The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  She eyed Wonda again. “Not yet, anyway,” she allowed. “Stand tall in the night for me, girl. Stand tall for every woman in Angiers, and never let anyone, man or woman, make you stoop.”

  “I will, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, making a proper bow at last. “I swear it by the sun.”

  Araine grunted and tapped her chin for a moment, then snapped her fingers. She snatched up the little silver bell on the table and rang it. In an instant one of her ladies-in-waiting appeared. “Summon my seamstress immediately,” Araine said. The woman curtsied and scurried off, and moments later another woman arrived, assisted by a young girl with a leather-bound book and a feathered quill.

  “The girl,” Araine said, pointing to Wonda. “Take her measurements. Everything.” The royal seamstress nodded and produced a series of knotted strings, calling the measurements out to the girl, who noted them in her book. Wonda stood awkwardly while the woman worked, moving Wonda’s limbs about like a doll’s, and running her hands over places that made the girl blush furiously. The white scars on her face became even more prominent as her cheeks colored.

  The seamstress came over to Araine and Leesha when she was finished. “It’s a challenge, Your Grace,” she admitted. “The girl is flat where a woman should be curved, and broad where a woman should be narrow. Perhaps a few ruffles on the dress to distract the eye, and a fan to help her hide the scars…”

  “Am I an idiot?” Araine snapped. “I’d as soon put Thamos in a gown as that girl!”

  The woman paled, and dipped into a curtsy. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Araine said. “It will come to me, I’m sure. Run along now.” The woman nodded, quickly gliding out of the room with her assistant in tow.

  Araine turned to Leesha as she and Wonda prepared to go. “Bruna and I were great friends, dear, something that was of great benefit to both of us. I hope we can be friends, as well.”

  Leesha nodded. “I hope so, too.”

  CHAPTER 18

  GUILDMASTER CHOLLS

  333 AR SPRING

  “WHY DID YOU AGREE to go?” Rojer asked in a low voice after Janson had escorted the men back to the parlor and left them alone to wait for Leesha and Wonda. “Rhinebeck is just trying to be rid of you because he’s afraid his own subjects will flock to you.”

  “I don’t want that any more than he does,” the Painted Man said. “I don’t want people to start thinking of me as some kind of savior. Besides, I have my own reasons for wanting to visit Miln, and going under Rhinebeck’s seal is too good an opportunity to let slip past.”

  “You’re going to give them your battle wards,” Rojer said.

  The Painted Man nodded. “Among other things.”

  “All right,” Rojer said. “When do we leave?”

  The Painted Man looked at him. “There is no ‘we ’ here, Rojer. I’m going to Miln alone. I’ll be traveling at speed through the nights, and I don’t need you slowing me down. Besides, you have apprentices to train.”

  “What’s the point?” Rojer asked. “Whatever it is I do to the corelings, it’s not something I can teach.”

  “Demonshit,” the Painted Man snapped. “That’s quitting talk. You’ve only been training apprentices for a few months. We need those fiddle wizards, Rojer. You need to find a way to get them ready.” He took Rojer’s shoulders, looking into his eyes, and Rojer saw the endless determination that burned in the man and, more, his confidence in Rojer. “You can do this,” the Painted Man said, squeezing his shoulders. He turned away, but that stare remained with Rojer, and he felt as if some of the man’s determination had passed on to him. If he couldn’t train the apprentices, he knew who could. All he needed to do was swallow his fear and go to them.

  Gared came to the Painted Man, dropping to one knee. “Let me go with ya,” he begged. “I ent afraid to gallop at night. I won’t slow ya.”

  “Get up,” the Painted Man snapped, kicking at Gared’s bent knee. The giant Cutter rose to his feet quickly, but kept his eyes down. The Painted Man put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I know you wouldn’t slow me, Gared,” he said, “but you’re not going, either. I’m going to Miln alone.”

  “But you need someone to protect you,” Gared said. “The world needs you.”

  “The world needs men like you more than it needs me,” the Painted Man told Gared, “and I don’t need a bodyguard. I have another task in mind for you.”

  “Anything,” Gared promised.

