The Desert Spear
Page 122
The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell’s faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind’s sins.
In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.
He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:
“There is no man in creation who is not your brother
No woman not your sister, no child not your own
For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike
And all must band together to withstand the night.”
The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from that?”
“You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”
“Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Painted Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”
“Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”
“Already have,” the Painted Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”
Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”
“But you won’t,” the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.
Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”
“To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”
The Painted Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”
“The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.
The Painted Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”
Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon. “For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh…”
“And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,” the Painted Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”
Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.
The Painted Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.
“Of course, of course…” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.
“Seen what?” the Painted Man asked.
“You.” Ronnell dropped to his knees. “You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!”
The Painted Man scowled. “I’ve said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.” He leaned in close to the Tender. “And I’ll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the ‘Plague.’ ”
“Of course not,” Ronnell agreed. “The Deliverer must believe the opposite.”
“I’m not the ripping Deliverer!” the Painted Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.
“You are,” Ronnell said. “It’s the only way to explain your miracles.”
“Miracles?” the Painted Man asked, incredulous. “Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender? What miracles?”
“Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,” Ronnell said. “You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders’ trap.”
The Painted Man shrugged. “So what? Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.”
“I can’t think of anyone who ever did,” Ronnell said. “And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.”
“I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,” the Painted Man said.
“You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,” Ronnell said. “The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.”
“What trial?” the Painted Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.
“A Beggar boy found on the road,” the librarian went on, “yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!” He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.
“You warded the Holy Library,” he said in awe, pointing. “A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.”
“Just the furniture,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. “The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!”
“That’s nonsense,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell got to his feet. “Pray, put your hood up,” he said, going to the door.
The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.
The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.
Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive—original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.
The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night’s reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.
The acolyte bowed low at the Tender’s approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke’s Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read: Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.
In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.
He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:
“There is no man in creation who is not your brother
No woman not your sister, no child not your own
For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike
And all must band together to withstand the night.”
The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from that?”
“You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”
“Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Painted Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”
“Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”
“Already have,” the Painted Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”
Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”
“But you won’t,” the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.
Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”
“To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”
The Painted Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”
“The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.
The Painted Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”
Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon. “For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh…”
“And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,” the Painted Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”
Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.
The Painted Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.
“Of course, of course…” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.
“Seen what?” the Painted Man asked.
“You.” Ronnell dropped to his knees. “You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!”
The Painted Man scowled. “I’ve said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.” He leaned in close to the Tender. “And I’ll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the ‘Plague.’ ”
“Of course not,” Ronnell agreed. “The Deliverer must believe the opposite.”
“I’m not the ripping Deliverer!” the Painted Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.
“You are,” Ronnell said. “It’s the only way to explain your miracles.”
“Miracles?” the Painted Man asked, incredulous. “Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender? What miracles?”
“Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,” Ronnell said. “You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders’ trap.”
The Painted Man shrugged. “So what? Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.”
“I can’t think of anyone who ever did,” Ronnell said. “And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.”
“I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,” the Painted Man said.
“You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,” Ronnell said. “The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.”
“What trial?” the Painted Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.
“A Beggar boy found on the road,” the librarian went on, “yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!” He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.
“You warded the Holy Library,” he said in awe, pointing. “A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.”
“Just the furniture,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. “The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!”
“That’s nonsense,” the Painted Man said.
Ronnell got to his feet. “Pray, put your hood up,” he said, going to the door.
The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.
The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.
Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive—original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.
The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night’s reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.
The acolyte bowed low at the Tender’s approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke’s Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read: Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.
