The Desert Spear

drew near the sitting room, she heard the sound of breaking glass. She entered the room to see Rojer behind Jizell’s desk, a carafe of brandy open in front of him. The fire hissed and popped angrily, and there were wet shards of glass on the stone of the fireplace.
    “Are you trying to burn the whole building down?” Leesha shouted, pulling a rag from her apron and running to wipe up the alcohol before it caught flame.
    Rojer ignored her, taking another glass and filling it.
    “Mistress Jizell won’t be pleased at you shattering her glass, Rojer,” Leesha said.
    Rojer reached into the motley bag he carried everywhere. It was old, stained, and weather-worn, but Rojer still referred to it as his “bag of marvels.” Indeed, he could reach into it at will and pull forth something to widen the eyes of even the most skeptical audience.
    He threw a handful of the Painted Man’s ancient gold coins on the desk. They bounced with a clatter, and half of them fell to the floor. “She can buy a hundred more now.”
    “Rojer, what is the matter with you?” Leesha demanded. “If this is about sending you away before…”
    Rojer waved his hand dismissively, taking a pull from his glass. Leesha could tell he was already very drunk. “Don’t care how you and Arlen said goodbye in the stable.”
    Leesha glared. “I didn’t stick him, if that’s what you’re implying.”
    Rojer shrugged. “Your business if you did.”
    “Then what is it?” Leesha asked softly, coming over to him. Rojer looked at her a moment, then reached into his bag of marvels again, producing a slim wooden box he opened to reveal a heavy gold medallion.
    “Minister Janson gave this to me,” Rojer said. “It’s a Royal Medal of Valor. The duke gave it to Arrick for saving me the night Riverbridge fell. I never knew.”
    “You miss him,” Leesha said. “It’s only natural. He saved your life.”
    “The Core he did!” Rojer cried, grabbing the chain and hurling the medal across the room. It struck the wall with a heavy thunk and dropped to the floor with a clatter.
    Leesha put her hands on Rojer’s shoulders, but his lips curled and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. “Rojer, what happened?” she asked softly.
    Rojer pulled away from her hands and turned away. For a moment she thought he would remain silent, but then he began to speak.
    “I used to think it was just a nightmare.” His voice was strained and tight, as if it might break at any moment. “We were dancing, my mother and I, while Arrick played the fiddle. My father and a Messenger, Geral, were clapping along. It was off-season, and there was no one else in the inn that night.”
    He drew a deep breath, swallowing hard. “There was a crash, as something hit the door. I remember my father had been arguing that morning with Master Piter, the Warder, but he and Geral said not to worry.” He chuckled mirthlessly, sniffling. “I guess we should have, because as we all turned to the sound, a rock demon burst through the door.”
    “Oh, Rojer!” Leesha said, covering her mouth, but Rojer did not turn.
    “The rock was followed by a blaze of flame demons, pouring in around its legs as it smashed the lintel and jambs of the doorway to fit through. My mother snatched me up in her arms, and everyone started shouting at once, but I don’t remember what was said, except…” He sobbed, and Leesha had to fight the urge to go to him.
    Rojer composed himself quickly. “Geral threw his warded shield to Arrick and told him to get my mother and me to safety. Geral took his spear and my father an iron poker from the fireplace, and they turned to hold off the corelings.”
    Rojer was silent a long time. When he spoke again, it was a cold monotone, lacking any emotion at all. “My mother ran to him, but Arrick shoved her aside, snatched up his bag of marvels, and ran from the room.”
    Leesha gasped, and Rojer nodded. “Honest word. Arrick only helped me because my mother shoved me into the bolt-hole with him, just before the demons took her. Even then, he tried to leave me.”
    He reached out to Arrick’s bag of marvels, running his fingers across the worn velvet and cracked leather patches. “It wasn’t threadbare and faded then. Arrick was the duke’s man, and this bag was bright and new, as befit a royal herald.
    “That’s the truth of Arrick’s
valor,
” he said through clenched teeth. “Saving a bag of toys!” He snatched up the bag in his good hand,