  “I don’t need a guard, but Rojer does,” the Painted Man said. Rojer looked at him sharply, but the Painted Man ignored him. “As Wonda guards Leesha, I want you to watch over Rojer. His fiddle magic is unique and irreplaceable, and may turn the tide if we can harness it.”

  Gared bowed deeply and stepped into a sunbeam streaming in from a window. “I swear it by the sun.” He looked at Rojer. “I won’t let him leave my sight.”

  Rojer looked at the giant, unpredictable Cutter with not a little apprehension, unsure if he should be comforted or terrified. “Let me use the privy in peace, at least.”

  Gared laughed and slapped him on the back, knocking all the air from Rojer’s body and nearly throwing him to the floor.

  “I’m leaving for Fort Miln before the north gate is barred tonight,” the Painted Man told Leesha on the carriage ride back to Jizell’s hospit, after filling her in on the rest of his audience with the duke, which had gone precisely as the duchess mum had predicted. “In fact, I mean to go as soon as I can pack Twilight Dancer for the journey.”

  Leesha had instructed Wonda to keep a straight face if the men confirmed Araine’s words. The girl performed admirably, but Leesha herself had to force down the smile that threatened to turn up the corners of her mouth. “Oh?”

  “Rhinebeck wants me to go as his agent to Duke Euchor, petitioning him for aid in driving the Krasians out of Thesan lands,” the Painted Man said.

  Leesha pretended to nod grimly, awed at the duchess mum’s power. What she wouldn’t give to bend men to her will so, without their ever knowing!

  The Painted Man looked expectantly at her. “What?”

  “No protests at my leaving?” He seemed almost disappointed. “No insistent offers to accompany me?”

  Leesha snorted. “I have business back in the Hollow,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “and you’ve made no secret that you want to spread the battle wards to every city and hamlet. It’s for the best.”

  The Painted Man nodded. “I think so, too.”

  They passed the rest of the ride in silence, and arrived back at the hospit as the apprentices were taking the linens off the lines.

  “Gared, please help the girls haul the laundry baskets,” Leesha said as the empty carriage pulled away. Gared nodded and went off.

  “Wonda,” Leesha said. “The Painted Man will need ammunition for his ride north. Please fetch a few bundles of warded arrows.”

  “Ay, mistress,” Wonda said, bowing, and headed inside.

  “Five minutes at court, and everyone’s bowing to everyone else,” Rojer muttered.

  “Rojer, would you ask Mistress Jizell to have the girls pack food for his saddlebags?” Leesha asked.

  Rojer looked at them and scowled. “Might be best I stay and chaperone.”

  Leesha gave him such a withering glare that he shrank back. He bowed with a sarcastic flourish and headed off. Leesha and the Painted Man went to the stables, and he fetched his warded saddle and the stallion’s barding.

  “You will be careful, won’t you?” Leesha asked him.

  “I wouldn’t have survived so long if I wasn’t,” he said.

  “Fair point,” Leesha said, “but I didn’t just mean with the corelings. Duke Euchor has a…harder reputation than Rhinebeck.”

  “You mean he’s not led around by the nose by his councilors?” the Painted Man asked. “I know. I’ve met Euchor before.”

  Leesha shook her head. “Is there anywhere you h
aven’t been?”

  The Painted Man shrugged. “Over the eastern mountain range. Through the western wood. Past the Krasian Desert to the seashore.” He looked at her. “But I’ll see all those places one day, if I can.”

  “I’d like to see them as well, Creator willing,” Leesha said.

  “Nothing stopping you or anyone from going anywhere, now,” the Painted Man said, holding up a tattooed hand.

  I meant with you, she wanted to say, but swallowed it. His words said it all. She was his Rojer. There was no point in pretending otherwise any longer.

  The Painted Man reached out his hand. “You be careful, too, Leesha.”

  Leesha slapped his hand away and embraced him. “Goodbye.”

  An hour later, he was galloping north from the city, and though her eyes were wet, Leesha felt as if a great weight had lifted from her.

