum fell silent and stood for inspection. At their forefront stood two men, one in a white turban above warrior black, the other clad in dama white.

“My master’s first son, Jayan,” Abban said, indicating the warrior, “and his second, Asome.” He pointed to the cleric.

Jardir strode out before the men, and the power he radiated was palpable. The warriors looked at him in awe, and even his sons had a fanatical gleam in their eyes. Leesha was surprised to find that after only two weeks of instruction, she understood most of what he said.

“Sharum of the Desert Spear!” Jardir called. “Tonight we are honored to be joined in alagai’sharak by Sharum of the Hollow tribe to the north, our brothers in the night.” He gestured to Leesha’s group, and a shocked murmur went through the warriors.

“They are to fight?” Jayan demanded.

“Father, the Evejah states clearly that women are barred from sharak,” Asome protested.

“The Evejah was written by the Deliverer,” Jardir said. “I am the Deliverer now, and I will say how sharak is fought.”

Jayan shook his head. “I will not fight alongside a woman.”

Jardir struck like a lion, his hand a blur as he seized his son by the throat. Jayan gasped and pulled at his father’s arm, but the grip was like iron, and he could not break it. His feet left the ground, toes barely scraping the dirt, as Jardir flexed his arm to its full length.

Leesha gasped and started forward, but Abban blocked her with his crutch, applying surprising strength.

“Don’t be a fool,” he whispered harshly. Something in the urgency of his voice checked Leesha, and she eased back, watching helplessly as Jardir choked the life from his son. She drew a relieved breath as the boy was cast to the ground, gasping and thrashing but very much alive.

“What kind of animal attacks his own son?” Leesha asked, aghast.

Abban opened his mouth to speak, but Gared cut him off. “Din’t have no choice. Ent no one goin’ into the night followin’ a pa who can’t even keep his own boys in line.”

“I don’t need advice from the town bully, Gared,” Leesha snipped.

“No, he’s right,” Wonda piped in to Leesha’s shock. “I din’t understand what they said, but my pa would’ve smacked my nose off, I took that tone with him. Reckon it’ll do ’im good to eat a little dirt.”

“It seems our ways are not as different as they first appear, mistress,” Abban noted.

Alagai’sharak was a nightly sweep around the perimeter of the city. The Sharum exited the north gate and spread out, shoulder-to-shoulder and shield-to-shield, six tribes heading east and six west, killing any alagai in their path until they met at the south gate. To avoid further conflict, Jardir deliberately sent Jayan and Asome east while taking Leesha and the others west. Abban was left behind at the gate.

None of the Hollow tribe carried shields, so Jardir put them behind the line, personally escorting Leesha with Hasik and a handful of the Spears of the Deliverer. Demons filtered in quickly after the dal’Sharum passed to feed on the corpses of corelings left for the sun, and they did not hesitate to attack the small group.

At first the Krasians had sought to protect them, but as Jardir had hoped, Leesha and the others quickly disabused them of the need. Rojer’s fiddle tricked the demons into traps or set them against one another. Leesha hurled her fire magic at the alagai, scattering them like sand in the wind. Gared and Wonda strode into packs of demons with impunity, the giant Cutter hacking them to pieces with his axe and machete as Wonda’s bow hummed like the strings of Rojer’s fiddle, killing every demon she so much as glanced at from afar. She even took several out of the sky before they could swoop down on the shield wall.

She was well away from the others when her arrows ran out. A flame demon hissed and charged at her, and one of the Spears of the Deliverer gave a cry, rushing to defend her.

He needn’t have bothered. Wonda slung the bow from her shoulder and grabbed the demon by the horns, pivoting to avoid its firespit and turning it to the ground with a smooth sharusahk twist. A warded knife appeared in her hand, slashing the demon’s throat.

She looked up, and the ichor lust in her eyes matched that of any Sharum Jardir had ever seen. She smiled to the dumbstruck dal’Sharum who had a moment before been rushing to save her, but then her eyes widened, and she pointed to the sky.

“Look out!” she cried, too late, as a wind demon dropped from the sky, tearing through the warrior’s armor and laying him open with its deadly talons.

Everyone reacted at once. A warded knife appeared in Rojer’s hand, flying to strike the demon at the same time as Wonda’s thrown blade and three spears, dropping it before it could take back to the sky. Leesha lifted her skirts and ran to the fallen warrior. The alagai was still thrashing, mere inches away, when she knelt at his side. Jardir hurried to join her as Gared and his Spears put an end to the demon and stood watch for others.

The warrior, Restavi, had served Jardir loyally for years. His armor was soaked with blood. He struggled madly as Leesha tried to look at his wound.

“Hold him down,” Leesha ordered, her tone no different than that of a dama’ting, one used to obedience. “I can’t work with him thrashing about.”

Jardir complied, taking Restavi’s shoulders and pinning him firmly. The warrior met Jardir’s eyes, his own wide and wild. “I am ready, Deliverer!” he cried. “Bless me and send me on the lonely road!”

“What’s he saying?” Leesha asked as she cut through his thick robe, casting aside the shattered ceramic plates within. She swore as the size of the gaping wound became apparent.

“He is telling me his soul is ready for Heaven,” Jardir said. “He asks that I bless him with a quick death.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Leesha snapped. “You tell him his soul may be ready, but his body isn’t.”

How like the Par’chin she is, Jardir thought, and found himself missing his old friend deeply. Restavi was obviously dying, but the Northern healer refused to let him go without a fight. There was honor in that, and he knew well the insult she would take if he ignored her wishes and killed the man, even at his request.

Jardir took Restavi’s face in his hands, meeting his eyes. “You are a Spear of the Deliverer! You will walk the lonely road when I command it, and not before. Embrace the pain and be still!”

Restavi shuddered, but he nodded, drawing a deep breath as his struggles ceased. Leesha looked at the men in surprise, then pushed Jardir aside and set to work.

“Have the shield wall continue on,” Jardir told Hasik. “I will wait with the mistress as she attends Restavi.”

“To what end?” Hasik asked. “Even if he survives, he will never lift the spear again.”

“You know that no better than I,” Jardir said. “It is inevera. I will not interfere with my betrothed any more than I would a dama’ting.”

The Spears of the Deliverer remained behind, forming a circle with Leesha and Restavi at its center, but there was little need. Rojer wove a shield of sound around them, and no alagai dared draw near.

“We can move him,” Leesha said at last. “I’ve stopped the bleeding, but he ’ll need more surgery, and for that I’ll need a proper table and better light.”

“Will he live to fight another day?” Jardir asked.

“He’s alive,” Leesha said. “Isn’t that enough for now?”

Jardir frowned, choosing his words carefully. “If he cannot fight, he will likely take his own life later.”

“Or else he becomes khaffit?” Leesha asked, scowling.

Jardir shook his head. “Restavi has killed hundreds of alagai. His place in Heaven is assured.”

“Then why would he kill himself?” Leesha demanded.

“He is Sharum,” Jardir said. “He is meant to die on alagai talons, not old and shriveled in some bed, a burden to his family and tribe. This is why the dama’ting do not see to the wounded until dawn.”

“So the ones injured most deeply will be dead?” Leesha asked.

Jardir nodded.

“That’s inhuman,” Leesha said.

Jardir shrugged. “It is our way.”

Leesha looked at him and shook her head. “And there is the difference between us. Your people live to fight, while mine fight to live. What will you do when you win Sharak Ka and have nothing left to fight for?”

“Then Ala and Heaven will be as one,” Jardir said, “and all will be paradise.”

“So why did you not kill that man when he asked you to?” Leesha asked.

“Because you asked that I not,” Jardir said. “I made the mistake once of ignoring such a plea from one of your people, and it almost cost our friendship.”

Leesha tilted her head at him curiously. “The one Abban calls the Par’chin?”

Jardir’s eyes narrowed. “What did the khaffit tell you of him?”

Leesha met him with a stern gaze. “Nothing, other than that they were friends, and that I reminded him of him. Why?”

Jardir’s flare of anger at Abban faded as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling empty and sad. “The Par’chin was my friend, too,” he said at last, “and you are like he was in some ways, and different in others. The Par’chin had a Sharum’s heart.”

“Meaning?” Leesha asked.

“Meaning he fought for others to live, as you do, but for himself, he lived to fight. When his body was broken and the odds without hope, he clawed his way to his feet and fought to his last breath.” “He’s dead?” Leesha asked in surprise. Jardir nodded. “Many years since.”

Leesha worked deep into the night in the surgery of a former Rizonan hospit, cutting and stitching the injured dal’Sharum back together again. Her arms were covered in blood and her back ached from bending over the table, but Restavi would live, and likely recover fully.

The dama’ting who had taken over the building whispered among themselves as she worked, watching Leesha in something part wonder and part horror. She could sense their anger at her intrusion, especially at night, and their resentment of her barked orders, but her translator was Jardir himself, and none of the white-covered women dared refuse the Shar’Dama Ka. Wonda and Gared had been forced to remain outside, as had Rojer and Jardir’s bodyguards.

The dama’ting, acting like captives in their own home, breathed an almost palpable sigh of relief when Inevera stormed into the surgery. Her face was livid with rage as she strode right up to Leesha, standing nose-to-nose.

“How dare you?” Inevera growled, her Thesan heavily accented but clear. Perfume hung about her in a cloud, and her wanton dress reminded Leesha of her mother.

“How dare I what?” Leesha demanded, not backing down an inch. “Save the life of a man you would have let bleed until dawn?”

Inevera’s only response was to slap Leesha in the face, her sharp nails drawing blood. Leesha was knocked aside, and before she could recover, the woman drew a curved knife and came at her again.

“You are not fit to stand in my husband’s presence, much less lie in his bed,” Inevera spat.

Leesha’s hand darted into one of the many pockets of her apron, and as Inevera drew close, she snapped her fingers in the Damajah’s face, scattering blinding powder in a tiny cloud.

Inevera shrieked and fell away, clutching her face, as Leesha righted herself. Inevera splashed a pitcher of water in her face, and when she looked back at Leesha, her face powders were running in horrid streaks. Her reddened, hate-filled eyes promised death.

“Enough!” Jardir shouted, interposing himself between the two. “I forbid you to fight!”

“You forbid me?” Inevera demanded, incredulous. Leesha felt much the same—Jardir could no more forbid her anything than Arlen—but Jardir was only focused on Inevera. He raised the Spear of Kaji for all to see.

“I do,” he said. “Do you intend to disobey?”

Silence fell over the room, and the other dama’ting looked at one another in confusion. Inevera might be their leader, but Jardir was the voice of their god. Leesha could well imagine what might happen if Inevera resisted further.

Indeed, the woman seemed to realize it as well, and deflated. She turned on her heel and stormed from the hospit, snapping her fingers to the other dama’ting, who all followed after her.

“I will pay for that,” Jardir murmured to himself in Krasian, but Leesha understood. For a moment, his shoulders slumped, and he looked not like the invincible and infallible leader of Krasia, but like her own father after a fight with Elona. She could almost see Jardir imagining all the myriad ways Inevera could make his life miserable, and her heart went out to him.

But then a woman’s scream cut the silence, and the tired man vanished in an instant, replaced again by the most powerful man in the world.

CHAPTER 29 A PINCH OF BLACKLEAF

THE GREENLAND GIANT WAS roaring like a lion when Jardir burst from the dama’ting sanctuary, Leesha following close behind. Amkaji and Coliv had put lines on his wrists, and three dal’Sharum pulled on the rope to either arm, hauling at him like a raging stallion. One warrior, clung tenaciously to his great back, his arms crossed in front of the giant’s throat in an attempt to choke him down, but if Gared even noticed, he gave no sign. The warrior’s feet swung far from the ground, and even those pulling on the lines stumbled to keep him contained.

Rojer was pinned helplessly, almost casually, against a wall by another dal’Sharum who held him in place with one hand as he watched what was transpiring, an amused grin on his face.

“What is going on here?” Jardir demanded. “Where is the woman?”

Before any of the Sharum could answer, there was another cry, coming from an alley between the buildings. “Any warrior touching one of the greenlanders when I return will lose the offending hands!” he shouted as he charged to the alley, flying past the others at blinding speed.

Wonda was in the alleyway, held from behind by a warrior who howled as she bit into his arm. Another warrior lay on the ground, clutching between his legs, and a third, Jurim, leaned against the wall, staring in horror at an arm twisted in an impossible direction.

“Release her!” Jardir roared, and everyone looked up at him. Wonda was released instantly, and she drove an elbow into the stomach of the warrior behind her, doubling him over as she reached for the knife at her belt.

Jardir pointed his spear at her. “Do not,” he warned. Just then, Leesha made it to the alley, gasping at the sight. She ran to Wonda immediately.

“What happened?” Leesha asked.

“Those sons of the Core tried to rape me!” Wonda said.

“The Northern whore lies, Deliverer,” Jurim spat. “She attacked us and broke my arm! I demand her life!”

“You expect us to believe that Wonda lured the three of you here and attacked you?” Leesha demanded.

Jardir ignored them both. It was obvious what had happened. He had hoped Wonda’s prowess on the battlefield would impress the warriors enough to dissuade this sort of behavior, but Jurim and the others had apparently felt the need to remind her that off the battlefield, she was still a woman, and an unmarried one at that. By Evejan law, she had no right to refuse a Sharum or attack a man for any reason. Jurim and the others had committed no crime, and were within their rights to demand the girl’s life.

But the greenlanders did not see it that way, Jardir knew, and he needed their warriors, man and women alike, for Sharak Ka. He glanced at Leesha and knew, too, that not all his reasons were selfless. The Sharum would have to be taught to control themselves. An abject lesson like the one he had given Hasik so many years before.

Jardir swept his arm at Jurim and the others, then pointed at the wall. They obediently lined up, backs straight, all of them ignoring wounds the girl had inflicted. She was a born warrior, whatever her gender.

Jardir heard the intake of air in Leesha’s mouth and held up his hand before she could speak, pacing before his men.

“I am intended toward Mistress Leesha,” he said calmly. “An insult to one of the mistress’ servants is an insult to her. An insult to her is an insult to me.”

He looked Jurim in the eyes, lightly touching his chest with the point of the Spear of Kaji. “Have you insulted me, Jurim?” he asked softly.

Jurim’s eyes widened. He looked frantically at Wonda, and then back at Jardir. He squirmed under the speartip, though its touch was feather-light, and began to shake. He knew his life might depend on his answer, but to lie to the Deliverer would cost him his place in Heaven.

Jurim collapsed, falling to his knees and weeping. He pressed his forehead into the dirt and wailed, clutching at Jardir’s feet. “Forgive me, Shar’Dama Ka!”

Jardir kicked him, taking a step backward and broadening his gaze to take in the warriors on either side of Jurim. Immediately they, too, fell to their knees and ground their foreheads into the dirt, wailing.

“Silence!” Jardir snapped, and the men quieted instantly. He pointed to Wonda. “That woman killed more alagai this night than the three of you combined, and so her honor is worth the three of your lives.”

The men cowered, but they did not dare to speak in their defense. “Go to the temple and pray through the night and the coming day,” Jardir said. “You will take your spears and go into the night tomorrow, shieldless and clad only in black bidos. When you are pulled down, your bones will go to Sharik Hora.”

The men shuddered with relief and wept, kissing Jardir’s feet, for in those words, he had promised them the only things a Sharum truly feared to lose: a warrior’s death, and entry into Heaven’s paradise. “Thank you, Deliverer,” they said over and over.

“Go!” Jardir snapped, and the men ran off instantly.

Jardir looked back at Leesha, whose face was a sandstorm. “You just let them go?” she demanded. Jardir realized that their exchange had been in Krasian, and she had likely understood only a fraction of what was said.

“Of course not,” Jardir said, switching back to her tongue. “They will be put to death.”

“But they thanked you!” Leesha said.

“For not castrating them and stripping them of the black,” Jardir said.

Wonda spat on the ground. “Would serve the coresons right.”

“No, it would not!” Leesha said. Jardir could tell she was still upset, but he had no idea why. Should he have killed them personally, in her sight? The greenlanders had different rules for their women, and he had no idea how they handled such matters as this.

“What else do you require?” Jardir asked. “They did not succeed in violating or even harming the girl,” he nodded respectfully to Wonda, “so it is not expected that they should compensate her for her virginity.”

“Ent a virgin, anyway,” Wonda said. Leesha looked at her sharply, but the girl only shrugged.

“But it’s required they pay with their lives?” Leesha demanded.

Jardir looked at her curiously. “They will die with honor. They will go naked into the night tomorrow, with only their spears to protect them.”

Leesha’s eyes bulged. “That’s barbaric!”

It was then Jardir understood. The greenland taboo was death. He bowed. “I had thought the punishment would please you, mistress. I can have them whipped, if you prefer.”

Leesha looked to Wonda, who shrugged. She turned back to Jardir. “Very well. But we require to bear witness, and I to treat the men’s wounds when the punishment is complete.”

Jardir was surprised at the request, but he hid it well, bowing deeply. The customs of the greenlanders were fascinating. “Of course, mistress. It will be done at sunset tomorrow, for all the Sharum to see and remember. I will administer the lashes myself.”

Leesha nodded. “Thank you. That will suffice.”

“This time,” Wonda growled, and Jardir smiled to see the fierceness in her eyes. Three Spears of the Deliverer it took just to hold her, and none of them able to do the deed! With further training, even kai’Sharum would fall before her. Looking at her, he came to a decision, one that he knew might well tear his army asunder, but Everam had chosen him to lead Sharak Ka, and he would lead as he saw fit.

He gave the woman a warrior’s bow. “There will not be another, Wonda vah Flinn am’Cutter am’Hollow. On this, you have my word.”

“Thank you,” Leesha said, laying a hand on his arm, and Jardir’s spirit leapt at the touch.

There was a loud knocking on the door.

“Whozzat?” Rojer cried, starting awake and looking about. His room was dark, though he could see cracks of light at the edges of the velvet curtains.

The bed was a wonder unlike anything Rojer had felt since his time in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel. The mattress and pillows were stuffed with goose feathers, and the sheets smooth and soft beneath a down comforter. It was like sleeping on a warm cloud. Hearing nothing more, Rojer was unable to resist its pull as his head fell back into the pillow’s embrace.

The door opened, and Rojer cracked an eye as one of Abban’s wives, or perhaps one of his daughters—Rojer could never tell the difference—entered. She was clad as they all were in loose black robes that hid everything save her eyes, which were cast down in his presence.

“You have a visitor, son of Jessum,” the woman said.

She moved to throw back the heavy velvet curtains and Rojer groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as light streamed in through the windows of his richly appointed bedroom. Leesha might have a whole floor of the giant manse, but Rojer had still been given a full wing of the second floor, more rooms than the entire inn his parents had run in Riverbridge. Elona had been furious to learn of the largesse the Krasians had heaped upon him, having only gotten a bedroom and sitting room herself, luxurious though they were.

“What hour is it?” Rojer asked. He felt he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two.

“Just after sunrise,” the woman said.

Rojer groaned again. He hadn’t slept an hour. “Tell whoever it is to come back later,” he said, flopping back into the mattress.

The woman bowed deeply. “I cannot, master. Your visitor is the Damajah. You must see her at once.”

Rojer sat bolt upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.

The whole palace was astir by the time Rojer felt presentable enough to leave his chambers. His Jongleur’s paintbox had taken the circles from beneath his eyes, and his bright red hair was brushed and tied back. He wore his best motley.

The Damajah, he thought. What in the Core does she want with me?

Gared was waiting for him in the hall, and fell in behind him. Rojer could not deny that he felt safer with the big Cutter, and by the time he made it to the stairs, Leesha and Wonda were descending from above with Erny and Elona in tow.

“What does she want?” Leesha asked. She had gotten no more sleep than him, but she showed it less, even without paint and powder.

“Search my pockets,” Rojer said. “You’ll find no answers.”

They all followed Rojer down the stairs, making him feel as if he were leading them to a cliff. Rojer was a performer, used to being the center of attention, but this was different. He put his hand to his chest, clutching his medallion through his shirt. The hard shape gave him comfort as he followed the gestures of Abban’s women into the main receiving hall.

As before, Rojer felt his face heat at the sight of the Damajah. He had bedded dozens of village girls and more than one cultured Angierian royal, all of them fetching or pretty or even beautiful. While Leesha surpassed them all in beauty, she seemed almost unaware of that fact, making no effort to take advantage of her power.

But the Damajah knew. The perfect curve of her chin and gentle shape of her nose behind her transparent veil. The wide exotic eyes with long sweeping lashes, and the oiled black curls that spilled in rivulets down her shoulders. Her diaphanous robe covered everything and nothing, showcasing the smoothness of her arms and curving thighs, the round fullness of her breasts and the darkness of her areolae, her hairless sex. The air about her was sweet with perfume.

But more, her every gesture, every stance, every expression, brought all these things into a harmony that sang to every man in her presence. What Rojer did to demons with his fiddle, the Damajah did to men with her body. He felt himself stiffen, and was thankful for the looseness of his motley pants.

She stood in the receiving hall, two girls standing behind her, covered in the Krasian fashion Inevera disdained, though their robes were fine silk. One was clad in the white of a dama’ting, the other in black. Long black braids fell from the back of their headscarves, bound in gold bands and reaching past their waists. Their eyes danced at him from behind their veils.

“Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Bridge,” Inevera said in a thickly accented tongue that made Rojer shiver with pleasure. He tried to remind himself she was his enemy, but it seemed futile. “I am honored to meet you,” the Damajah went on, bowing so deeply Rojer feared her breasts would fall free of her robe. He wondered if she would care if they did. The girls behind her bowed even deeper.

Rojer made his best leg in return. “Damajah,” he said simply, not knowing the proper form of address. “The honor is mine, that you have come here to meet one as insignificant as I.”

“Don’t lay it too thick, Rojer,” Leesha muttered.

“My husband bade me come,” Inevera said, “telling me you accepted his offer to find brides for you, that your magic be passed on to a new generation.”

“I did?” Rojer asked. He remembered the exchange back in Deliverer’s Hollow, but he had thought it all a jest. They couldn’t possibly believe…

“Of course,” Inevera said. “My husband offers you his eldest daughter, Amanvah, for your Jiwah Ka.” The girl in dama’ting white stepped forward, kneeling on the thick carpet and pressing her face to the floor. It pulled her silk robe tight, hinting at a womanly figure beneath. Rojer tore his eyes away before he was caught staring, looking back at the Damajah like a terrified rabbit.

“There must be some…” mistake, he wanted to say, but the word caught in his throat as Inevera beckoned the other girl forward. “This is Amanvah’s servant, Sikvah,” she said, as the girl followed Amanvah to the floor. “Daughter of Hanya, sister to the Shar’Dama Ka.”

“His daughter and his niece?” Rojer asked in surprise.

Inevera bowed. “My husband has made it known that Everam speaks to you. He would not honor you with less than his own blood. Sikvah will make a suitable second wife, if you wish. Amanvah can then take over seeking future brides in accordance with your own taste.”

“Creator, how many wives does one man need?” Leesha said.

Jealous? Rojer thought irritably. Good. Have a taste of it, for once.

Inevera looked at Leesha with disdain. “If he is worthy and they of him, a man should have as many as he can provide for and keep with child. But some,” she sneered at Leesha, “are not worthy.”

“Who is Amanvah’s mother?” Elona asked before Leesha could respond.

Inevera looked at her and raised a brow. Elona spread her skirts and dipped into a smooth, respectful curtsy that seemed utterly at odds with the woman Rojer knew. “Elona Paper of Deliverer’s Hollow. Leesha’s mother.”

Inevera’s eyes widened at this news, and she smiled widely and went over to the woman, embracing her. “Of course, I am honored to meet you. There are a great many matters for us to discuss, but that is for another time. I understand the son of Jessum’s mother is with Everam. Will you stand for her in these proceedings?”

“Of course,” Elona said, nodding, and Leesha glared at her.

“Stand for her, how?” Rojer asked.

Inevera smiled coyly. “To ensure you behave as they lift their veils, and to verify their virginity.” Rojer felt his face heat again, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.

“I…” he began, but Inevera ignored him.

“I am Amanvah’s mother,” she told Elona. “Does that meet with your approval?”

“Of course,” Elona said gravely, as if there were any other answer a sane person might dare speak.

Inevera nodded and turned to regard the others. “If you will excuse us, please?”

Everyone stood still for a moment, but Elona clapped her hands, startling them all. “You heard her, shoo! Not you, Rojer.” She grabbed his arm as he turned to go with the rest.

Only Leesha stood behind.

“You have no place here, daughter of Erny,” Inevera said. “You are not family to the groom or brides.”

“Oh, but I am, Damajah,” Leesha said. “If my mother stands for Rojer’s, then I, as her daughter, may take the place of his sister.” She smiled and leaned in close, lowering her voice. “The Evejah is quite clear on the matter,” she said smugly.

Inevera scowled and opened her mouth, but Rojer cut her off. “I want her to stay.” The words ended in a squeak as Inevera turned to him, but then a wide smile licked across her face, and she bowed. “As you wish.”

“Lock the doors, Leesha,” Elona ordered. “Can’t have Gared stumbling back in saying he forgot his axe.” Inevera laughed, and the sight of their joined amusement frightened Rojer more than anything. Elona seemed to know far more than Rojer about what was happening.

Leesha seemed equally disturbed, but whether it was from the laughter or the casual way Elona ordered her around, he couldn’t be sure. She turned and strode to the huge gilded doors, throwing the bar with a sound that made Rojer jump. He felt more like they were locking him in than Gared and the others out.

Inevera snapped her fingers, and the two girls straightened their backs, though they remained on their knees on the floor.

“Amanvah is dama’ting,” Inevera said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Healer, midwife, and chosen of Everam. She is young, but she has made her dice and passed every test.”

She looked at Leesha and smiled. “Perhaps she can treat those cuts on your face,” she said, indicating the red lines on Leesha’s cheek from where Inevera had scratched her.

Leesha smiled in return. “You seem to be blinking a great deal, Damajah. Do your eyes sting you? I could prepare a rinse, if you wish.”

Rojer looked back to Inevera, expecting a vicious response, but Inevera simply smiled and went on. “I myself have given my husband eight sons and three daughters. The women of my family are similarly fertile, and the bones say Amanvah will breed true.”

“Bones?” Leesha asked.

Inevera scowled. “That is no concern of yours, chin,” she snapped.

In an instant her smile was back in place. “What matters is that Amanvah will give you sons, son of Jessum. Sikvah’s mother was similarly fertile. She, too, will breed well for you.”

“Yes, but can they sing?” Rojer asked, hoping to deflect the discomfort he was feeling. It was the punch line of a favorite bawdy joke of Arrick’s, a tale of a man who could never be satisfied no matter how many women he bedded.

But Inevera only smiled and nodded. “Of course,” she said, snapping her fingers and barking an order to the girls in Krasian.

Amanvah cleared her throat and began to sing, her voice rich and pure. Rojer didn’t understand the words, and had never had a knack for singing himself, but after years of performing with Arrick, the greatest singer of his time, he knew well how to listen and judge it.

Amanvah’s voice put Arrick’s to shame. It lifted him like a great wind, stealing the footing from under him and sweeping him away on its notes.

But then a second wind came, wrapping itself around the other as Sikvah smoothly joined in. They found harmony instantly, and Rojer was stunned. Women or no, if they went to the Jongleurs’ Guild in Angiers, their careers would be assured.

Rojer said nothing, standing in silence while the two women sang. When Inevera finally ended their song with a wave, he felt like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.

“Sikvah is also an accomplished cook,” Inevera said, “and both have been trained in the art of lovemaking, though they are unknown to man.”

“The…ah, art?” Rojer asked, feeling his face heat again.

Inevera laughed and snapped her fingers. Amanvah immediately rose, coming gracefully to her feet as she lifted a hand to unfasten her veil. The thin white silk drifted away like a wisp of smoke, revealing a face stunning in its beauty. Amanvah was her mother’s daughter.

Sikvah came up behind her, undoing some hidden fastening at her shoulders, and Amanvah’s entire robe seemed to simply dissolve, the silk running off her to whisper to the floor. She stood naked before him, and Rojer gaped.

Inevera circled a finger, and Amanvah obediently turned so Rojer could inspect her from every angle. Like her mother’s, Amanvah’s body was perfect, and Rojer began to fear even his motley pants were not loose enough. He wondered if he would be expected to undress as well, and have all the women see his arousal.

“Creator, is all this truly necessary?” Leesha asked.

“Be quiet,” Elona snapped. “Of course it is.”

Amanvah turned and unfastened Sikvah’s own silk robe, and it vanished like a shadow in the sun, becoming an inky pool at her feet. She was not as beautiful as Amanvah, perhaps, but apart from the other women in the room with him just then, Rojer had never seen her equal.

“You may verify their purity now,” Inevera said.

“I…ah.” Rojer looked at his hands, and then hid them in his pockets. “That won’t be necessary.”

Inevera laughed. “Your women,” she clarified, her smile mischievous. “Something must be saved for the wedding night, after all.” She winked at him, and Rojer felt dizzy.

Inevera turned to Elona. “Would you care to do the honors?”

“Ah…well…” Elona said, “my daughter is more qualified…”

Leesha snorted. “My mother wouldn’t know a hymen if she saw one,” she whispered to Rojer. “She was rid of hers before she had a good look at it.”

Elona caught the words and scowled, but she said nothing, glaring at Leesha.

“Oh, all right,” Leesha growled at last, “anything to get this business concluded.” She bent to pick up the girls’ robes, then took their arms and led them into a small curtained servant alcove to the side of the hall.

Leesha lowered the curtain, blocking them from view, and the girls obediently leaned over a small table, presenting themselves like brood mares. She had examined hundreds of young girls in her years as an Herb Gatherer, even the duchess of Angiers herself, but it was always for their health, not some honor ritual. Bruna had little patience for such nonsense, and her apprentice was no different.

But Leesha knew too how fragile their relationship with the Krasians was. She would win no allies by publicly spitting on their traditions.

Amanvah’s hymen was intact, but when Leesha reached for Sikvah, the girl flinched and gave a slight gasp. There was a sheen of sweat on her, and her olive skin seemed paler than before. She clenched tight when Leesha slipped a finger into her, but it was not enough. She wasn’t a virgin.

Leesha smirked. As barbaric as this ritual was, it had just given them reason to claim offense and refuse the girls before Rojer said something foolish. But then the girl looked back at her, and the fear in her eyes was a slap in the face. Amanvah caught the look and scowled.

“Get dressed,” Leesha told the girls, tossing them their robes. Sikvah quickly dressed and then moved to assist Amanvah, who glared at her as she fastened the dama’ting’s silk robe.

Leesha’s face was serene as she returned with the girls. Rojer knew the verdict was irrelevant—he was no more going to marry Jardir’s daughter than Leesha was the man himself—but for some reason, his heart was thudding in his chest as if his life depended on the answer.

“Both virgins, for what it’s worth,” Leesha said, and Rojer took a deep breath.

“Of course,” Inevera smiled. But Amanvah did not seem to agree. She moved to her mother, whispering in her ear and pointing first at Sikvah, and then at Leesha.

Inevera’s face darkened like the sky before a storm, and she strode over to Sikvah, grabbing the girl by her long braid. Rojer started for them, but Elona grabbed his arm so hard it hurt, holding him back with surprising strength.

“Don’t be stupid, fiddle boy,” she hissed. Sikvah shrieked as she was dragged behind the examination curtain. Amanvah followed, pulling it shut behind them.

“What in the Core just happened?” Rojer asked.

Leesha sighed. “Sikvah’s not a virgin.”

“But you said she was,” Rojer said.

“I know what can happen to a girl when people start questioning her ‘purity,’ ” Leesha said, “and I’ll be corespawned before I do it to anyone else.”

Elona shook her head. “Can’t save people from themselves, Leesha. Your little lie’s probably made it worse for her still. You’d just told the truth and let me ask for a bag of gold to make up for her lost value, it would be done with already.”

“She’s a human being, Mother, not a…!”

Rojer ignored them, his eyes on the curtain, and the poor girl with the beautiful voice. There was some muffled shouting, but Rojer could make no sense of it over the shrill cacophony beside him. “Will you both please shut it?!”

Both women glared at him angrily, but they quieted. There was no sound from the curtain now, and that scared Rojer all the more. He was about to rush over when it opened and Inevera strode back to them, Amanvah and a weeping Sikvah in tow. Amanvah had her arm around the other girl, comforting her and offering support. Rojer’s heart went to them, and his hand slipped up to touch his medallion through his shirt.

Inevera bowed to Rojer. “I apologize for the insult to you, son of Jessum. Your weed picker has lied to you. Sikvah is impure and will, of course, be punished severely for her lies. I beg you not to doubt my daughter’s honor by her association with this harlot.” She fingered the jeweled knife at her waist as she spoke, and Rojer was forced to wonder what sort of punishment these hard people considered “severe.”

There was a pause as everyone waited for his response. Rojer’s eyes flicked around the room, and it seemed as if every woman was holding her breath. Why? They had given no thought to him at all a moment ago.

But then it hit him. I’m the offended.

He smiled, slipping into a Jongleur’s mask as he straightened his back and met Inevera’s eyes fully for the first time. “After hearing them sing, I’ll not break the set. Sikvah’s voice is more important to me than her purity.”

Inevera relaxed slightly. “That is most forgiving of you. More than this harlot deserves.”

“I’m not deciding anything yet,” Rojer clarified. “But I would prefer she not be subject to…undue stress that might affect her voice before I do.” Inevera smiled behind her gossamer veil as if he had passed some kind of test.

Elona took Rojer by the arm, yanking him back. “This will affect the dower, of course.”

Inevera nodded. “Of course. If you will agree to chaperone, the girls may stay in the son of Jessum’s wing, that he might accustom to them and ensure their lack of…stress before he makes his decision.”

“Oh, my mother is an excellent chaperone,” Leesha muttered. Inevera looked at her curiously, as if unsure about the sarcasm in Leesha’s tone, but she said nothing.

Rojer shook his head, as if coming out of a dream. Did I just get promised?

Abban arrived just before sunset to escort them to the whipping. Leesha made a last check of the herbs and implements in her basket, breathing deeply to quell her churning stomach. For what they did to Wonda, the dal’Sharum deserved no less, but that did not mean Leesha wanted to watch their backs torn open. After seeing how lax the Krasians were about healing, though, she worried the wounds might infect and kill the men anyway if she did not treat them herself.

In Fort Angiers, she and Jizell had weekly treated men off the magistrate’s whipping post, but she ’d never been able to watch the punishment without weeping, and usually turned away. It was a horrid practice, though Leesha seldom had to treat the same man twice. They took the lesson and remembered.

“I hope you understand the honor my master pays you and the daughter of Flinn by administering the whipping personally,” Abban said, “rather than leaving it to some dama who might be lenient in sympathy to their act.”

“The dama have sympathy for rapists?” Leesha asked.

Abban shook his head. “You must understand, mistress, that our ways are different from yours. The fact that you and your women walk freely with your faces and your, ah…” he waved a hand at Leesha’s low neckline, “charms showing offends a great many men, who fear you put illicit ideas into the minds of their own women.”

“And so they sought to show Wonda her place,” Leesha said. Abban nodded.

Leesha’s brow furrowed, but her stomach suddenly calmed. Intentionally hurting another human being went against her Gatherer’s oaths, but even Bruna had not hesitated to hand out a few painful lessons to folk who failed to act civilized.

“My master has commanded that the Damaji attend as well, with their kai’Sharum,” Abban said. “He wishes them to see that they must accept some of your ways.”

Leesha nodded. “Ahmann said it was much the same when he met the Par’chin.”

Abban’s face remained carefully neutral, but Leesha saw his coloring change slightly. It wasn’t surprising that Arlen had that effect on people even before he began to tattoo his flesh.

“My master mentioned the Par’chin?” Abban asked.

“I did, actually,” Leesha said. “I was surprised that Ahmann knew him, too.”

“Oh, yes, my master and the Par’chin were great friends,” Abban said to Leesha’s surprise. “Ahmann was his ajin’pal.”

“Ajin’pal?” Leesha asked.

“His…” Abban’s brow furrowed as he searched for the proper term, “…blood brother, perhaps you would say. Ahmann showed him the Maze, and they bled for each other. Among my people, this is as binding as having the same blood in your veins.” Leesha opened her mouth, but before she could say more, Abban cut her off.

“We must leave now, if we are to arrive in time, mistress,” he said. Leesha nodded, and they gathered the rest of her delegation from the Hollow, including Amanvah and Sikvah, who attended closely to Rojer.

They were escorted to the town circle of Fort Rizon, a huge cobbled ring at the center of the city eyed with a great well and surrounded by bustling shops. Leesha saw Rizonan women shopping as well as Krasians, but though they still wore their Northern dresses, the women’s faces were wrapped in cloth that draped over their necklines as they went about in public. Many of them stared wide-eyed at Leesha and her mother, walking about uncovered, as if expecting their dal’Sharum escorts to turn on them at any moment.

Many of the Krasians had already gathered, including the Damaji in their canopied palanquins and many Sharum and dama. Three wooden posts had been erected in the circle, but there were no shackles or ropes to be seen.

There was a commotion and the crowd turned to see Jardir enter the circle, followed by Inevera on her palanquin and his other wives in tow. Leesha counted fourteen of them, but had no idea if that was all. They came and stood next to Leesha and the Hollowers, close enough for Leesha to smell the Damajah’s perfume.

Jardir walked to the posts, waving his hand at the Spears of the Deliverer. The three dal’Sharum needed no urging and no escort, walking out into the square and stripping to the waist. They knelt and touched their foreheads to the cobbles before Jardir, then stood and wrapped their arms around the poles with nothing to hold them in place. The one whose arm Wonda had broken had the limb in a white cast.

Jardir reached into his robe, pulling free a three-tailed whip of braided leather, with sharp pieces of metal woven into the last few inches of each tail.

“What is that?” Leesha asked Abban. She was expecting Jardir to use a simple horsewhip. This seemed more brutal by far.

“It is called the alagai tail,” Abban said. “A dama’s whip. They say being struck by it is like the lash of a sand demon’s tail.”

“How many strokes will they each get?” Leesha asked.

Abban laughed. “As many as they can stand for. Sharum are whipped until they lose their grip on the pole and fall.”

“But…that could kill them!” Leesha said.

Abban shrugged. “Sharum are great warriors, but not known for their intelligence or instinct for self-preservation. They think it a test of manhood to endure as many strokes as possible. Their brethren will be betting to see who endures longest.”

Leesha scowled. “I will never understand men.”

“Nor I,” Abban agreed.

It was brutal to watch, each strike of the alagai tail leaving bright lines of blood on the backs of its victim. Jardir gave each man a stroke before returning to the first, but Leesha didn’t know if it was a kindness, or an attempt to keep them from growing numb to it. She flinched with every blow, feeling as if it were striking her, too. Tears streaked her face, and she wanted nothing more than to flee the awful scene as the backs of the men became huge open wounds that showed their ribs to the world. None of them even cried out or had the sense to fall.

At one point she looked away and saw Inevera watching the proceeding with utter calm. She saw Leesha looking her way, and sneered at the tears on her face.

Something broke in Leesha then, a flare of anger acting as a ward against the suffering of the men. She straightened her back, dried her eyes, and watched the rest of the whipping with the same cool detachment the Damajah showed.

It seemed to go on forever, but at last one of the warriors fell, and then another. Leesha saw warriors exchanging coins over the results, and wanted to spit. When the last man fell, Jardir nodded to her, and Leesha rushed out to the men, pulling out the thread, salves, and bandages she had prepared. She hoped she had enough.

Jardir thumped his spear, making her glance up at him.

“Spread the word to all who would see paradise at the end of the lonely path!” Jardir bellowed, his voice booming through the circle and into the streets. “Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting, and have all the rights of Sharum accorded her!”

A shocked murmur ran through the assembled warriors, and Leesha saw horrified faces on dama and Sharum alike. Angry protests began, but Jardir silenced them with a roar.

“If any oppose this decree tonight,” he said, baring his teeth, “let them step forward. I promise a quick death with honor. To any who oppose my word tomorrow, I will not be so lenient.” There were many scowling faces in the crowd, but none foolish enough to step forward.

The next day, Abban arrived in the courtyard of the Palace of Mirrors with a dal’Sharum at his side. The warrior’s red night veil was around his shoulders, and his black beard was shot through with gray. There was nothing else remotely weak about the man, but Leesha was still surprised. Few of the Krasian warriors seemed to live long enough for their beards to be touched with gray at all. He walked proudly, but his hard face was pinched, as if he was biting back a scowl.

“May I present Gavram asu Chenin am’Kaval am’Kaji, Drillmaster of the Kaji’sharaj,” Abban said. The warrior bowed at the introduction, and Leesha spread her skirts and dipped a curtsy in response.

The warrior said something in Krasian, too fast for Leesha to follow, but Abban was quick to interpret. “He says, ‘I am here at the Deliverer’s command to train your warriors for alagai’sharak.’ Drillmaster Kaval was instructor to the Shar’Dama Ka and myself when we were in Sharaj,” Abban added. “There is no one better.”

Leesha’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Abban, searching for the elusive truth in the practiced smoothness of his face. He was crippled in sharaj, after all.

Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Do you wish to train?”

Kaval and Abban had a short exchange, again speaking so fast that Leesha, despite understanding many of the words, could still not follow. Abban seemed to argue a point, but Kaval balled a fist, and the khaffit bowed in submission.

“The drillmaster asks that I tell your warriors their wishes are irrelevant. The Shar’Dama Ka has given a command, and it will be followed.”

Leesha scowled and opened her mouth, but Gared cut her off. “S’allright, Leesh.” He put up a hand. “I want to learn.”

“Me, too,” Wonda said.

Leesha nodded and stepped aside as Kaval beckoned the two forward for examination. He grunted in approval at giant Gared, but seemed less impressed with Wonda, though she was as big and strong as most dal’Sharum. He then came back to Leesha.

“I can make a great warrior of the giant,” Abban translated, “if he is disciplined. The woman…we shall see.” He did not look hopeful.

The drillmaster stepped back into the courtyard, his movements quick and graceful. He looked at Gared and barked a command, thumping his chest.

“The drillmaster would like you to attack him,” Abban supplied.

“Din’t need you to translate that,” Gared said. He stepped forward, towering over the drillmaster, but Kaval seemed unimpressed. Gared roared and attacked, but his punches, careful though they were, met only air. He lunged to grapple and found himself on his back a moment later. Kaval twisted his arm until Gared screamed, and then released him.

