The Desert Spear

her face grow cold, and Rojer looked like he might be sick.
    “How can you know that?” she asked.
    “The Krasians believe that Kaji, the first Deliverer, unified the tribes of Krasia and then rode out of the desert, spending two decades conquering the lands to the north,” the Painted Man said. “He called it Sharak Sun, the Daylight War, and levied the men into Sharak Ka, the great holy war against demonkind. If Ahmann Jardir thinks he is the Deliverer come again, he will attempt to follow the same path.”
    “What are we to do?” Leesha asked.
    “Build defenses,” the Painted Man said. “Fight them, every inch of the way.”
    Leesha shook her head. “No. I won’t support that. These aren’t demons you’re talking about killing, Arlen. They’re human beings.”
    “You think I don’t know that?” the Painted Man said. “I have Krasian friends, Leesha! Can you say the same?” Leesha looked at him in shock, but she recovered and shook her head.
    “Make no mistake,” the Painted Man said, his voice quieter, but no less vehement, “the Krasians believe every single person in the North is inferior to the least of them. They may make a show of being merciful to leaders they can use to further their goals, but there will be no such concessions to regular folk. They will kill or enslave everyone who does not swear utter submission to Jardir and the Evejah. We
have
to fight.”
    “We could retreat to Angiers,” Leesha said. “Hide within the city walls.”
    The Painted Man shook his head. “We can’t give them any ground. I know these people. If we show fear and retreat, they will think us weak, and only press the attack harder.”
    “I still don’t like it,” Leesha said.
    The Painted Man shrugged. “Your liking it is irrelevant. The good news is that I doubt they have more than six thousand warriors of fighting age. The bad news is that the least of those can outfight any three Cutters, and when they’re ready to move, they’ll have levied thousands of slave troops from Rizon.”
    “How are we supposed to fight against that?” Rojer said.
    “Unity,” the Painted Man said. “We need to open dialogue with Lakton now, while the lines of communication are still clear, and petition the dukes of Angiers and Miln to put aside their differences and commit to a common defense.”
    “I don’t know the duke of Miln,” Rojer said, “but I grew up in Rhinebeck’s court when my master Arrick was his herald. Rhinebeck is more likely to put aside his differences with the corelings than with Duke Euchor.”
    “Then we ’ll have to convince him personally,” Leesha said. She looked at the Painted Man. “All of us.”
    The Painted Man sighed. “Just as well I not go to Lakton. I’m…not very welcome there.”
    “So the tale’s true then?” Rojer asked. “The dockmasters tried to kill you?”
    “After a fashion,” the Painted Man said.

    Rojer sat in the music shell that night, playing to soothe the hundreds of refugees still living in tents in the Corelings’ Graveyard. Many of them drifted over to sit by the shell, basking in the warm glow of the greatward as they fell under Rojer’s spell. His music swept them up and carried them far away to forget, at least for a short time, that their lives had been shattered.
    It seemed a terribly inadequate gift, but it was all he had to give. He kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, letting them see nothing of the bleakness he felt inside.
    Tender Jona was waiting for him when he finished playing. The Holy Man was young, not yet thirty, but he was well loved by the Hollowers, and no one had worked harder to bring comfort and necessities to the refugees. In addition to organizing most of the food and shelter rationing, the Tender walked among the refugees, learning their names and letting them know they were not alone. He led prayers for the dead, found caregivers for orphans, and married lovers brought together by tragedy.
    “Thank you for doing this,” Jona said. “I could feel their spirits lifting as they watched you play. My own, as well.”
    “I’ll perform every evening I’m not needed elsewhere,” Rojer said.
    “Bless you,” Jona said. “Your music gives such strength to them.”
    “I wish it could give some to me,” Rojer said. “Sometimes I think in my case the opposite is true.”
    “Nonsense,” Jona said. “Strength of spirit is not some finite thing, where one man must lose for another to gain. The Creator grants