The Desert Spear

of the way.”
    “But why?” Rojer asked.
    “Because he doesn’t think he’s human,” Leesha said, reproach clear in her tone. “He thinks he’s so tainted by coreling magic that he’s as much a danger to us as they are, even though there ’s not a shred of proof.”
    The Painted Man glared, but Leesha glared right back. “There ’s proof,” he said finally.
    “What?” Leesha asked, her voice softening but still skeptical.
    The Painted Man looked at Rojer, who shrank back under the glare. “What I say stays in this cottage,” he warned. “If I hear even a
hint
of it in a song or tale…”
    Rojer held his hands up. “Swear by the sun as it shines. Not a whisper.”
    The Painted Man eyed him, finally nodding. His eyes dropped as he spoke. “It’s…uncomfortable for me, in the forbidding.”
    Rojer’s eyes went wide, and Leesha inhaled a sharp breath, holding it as her mind raced. Finally, she forced herself to exhale. She had sworn to find a cure for the Painted Man, or at least the details of his condition, and she meant to keep that vow. He’d saved her life, and that of everyone in the Hollow. She owed him that much and more.
    “What are the symptoms?” she asked. “What happens when you step onto the ward?”
    “There’s…resistance,” the Painted Man said. “Like I’m walking against a strong gust of wind. I feel the ward warming beneath my feet, and myself getting cold. When I walk through the town, it’s like wading through hip-deep water. I pretend otherwise, and no one seems to notice, but I know.”
    He turned to Leesha, his eyes sad. “The forbiddance wants to expel me, Leesha, as it would any demon. It knows I don’t belong among men any longer.”
    Leesha shook her head. “Nonsense. The ward’s siphon is just drawing away some of the magic you’ve absorbed.”
    “It’s not just that,” the Painted Man said. “The Cloaks of Unsight make me dizzy, and I can feel warded blades warm and sharpen at my touch. I fear I become more demon every day.”
    Leesha took one of the warded glass vials from her apron pocket and handed it to him. “Crush it.”
    The Painted Man shrugged, squeezing as hard as he could. Stronger than ten men, he could easily shatter glass, but the vial resisted even his grip.
    “Painted glass,” the Painted Man said, examining the vial. “So what? I taught you that trick myself.”
    “That wasn’t charged till you touched it,” Leesha said. The Painted Man’s eyes widened.
    “Proof of what I’m saying,” he said.
    “The only thing it proves is that we need more tests,” Leesha said. “I’ve finished copying your tattoos and studying them. I think the next step is to start experimenting on volunteers.”
    “What?!” Rojer and the Painted Man asked in unison.
    “I can make a stain from blackstem leaves that will stay in the skin no more than two weeks,” Leesha said. “I can perform controlled tests and mark the results. I’m certain we can—”
    “Absolutely not,” Arlen said. “I forbid it.”
    “You
forbid
?” Leesha asked. “Are you the Deliverer, to order folk about? You can forbid me nothing, Arlen Bales of Tibbet’s Brook.”
    He glared at her, and Leesha wondered if perhaps she had pushed him too far. His back arched like a hissing cat, and for a moment she was afraid he would leap at her, but she stood fast. Finally, he deflated.
    “Please,” he said, his tone softening. “Don’t risk it.”
    “People are going to imitate you,” Leesha said. “Already Jona is drawing wards on people with charcoal sticks.”
    “He’ll stop if I tell him to,” the Painted Man said.
    “Only because he thinks you’re the Deliverer,” Rojer noted, and flinched at the look the Painted Man gave him in return.
    “It won’t make any difference,” Leesha said. “It’s only a matter of time before your legend draws a tattooist to the Hollow, and then there will be no stopping it. Better we experiment now, in control.”
    “Please,” the Painted Man said again. “Don’t curse anyone else with my condition.”
    Leesha looked at him wryly. “You’re not cursed.”
    “Oh?” he asked. He looked at Rojer. “Do you have one of your throwing knives?”
    Rojer flicked his wrist, and a knife appeared in his hand. He spun it deftly and moved to give it to the Painted Man, handle-first, but the Painted Man shook his head. He rose and took a few steps back from the table. “Throw it at me.”
    “What?” Rojer asked.
    “The