“He will be even harder on you,” Abban advised Wonda. “Steel yourself.”

“Ent afraid,” Wonda said, stepping forth.

Wonda lasted longer than Gared, her moves smoother and quicker, but the outcome was never in doubt. Twice, Wonda’s blows came close enough that the drillmaster required contact to block them, but he responded once with a backhand to her jaw that sent her reeling and spitting blood, and the next time with a heavy blow to the stomach that doubled the girl over as she vomited the air from her stomach.

Kaval caught her arm before she could recover and twisted her to the cobbles. Wonda kicked him in the face as she went down, connecting solidly, but Kaval was unfazed, his mouth widening to a smile as he twisted her arm. Wonda’s face grew pale and she gritted her teeth, but she refused to cry out.

“The drillmaster will break her arm if she does not submit,” Abban warned.

“Wonda,” Leesha said, and the girl finally had the sense to let out a cry.

Kaval released her and said something to Abban in a grudging tone.

“Perhaps I can make something of her, after all,” Abban translated. “Please leave us, so we may train without distraction.”

Leesha looked at Gared and Wonda, and nodded. “Why don’t you join Rojer and I for tea, Abban.”

“I would be honored,” Abban said, bowing.

“But first,” Leesha said, her voice hardening, “make it clear to Master Kaval that there will be the Core to pay if I come back to find warriors too injured to fight tonight.”

Abban’s wives tried to serve them, but Amanvah hissed and they backed off. She clapped her hands, and Sikvah scurried to prepare the tea. Leesha wrinkled her nose. The girl might be Jardir’s niece, but even she was little more than a slave.

“They’ve been doing this since yesterday,” Rojer said. Amanvah said something in Krasian, and Abban nodded to her.

“It is our place to service Rojer’s needs,” he translated. “We will suffer it from no other.”

“I could get used this,” Rojer said with a grin, stretching back and putting his hands behind his head.

“Just don’t get too used to it,” Leesha said. “It isn’t going to last.” She saw Amanvah’s eyes tighten at that, but the girl said nothing.

Sikvah returned soon after with the tea. She served silently, eyes down, and then retreated to where Amanvah stood by the wall. Leesha took a sip of her tea, swirled it around her mouth for a moment, and then spit it back into the cup.

“You added a pinch of blackleaf powder to the mix,” she said to Sikvah, putting the cup back on the table. “Clever. Most people wouldn’t have tasted it, and at that dosage, it would take weeks to kill me.”

Rojer gasped, and spit his tea all over himself. Leesha caught his cup as it fell, and ran a finger along the porcelain rim, tasting the residue. “Nothing for you to worry over, Rojer. Seems they’re not quite so eager to be rid of you.”

Abban carefully put his cup back on the table. Amanvah looked at him and said something in Krasian.

“Ah…” Abban said to Leesha. “You make a serious accusation. Do you wish me to translate?”

“By all means,” Leesha laughed, “though I’ve no doubt she understood every word.”

Abban spoke, and Amanvah shrieked, running over to Leesha and shouting at her.

“The dama’ting calls you a liar and a fool,” Abban supplied.

Leesha smiled and held up her cup. “Tell her to drink it, then.”

Amanvah’s eyes blazed as she snatched the cup from her without waiting for translation. The liquid was still hot, but she lifted her veil and quaffed it in one gulp. She glared at Leesha with a look of smug triumph, but Leesha only smiled.

“Tell her I know she can just take the antidote tonight,” she said, “but if it’s the same one we use in the North, it will give her bloody shits for a week.” The color drained from the tiny patch of skin visible around Amanvah’s eyes even before Abban finished translating.

“The next time you try something like this, I’ll tell your father,” Leesha said, “and if I know him at all, your shared blood won’t keep him from stripping that pretty white robe off your back and tanning your hide, if he doesn’t kill you outright.”

Amanvah glared at her, but Leesha simply waved a dismissal. “Leave us.”

Amanvah hissed something. “It is not your place to dismiss us,” Abban translated.

Leesha turned to Rojer, who looked like he was going to be sick. “Send your brides to their chambers, Rojer.”

“Go!” Rojer barked, waving his hand. He didn’t even make eye contact. Amanvah’s brows met in a harsh V, and she spat something in Krasian at Leesha before she stormed off with Sikvah on her heels. Leesha memorized the words, filing the curse for future reference.

Abban laughed. “It’s no wonder the Damajah fears you.”

“She doesn’t seem afraid now,” Leesha remarked. “Bold as brass, trying to kill me in broad day.”

“After Ahmann’s last decree, it is little surprise,” Abban said. “But take heart, they do you great honor. In Krasia, if no one is trying to kill you, it is because you are not worth killing.”

“Maybe it’s time to leave,” Rojer suggested, when Abban left. “If they’ll even let us.” He could not deny he had been tempted by Amanvah and Sikvah, but now all he could imagine was knives hidden under the soft silk pillows of their chambers.

“Ahmann would let us go if I asked him to,” Leesha said, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

“Leesha, they tried to kill you!” Rojer said.

“Inevera tried, and failed,” Leesha said. “Running off now would be just as good for her as if I’d died. I refuse to be driven off by that…that…”

“Witch?” Rojer supplied.

“Witch,” Leesha agreed. “She’s got too much power over Ahmann as it is. I’m not giving up his ear without a fight.”

“Are you sure it’s his ear you’re after?” Rojer asked. Leesha glared at him, but he met her gaze coolly. “I’m not blind, Leesha,” he said. “I see how you look at him. Not like a Krasian wife, perhaps, but not like a friend, either.”

“How I feel about him is irrelevant,” Leesha said. “I have no intention of becoming part of his harem. Did you know Kaji had a thousand wives?”

“Poor bastard,” Rojer agreed. “Reckon one is more than enough for most men to handle.”

Leesha snorted. “You’d do well to remember that yourself. Besides, Abban and Ahmann both know Arlen, and both claim to be his friend.”

“That’s not what he told us,” Rojer said. “About Jardir, anyway.”

“I know,” Leesha said. “And I want to learn the truth.”

“What about Amanvah and Sikvah?” Rojer asked. “Do we send them away?”

“So they can kill Sikvah for lying about her virginity and failing to kill me?” Leesha asked. “Not a chance. We took responsibility for her.”

“That was before she tried to kill you,” Rojer said.

“See the light, Rojer,” Leesha said. “If I told Wonda to put an arrow in Inevera’s eye, I have no doubt she would do it, but the crime would be mine. Better we have them here where we can watch them and perhaps learn something useful.”

It was deep in the night when Leesha awoke to the sound of shouting. There was a pounding at her door, and she lit a lamp and she pulled on a robe of Krasian silk that Jardir had sent to her. It was cool and deliciously smooth against her skin.

She opened her door to see Rojer standing there, looking haggard. “It’s Amanvah,” he said. “I can hear her wailing in her chambers, but Sikvah won’t even open the doors.”

“I knew it,” Leesha muttered, cinching her robe tighter and tying on her pocketed apron. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go see to her.”

They went down into Rojer’s wing, and Leesha pounded on the door to the chambers the two Krasian girls had claimed. She could hear Amanvah’s muffled wails through the door, and Sikvah shouted in Krasian for them to go away.

Leesha frowned. “Rojer,” she said loudly, “run and fetch Gared. If this door isn’t open by the time you get back, have him break it down.” Rojer nodded and ran off.

As expected, the door cracked open a moment later, and a terrified Sikvah peeked out. “Everything sunny,” she said, but Leesha shoved past her into the room, following Amanvah’s voice toward the privy chamber at the back of the room. Sikvah shrieked and tried to interpose herself, but again Leesha ignored her and tried the door. It was locked.

“Where is the key?” she demanded. Sikvah ignored her, babbling in Krasian, but Leesha had had enough. She slapped the girl hard on the cheek, the crack echoing through the room.

“Stop pretending you don’t understand me!” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot. You say one more word in Krasian and the Damajah’s anger will be the least of your worries.”

Sikvah did not reply, but the terrified look on her face made it clear she had understood.

“Where. Is. The. Key?” Leesha asked again, biting off each word with a show of teeth. Sikvah quickly reached into her robes, producing it.

Leesha was through the door in an instant. The richly appointed privy stank of waste and vomit, only made worse by the jasmine burning in the incense brazier, a sickly combination that would have made most anyone heave. Leesha ignored the stench, going straight to Amanvah, lying on the floor next to the commode, wailing and moaning. Her hood and veils were cast aside, and her olive skin seemed almost white.

“She’s dehydrated,” Leesha said. “Bring a pitcher of cold water and set a kettle on the fire.” Sikvah ran off, and Leesha continued to inspect the girl, as well as the contents of the commode. Finally, she sniffed at the cup on the vanity table, tasting the residue.

“You brewed this poorly,” she told Amanvah. “You could have used a third as much fleshroot and still safely counteracted the blackleaf.” The young dama’ting said nothing, staring blankly as she labored for breath, but Leesha knew she heard and understood every word.

She took a mortar and pestle from her apron, hands darting from pocket to pocket without so much as a glance as she filled it with the proper mixture of herbs. Sikvah brought the hot water, and Leesha brewed a second potion, bidding Sikvah to hold her mistress up as she forced it down the girl’s throat.

“Open the windows to blow in some fresh air,” Leesha told Sikvah, “and bring pillows. She’ll need to stay by the commode for the next few hours as we hydrate her.”

Rojer and Gared stuck their heads in, and Leesha promptly sent them to bed. She and Sikvah tended Amanvah until her insides calmed and they could carry her to the bed.

“Sleep’s the best thing for you now,” Leesha said, putting another potion to Amanvah’s lips. “You’ll wake in twelve hours and then we’ll try to get some rice and bread into you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Amanvah whispered, her accent thick like her mother’s, but every word clear. “My mother would not be so kind to one who tried to poison her.”

“Nor would mine, but we are not our mothers, Amanvah,” Leesha said.

Amanvah smiled. “When next I face her, I may wish the poison had killed me.”

Leesha shook her head. “You’re under my roof now. No one is going to do anything to you, including forcing you to marry Rojer if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, but we do, mistress,” Sikvah said. “The handsome son of Jessum is touched by Everam. First and second wives to such a man, what more could any woman aspire to?”

Leesha opened her mouth to reply, then promptly closed it again, knowing any answer she gave would fall upon uncomprehending ears.

Elona was sitting in the hall when Leesha finally emerged from Amanvah’s chambers. Leesha sighed, wanting nothing more than to crawl into her bed herself, but Elona stood and moved to walk with her back to the stairs.

“It true what Rojer says?” Elona asked. “The girls tried to poison you?”

Leesha nodded.

Elona smiled. “Means Inevera thinks you’ve got a good chance of stealing him from her.”

“I’m fine, if you care,” Leesha said.

“Course you are,” Elona said. “You’re my daughter, like or not. Ent no desert witch going to stop you once you’ve got a shine for a man.”

“I don’t want to steal another woman’s husband, Mother,” Leesha said.

Elona laughed. “Then why are you here?”

“To try and stop a war,” Leesha said flatly.

“And if the cost of stopping a war is stealing the husband of a woman who tried to murder you?” Elona asked. “Is that too high a price to pay?” She snorted. “Ent stealing, anyways. These women share husbands like hens share roosters.”

Leesha rolled her eyes. “Oh, to be so lucky as to be one of Ahmann’s laying hens.”

“Better than the ones gone to slaughter,” Elona shot back.

They reached Leesha’s apartments, and Elona followed her in. Leesha fell onto a pillowed divan, putting her head in her hands. “I wish Bruna were here. She ’d know what to do.”

“She ’d marry Jardir and tame him,” Elona said. “If she had your body and youth, she’d’ve bent both Deliverers to her will by now, and gotten her toes curled to sweeten the pot.”

“You can’t know that, Mother,” Leesha said.

“I know better than you,” Elona said. “I was apprenticed to that miserable old hag before you were ever born, and there were a scant few alive then old enough to remember Bruna in her prime. Her legs never closed, to hear them say it, until she married late in life, and she ran that town even more surely than she did in her dotage. More surely than you run it now, because she had power, not just here,” Elona poked Leesha in the temple, “but here, as well.” She stabbed a finger to point at her own crotch. “That is a woman’s power, as much as gathering herbs, and only a fool chooses not to take advantage of it.”

Leesha opened her mouth to protest, but for some reason her mother’s words rang true, and no rebuttal came to her. Bruna had been a filthy old woman, full of bawdy remarks and tales of her promiscuous youth. Leesha had dismissed many of the stories, thinking the old woman had simply liked to shock people, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“Take advantage how?” she asked.

“Jardir is obsessed with you,” Elona said. “Any woman can read it on him at a glance. That is why Inevera fears you, and why you have an opportunity to take this desert snake by the throat and turn it aside from your people.”

“My people,” Leesha said. “The Hollow.”

“Of course, the Hollow!” Elona snapped. “Rizon’s sun has set, and ent nothing for it.”

“What of Angiers?” Leesha asked. “Lakton? Every hamlet between here and there? I might be able to protect the Hollow, but what can I do for them?”

“From Jardir’s bed?” Elona asked, incredulous. “Is there a place in the world you could influence the war more? Slake a man’s lust, and he will give you anything you ask. Surely that big brain of yours can think of a few simple requests to turn the worst of his tide.”

She bent close to Leesha, putting her lips to Leesha’s ear. “Or would you rather it be Inevera’s voice that whispers advice in his ear as he drifts off to sleep each night?”

It was a terrifying thought, and Leesha shook her head, but she still felt unsure.

“The gates of Heaven don’t lie between your legs, Leesha,” Elona said. “I know you wanted to wait for your wedding night, and truth be told, I wanted that for you, too. But it din’t happen that way, and life goes on.”

Leesha looked at her mother sharply, and saw Elona’s defiant visage staring back at her, ready to stand by every word.

“You see the world very clearly, Mother,” Leesha said. “I envy you, sometimes.”

Elona was taken aback. “You do?” she asked, incredulous.

Leesha smiled. “Not often, mind.”

CHAPTER 30 FERAL

RENNA WAITED PATIENTLY AS the rock demon materialized. She had chosen her perch carefully, high in the single tall tree atop a hill where a large facing of bedrock jutted from the ground like a broken bone sticking through flesh.

The pattern of tracks in the soil told her the giant coreling, some dozen feet tall, materialized in this same spot almost every night. Over the last six weeks, Arlen had taught her many things, including the fact that rock demons were creatures of habit, and lesser demons would have learned to stay clear of any rising place claimed by a rock demon.

As the foul gray mist seeped from the bedrock, slowly coalescing into demonic form, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she embraced her fear and found her inner center.

It was amazing how well the Krasian technique worked. It had been a challenge at first, but now it took only a moment to shift her perspective, going to a mental place where there was no pain, no fear of foe or failure.

The world looked different as she opened her eyes and stood, bare feet gripping the tree limb in perfect balance. In her left hand, she gripped Harl’s knife, running her thumb absently over the wards she had carved into the bone handle. In her right, she held a single chestnut.

A cool breeze rustled the yellowing leaves around her, and she inhaled deeply, letting the air caress her bare skin, feeling as much a part of the nighttime world as the unsuspecting demon materializing below her.

Her waist-length brown hair had gotten in her way and was now a short, spiky remnant with only a single braided tail to recall its former length. She had discarded her dress entirely, cutting her shift into two parts: a high vest laced tightly to hold her breasts in place but open below to reveal her warded belly, and a skirt slit high on both sides to free her warded legs.

Arlen still refused to ward her flesh for her, but she had ignored him, grinding her own blackstems. The ink stained her skin a dark brown that lasted many days before fading.

She looked down, seeing the demon solidify at last, and flicked the chestnut. Without waiting to see if it struck its mark, she stepped off the branch into thin air, dropping silently.

The chestnut hit the demon’s far shoulder as she fell, the heat ward she had painted onto its smooth surface blazing bright in the darkness as it sucked magic from the powerful coreling. The tough nut became superheated in an instant, and exploded with a bang.

The rock demon was unharmed, but the flash and noise turned its head the other way just as Renna landed on its broad armored shoulder. She grabbed one of its horns with her free hand for balance and drove her knife into its throat. The wards on the blade flared, and she was rewarded with a jolt of magic and a hot gush of black ichor that covered her hand.

She snarled and drew her arm back for another strike, but the demon howled, throwing its head back, and it was all Renna could do to hold on to its horn and keep her perch.

She swung wildly to avoid the talons as the demon clawed and punched at its own head in an effort to dislodge her, stabbing with the knife and kicking her warded feet at whatever targets came in range. Magic bucked through her with each strike, an electric thrill that made her faster, stronger, more resilient with every touch. The wards around her eyes activated, and the night lit up with magic’s glow.

Her blows distracted the demon, but they did little more. She could no longer access the more vulnerable eyes and throat, and she did not have the leverage to stab through its thick skull. Sooner or later, one of its wild swings would crush her. She laughed at the thrill of it.

Sheathing her knife, Renna reached into her waistband, pulling free the long string of brook stones Cobie Fisher had given her in what seemed like another life. She whipped the necklace around the demon’s throat, letting go its horn to catch the far end as it came around. She crossed her arms and dropped down into the groove between its armored shoulder blades, hanging from the ends of the leather cord just out of the enraged coreling’s reach.

She was slammed about but kept her grip, using her full weight to pull the warded beads tight around the demon’s throat. Renna had painted the smooth stones with wards of forbidding, and they flared to repel, the magic crushing inward from all sides.

In moments the giant rock demon’s thrashing and thunderous footfalls became twitches and staggered steps. The string grew warm as the magic built in intensity, brightening the night.

At last, there was a crack and a final flare before the magic winked out. The giant horned head fell free, and Renna kicked off, leaping out of the way. She landed lightly on her feet as the giant demon came crashing down next to her. She could feel the stolen magic tingling in her skin, healing every scrape and bruise received in the battle. She looked at the black demon ichor on her hands, and laughed again, winding up her beads and running off to continue the hunt.

She had never felt so free.

A flame demon came at her, a lone coreling hunting through the brush by the trees. Renna set her feet as it charged, waiting for the telltale inhalation.

Flame demons always opened their attacks with a blast of firespit as soon as they were in range. The spit could set anything alight, and usually stunned their prey into helplessness while they pressed the attack with tooth and claw. But if the initial blast could be avoided, there was a brief period before they could spit fire again.

Renna crouched, face low to the ground, presenting a clear target as the demon pulled up short right in front of her, inhaling. It squinted its lidless eyes shut as it began to blow, a reflex not unlike when a human sneezed, and Renna dashed to the left in that instant, the bright blast of firespit arcing through empty air.

By the time the coreling opened its eyes and saw she was gone, Renna was behind it, grabbing its horns. She yanked its head back and gutted it like a hare caught in her father’s field.

The flame demon’s ichor spattered her, burning like embers from a fire, but Renna was in a place beyond pain. She slapped mud where the drops had fallen, cooling her skin, and rose.

A low rumbling told her that in the scant moments the battle with the flame demon had taken, she had been surrounded. She turned to see a wood demon hunched before her, standing six feet at the shoulder, stooped. Farther back and waiting in the trees, her warded eyes caught its two fellows, their rough armor blending into the surrounding woods, but unable to mask their magic. When she engaged the first, the strongest, the others would come at her from the sides.

Renna had killed wood demons many times, but three was two more than she had ever faced at once without Arlen beside her.

Is three more than I can face? She pushed the useless thought away. There was no outrunning demons; nowhere to hide once they spotted you. There was only kill or be killed.

“Come on, then,” she snarled, pointing her knife at the demon before her.

The Painted Man watched Renna from the trees on the far side of the road, shaking his head. It had taken him some time to track her down. He had gone to gather herbs and firewood, and made her promise to wait at the keep until he returned, so they could hunt together. This wasn’t the first time Renna had gotten impatient or simply ignored his wishes and gone off on her own.

Watching her slip around the flame demon’s blind spot, laying it open from tooth to tail with her father’s knife, he had to admit she was a fast learner. More than even Wonda of the Cutters, Renna Tanner had thrown herself into the art of demon hunting body and soul, and her skill level after just a few short weeks was a testament to that.

He wondered if he had done the right thing, teaching her to embrace her fears. Renna had taken it too far and quickly become reckless; as much a danger to herself as the demons.

He understood what she was going through—more than she would ever know. The night was unforgiving, even to one who embraced its ways, as shown by the copse of wood demons he saw stalking Renna while her attention was focused on the flame demon. Likely she would only see the one that came at her openly, the trunk, and the branches would have her.

The Painted Man nocked an arrow to his great bow, holding it at the ready. He would wait until she saw all three, and knew doom was upon her, before killing them. Perhaps then she would begin to take better care.

The wood demon roared, an act meant to terrify and stun her, much like the flame demon’s spit. All along, its fellows crept closer, positioning themselves to strike.

But Renna never gave them a chance, charging forward in a seemingly suicidal attack. The wood demon bared its rows of teeth and hooked claws, throwing out its chest to accept her initial strike. Wood demons were second only to rock demons in strength, and likely the beast had never had its barklike armor pierced.

Renna pivoted, using her momentum to power a circle kick. Her warded instep and shin exploded into the demon’s chest, and it was thrown back in a blast of magic, stunned.