  Leesha fell into her old patterns at the hospit, giving the apprentices a lesson and doing rounds while Jizell caught up on her correspondence. Part of her thought hungrily of the books of warding in the satchel in her room upstairs, but she resisted the temptation to immerse herself in Arlen’s lore, for she knew once she did, she would be able to think of nothing else. Learning was as addictive to Leesha as the jolt of magic that came with killing a coreling with his warded axe was to Gared. But for a few hours, at least, she decided to take comfort in the simple pleasure of grinding herbs and treating patients with nothing worse than a broken bone or a bad chill.

  When last rounds were completed and the apprentices shooed off to bed, Leesha brewed a pot of tea and took a cup to Jizell’s sitting room. The room would be empty at this time of night, and there was a warm hearth and a small writing desk there. Leesha had her own correspondence to catch up on, Herb Gatherers throughout the duchy that she kept in touch with, many of whom had yet to be informed of Bruna’s passing last year. Like grinding herbs, keeping in touch with old friends was another thing Leesha had not had time for since she and Rojer met the Painted Man.

  But as she drew near the sitting room, she heard the sound of breaking glass. She entered the room to see Rojer behind Jizell’s desk, a carafe of brandy open in front of him. The fire hissed and popped angrily, and there were wet shards of glass on the stone of the fireplace.

  “Are you trying to burn the whole building down?” Leesha shouted, pulling a rag from her apron and running to wipe up the alcohol before it caught flame.

  Rojer ignored her, taking another glass and filling it.

  “Mistress Jizell won’t be pleased at you shattering her glass, Rojer,” Leesha said.

  Rojer reached into the motley bag he carried everywhere. It was old, stained, and weather-worn, but Rojer still referred to it as his “bag of marvels.” Indeed, he could reach into it at will and pull forth something to widen the eyes of even the most skeptical audience.

  He threw a handful of the Painted Man’s ancient gold coins on the desk. They bounced with a clatter, and half of them fell to the floor. “She can buy a hundred more now.”

  “Rojer, what is the matter with you?” Leesha demanded. “If this is about sending you away before…”

  Rojer waved his hand dismissively, taking a pull from his glass. Leesha could tell he was already very drunk. “Don’t care how you and Arlen said goodbye in the stable.”

  Leesha glared. “I didn’t stick him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Rojer shrugged. “Your business if you did.”

  “Then what is it?” Leesha asked softly, coming over to him. Rojer looked at her a moment, then reached into his bag of marvels again, producing a slim wooden box he opened to reveal a heavy gold medallion.

  “Minister Janson gave this to me,” Rojer said. “It’s a Royal Medal of Valor. The duke gave it to Arrick for saving me the night Riverbridge fell. I never knew.”

  “You miss him,” Leesha said. “It’s only natural. He saved your life.”

  “The Core he did!” Rojer cried, grabbing the chain and hurling the medal across the room. It struck the wall with a heavy thunk and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  Leesha put her hands on Rojer’s shoulders, but his lips curled and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. “Rojer, what happened?” she asked softly.

  Rojer pulled away from her hands and turned away. For a moment she thought he would remain silent, but then he began to speak.

  “I used to think it was just a nightmare.” His voice was strained and tight, as if it might break at any moment. “We were dancing, my mother and I, while Arrick played the fiddle. My father and a Messenger, Geral, were clapping along. It was off-season, and there was no one else in the inn that night.”

  He drew a deep breath, swallowing hard. “There was a crash, as something hit the door. I remember my father had been arguing that morning with Master Piter, the Warder, but he and Geral said not to worry.” He chuckled mirthlessly, sniffling. “I guess we should have, because as we all turned to the sound, a rock demon burst through the door.”

  “Oh, Rojer!” Leesha said, covering her mouth, but Rojer did not turn.

  “The rock was followed by a blaze of flame demons, pouring in around its legs as it smashed the lintel and jambs of the doorway to fit through. My mother snatched me up in her arms, and everyone started shouting at once, but I don’t remember what was said, except…” He sobbed, and Leesha had to fight the urge to go to him.

  Rojer composed himself quickly. “Geral threw his warded shield to Arrick and told him to get my mother and me to safety. Geral took his spear and my father an iron poker from the fireplace, and they turned to hold off the corelings.”

