The Desert Spear

in it he left, but there was no sorrow, no great pain. Mery had spit in the dirt at the city gate and turned away, finding another instantly and forgetting he had ever existed. Ragen and Elissa, so wrapped up in their infant daughter, had not even noticed he was gone. Cob’s new journeyman was more grateful, wanting nothing more than to be like a son and take over his shop. The Painted Man started awake, but the image remained, and he was ashamed of his horror, for he knew it was selfish of him.
    That last vision would be best for all,
he thought.

    After a dozen years of beating elements, the place where One Arm had breached the wardnet of Miln was still a different color from the rest of the wall, the Painted Man noted as he broke camp in the morning, packing away Twilight Dancer’s warded barding.
    The three dreams still haunted his thoughts. Which would he find inside? Should he try to find out, for his own peace, if none other?
    Don’t,
the voice in his head advised.
You came to see Cob, so see him. You’re not here for the others. Spare them the pain. Spare yourself.
The voice was with him always, urging caution. He thought of it as his father’s voice, though he had not seen Jeph Bales in close to fifteen years.
    He was used to ignoring it.
    Just a look,
he thought.
She won’t even see me. Wouldn’t recognize me even if she did. Just one look, to take back into the night.
    He rode as slowly as he could bear, but even so the day gate was only just opening as he arrived. City guards came out first, escorting groups of Warders and apprentices to clearly demarcated sections of ground, where they bent and began to collect pieces of warded glass, checking quickly to ensure they had been charged by a coreling’s touch. The Painted Man himself had brought the glass wards to Miln, but even he was shocked at this efficiency of production, as good as they had in the Hollow, if less practical. The Milnese Warders seemed to make mostly objects of luxury: walking sticks, statues, windows, and jewelry. When the blood of the bait was washed from them, all would be as clear as polished diamond, and infinitely harder.
    The guards looked up as he approached. In the cool damp of morning, it did not seem so strange that he should have his hood up, but seeing the weapons in Twilight Dancer’s harnesses, they raised their spears until the Painted Man showed them the pouch with Rhinebeck’s seal.
    “You’re out early, Messenger,” one guard said as they relaxed.
    “Raced and tried to make it without stopping at Harden’s Grove,” the Painted Man said, the lie coming easily. “Thought I had it, but then I heard the last bell from afar, and knew I’d never make the gate before sunset. Set up my circles just a mile back and spent the night.”
    “Ripped luck,” the guard said. “Cold night to be stuck outside, a mile from warm walls and sweet succor.”
    The Painted Man, who had not felt heat nor cold in years, nodded and forced himself to shiver, pulling his hood lower as if to ward off a lingering chill. “I could use a warm room and a hot coffee. I’d even settle for it the other way around.”
    The guard nodded and seemed about to wave him on when he looked up suddenly. The Painted Man tensed, wondering if he would ask him to lower his hood.
    “Things in the South as bad as they say?” the guard asked instead. “Rizon lost, Beggar refugees everywhere, and this new Deliverer doing nothing for it?”
    Even this far north, rumors had flown. “That’s news for the duke, before I can share it with anyone else,” the Painted Man said, “but ay, it’s bad in the South.”
    The guard grunted and waved for him to head on into the city.

    The Painted Man found an inn and led Twilight Dancer to the stable. There was a boy already there, mucking the stalls. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, and he was filthy.
    Servant class,
the Painted Man thought, which explained why he was working so early. The boy likely slept in the stables, and counted himself lucky at that. He reached into his purse and took out a heavy gold coin, putting it in the boy’s hand.
    The boy’s eyes bulged as he looked at the coin. It was likely more money than he had ever held in his hand, enough to purchase new clothes, food, and succor for a month.
    “See my horse is well cared for, and there ’ll be another when I claim him,” the Painted Man said. It was extravagant and might draw attention, but money meant nothing to