The other demons roared out of the trees, and Renna charged at one, grabbing its wrist and setting her feet, twisting her hips to turn the force of the demon’s attack against it. It was almost effortless, the way she made the heavy wood demon sail through the air into the third member of the copse. She ran into the press, Harl’s knife stabbing into every opening that presented itself in the tumble as the two corelings tried to untangle and right themselves.

One of the demons swiped at Renna from its prone position as she came within reach of its long, branchlike arms. She threw herself back, feeling the air whistle across her chest as its claws passed. She had been unable to effectively ward the cloth of her vest, and the claws would have cut deeply had they connected. She envied Arlen his ability to fight shirtless.

She righted herself unharmed, but her momentum was lost, and all three wood demons had regained their feet to threaten her again. They carried scorched wounds where she had struck, but even as the magic she ’d leeched from the corelings healed her own wounds, so too were they recovering quickly. In moments they would be fully healed.

She reached into the pouch at her waist as they charged, hurling a handful of warded chestnuts their way. The demons shrieked and threw up their arms defensively as the heat wards flared, the chestnuts bursting into intense flames with tiny pops.

The two outermost corelings escaped unharmed, but the one in the center took the brunt of the salvo and its shoulder caught fire. In a moment the whole creature was aflame, shrieking and flailing about madly.

Seeing their fellow ablaze, the demons to either side backpedaled away from it, separating farther and giving Renna the opening she needed. She charged back in at one, stabbing up into the vulnerable gap between the third and fourth ribs on its right side. Her long knife pierced the coreling’s black heart.

She ducked under its death throes and grabbed its shoulder with her left hand as it lunged. The ward on her palm flared hot, burning the demon’s knobby armored skin, and she felt flush with strength and power as a portion of its magic arced into her. She pivoted and drove her knife in deeper, using it to lift the two-hundred-pound demon clear over her head. She shrieked, sounding like a demon herself, and threw it into its blazing companion.

Harl’s knife, still deep in the demon, should have come free then, but the crosspiece caught on its lower rib. She cried out as the blade was torn from her grasp.

Seeing her unarmed, the last demon roared and charged her, tackling her into the scrub and dirt.

Wards flared all over her body, but the demon, mad with rage and pain, bit and clawed wildly until its searching talons found purchase. Its claws dug deep, Renna screamed, and hot blood soaked the ground.

There was a rustle in the trees, and Renna knew more wood demons, drawn to the light and activity, would soon be upon her. Not that it mattered, if she did not end the fight with the demon atop her quickly.

The demon roared again, and she roared right back, shoving hard against it and reversing the pin. It was a basic sharusahk move, one any novice could have prevented, but corelings had only instinctive knowledge of leverage. She pumped her knees continually, hitting the demon’s thighs to keep it from shifting its legs up to claw at her. She had owned enough cats to know the fight would be over quickly if it gained that advantage.

She managed to free a hand, grabbing at her beads, and whipped them around the coreling’s corded neck, tucking in close to minimize the demon’s reach and leverage as she crossed the ends and pulled in opposite directions. Its claws continued to tear at her, but she embraced the pain and held on until the wards flared and the great horned head severed with a pop, spraying her with black, smoking ichor.

The Painted Man had unconsciously eased the draw of his bow when Renna threw her chestnuts. He knew the heat ward; it was common enough in Tibbet’s Brook, and his parents had used it often in winter, painting large stones around the house and barn to absorb and hold the heat. He had tried making weapons with it in the past, but while it was good for arrowheads, it always either consumed hand weapons or burned through the wrappings of the hilt to scorch his hands. Even the tiny heat wards on his skin burned horribly when activated.

It had never occurred to him to ward chestnuts with them. Barely a few weeks into the night, and Renna was already warding creatively in ways he had never thought of.

He watched the wild look in her eyes as she lifted the demon over her head, and wondered if he had looked the same the first few times he ’d felt the rush of coreling magic. He imagined he had. It was a heady feeling, and gave delusions of invincibility.

But Renna wasn’t invincible, and that was made clear an instant later as she was disarmed and the wood demon tackled her. The Painted Man cried out, fear making him go cold as he fumbled for his bow. He tried to take aim as they struggled on the ground, but he was unable to get a clear shot, and wouldn’t risk hitting Renna. Dropping the bow, he burst from hiding to rescue her.

Only to find his aid unrequired.

He stood there, his heart thudding in his chest at the sight of Renna, beautiful Renna, whose soft childhood kiss he had dreamed of on so many lonely nights in the wild, bloodied and battered atop the demon corpse.

She turned his way snarling, until recognition lit her eyes. Then she smiled at him, looking like a cat that had just laid a dead rat at its owner’s feet.

Renna rolled off the corpse, struggling to regain her feet before the other demons were upon her. She was covered in her own blood, though already she felt the flow decreasing as her stolen magic began to knit the wounds. Still, she felt in no state to keep fighting.

She snarled, refusing to give in, but when she raised her eyes there was only Arlen there, glowing brightly with magic like one of the Creator’s haloed seraphs. He was clad only in his loincloth, and he was beautiful, pale muscles rippling under the pulsing wards crawling across his skin. He wasn’t tall like Harl or bulky like Cobie, but Arlen exuded a strength those other men lacked. She beamed at him, flush with pride in her victory. Three wood demons!

“You all right?” he asked, but there was sternness in his voice, not pride.

“Ay,” she said. “Just need a moment to rest.”

He nodded. “Sit down and breathe deeply. Let the magic heal you.”

Renna did as she was told, feeling the deep cuts all over her body beginning to close. Soon most would be nothing but thin scars, and even those would fade quickly.

Arlen picked up the charred remains of one of her chestnuts. “Clever,” he grunted.

“Thanks,” Renna said, even the simple compliment sending a thrill through her.

“But clever wards or no, that was stupid of you, Ren,” he went on. “You could have set the forest on fire, not to mention the foolishness of taking on three wood demons at once.”

Renna felt like he’d punched her in the stomach. “Din’t ask them to stalk me.”

“But you did ignore me and go huntin’ ripping rock demon by yourself,” Arlen scolded. “And left your cloak back at the keep.”

“Cloak gets in the way when I hunt,” Renna said.

“Don’t care,” Arlen said. “That last demon nearly killed you, Ren. Your ground form against it was terrible. A nie’Sharum could have broken that hold.”

“What’s it matter?” Renna snapped, stung, even though she knew he was right. “I won.”

“It matters,” Arlen said, “because sooner or later, you won’t. Even a wood demon can get lucky and break a hold, Renna. Strong as you feel when the magic is jolting through you, you’re still not half as strong as they are. Forget that, cease to respect them even for an instant, and they’ll have you. That means you take every advantage you can get, and being invisible to demons is a big one.”

“Then why don’t you use it?” Renna asked.

“ ’Cause I gave it to you,” Arlen said.

“Demonshit,” Renna spat. “You were huntin’ through your bags for it like you hadn’t seen it in weeks. Bet you ent never worn it, either.”

“This ent about me,” Arlen said. “I been at this much longer than you, Ren. You’re getting drunk on the magic, and it ent safe. I know.”

“If that ent the night callin’ it black!” Renna shouted. “You do it, and you’re fine.”

“Corespawn it, Renna, I ent fine!” he shouted. “Night, I feel it changin’ me as we speak. The aggression, the disdain for day folk. It’s the magic talkin’. Demon magic. A little makes you strong. Too much makes you…feral.”

He held up his hand, covered in hundreds of tiny wards. “Ent natural, what I done. Made me crazy a good sight, and I don’t reckon I’m even half sane now.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want it to happen to you, too.”

Renna took his face in her hands. “Thank you for caring,” she said. He smiled and tried to look down, but she held his face and kept eye contact. “But you ent my da or my husband, and even if you were, my body’s my own, and I’ll do with it as I will. Ent living my life how other people tell me no more. I’ll follow my own path from now on.”

Arlen scowled. “You following your own path, or have you just latched on to mine?”

Renna’s eyes bulged, and every muscle in her body screamed at her to leap upon him, kicking and clawing and biting until he…She shook her head, drawing a deep breath.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“Come back with me to the keep,” Arlen said.

“Damn your ripping keep!” she shrieked. “Leave me alone, you son of the Core!”

Arlen looked at her a long moment. “All right.”

Renna locked her jaw tight, refusing to cry as he walked away. She got to her feet, keeping her back straight despite the pain as she retrieved her knife from the charred remains of the demon. Despite the conflagration, the weapon was undamaged, and still tingled with residual magic as she wiped it off and returned it to its sheath on her hip.

She stood a long time after Arlen left, two sides warring within her. One wanted to scream and charge into the night, looking for demons to vent her rage upon. The other part wondered if Arlen was right, and threatened to drop her weeping to the ground at any moment.

She closed her eyes, embracing both the pain and the rage and stepping away from them. It was amazing how quickly she calmed.

Arlen was simply being overprotective. After all she had done, he still didn’t trust her.

In a place beyond feeling, she set her feet and began the first sharukin, flowing from one move to the next, trying to force the forms into her muscles so deeply that they would come without her even thinking of them. As she did, she recalled every moment of the night’s battles, searching for ways she could improve.

He might be the almighty Painted Man to others, but Renna knew he was just Arlen Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, and she’d be corespawned if there was anything he could do that she couldn’t.

That went well, the Painted Man thought sarcastically as he walked away. He didn’t go far, sitting and putting his back to a tree, closing his eyes. His ears could hear the scraping of caterpillars on leaves. If Renna needed him, he would hear and come.

He cursed the childhood naïveté that had kept him from seeing Harl for what he was. When Ilain had offered herself to his father, he had thought her wicked beyond words, but she was just doing what she needed to survive, as he himself had done out on the Krasian Desert.

And Renna…if he’d gone back with his father instead of running off when his mother died, she would have come back to the farm with them, safe from her father and spared a death sentence. Their own children would be promising age by now.

But he had turned his back on Renna; another path to happiness abandoned, and her life had become a horror as a result.

He was wrong to have brought her with him. Selfish. He was thinking only of himself to damn her to this life just to keep himself sane. Renna was choosing his path because she felt she had nothing left to lose, but it wasn’t too late for her. She could never go back to the Brook, but if he could get her to Deliverer’s Hollow, she could see that there were still good folk in the world, folk willing to fight without giving up the very things that made them human.

But the Hollow, even if they took the straightest route possible, was still more than a week’s travel from their keep. He needed to return Renna to civilization immediately, before her new wildness became the only thing she knew.

Riverbridge was less than two days away. From there they could go on to Cricket Run, Angiers, and Farmer’s Stump before reaching the Hollow. Every chance that presented itself, he would force her to interact with people and remain alert through the sun instead of sleeping the mornings away and tracking demon patterns in the afternoon as both of them had taken to doing.

He hated the idea of spending so much time amid people himself, but there was nothing for it. Renna was more important. If people saw his wards and began to talk, so be it.

Euchor had kept his word in letting refugees cross the Dividing, but with all of Rizon’s harvest lost and summer solstice come and gone, it was hard times for all. Riverbridge was swollen on both sides of the river by a growing tent city of refugees outside the walls of the town proper, poorly warded and rife with filth and poverty. Renna crinkled her nose in disgust as they rode through, and he knew the scene was doing nothing to dissuade her rejection of civilization.

The number of guards at the gate had increased as well, and they looked disparagingly at the Painted Man and Renna as they approached. It wasn’t surprising. Covered head-to-toe even in the hot sun, the Painted Man’s appearance never failed to draw attention, and Renna, clad in scandalously revealing rags and covered in fading blackstem stains, did little to reassure them.

But the Painted Man had yet to meet a guard in any city or town who didn’t turn welcoming at the sight of a gold coin, and he had many in his saddlebags. Soon after, they were inside the walls, stabling their mounts outside a bustling inn. It was early evening, and the Bridgefolk were returning home from a day’s toil.

“Don’t like it here,” Renna said, looking around as people passed them in the hundreds. “Half the folk’re starvin’, and the other half look as if they expect us to rob them.”

“Ent nothin’ for it,” the Painted Man said. “I need news, and that can’t be had out in the wilds. Get used to towns for a while.” Renna didn’t look pleased with the answer, but she kept her mouth closed and nodded.

The taproom of the inn was crowded at this time of day, but much of the activity was centered at the bar, and the Painted Man spotted a small empty table in the back. He and Renna sat, and a barmaid came to them after a few moments. She was young and pretty, though her eyes had a sad, tired look to them. Her dress was clean for the most part, but it was worn, and he knew at once from the tone of her skin and the shape of her face that she was Rizonan, probably one of the first of the refugees, lucky enough to find work.

There was a raucous table of men seated next to them. “Ay, Milly, another round here!” one of them cried, and slapped the barmaid’s rump with an audible crack. She jumped and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before putting on a false smile and half turning to the men. “Sure as day, boys,” she said cheerfully.

Her smile vanished when she turned back to them. “What’ll ya have?”

“Two ales and dinner,” the Painted Man said. “And a room, if there’s one to spare.”

“There is,” the girl said, “but with all the folk passing through town, price is dear.”

The Painted Man nodded, laying a gold coin on the table. The maid’s eyes bulged; she had probably never seen real gold in her life. “That should cover our meal and a night’s drinking. You can keep the change. Now, who should I speak to about that room?”

The girl snatched up the coin instantly, before any of the surrounding patrons could see it. “Talk to Mich, he owns the place,” she said, pointing to a large man with rolled sleeves and a white apron, sweating behind the bar as he tried to keep all the mugs being thrust at him full of ale. As he turned to look, the Painted Man saw her thrust the coin into the front of her dress.

“Thank you,” he said.

The girl nodded. “Have your ales right away, Tender.” She bowed and scurried off.

“Stay here and keep to yourself while I get us a room,” the Painted Man told Renna. “Won’t be long.” She nodded, and he moved off.

There was a tight press at the bar, men looking for a last few ales before retiring behind their wards for the night. He had to wait at the end for the innkeep’s attention, but when the man glanced his way, the Painted Man flashed another of his gold coins, and he came swiftly.

Mich had the look of a once burly man gone fat. Formidable enough to toss an unruly patron, perhaps, but success and middle age seemed to have sapped the strength of his youth.

“A room,” the Painted Man said, handing him the coin. He pulled another from his purse and held it up. “And news of the South, if you have it. Been out Tibbet’s Brook way.”

Mich nodded, but his eyes squinted. “Ent nothin’ passing for news out there,” he agreed, leaning in a bit to try to see under the Painted Man’s hood.

The Painted Man took a step back, and the innkeep immediately backed away, glancing nervously at the coin, afraid it might disappear.

“South’s all anyone talks about these days, Tender,” Mich said. “Ever since the desert rats stole the Hollow’s Herb Gatherer as a bride for their leader, the demon of the desert.”

“Jardir,” the Painted Man growled, clenching his fist. He should have snuck into the Krasian camp and killed him the moment they came out of the desert. He had once thought Jardir a man of honor, but he saw now it was all a façade to mask his lust for power.

“Word is,” Mich went on, “he came there lookin’ to kill the Painted Man, but the Deliverer’s up and disappeared.”

Rage welled up in the Painted Man, burning like bile. If Jardir harmed Leesha in any way, if he so much as touched her, he would kill him and scatter his armies back to the desert.

“You all right, Tender?” Mich asked. The Painted Man flicked him the mangled coin that had been in his clenched fist and turned away without waiting for a room key. He needed to get back to the Hollow with no delay.

Just then he heard Renna shout, and there was a cry of pain.

Renna sucked in her breath as they entered the tavern. She had never seen a place like this, where folk gathered in such a tight, uncomfortable press. The din was overwhelming, and the air was hot and stale, choked with pipe smoke and sweat. She felt her heart pounding, but when she glanced at Arlen, she saw he stood tall, his stride sure, and she remembered who he was. Who they were. She straightened as well, meeting the eyes of those who stared with cool indifference.

There were hoots and catcalls as some of the men caught sight of her, but she glared at them, and most quickly turned their eyes away. As they pushed through the crowd, though, she felt a hand paw at her behind. She whirled, gripping her knife handle tightly, but there was no sign of the offender; it could have been any of a dozen men, all studiously ignoring her. She gritted her teeth and hurried after Arlen, hearing a laugh at her back.

When the man at the table next to them slapped the barmaid’s bottom, Renna felt a rage fly through her like nothing she had ever felt. Arlen pretended not to see, but she knew better. Like her, he was probably fighting the urge to break the man’s arm.

After Arlen left to speak with the innkeeper, the man turned his chair to face her.

“Thought that Tender would never leave,” he said with a wide smile. He was a tall Milnese man, broad-shouldered, with a coarse yellow beard and long golden hair. His companions at the table all turned to look at Renna, pawing at her bare flesh with their eyes.

“Tender?” she asked, confused.

“Yer chaperone in the robes,” the man said. “Figure a girl as pretty as you needs a Holy Man to ’scort her about, ’cause no other man could keep his hands off.” He reached under the table, his large hand wrapping around her bare thigh and squeezing. Renna stiffened, shocked at his boldness.

“Figure you’re woman enough for all three of us,” the man husked. “Bet you’re already dripping for it.” His hand probed higher beneath her skirt.

Renna had had enough. She reached down and gripped his thumb with her left hand while putting the knuckle of her right hard into the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger. The big man’s grip weakened to nothing as he gasped in pain, and a sharusahk twist bent his wrist back and planted his hand firmly on the table.

Where her knife cut it off.

The man’s eyes bulged, and for a moment time seemed frozen as neither he nor his companions reacted. Then suddenly blood began to spurt from the wound, the man started screaming, and his friends all leapt to their feet, knocking back their chairs.

Renna was ready for them. She kicked the screaming man into one of his fellows and leapt onto the table, crouching with her feet set wide and her father’s knife in a downward grip beneath her forearm, hidden from most onlookers, but ready to slash out at any who came near.

“Renna?!” Arlen cried, grabbing her from behind. She kicked and twisted as he pulled her down from the table.

“What’s going on here?” Mich demanded, shoving through the gathering crowd carrying a heavy cudgel.

“The witch cut off my hand!” the blond man cried.

“Lucky I din’t cut off more ’n that!” Renna snarled at him over Arlen’s shoulder. “You had no right to touch me there! I ent promised to you!”

The innkeep whirled on her, but then caught sight of Arlen and his eyes widened. Arlen’s hood had fallen back as he struggled to hold her, revealing his warded flesh to all.

“The Painted Man,” the innkeep whispered, and the name was repeated as it spread through the crowd.

“Deliverer!” someone cried.

“Time to go,” Arlen murmured, grabbing her arm. She kept pace with him as he shoved past those who did not scurry out of his way. He tugged his hood back in place, but there was still a sizable crowd following them from the inn.

Arlen quickened his pace, dragging her to the stables where he flipped the hand another gold coin and headed for Twilight Dancer.

Moments later they burst from the stables and galloped from the town. The guards at the gate shouted after them as the crowd from the inn came running up behind, but dusk was falling, and no one dared follow them into the gloaming.

“Corespawn it, Ren, you can’t just go around cutting people ’s hands off!” Arlen scolded when they stopped for the night in a clearing not far from town.

“Deserved it,” Renna said. “Ent no man gon’ touch me there again, ’cept I want him to.”

Arlen made a face, but he gave no retort.

“Break his thumb next time,” he said at last. “No one ’ll look twice at you for that. After what you did, there ’ll be no going back to Riverbridge for some time.”

“Hated it there anyway,” Renna said. “This,” she spread her arms as if to embrace the night, “this is where we belong.”

But Arlen shook his head. “Deliverer’s Hollow’s where I belong, and with what the innkeep told me before you pulled your crazy stunt, ent got no time to waste gettin’ there.”

Renna shrugged. “So let’s go.”

“How can we, when you’ve just cut us off from the only ripping bridge in Thesa?” Arlen cried. “Dividing’s too deep to ford and too wide for Dancer to swim.”

Renna looked at her feet. “Sorry. Din’t know.”

Arlen sighed. “Done is done, Ren. We’ll figure something out, but you’re going to need to cover up a bit in towns. Fine to bare your wards to the night, but that much flesh will put ideas in the head of any man sees you in the light.”

“Any head but yours, it seems,” Renna muttered.

“All they see is bare legs and cleavage,” Arlen said. “I see the blooddrunk girl who thinks with her knife more than her head.”

Renna’s eyes widened. “Son of the Core!” she shrieked, and launched herself at him, knife leading. Arlen slid to the side effortlessly, grabbing her wrist and twisting the knife from her hand. He put his hand against her elbow and used her own force to throw her onto her back.

She tried to rise, but he fell on her, grabbing her wrists and pinning her. She tried to put her knee hard between his legs, but he was wise to the move, and moments later his knees were pinning her thighs with his full weight. Her magical strength had dissipated with the sun as it did every day, and she could not force him from her. She screamed and thrashed wildly.

“Making my point for me!” he growled. “Stop it!”

“Ent this what you wanted?” Renna cried. “Someone din’t slow you down? Someone who wern’t ’fraid of the night?” She pulled at his grip, but his arms were iron. Their faces were mere inches apart.

“Din’t ‘want’ anything, Ren,” Arlen said, “ ’cept to get you out of a bad situation. Din’t mean to make you…like me.”

Renna ceased struggling. “You din’t make me do anything ’cept look hard at myself. Everything else, I done ’cause I wanted. You leave me tomorrow, I’ll still paint my skin. I ent going back to prison now I’ve had a taste of bein’ free.”

She felt his grip weaken and could have pulled her hands free if she’d wanted to, but there was something in Arlen’s eyes, a flicker of understanding she hadn’t seen before.