  Rojer was silent a long time. When he spoke again, it was a cold monotone, lacking any emotion at all. “My mother ran to him, but Arrick shoved her aside, snatched up his bag of marvels, and ran from the room.”

  Leesha gasped, and Rojer nodded. “Honest word. Arrick only helped me because my mother shoved me into the bolt-hole with him, just before the demons took her. Even then, he tried to leave me.”

  He reached out to Arrick’s bag of marvels, running his fingers across the worn velvet and cracked leather patches. “It wasn’t threadbare and faded then. Arrick was the duke’s man, and this bag was bright and new, as befit a royal herald.

  “That’s the truth of Arrick’s valor,” he said through clenched teeth. “Saving a bag of toys!” He snatched up the bag in his good hand, clenching it so tightly his knuckles showed white. “A bag I carry around with me everywhere, like it’s just as important to me!” He shook the bag in Leesha’s face, then his eyes flicked to the fire roaring in the hearth, and he moved around the desk toward the fireplace.

  “Rojer, no!” Leesha shouted, moving to intercept him and grabbing the bag. Rojer held on tightly so she could not pull it away, but he did not try to push past her. They locked stares, Rojer’s eyes wide like a cornered animal. Leesha put her arms around him, and he buried his face in her bosom, weeping for some time.

  When his convulsions finally eased, Leesha let go, but Rojer held her tight. His eyes were closed, but his mouth moved toward hers. She pulled back quickly, catching Rojer as he stumbled drunkenly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she said, guiding him back to the desk chair where he sat heavily and held a breath, as if to suppress a roiling stomach. His face was pale and sweaty.

  “Drink my tea,” Leesha said. She took the bag of marvels from him, and Rojer let it go without resistance. She set the bag in a dark corner, well away from the fire, and retrieved Arrick’s gold medallion from where it lay on the floor.

  “Why did he leave it behind?” Rojer asked, looking at the medallion. “When the duke threw us out, he took everything in our chambers that wasn’t staked to the floor. He could have sold that medal along with all the other things he peddled over the years we drifted. It could have fed and boarded us for months. Night, it could have paid every bar tab Arrick had in the city, and that’s saying something.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe he knew he didn’t deserve it,” Leesha said. “Maybe he was ashamed of what he ’d done.”

  Rojer nodded. “I think so. And for some reason, it’s worse. I want to hate him…”

  “But he was like a father to you, and you can’t bring yourself to do it,” Leesha finished. She shook her head. “I know that feeling well.”

  Leesha turned the medallion over in her hands, feeling the smooth back. “Rojer, what were your parents’ names?”

  “Kally and Jessum,” Rojer said. “Why?”

  Leesha laid the medallion on the desk and reached into one of the many pockets of her apron, pulling forth the small leather bundle that held her ward-etching tools. “If this medal is meant to honor your being saved from the massacre at Riverbridge, then it should honor everyone.”

  With a smooth, flowing script, she etched KALLY, JESSUM, and GERAL into the soft metal. When she was finished, the names glittered in the firelight. Rojer looked at them with wide eyes as Leesha took the heavy chain and put it over his head. “When you look at this, don’t think of Arrick’s failure. Remember those whose sacrifice went unsung.”

  Rojer touched the medallion, tears falling onto the gold. “I’ll never let it out of reach.”

  Leesha put a hand on his shoulder. “I think you will, if it comes down to saving the medal, or someone’s life. You’re not Arrick, Rojer. You’re made of sterner stuff.”

  Rojer nodded. “Time I proved it.” He got to his feet, but wobbled so unsteadily he had to slap a hand onto the desk for balance.

  “In the morning,” he amended.

  “Hold on to your wits and let me do the talking,” Rojer told Gared as they entered the Jongleurs’ Guildhouse. “Don’t be fooled by the bright smiles and motley. Half the men in here can slip the purse right from your pocket without you ever knowing.”

  Gared reflexively slapped his hand to his pocket.

  “Don’t clutch it, either,” Rojer added. “You’re just advertising where you keep it.”

  “So what should I do?” Gared asked.