The Desert Spear
Page 114
“Then why do you dress like one?” the girl demanded.
“I am demon-scarred,” he told her, “and I don’t want to frighten you.”
“I’m not scared,” the girl said, trying to peek under his hood. He took a step back, pulling the hood lower.
“You’re being rude!” Elissa scolded her. “Run along and play with your brother.”
The girl took on a rebellious look, but Elissa stared her down and she darted back across the room to a worktable where a boy of perhaps five winters was stacking blocks with wards painted on their sides. The Painted Man saw Ragen in his young face, and felt a profound gladness for his mentor, mixed with a terrible regret that he would never know the boy, or the man he would become.
Elissa looked abashed. “I am sorry for that. My husband, too, has scars he does not care for the world to see. You’re a Messenger, then?”
The Painted Man nodded.
“What can I help you with, today?” she asked. “A new shield? Or perhaps repairing a portable circle?”
“Looking for a Warder named Cob,” he said. “I was told he owned this shop.”
Elissa looked sad as she shook her head. “Cob has been dead almost four years,” she said, her words hitting harder than a demon’s blow. “Taken by a cancer. He left the shop to my husband and me. Who told you to seek him here?”
“A…Messenger I knew,” the Painted Man said, reeling.
“What Messenger?” Elissa pressed. “What was his name?”
The Painted Man hesitated, his mind racing. No name came to him, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the risk he would be discovered. “Arlen of Tibbet’s Brook,” he blurted, cursing himself as he did.
Elissa’s eyes lit up. “Tell me of Arlen,” she begged, placing a hand on his arm. “We were very close, once. Where did you last see him? Is he well? Can you get a message to him? My husband and I would pay any price.”
Seeing the sudden desperation in her eyes, the Painted Man realized how deeply he had hurt her when he left. And now, stupidly, he had given her false hope that she might somehow see Arlen again. But the boy she knew was dead, body and soul. Even if he took off his hood and told her the truth, she would not have him returned. Better to give her the closure she needed.
“Arlen spoke of you that night,” he said, his decision made. “You’re every bit as beautiful as he said.”
Elissa smiled at the compliment, her eyes moist, but then she stopped, as what he had said fully registered. “What night?”
“The night I was scarred,” he said. “Crossing the Krasian Desert. Arlen died, so that I might live.” It was true enough, after a fashion.
Elissa gasped, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Her eyes, moist a moment before with joy, now brimmed with water as her face screwed up in pain.
“His last thoughts were of you,” he said, “of his friends in Miln, his…family. He wanted me to come here and tell you that.”
Elissa barely heard him. “Oh, Arlen!” she cried, and stumbled. The Painted Man darted forward to catch her, guiding her to one of the workbenches and easing her down as she sobbed.
“Mother!” Marya cried, rushing over. “Mother, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked at the Painted Man, accusation in her eyes.
He knelt before the girl, not sure if it was simply to appear less threatening to the child, or to allow her to strike him if she wished. He almost hoped she would. “I’m afraid I brought her some ill tidings, Marya,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s a Messenger’s duty to tell people of things they might not be happy to hear.”
As if on cue, Elissa looked up at him, her sobbing cut short. She pulled herself together with a deep breath, drying her tears with a lace cuff and embracing her daughter. “He’s right, sweetest. I’ll be all right. Take your brother into the back a spell, if you please.”
Marya shot the Painted Man one last dark glance, then nodded, gathering up her little brother and leaving the room. He watched them go, feeling wretched. He should never have come, should have sent an intermediary or found some other Warder to go to, though there were none he trusted like Cob.
“I’m sorry,” the Painted Man said. “I never wished to bring you pain.”
“I know,” Elissa said. “I’m glad you told me. It makes things easier in some ways, if you understand.”
“Easier,” the Painted Man agreed. He fumbled in his pouch, pulling forth a handful of letters, and a grimoire of battle wards, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with stout cord. “These are for you. Arlen meant for you to have them.”
Elissa took the bundle and nodded. “Thank you. Do you plan to stay in Miln long? My husband is out, but he will surely have questions for you. Arlen was like a son to him.”
