The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  “Seen what?” the Painted Man asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Just the furniture,” the Painted Man said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Painted Man looked at him sharply.

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

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

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

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

  There was a demon in the yard.

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

  “Arlen, what is it?” she cried.

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

  Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But there was nothing. He searched the compound from one end to another, and found nothing. Had he imagined it?

  “Anything?” Ragen asked, when he returned. The guildmaster was still in the doorway, safe behind the wards, but ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.

  “Empty my pockets,” the Painted Man said with a shrug. “Maybe I imagined it.”

  Ragen grunted. “No one gets cored for being too careful.”

  The Painted Man took Ragen’s spear as he came back inside. A Messenger’s spear was his trusted companion on the road, and Ragen’s, though he had not Messaged in nearly a decade, was still well oiled and sharp.

  “Let me ward this before I leave,” he said. He glanced outside. “And you check your wardnet come morning.” Ragen nodded.

  “Must you go so soon?” Elissa asked.

  “I draw too much attention in town, and I don’t want it to lead back here,” the Painted Man said. “Better I be gone before sunrise, and out the dawn gate the moment it opens.”

  Elissa did not look pleased, but she embraced him tightly and kissed him. “We expect to see you again before another decade passes,” she warned.

  “You will,” the Painted Man promised. “Honest word.”

  The Painted Man felt better than he had in years when he left Ragen and Elissa just before dawn. They had refused sleep and stayed up with him through the night, filling him in on the goings-on in Miln since his departure, and asking after the details of his life. He told them stories of his early adventures, but never spoke of his time in the desert, when Arlen Bales had died and the Painted Man been born. Or the years after.

  Still, there were enough tales to fill the remainder of the night and to spare. He barely made it away before the dawn bell, and had to trot to be far enough from the manse not to draw suspicion as people began to open warded doors and unshutter warded windows.

  He smiled. Likely, his missing the bell and being forced to stay another day had been Elissa’s plan all along, but she had never been able to cage him.

  The guards at the day gate were still stretching out morning kinks when he arrived, but the gate was open. “Seems everyone’s up early this morn,” one said as he passed.

  The Painted Man wondered what he meant, but then he rode past the hill where he had first met Jaik and found his friend waiting there, sitting on a large rock.

  “Looks like I made it out just in time,” Jaik said. “Had to break curfew to do it.”

  The Painted Man dropped from the horse’s back and came over to him. Jaik made no effort to rise or extend a hand, so he simply sat on the rock beside him. “The Jaik I met on this hill would never break curfew.”

  Jaik shrugged. “Didn’t have much choice. Knew you’d try and skulk off with the dawn.”

  “Didn’t Ragen’s man bring you my letters?” the Painted Man asked.

  Jaik pulled out the bundle and threw it to the ground. “Can’t read, and you know it.”

  The Painted Man sighed. In truth, he had forgotten. “Came to see you in person,” he offered. “Wasn’t expecting to find Mery there, and she wasn’t eager that I stay.”

  “I know,” Jaik said. “She came to me at the mill in tears. Told me everything.”

  The Painted Man hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” Jaik said. He sat quietly for a time, looking out over the land spread out before them.

  “Always knew she was just settling for me,” he said at last. “You were gone a year before she saw me as anything more than a shoulder to cry on. Two more before she agreed to be my wife, and another after that before we made our vows. Even on the day she was holding her breath, hoping you’d storm in and break up the ceremony. Night, I half expected it myself.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t blame her. She was marrying down a class, and I ent educated or much to look at. There was a reason I followed you around when we were kids. You were always better than me at everything. I wasn’t even fit to be your Jongleur.”

  “Jaik, I’m no better than you are,” the Painted Man said.

  “Yeah, I see that now.” Jaik spat. “I’m a better husband than you ever could have been. Know why? Because unlike you, I was there for her.”

  The Painted Man scowled, and any feelings of contrition fled from his thoughts. Anger and hurt he would accept from Jaik, but the condescension in his tone burned.

  “That’s the Jaik I remember,” he said. “Shows up and does the least he can. Heard Mery’s da had to call favors at the mill so you could afford to move off your parents’ carpet.”

  But Jaik stood fast. “I was there for her here,” he snapped, pointing to his temple, “and here!” He pointed
to his heart. “Your head and heart were always out there.” He swept a hand out over the horizon. “So why don’t you just go back there? No one needs your delivering here.”

  The Painted Man nodded, leaping back up onto Twilight Dancer’s back. “You take care of yourself, Jaik.” He rode off.

  CHAPTER 24

  BROTHERS IN THE NIGHT

  333 AR SPRING

  “HEY! WATCH THE BUMPS, I’m tuning!” Rojer cried as the cart trundled along the road. He had carefully cleaned and waxed the ancient fiddle the Painted Man had given him, and purchased expensive new strings at the Jongleurs’ Guildhouse. His old fiddle had belonged to Master Jaycob, and the cheap workmanship had him forever tuning it. Before that, he had used Arrick’s fiddle, which was finer, though it had seen many years of use and was worn down even before Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices smashed it.

  This one, rescued from some forgotten ruin, was another class entirely. The neck and body curved differently than Rojer was used to, but the workmanship was exquisite, and the wood had passed the centuries like days. A fiddle fit for a duke to play.

  “I’m sorry, Rojer,” Leesha said, “but the road just doesn’t seem to care that you’re tuning. I don’t know what’s gotten into it.”

  Rojer stuck his tongue out at her, gently turning the last peg between the thumb and forefinger of his crippled hand while the thumb of his other hand plucked at the string.

  “Got it!” he shouted at last. “Stop the cart!”

  “Rojer, we have miles to go before dark,” Leesha said. Rojer knew that every moment away from the Hollow ate at her, worried over its citizens as a mother worried over her children.

  “Just for a minute,” Rojer begged. Leesha tsked, but she complied. Gared and Wonda pulled up as well, looking at the cart curiously.

  Rojer stood on the driver’s seat, brandishing the fiddle and bow. He put the instrument under his chin and caressed the strings with the bow, bringing them to a resonant hum.

  “Listen to that,” he marveled. “Smooth like honey. Jaycob’s fiddle was a toy by comparison.”