“Thought of the night we played kissy in the hayloft a lot when I was a girl,” she said. “Meant that kiss as a promise, and I felt it on my lips years after, while I waited for you to come back. Always thought you would. Din’t kiss no other till Cobie Fisher, and by then it was the only way not to be alone with Da. Cobie was a good man, but I din’t really love him any more than he did me. Barely knew each other.”

“You barely knew me, too, when we were kids,” Arlen said.

She nodded. “Din’t know what promisin’ meant, either, or that what Lainie and Da were doin’ was wrong. Din’t understand a lot of things I do now.”

She felt tears welling in her eyes, and had no choice but to let them fall. “Seen what you are and how you live. Ent got any illusions. But I could still be a wife to you. Want to, you’ll have me.”

He kept looking at her wordlessly, but his eyes said more. He bent even closer. Their noses touched gently, and she felt a shiver go through her.

“Sometimes I can still feel that kiss,” she whispered, closing her eyes and parting her lips. For a moment, she was certain he would kiss her, but then he let go her arms and rolled off. She opened her eyes in surprise to see him get to his feet and turn away.

“Don’t know as much as you think you do, Ren,” he said.

Renna wanted to scream in frustration, but a sadness in his tone softened her. She gasped, coming to her knees. “Creator. You’re married already!” She felt like she couldn’t breathe.

But Arlen looked back at her, and he laughed. Not the polite barks he might give at a jest, or a cruel sound meant to hurt, but a full laugh that shook his body so much he needed to put a hand on Twilight Dancer to steady himself. She felt her lungs ease as the sound denied her fear. Something in her gave way, and she found herself laughing along as he roared at the joke, hugging her sides and kicking her feet. It went on a good while, and the tension between them had vanished when they finally slowed to sporadic giggles, and then fell silent.

Renna got to her feet and put a hand on Arlen’s arm. “If there ’s something I don’t know, then tell me.”

Arlen looked at her and nodded. Again he pulled from her grasp, walking a few feet away, his eyes on the ground.

“Here,” he said after a moment, kicking the dirt. “There’s a path to the Core right here.”

She came over, looking with her warded eyes. Indeed, the glowing mist eddying about their feet was flowing from the spot like smoke from a pipe.

“I can feel it,” Arlen said, “stretching all the way to the Core. It’s calling to me, Ren. Like my mam at suppertime, it’s calling me, and if I wanted to…” He began to fade away, as if he were a ghost…or a coreling.

“No!” Renna shouted, grabbing at him, but her hands passed right through. “You tell it to throw its call down the well!”

Arlen solidified after a moment, and she breathed a sigh of relief, though his eyes were still sad. “The paint ent why I can’t live a normal life, Ren. This is where drawing too much magic leads. I’m more demon than man now, and honest word, each dawn I wonder if today’s the day the sun’s gonna burn me away for good.”

Renna shook her head. “You ent no demon. Demon wouldn’t be worried about Deliverer’s Hollow, or Tibbet’s Brook. Demon wouldn’t care if some girl he knew got cored, or put his life aside for months to try’n help her.”

“Maybe,” Arlen said. “But only a demon’d ask that girl to become one herself.”

“You din’t ask me nothing,” Renna said. “I make my own choices now.”

“Then take time and make it with care,” Arlen said, “ ’cause it ent one you can take back.”

CHAPTER 31 JOYOUS BATTLE

ROJER TOLD EVERYONE HE practiced his fiddle by the great stairwell of the manse rather than in his own wing because that precise spot would let the sound echo throughout the building. It was true enough, but the real reason he had chosen the spot was that it afforded a perfect view of the door to Amanvah and Sikvah’s chambers. For three days, he ’d seen no sign of the girls.

He didn’t know why he cared. What had he been thinking, standing up for Sikvah when he had the perfect excuse to refuse them both? Or letting them stay after they had tried to kill Leesha? Was he actually considering becoming son-in-law to the demon of the desert? The thought of marriage had always terrified Rojer. He had left hamlets half a dozen times in the last few years to avoid that noose.

Marriage is professional death, Arrick had always said. Women are eager to bed Jongleurs, so we oblige them. But once you’re promised, suddenly all those things that drew her to you in the first place need sorting. They don’t want you traveling anymore. Then they don’t want you performing every night. Or at odd hours. Then they want to know why you always choose the sunny girl to throw knives at. Before you know it, you’re working as a corespawned carpenter and lucky to sing on Seventhday. Sleep in any woman’s bed you like, but keep a packed bag next to it, and leave the first time you hear the word promise.

Yet he had leapt to Sikvah’s rescue without a thought, and even now, the beautiful harmony of their voices resounded in his head. Rojer ached to join that harmony, and when he thought of how their robes had fallen to the floor, it brought another kind of ache, one he hadn’t felt for any other woman since he met Leesha.

But Leesha didn’t want him, and Arrick had died drunk and friendless.

Abban’s women appeared now and again to bring food and remove commode pots, but the door to the girls’ chambers never opened more than a crack, and always slammed shut before he could so much as peek inside.

That night at alagai’sharak, Rojer kept a nervous eye on Jardir. Kaval had Gared and Wonda fighting with spear and shield alongside the other dal’Sharum, and they acquitted themselves well. Gared might be too clumsy for sharusahk, but in a shield-press, there was no one stronger, no one who could reach his spear farther from the warded shield wall.

But Rojer felt his absence acutely as he, Leesha, and Jardir followed the press with several Spears of the Deliverer, even though Rojer kept them bathed in his music and the demons did not approach. Sooner or later, Jardir would ask Rojer’s intentions toward his daughter and niece, and if his answer was not satisfactory, violence and death might quickly occur. His.

But thus far, Jardir only had eyes for Leesha, doting on her like a man truly in love. Of course, that made spending time around him no easier, especially when Rojer caught Leesha returning the gazes. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what that meant even if she didn’t.

Rojer breathed a sigh of relief when the sweep ended and they were dismissed into the city. He was thoroughly miserable, his fingers numb from playing and every muscle in his body aching. He was bathed in sweat and coated in a greasy layer of soot from burning demons.

It didn’t help that Gared and Wonda, flushed with demon magic, looked as if they had just hopped out of bed instead of heading back to it. Rojer had never tasted the magic. After seeing the Painted Man dissipate and talk of slipping into the Core, it terrified him. Better to keep the demons at a distance with music and throwing knives.

But after close to a year in Deliverer’s Hollow, the effects of the magic on those who regularly partook were obvious. They were stronger. Faster. Never sick, never tired. The young ones aged faster, and the old ones aged slower, or in reverse. Rojer, on the other hand, felt like he was going to collapse.

He stumbled to his bedchamber, thinking to fall into oblivion for a few hours, but the sweet-smelling Krasian oil lamps in his room were lit, which was odd, since it had still been light out when he left. A pitcher of cool water was on his nightstand, along with a loaf of bread that was still warm to the touch.

“I have had Sikvah prepare you a bath as well, intended,” a voice said behind Rojer. He shouted in fright and spun around, throwing knives coming into his hands, but it was only Amanvah, with Sikvah kneeling behind her beside a great steaming tub.

“What are you doing in my room?” Rojer asked. He told his hands to put the blades away, but they stubbornly refused.

Amanvah knelt smoothly, ritually, touching her forehead to the floor. “Forgive me, intended. I have been…indisposed of late and depended overmuch on Sikvah in my recovery. My heart aches that we have not been able to attend you.”

“It’s…ah, all right,” Rojer said, making the knives vanish. “I don’t need anything.”

Amanvah sniffed the air. “Your pardon, intended, but you do need a bath. Tomorrow begins the Waning, and you must be prepared.”

“The Waning?” Rojer asked.

“Dark moon,” Amanvah said, “when Alagai Ka the demon prince is said to roam. A man must have bright Waning days to hold him steady in darkest night.”

Rojer blinked. “That’s beautiful. Someone should write a song about that.” Already he was thinking of melodies for it.

“Your pardon, intended,” Amanvah said, “but there are many. Shall we sing one while we bathe you?”

Rojer had a sudden vision of being strangled in the bath by the two of them, nude and singing. He laughed nervously. “My master told me to beware things too good to be true.”

Amanvah tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

Rojer swallowed hard. “Perhaps I should bathe myself.”

The girls giggled behind their veils. “You have already seen us unclad, intended,” Sikvah said. “Do you fear what we may see?”

Rojer blushed. “It’s not that, I…”

“Do not trust us,” Amanvah said.

“Is there a reason I should?” Rojer snapped. “You pretend to be innocent girls who don’t speak a word of Thesan, then you try and kill Leesha, and turn out to have understood every word we ’ve said. How do I know there isn’t blackleaf in that tub?”

Both of them put their heads to the floor again. “If that is your feeling, then kill us, intended,” Amanvah said.

“What?” Rojer said. “I’m not killing anybody.”

“It is your right,” Amanvah said, “and no more than we deserve for our betrayal. It is the same fate we will face if you refuse us.”

“They’ll kill you?” Rojer asked. “The Deliverer’s own blood?”

“Either the Damajah will kill us for failing to poison Mistress Leesha, or the Shar’Dama Ka will kill us for attempting it. If we are not safe in your chambers, we are not safe.”

“You are safe here, but that doesn’t mean you need to bathe me,” Rojer said.

“My cousin and I never meant you dishonor, son of Jessum,” Amanvah said. “If you do not want us as wives, we will go to our father and confess.”

“I…don’t know if I can accept that,” Rojer said.

“You need not accept anything this night,” Sikvah said, “save a song of Waning and a bath.” As one, the Krasian girls lowered their veils and began to sing, their voices no less beautiful than he remembered. He didn’t understand the words, but the haunting tone spoke well of strength in darkest night. They rose to their feet and came to him, gently guiding him to the tub and pulling at his clothes. Soon he was naked and sitting in the steaming water, feeling the delicious heat leach the pain from his muscles. They wove a veil of music around him as mesmerizing as any he had cast over a demon.

Sikvah shrugged, and her black silk robes fell to the floor. Rojer gaped as she turned to unfasten Amanvah’s robes as well.

“What are you doing?” he asked as Sikvah stepped into the tub in front of him. Amanvah got in behind.

“Bathing you, of course,” Amanvah said. She went right back into her song, scooping bowlfuls of hot water over his head as Sikvah took a brush and a cake of soap.

She was firm and efficient, scrubbing the dirt and blood from him while massaging his sore muscles, but Rojer barely noticed, eyes closed, drunk on their voices and the feeling of their skin, until Sikvah’s hands dipped below the water. He jumped.

“Shhhh,” Amanvah whispered, her soft lips touching his ear. “Sikvah is already known to man, and trained at pillow dancing. Let her be our Waning gift to you.”

Rojer didn’t know exactly what pillow dancing meant, but he could well imagine. Sikvah’s lips met his, and he gasped as she moved onto his lap.

Leesha hadn’t realized Rojer’s bedroom was directly beneath hers until she heard Sikvah’s cries. At first she thought the girl was in pain and sat up, ready to fetch her apron, but then she realized the nature of the sounds.

She tried to go back to sleep, but despite the indiscretion, neither Rojer nor the girl seemed inclined toward quiet. She put a pillow over her ears, but the sounds broke through even that barrier.

She wasn’t surprised, really. In some ways, it was more surprising it had taken so long. Sikvah’s state, after Inevera had been so encouraging of a virginity test, had never sat well with Leesha. It was too easy a play on Rojer’s chivalry, too convenient a way to tempt him into accepting them as brides. Rojer was only a man, after all.

She snorted, knowing it was only half the story. Inevera had played her, as well.

In truth, though she did not approve of a man taking more than one wife, she thought Rojer would have a good influence on the girls, and perhaps the responsibilities of a husband might help mature him, as well. If this was what he wanted…

Even if it is, I don’t have to listen to it, she thought, giving up on her bed and walking down the hall, choosing one of the many empty bedrooms on her floor. She fell gratefully into the covers and expected to drift off immediately, but the sounds had affected her, bringing unbidden images to mind. Jardir, his shirt stripped off, his muscled skin alive with wards. She wondered if they would tingle to the touch as Arlen’s had.

When she finally drifted off, it was to thoughts of passion. In her dreams, she remembered the heat of the fireplace as she and Gared had squirmed together on the floor of her parents’ common room. Marick’s wolfish eyes. The ardent feeling of Arlen’s kisses and embrace.

But Gared and Marick had betrayed her, and Arlen had shunned her. The dream became a nightmare as flashes, more detailed than ever before, came back to her about that afternoon on the road when she was pinned by three men. She heard their jeers and jests again, felt the way they had pulled her hair, relived what they had done atop her. Things she had blocked from her mind, but knew were horrid truth. Through it all, she could see the sneer Inevera had given her at the whipping.

She woke up with her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands shook for something to defend herself with, but of course she was alone.

When she reoriented herself, the fear fled, replaced by harsh anger. They took something from me on that road, but I’ll be corespawned if I let them take everything.

Leesha felt the paint and powder thick on her face as she tried on what felt like the hundredth dress, all the while being careful of her pinned hair, lest it lose its shape.

Jardir was coming to court. He had sent word that morning that he wished to visit in the afternoon to continue to read to her from the Evejah as he had on the road, but no one had any illusions regarding his intent.

Abban’s First Wife, Shamavah, brought dozens of dresses for her to try, Krasian silks smoother than a baby’s skin, brightly colored and scandalously cut. She and Elona dressed Leesha like a doll, parading her before the mirrors lining the walls and arguing over which cuts were most flattering. Wonda looked on in amusement, probably feeling vindicated for the similar treatment she had suffered at the hands of Duchess Araine’s seamstress.

“This one’s too much, even by my standard,” Elona said of the latest choice.

“Too little, you mean,” Leesha said. The dress was practically transparent, like something Inevera would wear. She ’d need one of Bruna’s thick knitted shawls to feel half decent in it.

“You don’t want to give it all away,” Elona agreed. “Let him work a bit to earn more than a peek.” She chose a more opaque dress, but the silk still clung to Leesha in a way that made her feel as if she were naked. She shivered, and realized why such fashion was not as popular in the North as the desert.

“Nonsense,” Shamavah said. “Mistress Leesha has a body to rival even the Damajah. Let Shar’Dama Ka see well what he cannot have until the contract is signed.” She held up a wrap of cloth so diaphanous and scant Leesha wondered if she should bother to dress at all.

“Enough,” she snapped, pulling the dress Elona had chosen over her head and throwing it to the floor. She took a cloth and began to wipe away the paints and powders Shamavah had applied to her face while Elona looked over her shoulder and bickered over the colors.

“Wonda, go and fetch my blue dress,” Leesha said. Her tone wiped the grin off the girl’s face and sent her scurrying.

“That plain old thing?” Elona asked. “You’ll look—”

“Like myself,” Leesha cut her off. “Not some painted Angierian whore.” Both women seemed ready to protest, but she glared at them, and they thought better of it.

“At least leave your hair,” Elona said. “I worked all morning on it, and it won’t kill you to look nice.”

Leesha turned, admiring the job her mother had done with her rich black hair, sending it in curling cascades down her back with a rebellious cut across her forehead. She smiled.

Wonda returned with Leesha’s blue dress, but Leesha looked at it and tsked. “On second thought, fetch my festival dress.” She threw her mother a wink. “No reason I can’t look nice.”

Leesha paced back and forth in her chambers, waiting for Jardir to arrive. She had sent the other women away; their talk only made her nerves tighten further.

There was a knock at her door, and Leesha made a quick check of the mirror, sucking in her stomach and giving her breasts a last lift before opening the door.

But it was not Jardir waiting on the other side, only Abban, his eyes down as he held a tiny bottle and a tinier glass.

“A gift for courage,” he said holding the items out to her.

“What is it?” Leesha asked, opening the bottle and sniffing. Her nose curled. “Smells like something I’d brew to disinfect a wound.”

Abban laughed. “No doubt it has been used for that purpose many times. It is called couzi, a drink my people often use to calm their nerves. Even the dal’Sharum use it, to give them heart when the sun sets.”

“They get drunk before going off to fight?” Leesha asked, incredulous.

Abban shrugged. “There is a…clarity in the haze of couzi, mistress. One cup, and you will be warmed and calm. Two, and you will have a Sharum’s courage. Three, and you’ll feel you can dance on the edge of Nie’s abyss without falling in.”

Leesha raised an eyebrow at him, but the corner of her mouth curved in a smile. “Perhaps one,” she said, filling the tiny cup. “I wouldn’t mind a little warmth right now.” She put it to her lips and tossed it back, coughing at the burn.

Abban bowed. “Every cup is easier than the last, mistress.” He left, and Leesha poured herself a second cup. Indeed, it went down more smoothly.

The third tasted just like cinnamon.

Abban was right about the couzi. Leesha could feel it wrapped around her like her warded cloak, warming and protecting her at the same time. The warring voices in her mind had fallen silent, and in that quiet was a clarity she had never known.

The room felt hot, even in her low-necked festival dress. She fanned her breasts, and noted with amusement the furtive glances Jardir cast while trying to feign disinterest.

The Evejah lay open between them as they lounged on silken pillows, but Jardir had not read a passage to her in some time. They spoke of other things; her improving language skills, his life in the Kaji’sharaj and her apprenticeship to Bruna, how his mother had been outcast for having too many daughters.

“My mother wasn’t pleased to only have a daughter, either,” Leesha said.

“A daughter like you is worth a dozen sons,” Jardir said. “But what of your brothers? That they are with Everam now does not diminish her gift of them.”

Leesha sighed. “My mother lied about that, Ahmann. I am her only child, and I have no magic dice by which to promise you sons.” As she spoke, she felt a weight lift from her. As with her clothes, let him know the real her.

Jardir surprised her by shrugging. “It will be as Everam wills. Even if you have three girls first, I will cherish them and hold faith that sons will follow.”

“I’m not a virgin, either,” Leesha blurted, and held her breath.

Jardir looked at her for a long time, and Leesha wondered if she had said too much. What business was it of his anyway, if she was or wasn’t?

But in his eyes it was, and her mother’s lie weighed on her as if it were her own, for she confirmed it by her silence.

Jardir looked from side to side as if to verify they were alone, and then leaned in close, his lips practically touching hers. “I am not, either,” he whispered, and she laughed. He joined her, and it felt honest and true.

“Marry me,” he begged.

Leesha snorted. “What need do you have of another wife, when you already have…”

“Fourteen,” Jardir supplied, waving a hand as if it were nothing. “Kaji had a thousand.”

“Does anyone even remember the name of his fifteenth?” Leesha asked.

“Shannah vah Krevakh,” Jardir said without hesitation. “It is said her father stole shadows to make her hair, and from her womb came the first Watchers, invisible in the night, yet ever vigilant at their father’s side.”

Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

“Will you kiss me, if I am not?” Jardir asked.

Leesha pretended to consider. “Only if I may slap you, if you are.”

Jardir smiled, pointing to the Evejah. “Every wife Kaji took is listed here, their names honored forever. Some of the entries are quite extensive.”

“All thousand are listed?” Leesha asked doubtfully.

Jardir winked at her. “The entries don’t begin to shorten until well after a hundred.”

Leesha smirked and picked up the book. “Page two hundred thirtyseven,” Jardir said, “eighth line.” Leesha flipped through the pages until she found the correct one.

“What does it say?” Jardir asked.

Leesha still had difficulty understanding much of the text, but Abban had taught her to sound out the words. “Shannah vah Krevakh,” she said. She read the entire passage to him, trying hard to mimic the musical accent of the Krasian tongue.

Jardir smiled. “It gives my heart great joy to hear you speak my language. I am penning my life, as well. The Ahmanjah, written in my own blood as Kaji wrote the Evejah. If you fear to be forgotten, say you will be mine, and I will pen an entire Dune to you.”

“I still don’t know that I wish to be,” Leesha said honestly. Jardir’s smile began to fade, but she leaned in, giving him a smile of her own. “But you have earned your kiss.” Their mouths met, and a thrill ran through her greater than any magic.

“What if your mother catches us?” Jardir asked, pulling back when she made no effort to break their embrace.

Leesha took his face in her hands, pulling him back to her.

“I barred the door,” she said, opening her mouth to his.

Leesha was an Herb Gatherer. A student of old world science, and a conductor of her own experiments. She loved nothing more than to learn a new thing, and whether it was herbs or warding or foreign tongues, there was no skill she could not master and bring new innovation to.

So it was for her in the pillows that day, as they shed their clothes and Leesha, who had spent the last decade and a half learning to heal bodies, finally learned to make them sing.

Jardir seemed to agree as they rolled apart, sweaty and panting. “You put even jiwah’Sharum pillow dancers to shame.”

“Years of repressed passion,” Leesha said, stretching her back deliciously, unashamed at her nudity. She had never felt so free. “You’re lucky to be Shar’Dama Ka. A lesser man might not have survived.”

Jardir laughed, kissing her. “I am bred for war, and will fight this joyous battle with you a hundred thousand times if need be.”

He stood and bowed low. “But I fear the sun is setting, and we must step into battle of another sort. Tonight is the first night of Waning, and the alagai will be strong.” Leesha nodded, and they reluctantly pulled on their clothes. He took up his spear, and she her pocketed apron.

No one said anything to them as Gared, Wonda, and Rojer met them in the courtyard with the waiting Spears of the Deliverer. Leesha felt so different, she was sure it must be obvious to the others, but if it was, they gave no sign.