“I am only in town for the day, my lady,” he said, wanting no part of a conversation with Ragen. The man would press for details where there were none. “I have a message for the duke, and a few others to pay respects to, and then I am off.”
He knew he should leave it lie there, but the damage was done, and his next words came unbidden. “Tell me…does Mery still live at the house of Tender Ronnell?”
Elissa shook her head. “Not for many years. She—”
“No matter,” the Painted Man cut her off, not wanting to hear more. Mery had found someone else. It was no great surprise, and he had no right to feel stung by the news.
“What about the boy, Jaik?” he asked. “I’ve a letter for him, as well.”
“No more a boy,” Elissa said, looking at him with piercing eyes. “He’s a man now. He lives on Mill Way, in the third workers’ cottage.”
The Painted Man nodded. “Then, with your permission, I’ll take my leave.”
“You may not like what you find there,” Elissa warned.
The Painted Man looked up at her, trying to read her meaning, but it was lost in her wet puffy eyes. She looked tired and guileless. He turned to go.
“How did you know my daughter’s name?” Elissa asked.
The question surprised him. He hesitated. “You introduced her when she came over.” The moment he said it, he cursed silently, for of course, Elissa had been cut off before she could introduce the girl, and he could have claimed the knowledge came from Arlen in any case.
“I suppose I did,” Elissa agreed, surprising him. He took it as a stroke of luck and made for the door. His fingers were closing on the latch when she spoke again.
“I’ve missed you,” she said quietly.
He paused, fighting the urge to turn and run back, crushing her in his arms and begging her forgiveness.
He left the warding shop without another word.
The Painted Man cursed himself as he strode down the street. She had recognized him. He didn’t know how, but she had, and in walking out he had likely hurt her more deeply than news of his death ever could have. Elissa had been as a mother to him, and his leaving must have seemed the ultimate rejection of her love. But what could he have done? Shown her what he had done to himself? Shown her the monster her adopted son had become?
No. Better she think he had turned his back on her. Better any lie than that truth.
“I am demon-scarred,” he told her, “and I don’t want to frighten you.”
“I’m not scared,” the girl said, trying to peek under his hood. He took a step back, pulling the hood lower.
“You’re being rude!” Elissa scolded her. “Run along and play with your brother.”
The girl took on a rebellious look, but Elissa stared her down and she darted back across the room to a worktable where a boy of perhaps five winters was stacking blocks with wards painted on their sides. The Painted Man saw Ragen in his young face, and felt a profound gladness for his mentor, mixed with a terrible regret that he would never know the boy, or the man he would become.
Elissa looked abashed. “I am sorry for that. My husband, too, has scars he does not care for the world to see. You’re a Messenger, then?”
The Painted Man nodded.
“What can I help you with, today?” she asked. “A new shield? Or perhaps repairing a portable circle?”
“Looking for a Warder named Cob,” he said. “I was told he owned this shop.”
Elissa looked sad as she shook her head. “Cob has been dead almost four years,” she said, her words hitting harder than a demon’s blow. “Taken by a cancer. He left the shop to my husband and me. Who told you to seek him here?”
“A…Messenger I knew,” the Painted Man said, reeling.
“What Messenger?” Elissa pressed. “What was his name?”
The Painted Man hesitated, his mind racing. No name came to him, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the risk he would be discovered. “Arlen of Tibbet’s Brook,” he blurted, cursing himself as he did.
Elissa’s eyes lit up. “Tell me of Arlen,” she begged, placing a hand on his arm. “We were very close, once. Where did you last see him? Is he well? Can you get a message to him? My husband and I would pay any price.”
Seeing the sudden desperation in her eyes, the Painted Man realized how deeply he had hurt her when he left. And now, stupidly, he had given her false hope that she might somehow see Arlen again. But the boy she knew was dead, body and soul. Even if he took off his hood and told her the truth, she would not have him returned. Better to give her the closure she needed.
“Arlen spoke of you that night,” he said, his decision made. “You’re every bit as beautiful as he said.”
