The Desert Spear

him anymore, and he knew how easily the Servants of Miln could become Beggars. He left the boy and headed into the inn.
    “I need a room for the next few nights,” he told the innkeeper, pretending as if his saddlebags and gear were a troublesome weight when they felt like feathers.
    “Five moons a night,” the innkeeper said. He was young, seeming too young to run a business, and he bowed conspicuously, trying to peek under the Painted Man’s hood.
    “Flame demon spat in my face,” the Painted Man said, the real irritation in his voice driving the man back. “It ent a pretty sight.”
    “Of course, Messenger,” the innkeeper said, bowing again. “I apologize. Wern’t right of me to stare.”
    “It’s fine,” the Painted Man grunted, carrying his gear up the steps and locking it in his room before heading out into the city.

    The streets of Miln were bright and familiar, the stench of dung fires and coal from the ironworks almost welcoming. It was just as he remembered, and yet alien.
    He
was different.
    The way to Cob’s shop was second nature even now, but the Painted Man was shocked by what he found. Large extensions had been built to either side. The small house behind the shop that he and Cob had lived in had been torn down and replaced with a warehouse many times its size. Cob had been prosperous when Arlen left, but it was nothing compared with this. Steeling himself, he went to the main entrance.
    Chimes rang as the door opened, and the sound, like a part of his soul that had been missing, sent a shudder through him. The shop was larger now, but still filled with familiar sights and scents. There was the workbench he had hunched over for countless hours. The small handcart he had pulled all over the city. He walked over to a windowsill and reverently ran his gloved fingers over wards he had etched in the stone. He felt he could almost pick up a warding tool and return to work as if the last eight years had never happened.
    “Can I help you?” asked a voice, and the Painted Man froze, his blood turning to ice. He had been lost in another time and hadn’t heard anyone approach, but without turning, he knew who it was. Knew, and was terrified. What was she doing here? What did it mean? Slowly, he turned to face her, keeping his face shadowed by his hood.
    The years had been kind to Mother Elissa. With forty-six winters behind her, her long hair was still dark and rich, and her cheeks smooth, with only the faintest lines about her eyes and mouth. Smile lines, he ’d heard them called, and it gave some relief.
    Let her have spent the last eight years smiling,
he thought.
    Elissa opened her mouth to speak, but a young girl with long brown hair and large brown eyes came running over to them, stealing her attention. The girl wore a dress of maroon velvet, with a matching ribbon in her hair. The ribbon was askew, thick locks of hair falling in front of her face, and her cheeks and hands were white with chalk that streaked her dress as well. The Painted Man knew in an instant that she was Marya, Ragen and Elissa’s daughter, whom he had held mere moments after her birth. She was innocent and beautiful, and he ached, seeing in her all the joy of the years he had missed.
    “Mother, see what I drew!” the girl cried. She held out a slate, upon which a warding circle had been drawn. The Painted Man scanned the wards in a blink and knew they were strong. More, he saw that many of them were his, brought with him from Tibbet’s Brook. He took comfort knowing that in some small way he had touched her life.
    “These are beautiful, sweet one,” Elissa congratulated, bending to secure her daughter’s hair in the ribbon once more. She kissed Marya’s forehead when she was done. “Soon your father will be taking you on his Warding calls.” The girl gave a little squeal of delight.
    “We have a customer to attend, sweet,” Elissa said, turning back to the Painted Man, her arm around the girl. “I am Mother Elissa.” The pride in that title was still evident in her voice after all these years. “And this is my daughter—”
    “Are you a Tender?” the girl asked him, cutting her mother off.
    “No,” the Painted Man said, using the deep rasp of a voice he had adopted since warding his flesh. The last thing he needed was for Elissa to recognize his voice.
    “Then why do you dress like one?” the girl demanded.
    “I am demon-scarred,” he told her, “and I don’t want to frighten