Even during alagai’sharak, Leesha found it hard to keep focus so near to Jardir. He seemed to feel it, too, never straying from her side as she inspected and dealt with the few minor wounds the skilled warriors incurred.

“May I read to you again tomorrow?” Jardir asked when the battle was done. He would be needed for hours more, but the Hollowers were allowed to return to the Palace of Mirrors.

“You may read to me every day, if you wish,” she said, and his eyes danced at her.

The coreling prince kept a respectful distance as it watched the heir and his men kill drones. The mind demon had been watching the heir every cycle for several turns now, and as the princes had feared, he was a unifier. It was clear he did not know the extent of the powers of the demon bone spear and crown, but nevertheless his power was growing, and the human drones beginning to organize into more than an inconvenience. Already it would be difficult to kill the heir, and even if the coreling prince succeeded, there were many who could potentially take his place.

But the Northern female was a new variable, a weakness in the heir’s armor. Her mind was unprotected, and she knew much about the heir and the one its brother tracked in the North.

When she broke off from the others, the mind demon followed.

Back in the palace, Leesha practically flew up the steps to her chambers.

“What’s got into you?” Wonda asked.

“Nothing that hasn’t gotten into you, it seems.” Wonda looked at her blankly, and Leesha laughed. “Find your bed. Drillmaster Kaval will be here shouting at you before you know it.”

“Kaval ent so bad,” Wonda said, but did as she was bade.

Leesha walked on tiptoe past the door to her mother’s chambers, praying the woman would at least have the decency to wait until morning before interrogating her. She thanked the Creator when she managed to slip past and lock herself in the suite where she and Jardir had made love.

Alone at last, the wide smile she had been resisting all night broke out on Leesha’s face.

And a hood was thrown over her head.

Leesha tried to scream, but a cord at the base of the hood pulled tight, cutting off her breath and turning her scream into a muffled gasp. A strong hand yanked her arms behind her, and that same cord was used to bind her wrists. Her assailant kicked her knees out from behind and tied her ankles with the end of the cord. Leesha thrashed about at first, but every movement tightened the cord about her throat, and she quickly calmed lest she strangle herself.

She was hefted over a strong shoulder and carried to the window, shivering in the cool night air as she was taken out and veritably run down a ladder. They made no sound, but Leesha could tell by the way the ladder bounced that she had at least two captors.

If her weight hindered the man who held her, he gave no sign, running swiftly through the night streets with even breath and steady heart. Leesha tried to stay oriented, but it proved impossible. She was taken up a set of steps and into a building, down a series of hallways, and then through a door. The men stopped, and she was unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

The landing knocked the breath from her, but a thick carpet kept her from real harm. The cord at her ankles and wrists was cut, and the hood was yanked from her head. The room was not brightly lit, but after being hooded, the oil lamps stung. Leesha raised a shaking hand to shield her eyes while they adjusted. When they did, she found herself strewn on her belly on the floor before Inevera, lying on a bed of pillows and regarding her as a cat might a cornered mouse.

The Damajah looked to the two warriors behind her. They were clad head-to-toe in black as all dal’Sharum, and their night veils were up, but they carried neither spear nor shield, each with a ladder held in perfect balance on one of his shoulders.

“You were never here,” Inevera said, and the men bowed and vanished.

She looked down at Leesha and smiled. “Men have their uses. Please, come join me.” She gestured to another pile of pillows across from her.

Leesha wobbled slightly as the blood returned to her numb feet, but she stood as quickly as she was able, resisting the urge to rub her throat as she looked around the large room. It was a pillowed love-chamber, dimly lit and scented, every surface coated with velvet or silk. The door was right behind her.

“No one guards the other side,” Inevera said with a laugh, waving her hand as if to give Leesha permission to check. She did, reaching for the brass pull-ring, but there was a flash of magic and she was thrown backward, landing with a thump on the soft carpet. She saw wards flare around the lintel, jamb, and sill of the door, but they faded in an instant, gone except for ghostly afterimages that danced before her still-adjusting eyes.

More curious than fearful, Leesha got back to her feet walked up to the door, studying the wards masterfully painted in silver and gold around the frame. Many were new to her, but she noticed wards of silence worked in with the rest. No one outside would hear what went on within.

She flicked a finger against the net, watching the wards around the contact point flare for a moment, illuminating the tightly woven net.

What’s powering it? she wondered. There were no corelings about to provide the necessary magic, and without magic, wards were just writing.

Given time, Leesha knew she could disable the wards and escape, but that was time she would have to take her attention away from Inevera, and there was no telling what the woman might do. She turned back to the Damajah, still lounging on her pillows.

“All right,” Leesha said, walking over and taking a seat opposite Inevera. “What is it you’d like to discuss?”

“Do you mean to play the fool?” Inevera asked. “Did you think I would not know, the moment you touched him?”

“So what if you do?” Leesha asked. “There was no crime. By your own laws, a man may bed whom he pleases, so long as she is not the wife of another man.”

“Perhaps behaving like a harlot is the way a woman gains a husband in the North,” Inevera said, “but among my people, such women are kept in line by the wives of their victims.”

“Ahmann asked for my hand long before I bedded him,” Leesha said, intentionally goading the woman while she worked out her escape. “And I doubt he considers himself a victim.” She smiled. “His willingness was quite apparent in his vigor.” Inevera hissed and sat upright, and Leesha knew she had gotten to her.

“Renounce my husband’s proposal and flee Everam’s Bounty tonight,” Inevera said. “I give you this one chance to live.”

“Your last two attempts on my life failed, Damajah,” Leesha said. “What makes you think another would have success?”

“Because I won’t leave it up to a fifteen-year-old girl this time,” Inevera said, “and because my husband won’t find us here in time to save you. I shall tell everyone that you came to murder me the night you seduced my husband. No one will question my right to end you.”

Leesha smiled. “I question whether you can manage it.”

Inevera produced a small object from beneath her pillows, and there was a gout of fire that brightened the room, striking Leesha with an intense flash of heat before it vanished.

“I can incinerate you where you sit,” Inevera promised.

It was an impressive trick, but Leesha, who had been brewing flamework for over a decade, found the effect less profound than the means by which it was created. Inevera had struck no spark, mixed no chemics, made no impact. She looked more closely at the object in Inevera’s hand, and it all became clear.

It was a flame demon skull.

That’s how she’s powering the wards, Leesha realized, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it herself months ago. Alagai hora. Demon bones.

The realization brought endless possibilities, but none that mattered if she could not live through the night. She couldn’t draw wards to counter the fire before Inevera incinerated her.

“Is that how you power the doorframe?” Leesha asked, turning to glance at the door. “Are there alagai hora hidden in the wood?”

Inevera glanced toward the door, and in that instant Leesha’s hand darted to a pocket of her apron, coming out with a handful of toss bangs she threw Inevera’s way.

The little twists of paper exploded with cracks and flashes, perfectly harmless, but Inevera shrieked and threw her arms in front of her face. Leesha wasted no time, crossing the space between them in an instant and grabbing the wrist that held the demon skull. She pressed her thumb hard into a nerve cluster, and the skull fell to the floor. Leesha’s other hand was not idle, curling into a fist. The weak cartilage of the Damajah’s nose crumpled most satisfyingly.

Leesha drew back for a second blow, but Inevera rolled onto the floor and twisted, grabbing Leesha’s shoulders and driving a knee between her legs with force that would have done a camel proud.

“Whore!” Inevera shrieked as pain exploded through Leesha. “Did my husband thrust well?” she shouted, kneeing Leesha’s crotch again. “Did my husband thrust hard?” She struck a third time.

Leesha had never felt such pain. She grabbed blindly for the Damajah’s hair, but Inevera caught her sleeve cuffs in tight fists, guiding Leesha’s arms away as a Jongleur might guide a puppet’s. In her heavy skirts, Leesha was helpless to resist as Inevera slithered behind her and dropped the sleeves in favor of a choke hold.

“Thank you,” Inevera whispered in her ear. “I would have killed you with clean fire and spared the paint on my nails, but this is much more satisfying.”

Leesha rolled and thrashed, but it did little good. Inevera locked her legs around Leesha’s waist and kept her face covered by her arms. Leesha could reach no vulnerable point with hand or powder, and the world began to blur as the air in her lungs depleted. She reached for the demon skull on the floor, but Inevera kicked it away. Leesha was beginning to black out when she pulled the warded knife from her belt and drove it into Inevera’s thigh.

A hot jet of blood struck Leesha’s hand, sickening her, but Inevera screamed and lost her grip. Leesha was able to kick away, sucking in a lifegiving breath as she rolled to her knees with the knife held out before her. Inevera rolled the other way, reaching into a pouch at her waist and throwing something Leesha’s way.

Leesha dove to the side as what seemed and sounded like a swarm of hornets shot past. She cried out as one of the projectiles passed clear through her thigh, and another lodged in her shoulder. She pulled it free and found she held a demon tooth. It was covered in her blood, but she could feel with her thumb the wards etched into its surface. She shoved it into a pocket for later study.

Inevera was back on her feet by then, charging at Leesha, but Leesha put her knife up as she got back to her feet. Inevera checked herself and began to circle. She pulled a curved knife of her own from her belt, the warded blade sharp as any of Leesha’s scalpels.

Leesha put a hand into another of her apron’s pouches, and Inevera made a similar reach into the black velvet bag at her waist.

The coreling prince watched in amusement as the females postured like high princes when the queen was preparing to mate. It had intended to consume the Northern female’s mind and replace her with its mimic to get close and kill the heir, but their own politics were so much more delicious. They could break both the heir’s spirit and his dream of unity at once.

All they needed was a nudge.

CHAPTER 32 DEMON’S CHOICE

IT WAS THE DARKEST part of the night when Jardir finally returned to his palace. He was not tired; he had not truly felt tired of body since he had first used the Spear of Kaji, but he longed for his bed nevertheless, if only for a chance to close his eyes and dream of her to while away some of the hours before he could visit again.

Leesha Paper truly was a gift from Everam. Her acceptance of his proposal seemed assured, and with it his foothold in the Northland. But he found that mattered less to him now than the thought of having her at his side. Brilliant, beautiful, and young enough to bear him many sons, she also contained a boundless passion that came out in her anger, and in her loving. A worthy bride for even the Deliverer, and a valuable check against the Damajah’s rising power. Inevera would try to stop the marriage, of course, but that was a worry for another day.

Jardir saw the light on in his chambers and frowned. Everam’s Bounty had no Undercity for women and children, even on Waning. His wives instead took turns waiting in his private chambers with a bath and a willing body, but Jardir wanted neither water nor woman. His lust could only be sated by one, and beneath his robes, her scent was still on his skin. He wanted to keep it there a little longer.

“I require nothing,” he said as he entered. “Leave me.”

But the women in his room were not lesser wives, and they made no effort to leave.

“We need to talk,” Leesha said, and at her side Inevera nodded.

“For once, I agree with the Northern whore,” Inevera said.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to Jardir to last for many minutes, as he struggled to embrace this new development and return to his center.

He looked more closely at the women. Their clothes were ragged and torn. Inevera had a blood-soaked scarf tied around her leg, and Leesha’s shoulder was similarly bound. Inevera’s nose was twisted and swollen three times its normal size, and Leesha’s throat was purple and bruised. She favored one leg.

“What has happened?” Jardir demanded.

“Your First Wife and I have been talking,” Leesha said.

“And we have decided we will not share you,” Inevera said.

Jardir made to go to them, but Leesha held up a finger that checked him like a child. “You keep your distance. No touching either of us again until you make a choice.”

“Choice?” Jardir asked.

“Her or me,” Leesha said. “You can’t have us both.”

“The one you choose can be your Jiwah Ka,” Inevera said, “and the other shall have a quick death at your hand in the town circle.”

Leesha gave Inevera a look of disgust, but did not argue.

“You agree to this?” Jardir asked, surprised. “Even with your Gatherer’s vow?”

Leesha smiled. “Strip her naked and cast her into the street for all to see, if you prefer.”

“Weak, like all Northerners,” Inevera sneered, “leaving enemies to strike another day.”

Leesha shrugged. “What you call weakness, I call strength.”

Jardir looked from one woman to the other, unable to believe matters had come to this, but their eyes were hard and he knew they meant every word.

The choice was impossible. Kill Leesha? Unthinkable. Even if it wouldn’t destroy any potential alliances in the North, Jardir would sooner cut out his own heart than harm her.

But the alternative was equally impossible. The dama’ting would not follow Leesha, and if he stripped Inevera of power—and in favor of a Northern woman—they might choose to follow Inevera still, causing a schism through his empire that might never heal.

And she was his First Wife, the mother of his children, who had orchestrated his rise to power and given him the tools to win Sharak Ka. Despite the pain she regularly caused him, he looked at her and found he loved her still.

“I cannot make such a choice,” Jardir said.

“You must,” Inevera said, pulling her warded knife. “Now, or I will cut the whore’s throat myself.”

Leesha drew her own knife. “Not if I cut yours first.”

“No!” Jardir cried, throwing the Spear of Kaji. It struck the wall and embedded deeply, quivering between the two women. He pounced on them, cat-quick, grabbing their wrists and pulling them away from each other.

But as he did, the wards on his crown flared to life, illuminating the women, and both shook their heads as if waking from a dream.

Leesha was the first to come to her senses. “Behind you!” she shouted, pointing.

“Alagai Ka!” Inevera cried.

Alagai Ka. The name Jardir and his men had laughingly given to the rock demon that followed the Par’chin, but it was an ancient name, one that carried an aura of immense power. Alagai Ka was consort to the Mother of Demons, and he and his sons were said to be the most powerful of the demon lords, generals of Nie’s forces.

He spun to meet the demon, but there was nothing to see at first. Then, as he concentrated, the Crown of Kaji warmed once more and he could see that part of the room was clouded by magic. There was a ripple in the cloud, and suddenly a demon more fearsome than any he had ever seen leapt at him.

He reached for the spear, but it held fast in the wall for the split second it took the demon to cross the floor and tackle Jardir. He was knocked over the bed and the two of them landed hard on the far side, the demon clawing madly at him. He felt the ceramic armor plates in his robes shattering under its claws, but they blunted the initial attack. The demon seemed to sense this, and its mouth widened impossibly, growing rows of new teeth right before his eyes as it became a maw large enough to swallow his entire head.

Jardir rolled and pushed out with his arms, gaining enough space to work his leg up between them. He kicked out, knocking the demon away long enough for him to tear off his robes and reveal the scars Inevera had cut into his skin. They flared brightly as he met the demon’s next attack head-on.

Leesha hadn’t known the demon was in her mind until Jardir touched her and the wards on his crown flared. She heard the demon’s whispers then and knew them for what they were. The demon was in the room with them.

Inevera knew it, too. They had just enough time to shout a warning before the demon bodyguard struck Jardir, knocking him across the room and taking the aura of power around his crown with it. She felt the mind demon attempt to reenter her mind.

Leesha resisted, as did Inevera, thrashing wildly against its control, but the outcome was never in doubt. The demon would have them in a moment. Already she felt an enormous weight in her limbs, as the mind demon commanded her to lie down, helpless and weak, while it watched its bodyguard kill Jardir.

Leesha looked around frantically, spotting an incense tray on the nightstand that had not yet been cleaned. She flung herself toward it as she went down, pretending it was an accident as she stuck her hand in the greasy ashes and knocked the tray to the floor in a cloud.

Inevera hit the floor as well, limbs flopping weakly, and Leesha rolled toward her, using the last of her energy to draw a ward on Inevera’s forehead. The same ward at the center of Jardir’s crown.

Immediately the symbol flared, and even as Leesha fell, her limbs useless, Inevera sat up. The demon seemed not to notice, its attention on Jardir, fighting for his life.

Inevera scowled and grabbed Leesha’s hair. “You are still a whore,” she growled, and spit in Leesha’s face. There were long veils that went from her sleeveless bodice to the golden bracelets at her wrists. She gathered one and used her spit to wipe the soot from Leesha’s brow, then dipped her finger in the ashes, drawing a mind ward on Leesha’s forehead as well.

Leesha sat up, reaching for her warded knife. Inevera took what looked like a warded lump of coal from the black felt pouch at her waist and held it toward the mind demon. She whispered a word, and lightning arced from the stone to strike the demon. It shrieked as it was thrown across the room, hitting the wall with a crunch before dropping lifeless to the ground.

The demon changed shape continually, but Jardir pressed his attack, wards sizzling as he struck it with elbows and knees, fists and feet. He matched the demon’s raw aggression with the fury of a warrior bred for the Maze. His crown flared brightly, and he felt so suffused with power that the wounds the demon inflicted began healing before the full damage was done.

I am fighting Alagai Ka, he thought, and I am winning.

That thought carried him forward for a moment, but then the demon picked up a heavy table in one giant claw and smashed it down on him as a hammer strikes a nail.

The wards on his skin offered no protection against the wood, and it was only the magic coursing through him that kept him from being killed. Still, bones splintered on the impact, jutting from his leg and stabbing into his innards. He felt the magic speeding his body’s natural healing along at an incredible rate, but it could not set the broken bones, and he felt them healing at odd angles.

It mattered little, though, as the demon lifted the table again to finish the job. Jardir, weaponless, could do nothing but watch.

But before the demon could bring the table down, it shrieked and grabbed its head, dropping the table. Jardir kicked out with his good leg to deflect it as the demon’s flesh seemed to melt like wax, and it stumbled about, thrashing madly.

Jardir looked up then and saw why. He hadn’t been fighting Alagai Ka at all. Leesha and Inevera stood over the smoking body of a slender demon with a gigantic head. Even from across the room, Jardir could sense the power and evil the creature radiated. The demon he had fought was its Hasik: brainless muscle to clear paths and break skulls that were beneath its master to shatter personally.

The slender demon lifted its head. Inevera shrieked and sent another bolt of lightning at it, but the demon drew a ward in the air, dispersing the energy. It reached out, and the demon bone flew from her hand. The slender demon caught it, and the bone glowed briefly in the demon’s grasp before the magic was absorbed and the bone crumbled to dust.

The demon reached out again, and Inevera’s horapouch flew to its hands. She shrieked as it upended the bag, dropping her precious dice into its clawed hand.

Leesha and Inevera charged the demon with their warded knives, but it drew another ward in the air that flared to throw them across the room as if picked up by a great wind.

The alagai hora glowed as the demon absorbed their power. Jardir felt a strange mix of fear and relief as the dice that had controlled his life for more than twenty years crumbled to dust. Inevera wailed as if the sight caused her physical pain.

The mimic demon regained its senses as soon as its master recovered, but Jardir was already moving, springing across the broken bed on his good leg. He caught the Spear of Kaji in his hands as he rolled off the far side, letting his weight pull it from the wall.

Pain screamed through Jardir’s mangled leg as he came to his feet, but he embraced it effortlessly, his movements sharp and decisive as he drew back and threw.

And before either demon could react, the fight was over. The spear blasted through the mind demon’s skull, leaving a gaping, blasted hole and continuing on to stick quivering in the far wall. The mind demon fell dead, and without it, the mimic fell to the ground shrieking and thrashing about as if on fire. Finally it lay still, a melted pile of scale and claw.

Leesha came awake at the sound of a sharp crack, opening her eyes to see Jardir, his eyes closed and his face serene as Inevera pulled hard on his foot to give herself play to reinsert the bone jutting from his leg.

Shaking off her own pains, Leesha fumbled to her side, taking the bone in her hand and guiding it back into the incision Inevera had cut. As with Arlen, the wound began to close almost instantly, but Leesha still reached for needle and thread to stitch it evenly.

“There is no need,” Inevera said, rising to her feet and going to the mind demon’s body. She drew her warded knife and cut off one of its vestigial horns. She returned with the foul, ichorous thing, then removed a thin brush and bottle from her pouch. She drew neat wards along the edges of Jardir’s wound, and as she passed the horn over them, the wards flared, closing the incision seamlessly.

She did the same for her own wound, and then wordlessly tended to Leesha, not meeting her eyes. Leesha watched in silence, memorizing the wards Inevera used and the fashion in which she knit them together.

She looked at the horn when she was finished. It was still intact, and Inevera grunted. “I’ll make better dice from this one’s bones, anyway.” Leesha went to the mind demon’s body herself, cutting off the other horn and one of its arms. These she rolled in a heavy tapestry for later study. Inevera’s eyes narrowed at her, but she said nothing.

“Why has no one come to investigate the sounds of battle?” Jardir asked.

“I expect it was simple for Alagai Ka to draw wards of silence around your chambers,” Inevera said. “They will likely remain in power until the sunlight strikes the walls.”

Jardir looked at them. “It controlled everything you said and did?”

Inevera nodded. “It…ah, even made us fight each other, for its amusement.” She touched her swollen nose gingerly.

Leesha felt her face color, and she coughed. “Yes,” she agreed, “it made us do that.”

“Why play such cruel games?” Jardir asked. “Why not just have one of you cut my throat as we lay in the pillows?”

“Because it didn’t want to kill you,” Inevera said. “It’s more afraid of your power to inspire than to fight, and none inspires more than a martyr.”

“Better to discredit you and splinter the unity of your forces,” Leesha put in.

“But you are the Shar’Dama Ka,” Inevera said. “There can be no further question, with Alagai Ka dead at your hand.”