Elissa smiled at the compliment, her eyes moist, but then she stopped, as what he had said fully registered. “What night?”
“The night I was scarred,” he said. “Crossing the Krasian Desert. Arlen died, so that I might live.” It was true enough, after a fashion.
Elissa gasped, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Her eyes, moist a moment before with joy, now brimmed with water as her face screwed up in pain.
“His last thoughts were of you,” he said, “of his friends in Miln, his…family. He wanted me to come here and tell you that.”
Elissa barely heard him. “Oh, Arlen!” she cried, and stumbled. The Painted Man darted forward to catch her, guiding her to one of the workbenches and easing her down as she sobbed.
“Mother!” Marya cried, rushing over. “Mother, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked at the Painted Man, accusation in her eyes.
He knelt before the girl, not sure if it was simply to appear less threatening to the child, or to allow her to strike him if she wished. He almost hoped she would. “I’m afraid I brought her some ill tidings, Marya,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s a Messenger’s duty to tell people of things they might not be happy to hear.”
As if on cue, Elissa looked up at him, her sobbing cut short. She pulled herself together with a deep breath, drying her tears with a lace cuff and embracing her daughter. “He’s right, sweetest. I’ll be all right. Take your brother into the back a spell, if you please.”
Marya shot the Painted Man one last dark glance, then nodded, gathering up her little brother and leaving the room. He watched them go, feeling wretched. He should never have come, should have sent an intermediary or found some other Warder to go to, though there were none he trusted like Cob.
“I’m sorry,” the Painted Man said. “I never wished to bring you pain.”
“I know,” Elissa said. “I’m glad you told me. It makes things easier in some ways, if you understand.”
“Easier,” the Painted Man agreed. He fumbled in his pouch, pulling forth a handful of letters, and a grimoire of battle wards, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with stout cord. “These are for you. Arlen meant for you to have them.”
Elissa took the bundle and nodded. “Thank you. Do you plan to stay in Miln long? My husband is out, but he will surely have questions for you. Arlen was like a son to him.”
“I am only in town for the day, my lady,” he said, wanting no part of a conversation with Ragen. The man would press for details where there were none. “I have a message for the duke, and a few others to pay respects to, and then I am off.”
He knew he should leave it lie there, but the damage was done, and his next words came unbidden. “Tell me…does Mery still live at the house of Tender Ronnell?”
Elissa shook her head. “Not for many years. She—”
“No matter,” the Painted Man cut her off, not wanting to hear more. Mery had found someone else. It was no great surprise, and he had no right to feel stung by the news.
“What about the boy, Jaik?” he asked. “I’ve a letter for him, as well.”
“No more a boy,” Elissa said, looking at him with piercing eyes. “He’s a man now. He lives on Mill Way, in the third workers’ cottage.”
The Painted Man nodded. “Then, with your permission, I’ll take my leave.”
“You may not like what you find there,” Elissa warned.
The Painted Man looked up at her, trying to read her meaning, but it was lost in her wet puffy eyes. She looked tired and guileless. He turned to go.
“How did you know my daughter’s name?” Elissa asked.
The question surprised him. He hesitated. “You introduced her when she came over.” The moment he said it, he cursed silently, for of course, Elissa had been cut off before she could introduce the girl, and he could have claimed the knowledge came from Arlen in any case.
“I suppose I did,” Elissa agreed, surprising him. He took it as a stroke of luck and made for the door. His fingers were closing on the latch when she spoke again.
“I’ve missed you,” she said quietly.
He paused, fighting the urge to turn and run back, crushing her in his arms and begging her forgiveness.
He left the warding shop without another word.
The Painted Man cursed himself as he strode down the street. She had recognized him. He didn’t know how, but she had, and in walking out he had likely hurt her more deeply than news of his death ever could have. Elissa had been as a mother to him, and his leaving must have seemed the ultimate rejection of her love. But what could he have done? Shown her what he had done to himself? Shown her the monster her adopted son had become?
No. Better she think he had turned his back on her. Better any lie than that truth.