Jardir shook his head. “That was not Alagai Ka. It was too easy. More likely, this was the least of his princelings. There will be more, and greater.”

“I think so, too,” Leesha said, looking at Jardir. “Which is why I’m holding you to your promise, Ahmann. I have seen Everam’s Bounty, and now I wish to return home. I must prepare my people.”

“You do not need to go,” Inevera said, and Leesha could tell how hard the words came to her. “I will have you as one of my husband’s Jiwah Sen.”

“A ‘lesser’ wife?” Leesha laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I will still make you my Northern Jiwah Ka, if you wish it,” Jardir said. Inevera scowled.

Leesha smiled sadly. “I would still be one of many, Ahmann. The man I wed will be mine, alone.” His face fell, but Leesha held firm, and Jardir nodded finally.

“The Hollow tribe will be honored regardless,” he said. “I cannot prevent the tribes from trying to steal a few of your wells, but know that they will be subject to my wrath should they war upon you.”

Leesha dropped her eyes, afraid she might cry if she saw the sadness in his eyes any longer. “Thank you,” she said tightly.

Jardir reached out, touching her shoulder and squeezing gently. “And I…apologize, if what happened in the Palace of Mirrors was not your own will.”

Leesha laughed out loud, all fear of tears gone. She threw herself at him, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the cheek.

“We did that in the light of day, Ahmann,” she said with a wink.

“I am saddened to see you leave, mistress,” Abban said a few days later, as his wives packed up the last of the endless gifts Jardir had bestowed. “I will miss our conversations.”

“And miss having the Palace of Mirrors to hide the comeliest of your wives and daughters from the dal’Sharum?” Leesha asked.

Abban looked at her in surprise, then bowed, smiling. “You’ve learned more of our tongue than you let on.”

“Why don’t you just tell Ahmann?” Leesha asked. “Let him discipline Hasik and the others. They can’t just go around raping whomever they want.”

“Your pardon, mistress, but the law says they can,” Abban said. Leesha opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand. “Ahmann’s power is not as absolute as he thinks. Disciplining his own men over a khaffit’s women would sow discord among the men he trusts to carry spears at his back.”

“And that’s more important than the safety of your family?” Leesha asked.

Abban’s eyes grew hard. “Do not assume you understand all our ways after living among us a few weeks. I will find a way to protect my family that doesn’t threaten my master.”

Leesha bowed. “I’m sorry.”

Abban smiled. “Repay me by letting me build a pavilion in your village. My family has one with every tribe, to trade in goods and livestock. Everam’s Bounty has more grain than it needs, and I know there are hungry mouths to the north.”

“That’s kind of you,” Leesha said.

“It is not,” Abban replied, “as you will see when my wives haggle with your people for the first time.” Leesha smiled.

There was a call from outside, and Abban limped over to the window and looked down into the courtyard. “Your escort is ready. Come, and I will see you down.”

“What happened between Ahmann and the Par’chin, Abban?” Leesha asked, unable to contain herself any longer. If she did not learn the answer now, she likely never would. “Why did Ahmann seem angry that you mentioned him to me? Why were you afraid when I told you I mentioned him to Ahmann?”

Abban looked at her, and sighed. “If I will not put my master at risk for the sake of my family, what makes you think I will do it for the Par’chin?”

“Answering my question puts Jardir at no risk, I swear,” Leesha said.

“Perhaps it does, and perhaps not,” Abban said.

“I don’t understand this,” Leesha said. “You both claim Arlen was your friend.”

Abban bowed. “He was, mistress, and because it is so, I will tell you this much: If you know the son of Jeph, if you can get word to him, tell him to run to the end of the world and beyond, because that is how far Jardir will go to kill him.”

“But why?” Leesha asked.

“Because there can only be one Deliverer,” Abban said, “and the Par’chin and Ahmann have…disagreed before, as to who it should be.”

Abban went right to Jardir’s throne room from the Palace of Mirrors. The moment Jardir saw the khaffit, he dismissed his advisors, leaving the two men alone.

“She has left?” he asked.

Abban nodded. “Mistress Leesha has agreed to allow me to set up a trading post for the Hollow tribe. It will help facilitate their integration, and give us valuable contacts in the North.”

Jardir nodded. “Well done.”

“I will need men to guard the shipments, and the stores at the post,” Abban said. “Before, I had servants for such heavy duty. Khaffit, perhaps, but fit men.”

“Such men are all kha’Sharum now,” Jardir said.

Abban bowed. “You see my difficulty. No dal’Sharum will take orders from khaffit in any event, but if you would allow me to select a few kha’Sharum to serve me in this regard, it would be most satisfactory.”

“How many?” Jardir asked.

Abban shrugged. “I could make do with a hundred. A pittance.”

“No warrior, even a kha’Sharum, is a pittance, Abban,” Jardir said.

Abban bowed. “I will pay their family stipends from my own coffers, of course.”

Jardir considered a moment longer, then shrugged. “Pick your hundred.”

Abban bowed as deeply as his crutch allowed. “Will your promises to the mistress of the Hollow tribe alter your plans?”

Jardir shook his head. “My promises affect nothing. It is still my duty to unite the people of the Northland for Sharak Ka. We will march on Lakton in the spring.”

CHAPTER 33 A PROMISE KEPT

“WHY ALL THESE RAFTS, if there’s a perfectly good bridge?” Renna asked, gesturing toward the nameless collection of huts, too few to even be called a hamlet. Each tiny structure had a raft out by the water, surrounded by wards staked into the bank of the Dividing.

A few demons prowled the area, testing the wards on the huts, but Renna was wrapped in her warded cloak, and Arlen radiated such power that the occasional hiss and eye contact were enough to keep the corelings back from him as they walked along the riverbank.

“Merchants who don’t want the bridge guards rooting through their goods sometimes pay raftsmen to take them across the Dividing,” Arlen said. “Usually because they’re carrying something, or someone, they shouldn’t.”

“So we can hire one?” Renna asked.

“Could,” Arlen said, “but that would mean waiting till dawn and dealing with more rumors. Can’t swing my arm in these parts without hitting someone who acts the fool ’cause they think I’m the Deliverer.”

“Don’t know you like I do,” Renna smirked.

“There,” Arlen said, pointing to a raft big enough to carry Twilight Dancer comfortably. There was a great groove in the riverbank where it was hauled up and down each day. He handed Renna one of his ancient gold coins. “Go and leave this by the door.”

“Why?” Renna asked. “It’s new moon. He ent gonna see us take it, and even if he hears, he sure as the sun ent gonna cross his wards to run after us.”

“Ent thieves, Ren,” Arlen said. “Smuggler or no, someone earns their keep with that raft.” Renna nodded and took the coin, leaving it on the hut’s doorstep.

Arlen examined the raft. “Not even a ripping water ward!” He spat on the bank.

Renna returned, kicking at one of the stakes. “These ent worth spit, either. Dumb luck much as anything, protectin’ these rafts.”

Arlen shook his head. “Can’t explain it, Ren. Any ten-year-old in the Brook can out-ward most folk in the Free Cities, where they been raised not to trust anyone without a guild license to ward a ripping windowsill.”

“Can you ward it now?” Renna asked, nodding at the raft.

Arlen shook his head. “Not so it’ll be dry before dawn.”

Renna looked out at the wide expanse of water. Even with her warded eyes, she couldn’t see the far side. “What happens, we try to cross without wards?”

“There’s usually froggies that hide right at the bank,” Arlen said. “We kill those first…” He shrugged. “It’s a new moon. No light to shine on the raft from above and point us out to the river demons, so odds are we’ll get across the deep water safe. By the time we reach the far bank, the sky will be lighter and most of the froggies will have gone back to the Core.”

“Froggies?” Renna asked.

“Bank demons,” Arlen said. “Folk call ’em froggies because they look like big fly frogs, ’cept they’re big enough to eat you like a fly. They jump up out of the water and catch you with their tongues, swallowing as they drag you in. Put up too much of a fight, and they dive into the river to drown it out of you.”

Renna nodded and drew her knife. There were fresh blackstem wards painted on her knuckles. “So what’s the best way to kill one?”

“With a spear,” Arlen said, taking two and handing her one. “Watch.”

He moved slowly toward the water’s edge, emitting a shrill whistling noise. For a moment all seemed calm, and then the water by the bank exploded as a giant, wide-mouthed coreling sprang out. It gripped two stubby, webbed feet on the bank and snapped its head, shooting its thick, slimy tongue at him.

But Arlen was ready and stepped easily to the side. The demon croaked and leapt fully onto the bank, covering some ten feet in a single hop. It shot its tongue at him again, but again Arlen sidestepped, this time charging in close before the tongue could retract. With a quick, precise thrust, he put his spear through the folds of tough skin at its chin and up into its brain, twisting sharply. The crackling magic lit the night as he pulled the spear free, and when the demon struck the ground, he stabbed down once more to be certain it was dead.

“Trick is to get ’em up on shore,” Arlen said, returning to Renna’s side. “Dodge the first tongue, and they hop out of the water to try again. They’re good jumpers, but their forelegs ent got the reach of a spear. You can stab from a safe distance.”

“Ent much fun in that,” Renna said, but she gripped her spear and headed for the water, trying to mimic his whistle.

She expected it to take a few moments to get a response, but almost instantly the water burst and a bank demon was shooting its tongue at her from more than a dozen feet off. She pivoted out of the way, but she wasn’t quite fast enough, and the tongue caught her a glancing blow, knocking her down.

Before she could recover, the demon leapt from the water, landing on the bank and trying again. She rolled to the side, but the tongue caught her about the thigh, slowly drawing her in. Renna dropped her spear to claw at the riverbank, but to no avail. The coreling’s mouth, wide enough to swallow her whole, was filled with row upon row of short, sharp teeth.

Renna ignored it, turning instead to Arlen, who was already running her way.

“You stay out of this, Arlen Bales!” she growled, stopping him short.

She was almost in range of the bank demon’s teeth when she turned back to it. She flicked the sandal off her free foot and kicked it in the jaw with a flash of magic. The demon’s tongue slackened slightly, and Renna twisted, cutting right through it with her knife. As the coreling recoiled, she leapt to her feet, stabbing it in the eye. She hopped back to avoid its death thrashes, then moved in quick, putting her knife in its other eye to ensure the kill.

She looked back at Arlen, daring him to criticize. He said nothing, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes glittered.

There was shouting from the hut, and lamplight flickered in one of its windows, roused by the commotion.

“Time to go,” Arlen said.

The one was on the move. The coreling prince hissed in frustration, but immediately leapt upon its mimic’s back and took to the sky, following his trail.

It had been a risk, letting the human live another cycle, but one the mind demon had deemed acceptable in hope that it might learn how the one had come into powers long since stamped away. The one killed drones nightly, but their number was insignificant, as were the weapons he spread. He was not a unifier, like the dangerous one to the south.

But it was in his power to be. If he but called, human drones would flock to him, and if that happened, they could threaten the hive.

And now he was moving with great decision back toward the human breeding grounds. The coreling prince was certain he would call to the human drones then, and a unification would begin. That could not be tolerated.

The mind demon spent the remainder of the first night tracking the one. Just before dawn it reached the river and hissed when its prey came into sight. Nothing could be done now with the sun about to rise, but it would find them quickly the next night.

The mimic dropped lightly to the riverbank, bending low so the coreling prince could dismount. As they began to dematerialize, the mimic growled softly, sensing its master’s anticipation for the kill.

Renna and Arlen kept riding when the sun rose, passing a branch in the road with an old signpost a few hours later.

“Ent stopping in the town?” Renna asked.

Arlen looked at her. “You can read?”

“Course not,” Renna said. “Don’t need to read to know what a sign on the road is for.”

“Point,” Arlen said, and she could sense him grinning beneath his hood. “Ent got time to waste with other towns right now. I need to get to the Hollow quick.”

“Why?” Renna asked.

Arlen looked at her for a long moment, considering. “A friend’s got herself into a fix,” he said at last, “and I reckon it’s more than a little my fault for staying away so long.”

Renna felt a cold hand clutch her heart. “What friend? Who is she?”

“Leesha Paper,” he said. “Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow.”

Renna swallowed. “Is she pretty?” She cursed herself the moment the words left her lips.

Arlen turned his head back to her with a look that mixed annoyance and amusement. “Why does it still feel like we ’re ten summers old?”

Renna smiled. “Because I’m not one of these folk sees you as the Deliverer. They din’t see the look on your face after you clicked teeth with Beni in the hayloft.”

“Your kiss was better,” Arlen admitted. She tightened her arms around his waist, but he shifted uncomfortably.

“we’ll cut off the road soon,” he said. “Too many folk on it these days. There’s a path I know will take us to one of my caches for fresh weapons and supplies. From there we can ford the Angiers River and be in the Hollow in a couple of nights.”

Renna nodded, swallowing a yawn. She had felt charged with energy after killing the bank demon, but as always, that added strength had faded away with the sun. She dozed in the saddle for a time until Arlen gently shook her awake.

“Best dismount and put your cloak on,” he said. “Getting dark, and we have a few hours left to go before we get to my cache.”

Renna nodded, and he pulled the horse up. They were in a sparsely wooded area with tall conifer trees spaced widely enough that they could walk on either side of Twilight Dancer. She dropped from the saddle, her sandals crunching on the forest floor.

She reached into her satchel and drew forth the warded cloak. “Hate wearing this thing.”

“Don’t care what you hate,” Arlen said. “Corelings are thicker this side of the Dividing; more towns and ruins to draw them. Treetops around here get rife with woodies, swinging from branch to branch and dropping on you from above.”

Renna looked up suddenly, expecting a demon to be hurtling toward her at that very moment, but of course they had not risen yet. The sun was only just setting.

As the shadows grew, Renna watched the mist rise slowly through the detritus of needle and cone carpeting the ground between the trees. It curled around the tree trunks like smoke rising up a chimney.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“Some like to materialize up in the trees, out of sight so you don’t see ’em coming,” Arlen said. “They usually wait till you pass, then drop on your back.”

Renna thought of the rock demon she had killed in similar fashion, and drew her warded cloak tighter about her, glancing up in every direction.

“There’s one up ahead,” Arlen said. “Watch close.” He let her take Twilight Dancer’s lead and walked a few feet ahead of them.

“Ent you gonna take your robe off?” Renna asked, but Arlen shook his head.

“Gonna show you a trick,” he said. “Don’t even need your skin warded, you do it right.”

Renna nodded, watching intently. They walked a bit farther, and then, as predicted, there was a rustle from above and a bark-skinned demon fell from the trees toward Arlen’s back.

But Arlen was ready. He twisted and ducked his head under one of the falling demon’s armpits, putting his free arm around the coreling’s neck from behind, grasping it under the snout. With a sharp pivot, he turned, letting the force of the demon’s own fall break its neck.

“Sweet day,” Renna gasped.

“There’s several ways to do it,” Arlen said, putting a warded finger sizzling through the fallen demon’s eye to confirm the kill, “but the principle’s the same for all. Sharusahk is about using their power against them, like wards do. It’s how the Krasians survived these last centuries, fighting alagai’sharak every night.”

“They’re so good at killing demons, why do you hate ’em so?” Renna asked.

“Don’t hate the Krasians,” Arlen said, and then paused. “Not all of them, anyway. But their way of life, making slaves of everyone who ent a man and a warrior…it ent right. ’Specially not forced on Thesans at the end of a spear.”

“What’re Thesans?” Renna asked.

Arlen looked at her in surprise. “We are. All the Free Cities. I mean for ’em to stay free.”

The one had traveled far while the coreling prince waited out the day in the Core, but the mimic was swift, and it wasn’t long before the mind demon caught sight of its prey, walking his mount through a sparse copse of trees. The mind demon circled above, watching as wood drones attacked the human. The one killed these with quick efficiency, hardly slowing his pace.

The mind demon’s cranium throbbed, and the mimic banked to the side and dove into the trees, its wings melting away as it took the form of a giant wood demon. It caught a thick tree branch before they had fallen far, smoothly pulling out of the fall and into forward motion. It swung easily from branch to branch, still carrying its mind.

They came to a stop at a high vantage, watching the one approach. There was no sign of the female, though the mind demon could not recall her trail ending. It sniffed the air, tasting her. She had been about, and recently, but it could not sense her now.

Pity. She would have been a useful tool against the one, and her mind was deliciously empty, yet flavored with powerful rage. A meal worth tracking after the one’s mind had been similarly consumed.

“ ’Nother woodie ahead,” the Painted Man sighed as what must have been the eighth wood demon that hour swung into view. It was larger than most, almost too big for the tree branches to support. Closer to a rock demon.

“Can I try this one?” Renna asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. He glanced back at her, but it took him a moment to find her. The warded cloak still made him dizzy, and it was easy for his eyes to slide right off it without seeing, if his mind was not focused.

“You need to sleep when we get to the cache,” he said, “and you won’t if you’re all charged with magic.”

“What about you?” Renna asked.

“Got warding to do tonight. I’ll sleep when we ’re back in the Hollow,” he said, watching the demon out of the corner of his eye to see where it perched for its ambush.

But the wood demon didn’t wait for them to pass, picking up momentum and launching itself at him from the front. It was an unexpected move, but the Painted Man still had plenty of time to duck to the side, reaching out for its lead talon to twist and turn its own force against it.

He must have misjudged the length of the demon’s limbs, though, because he somehow missed its clawed foot, which grabbed at his robed leg and pulled him from his feet. They both hit the ground heavily, and the coreling rolled away, rising on equal footing with him.

They faced off, and immediately the Painted Man knew something was different about this demon. It circled him patiently, waiting for opportunity. A few times, the Painted Man lowered his eyes or seemed to turn away, inviting attack, but the coreling didn’t take the bait, watching him intently.

“Smart one,” he mused.

“Need help?” Renna asked, reaching for her knife.

The Painted Man laughed. “Be a cold day in the Core when I need help killing a lone wood demon.” He reached down to open his robe.

The coreling growled and launched itself at him before he could untie the garment, tackling him to the ground. The Painted Man fell on his back and kicked at it, delivering a blow greater than even Twilight Dancer could have done, but the demon’s arms became the tentacles of a lake demon, wrapping tightly around him. They dug in with a sharp, horned surface even as suckers latched on to his robe, holding it tight and keeping his wards covered. The demon’s maw grew before his eyes, becoming like a bank demon’s, large enough to swallow his entire head and shoulders.

The Painted Man snapped his head forward, butting the demon’s lower jaw with the impact ward atop his head. There was a flash and the demon howled as a few of its teeth shattered, but there were hundreds more, and it did not let go its grip. The Painted Man had exhaled sharply with the blow, and now found he could not draw a new breath.

With the last bit of air in his lungs, the Painted Man emitted a shrill whistle, and Twilight Dancer tossed his mighty head, yanking the lead away from Renna and charging in, horns lowered. They tore through the demon’s shoulder in a blast of ichor and magic, and it shrieked in agony, finally relaxing its grip. The Painted Man rolled away, gasping for breath.

The coreling melted away from Twilight Dancer’s horns and grew again, its armor shifting and changing color as it became a rock demon. It swiped a backhand blow at the stallion, never taking its eyes off the Painted Man.

Even without its barding and saddlebags, Twilight Dancer weighed nearly a ton, but the powerful demon still sent the horse flying. He struck a tall tree, and the Painted Man could not tell if the resulting crack was the tree’s trunk or his horse’s spine.

“Dancer!” the Painted Man screamed, tearing the robe from his body and launching himself at the demon. Renna ran to see to the horse.

The Painted Man’s blows rocked the coreling back, and it gave ground freely under the assault, but the wound Twilight Dancer’s horns inflicted was already healed, and the Painted Man’s punches and kicks seemed to have no lasting effect. Its flesh pulsed around the scorched impact points, healing them instantly.

He knocked the demon down on one arm, but it dug its great talons into the ground, throwing an enormous clump of dirt and wet leaves at him. The Painted Man had no chance to dodge, and was struck full-on. He recovered his feet quickly, brushing the filth from him, but he knew his wards were weakened where it clung to him, if they still worked at all.

But he was no more injured than the coreling, and there was no way he was going to let this powerful demon get away. They circled again, baring their teeth and growling. One of the demon’s arms became half a dozen tentacles, each ten feet long and ending in a sharp horn.

“Night, what part of the Core did you come from?” the Painted Man asked. The mimic gave no answer, lashing out with the new limbs.

The Painted Man dodged to the side, rolling and coming up at a run to get inside the demon’s reach. There was a gap in the armor plates at its armpit, and he drove his stiffened fingers, painted with piercing wards, into the crevice, trying to reach some vital part that might cause lasting damage.

The coreling screamed and twisted, and its flesh dissolved around his hand. It was only then, when he was in contact with the demon as it changed, that he realized what it was doing. It was dematerializing and reforming, the same way he did, or any coreling for that matter. This demon could simply reform in different ways. A thousand possibilities opened to the Painted Man at the realization, too many to even consider. He brushed the epiphany aside like an irritating fly and focused on his adversary, striking again.

In the split second when the demon was in transition, the Painted Man dematerialized as well, intermingling with it slightly to keep it from solidifying. The demon still felt solid to him, but Renna’s scream sounded as if she were a mile away. He knew how it must seem to her, both of them fading away, ghostlike, but there was nothing for it.

He ’d fought another demon this way once before, and knew that in this state strength and wards were meaningless. It was will that was power here, and the Painted Man knew his will was greater than any demon’s.

He locked on to the mimic demon’s very molecules, keeping them scattered and immaterial, shepherded by his will. He sensed the creature ’s sudden fear, and returned it with his anger and rage, dominating its will the way a parent would a disobedient toddler.

But just as he felt the mimic’s will breaking, another will touched him, this one a thousand times stronger.

The coreling prince clung to a high treetop above the battle, but its mind rode behind the eyes of the mimic, giving its servant commands through the battle.

Against any other foe, the kill would have been swift, for the mind demon could simply have read its opponent’s thoughts, countering attacks before they were even made. But the thoughts of the human mind were warded, so the demon was blind to his plans. The mimic would still have prevailed, but then the human did something even the mind demon could never have expected.

He dematerialized.

The coreling prince had never seen the like, had not even imagined it was possible for a surface creature. For a moment, it felt a touch of fear at the human’s power.

But only for a moment, because then, as the human broke the mimic’s will, the coreling prince touched his mind. Wards had no power in the between-state. Any hatchling prince knew that. The one had foolishly made himself vulnerable.

The mind demon lashed out before the human could recover from his surprise, and then, at last, it Knew its foe, diving into the river of his memories. The human was horrified at the invasion, but helpless to stop it. His impotent rage was intoxicating.

Then the one surprised him again. A lesser being would have faltered, but the human left his memories behind, unguarded, and threw his will at the mind demon’s own river, the essence of its being. He burst through the mind demon’s defenses, unprepared for such ferocity, and they Linked for just a moment before the coreling prince managed to gather its will and sever the connection.

The moment his mind was free, the one solidified, forcing the mimic to do the same.

“Renna!” the human called, and the coreling prince looked in shock to see the air ripple and the human female appear as if from nothing, stabbing the mimic with her warded knife.

The mind demon ignored the mimic’s howls, studying the distortion in the air about the female, a garment trailing behind her as she struck. Powerful warding, to have hidden her from even a prince’s eyes.

The moment the one solidified, his mental wards returned, but he also lost his control over the mimic. The mind demon had its servant shove him back, then throw itself upon the female, rending the warded garment from her and knocking her to the ground in a tumble.

By the time the one came to his feet, two females squared off before him, identical in appearance and action. The mind demon Linked their thoughts so that the mimic could mirror her utterly, then let go the claws that held it to the trunk of the tree. It stepped out into the open air and drifted to the ground as gently as a falling leaf.

The Painted Man blinked, seeing two Renna Tanners before him, identical down to the blackstem stains on her skin in varying degrees of fading. They looked at him with the same eyes, wore the same ragged clothes, carried the same knife. Even the magic they radiated seemed the same.

He ran to Twilight Dancer’s side, forcing himself to ignore the horse’s labored breaths as he snatched up his great bow and fitted an arrow. He wavered, unsure who to point it at.

“Arlen, she’s the demon!” both Rennas shouted in unison, pointing to the other.

They looked at each other in shock, and then turned back to him. “Arlen Bales,” they said, both planting their hips in the exact way Renna did when she was angry, “don’t you tell me you can’t pick me from a coreling!”

The Painted Man looked at both of them and shrugged apologetically. Two sets of identical brown eyes glared at him.

He frowned. “Why’d I have to play kissy, that night?”

Both Rennas seemed to brighten at the question. “You lost at succor,” they said in unison, and then again turned to look at each other in horror.

The Painted Man concentrated, watching them both at once. “How’d I lose?”

The Rennas hesitated, then looked at him. “Beni cheated,” they admitted. A murderous gleam came into both their eyes, and they turned to each other once more, raising their knives.

“Don’t!” the Painted Man said, raising his bow. “Give me a moment.”

They both spared him an irritated glance. “Corespawn it, Arlen, just let me kill the ripping thing and have done!”

“You ent a match for it, Ren,” the Painted Man said, and both women glared at him again. “Real Renna would mind me,” he added.

The women threw back their heads and laughed at that, but they made no move to attack each other. The Painted Man nodded.

“Might as well come out!” he called loudly into the night. “I know you’re there! That changing demon ent smart enough for this!”

There was a rustle off to the side, and a demon appeared. It was small and slender, with an oversized head and a high, knobbed cranium. Its eyes were huge black pools, and it bared only a single row of sharp teeth at him. The talons at the end of its delicate fingers were like an Angierian lady’s painted nails.

“Been wondering when I’d run into one of you bastards,” the Painted Man said. He tapped the large ward tattooed in the center of his forehead. “Painted myself up special for it.”

The demon tilted its head, studying him. Beside him, the two Rennas stiffened slightly.

“Your mind may be shielded, but this female’s is not,” the Rennas said in unison, as the demon continued to regard him. “We can kill her at will.”

The Painted Man drew and fired in an instant, but the demon traced a quick ward in the air, and there was a flash of magic that reduced the arrow to ashes before it struck home. He drew another arrow to his ear, but it seemed a useless gesture against this new demon. He lowered his bow, easing the tension in the string.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“What does your steed want from the insects its tail swats?” the Rennas asked. “You are an annoyance to be crushed, nothing more.”

The Painted Man sneered. “Come try.”

But the Rennas shook their heads. “In time. You have no drones to defend you, while I have many. Soon I will lay open your skull and consume your mind, but it amuses me to let you bargain for the female first.”

“You said I had nothing you want,” the Painted Man said.

“You don’t,” the Rennas agreed. “But giving up something you wish to keep hidden will cause you pain, and that will sweeten the meal we make of your mind.”

The Painted Man’s eyes narrowed.

“Where did you learn of us?” the Rennas asked.

The Painted Man glanced at them, and then looked back at the mind demon. “Why should I tell you? You can’t pull it from my head, and she doesn’t know.”

The Rennas smiled. “You humans are weak about your females. It is a failing bred carefully into your ancestors. Tell us, or she dies.” As they spoke, both women lifted identical warded knives and stepped close, holding them to each other’s throats.

The Painted Man raised his bow, wavering it between them. “I could shoot one. Got a half chance of killing your changeling.”

The women shrugged. “It is only a drone. The female, however, holds great meaning to you. You will suffer much if she dies.”

“Great meaning?” the Rennas asked, and the Painted Man turned to look at them fully. There was fear in their eyes, and despair.

“I’m sorry, Ren,” the Painted Man said. “Din’t mean for this. Warned you.”

Both Rennas nodded. “I know. Ent your fault.”

The Painted Man raised his bow at them. “Ent gonna be able to save you this time, Ren,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Not even if I knew which one was you.” Renna bit back a sob, and he could almost feel the mind demon’s pleasure.

“So you’re gonna have to be strong and save yourself,” he said. “ ’Cause that monster’s the face of evil, and I ent gonna let it get away.”

The mind demon stiffened as it realized what he meant, but it was a second too late, as the Painted Man dropped his bow and leapt at it, covering the distance between them in an instant. Before it could command Renna and the mimic to kill each other, his warded fist struck the coreling prince’s bulbous head with an explosion of magic.

The slender demon was thrown several feet by the force of the blow and landed on its back, hissing in rage. Its cranium throbbed, and the Painted Man could feel the thrum of power it sent out, though it did him no harm.

Behind him, the mimic shrieked, but the Painted Man ignored it, leaping at the mind demon again, pinning it and delivering heavy blows. Each wound healed instantly, but he did not let up, keeping it stunned until he could find a way to kill it. If it dematerialized, he was prepared now to match wills against it.

But the mind demon stayed solid, perhaps fearing just such a thing. With each blow, it grew more dazed, taking a split second longer to recover. The Painted Man slipped around the demon into a sharusahk choke hold, the pressure wards on his forearms growing warm as they flared against its throat, building power. It would be over in seconds.

But then a wind demon crashed into him, breaking the hold and knocking them apart. The Painted Man rolled atop the wind demon and struck it hard in the throat, stunning it, but a wood demon swung down at him from the trees before he could finish it off. It was followed quickly by several more.

The mind demon felt its connection to the mimic sever when the shock from one’s blow blasted through its skull. It had never known such pain. In the ten thousand years since it was hatched, no creature had ever dared to strike the coreling prince. It was unthinkable.

The demon struck the ground hard, and immediately sent its distress out in a general call. Drones would come from all around to answer it. The mimic answered with a cry, but failed to come. The human leapt atop the mind demon, hammering it about the head with his wards.

Used to fighting through its mimic, the mind demon was unprepared for the pain and confusion of physical combat. The human gave it no time to recover, and it was helpless to prevent the one establishing a primitive dominance hold. His wards activated, sucking the coreling prince’s own magic and turning it into pain.

That might have been the end, but at last a wind drone answered its call, knocking into the one and breaking his hold. Other drones followed, flocking to defend the coreling prince. The moment it was knocked away, the mind demon healed its wounds, hissing in outrage at the affront. It sent another call, meaning to bury the one in drones. It could sense dozens of them in the area, running hard to join the melee, but the mimic was strangely absent.

The human flung the wood drones from its path, charging the coreling prince again, but this time it was ready, drawing a ward that sent a blast of air to strike the one like a physical blow, hurling him across the clearing. By the time he rose, he was surrounded again by wood drones. At the mind demon’s command, they broke branches from the trees to use as weapons, circumventing even the muddied wards of forbiddance on the human’s skin.

The mimicking of her words and actions was horrifying enough, but Renna was truly revulsed when the mind demon rose up to take control of her voice and she realized it had been hiding within her all along, like a stowaway suddenly taking control of the cart.

It was an unspeakable violation, worse than anything Harl had ever done to her. Worse than the outhouse, worse than being staked at night. She could feel the demon burrowing through her thoughts like a field vole, taking her most cherished and private memories to use as weapons against Arlen.

The thought filled her with rage, and she sensed the mind demon’s pleasure at the response. I’ve taken you before, it whispered in her thoughts. Many times.

Renna looked at Arlen, and despaired at the resignation in his eyes. She had thought she was strong enough to walk his path. That she could do anything he could. But now that lie was proven. All she could do was get him killed.

She choked on a sob and tried to raise her knife to bury it in her own throat, but the mind demon controlled her body like a Jongleur’s puppet, and she could not act against its will. Even if Arlen guessed right and somehow managed to kill the mimic, the mind demon could make her stab him in the heart just as easily. She wanted to warn him, but the words would not come.

But then the look in Arlen’s eyes changed, as if he had come to some decision, and he gazed at her with a trust no one had ever shown her before.

“You’re gonna have to be strong and save yourself,” he said. “ ’Cause that monster’s the face of evil, and I ent gonna let it get away.”

Her fear fell away at that look, and her eyes hardened. She nodded, and felt the mind demon’s sudden start, taking Arlen’s meaning the same moment she did. It tried to react, but it was not quick enough as Arlen struck a blow to its head that lit the darkness with magic.

The demon’s presence in her mind vanished, leaving Renna stunned and disoriented. She glanced at the mimic, still in her form, and saw it stagger similarly, cut off from its mind.

Tightening her grip on her father’s knife, Renna growled and leapt at the creature, putting the blade into its bare midriff. She put her free arm around the demon, pulling it in close as the blackstem wards on her skin activated. Magic shocked through her muscles, filling her with strength as she heaved the knife upward, opening up the creature from navel to collar.

The mimic’s body may have looked like her on the outside, but the black, stinking ichor that burst from the wound was nothing from the surface world.

She looked at its face, the same face she had seen a thousand times in the surface of water. Renna was almost brought to tears by the pain and confusion in her own eyes, but then the face snarled like a dog, and its teeth began to elongate as it hissed at her.

Renna twisted as the mimic lunged, turning its own energy against it as Arlen had taught her. She grabbed its thick braid in her free hand as it passed, pulling it up short from its fall and baring its nape. The move gave such power to her pivot and slash that her knife passed through its neck effortlessly.

Just like that, the fight was over. The demon’s body fell to the ground lifelessly, and she was left holding her own head by the hair, eyes rolled back and black ichor dripping from the neck. She inhaled, taking what seemed like her first breath in hours.

She looked up, expecting to see the mind demon dead at Arlen’s feet, but instead she saw Arlen surrounded by wood demons holding branches in their claws, and the mind demon backing away. The corelings took no notice of her yet, focused solely on Arlen.

Renna looked around, dropping the head to the ground as she snatched up her warded cloak. The mimic had torn the ties at its throat, but the garment was otherwise intact. Sheathing her knife, she flung the cloak around her shoulders, putting up the hood and using both hands to hold it closed from the inside.

She rose carefully, walking toward the battle scene at a slow, even pace to allow the wards their greatest advantage. One of the wood demons struck Arlen across the shoulders as she drew close to him. He cried out and was knocked to the ground, spitting blood. The other demons followed suit, and he rolled desperately to avoid their blows, with only partial success.

She wanted nothing more than to rush to Arlen’s aid, but she knew in her heart that he would not want her to. The mind demon stood boldly again, no longer trying to escape. It would be worth more than both their lives, if she could show it the sun.

The Painted Man felt his ribs snap as the branch struck him to the ground. He heaved up a foul mix of bile and blood and spit it into the dirt.

Before he could recover, another branch struck him. He rolled to dodge the third, and the fourth, but he could not regain his footing to rise, and the fifth struck him full in the face, tearing skin and popping one of his eyes from its socket to hang from a string of muscle. The sound of the blow echoed in his head, drowning out all else.

With his one good eye, he looked up, seeing several demons swinging branches at once. For a moment he thought it was his time to die, but then his senses returned for a split second and he cursed himself for a fool.

As the branches came down, they struck only mist. The Painted Man slipped from the center of the copse, reforming behind one of the wood demons, his wounds healed instantly. He kicked out one of the demon’s legs, grabbing it by the horns as it fell and using its own weight to flip it over and break its neck. He leapt at the next demon, putting his thumbs through its eyes. A third demon swung its branch at him, but again he dematerialized, and it struck only its blind brother. The Painted Man solidified again, stabbing his stiffened fingers through a crevice in the attacking demon’s barklike armor and bursting its heart like a popping chestnut.

He had known no mortal weapon could harm him if he saw its approach, but now he realized it was much more than that. Anything short of death or dismemberment could be healed in an instant. The corelings around him had become nothing but flies to swat from his path. They weren’t smart enough to dematerialize offensively on their own, and the mind demon would be wary to do it through them, lest it meet his will on that other plane.

He ignored the remaining wood demons, passing through them like a ghost and only solidifying when the path to the coreling prince was clear. He looked at the demon, and a wave of dizziness overcame him. The confidence that had suffused him a moment earlier vanished as he realized he was only just discovering powers the demon had known for thousands of years. It bared its fangs and lifted a talon to draw a ward in the air.

But then the tip of a blade burst from its chest, flaring bright with magic. The dizziness left him as Renna’s cloak fell away and he saw her holding the demon around the throat with her free arm while the contact wards along her blade built in power.

The coreling prince shrieked in surprise and pain, and the Painted Man did not hesitate, leaping forward to strike hard blows to keep it off balance. Renna let go her knife, whipping her brook stone necklace around its throat. The wards flared, and the mind demon opened its mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, its cranium pulsed, and the resulting thrum struck the Painted Man like a harsh wind, knocking him back.

Renna seemed not to notice the effect, but all through the trees and seemingly for miles around, demons shrieked in agony. A wind demon dropped from the sky, crashing through the branches of a tree to hit the leaf bed, dead. The wood demons that had attacked him likewise collapsed, killed by the demon’s psychic scream.

And in that instant, the mind demon fled.

The coreling prince had never known fear. Never known pain. It was above such things, tasting them only vicariously through the minds of its drones or its prey—delicacies to be savored.

But there was nothing vicarious about the death of its mimic or the blade in its chest. The choking cord around its throat and the blows that scattered its attempts to assert its power. It screamed, and felt the minds of drones all around burn out from the pain.

The one was distracted for an instant, and the coreling prince took the chance, dematerializing and fleeing for the Core. There it would bond a new mimic and grow strong for the next cycle, when it would return with a host of drones the likes of which the surface had not seen in millennia.

Renna shrieked, and the Painted Man whirled back to see the mind demon melt away from her grasp, breaking into mist that fled down a nearby path to the Core.

Instinctively, he followed.

“Arlen, no!” Renna screamed, but it was a distant thing.

The path to the Core was like following a brook upstream in the dark. He could feel the path, but sight had no meaning on the path to the Core. He simply felt the flow of magic stemming from the center of the world and followed back against the current. The Painted Man kept his will focused on the evil taint of the coreling prince ahead of him, and it seemed they raced for miles before he drew close enough to grab at the demon.

He had no hands with which to grab, but he willed his essence to latch on to the demon, and like two men blowing smoke into the same cloud, they mingled and their wills clashed.

The Painted Man had expected the demon’s will to have weakened, but it was no less potent now, and they clawed through each other’s minds, jabbing fingers into any delicate crevice they could find. The coreling prince laid bare all his life’s failures, mocking him with the fate he had abandoned Renna to, or brought upon the Rizonans. Teasing him with images of Jardir forcing himself upon poor innocent Leesha.

It was almost too much, but in his pain he lashed out, cracking through the mind demon’s own defenses. He saw in that moment a glimpse of the Core, a place of eternal darkness, but lit with magic’s glow more brightly than the desert wastes.

Instantly the demon’s will retreated, ceasing its attack to protect its own thoughts. The Painted Man sensed the advantage and pressed his assault. The coreling prince shrieked in his mind as he learned of the Hive.

The Painted Man might have won then, if not for the horror of the sight. The corelings that came to the surface to hunt were but the barest fraction of what the Core could spew forth. Millions of demons. Billions. For the first time since he had found the wards of old, he despaired that they could ever be defeated.

The mind demon’s will roared over him, and their struggle fell to a more basic level, the simple will to survive. But here the Painted Man held the advantage, for he had no fear of death, and did not look over his shoulder as it approached them both.

The demon did, and in that instant its will broke, and the Painted Man absorbed its magic into his own essence, leaving a burnt remain he threw from the path to the Core to scatter away forever.

Alone on the path, the Painted Man could finally hear the true call of the Core, and it was beautiful. There was power there. Power not evil in itself. Like fire, it was beyond good or evil. It was simply power, and it beckoned him like a teat to a hungry infant. He reached for it, ready to taste.

But then another call reached him.

“Arlen!” The voice was a distant echo that reverberated down the path.

“Arlen Bales, you come back to me!”

Arlen Bales. A name he hadn’t used in years. Arlen Bales had died out on the Krasian Desert. The voice was calling a ghost. He turned back to the Core, ready to embrace it.

“Don’t you leave me again, Arlen Bales!”

Renna. He ’d left her in dire straights twice now, but the third would be the deepest cut, damning her to the very life he sought to escape after she had worked so hard to save his.

What could the embrace of the Core offer that hers could not?

Renna’s throat was hoarse from screaming when the mist seeped back up from the ground and began to take Arlen’s form. She laughed through her tears and nearly choked. It seemed only a moment ago that he was as good as cored and she expecting no better, but now suddenly every demon in the area was dead, the night hauntingly quiet as she and Arlen stared at each other. The mind demon’s magic feedback had been intense, and Renna’s senses felt more alive than they ever had in her life. She practically crackled with energy, and her heart was pounding like a Jongleur’s hand drums. Arlen glowed so intensely he hurt to look at.

“Dancer,” Arlen breathed suddenly, breaking the silence. He ran to his horse.

“Broke a lot of bones,” Renna said sadly. “Ent never gonna run again, even if he makes it through. Da would say to put him down.”

“To the Core with anything your da would have done!” Arlen growled. Renna felt his pain like a slap in the face, and knew in that moment how much he loved the horse. She knew what it was like, when an animal was your only friend in the world. She wished he could love her half so much.

“Wounds’ve stopped bleeding,” she noted. “Must’ve taken some magic off that changing demon before he was struck.”

“Mimic,” Arlen said. “They’re called mimics.”

“How d’you know?” Renna asked.

“Learned a lot, when I touched the coreling prince’s mind,” Arlen said. He reached out, gripping one of the stallion’s broken legs and pulling the bones straight. Holding them in place with one powerful hand, he drew a ward in the air with the other.

He grunted in pain, but the ward flared and the bones knit before her eyes. One by one, Arlen tended the horse’s wounds, but as Twilight Dancer began to breathe comfortably, Arlen’s own breath began to labor. His magic, so bright a moment ago, was dimming rapidly. Already it was darker than she had ever seen it.

She touched his shoulder, and felt a flash of pain as some of her own magic flowed into him. He gasped and looked up at her.

“Enough,” she whispered, and he nodded.

The Painted Man looked at Renna and felt a profound sense of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Ren,” he said.

Renna looked at him curiously. “Sorry for what?”

“Turned my back on you once when we were young, leaving you to Harl so I could chase demons,” he said. “And then tonight, I did it again.”

But Renna shook her head. “Felt that demon in my head. Felt it slither into me worse ’n Da ever could. It was pure evil, straight from the Core. Killing that monster was worth more ’n a thousand Renna Tanners.”

The Painted Man reached out and touched her cheek, his eyes unreadable.

“Thought so before,” he said, “but now I ent so sure.”

“I ent takin’ back my promise,” Renna said. “If this is your life, then I aim to support it like a proper wife should. No matter what.”

Dawn was approaching, and the Core called to the Painted Man still, but it was a distant thing now, easily ignored. Because of her. Because with Renna he finally remembered who he was. The words came easily to him.

“I, Arlen Bales, promise myself to you, Renna Tanner.”