The Desert Spear

you.”
    “I’m not scared,” the girl said, trying to peek under his hood. He took a step back, pulling the hood lower.
    “You’re being rude!” Elissa scolded her. “Run along and play with your brother.”
    The girl took on a rebellious look, but Elissa stared her down and she darted back across the room to a worktable where a boy of perhaps five winters was stacking blocks with wards painted on their sides. The Painted Man saw Ragen in his young face, and felt a profound gladness for his mentor, mixed with a terrible regret that he would never know the boy, or the man he would become.
    Elissa looked abashed. “I am sorry for that. My husband, too, has scars he does not care for the world to see. You’re a Messenger, then?”
    The Painted Man nodded.
    “What can I help you with, today?” she asked. “A new shield? Or perhaps repairing a portable circle?”
    “Looking for a Warder named Cob,” he said. “I was told he owned this shop.”
    Elissa looked sad as she shook her head. “Cob has been dead almost four years,” she said, her words hitting harder than a demon’s blow. “Taken by a cancer. He left the shop to my husband and me. Who told you to seek him here?”
    “A…Messenger I knew,” the Painted Man said, reeling.
    “What Messenger?” Elissa pressed. “What was his name?”
    The Painted Man hesitated, his mind racing. No name came to him, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the risk he would be discovered. “Arlen of Tibbet’s Brook,” he blurted, cursing himself as he did.
    Elissa’s eyes lit up. “Tell me of Arlen,” she begged, placing a hand on his arm. “We were very close, once. Where did you last see him? Is he well? Can you get a message to him? My husband and I would pay any price.”
    Seeing the sudden desperation in her eyes, the Painted Man realized how deeply he had hurt her when he left. And now, stupidly, he had given her false hope that she might somehow see Arlen again. But the boy she knew was dead, body and soul. Even if he took off his hood and told her the truth, she would not have him returned. Better to give her the closure she needed.
    “Arlen spoke of you that night,” he said, his decision made. “You’re every bit as beautiful as he said.”
    Elissa smiled at the compliment, her eyes moist, but then she stopped, as what he had said fully registered. “What night?”
    “The night I was scarred,” he said. “Crossing the Krasian Desert. Arlen died, so that I might live.” It was true enough, after a fashion.
    Elissa gasped, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Her eyes, moist a moment before with joy, now brimmed with water as her face screwed up in pain.
    “His last thoughts were of you,” he said, “of his friends in Miln, his…family. He wanted me to come here and tell you that.”
    Elissa barely heard him. “Oh, Arlen!” she cried, and stumbled. The Painted Man darted forward to catch her, guiding her to one of the workbenches and easing her down as she sobbed.
    “Mother!” Marya cried, rushing over. “Mother, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked at the Painted Man, accusation in her eyes.
    He knelt before the girl, not sure if it was simply to appear less threatening to the child, or to allow her to strike him if she wished. He almost hoped she would. “I’m afraid I brought her some ill tidings, Marya,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s a Messenger’s duty to tell people of things they might not be happy to hear.”
    As if on cue, Elissa looked up at him, her sobbing cut short. She pulled herself together with a deep breath, drying her tears with a lace cuff and embracing her daughter. “He’s right, sweetest. I’ll be all right. Take your brother into the back a spell, if you please.”
    Marya shot the Painted Man one last dark glance, then nodded, gathering up her little brother and leaving the room. He watched them go, feeling wretched. He should never have come, should have sent an intermediary or found some other Warder to go to, though there were none he trusted like Cob.
    “I’m sorry,” the Painted Man said. “I never wished to bring you pain.”
    “I know,” Elissa said. “I’m glad you told me. It makes things easier in some ways, if you understand.”
    “Easier,” the Painted Man agreed. He fumbled in his pouch, pulling forth a handful of letters, and a grimoire of battle wards, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with stout cord. “These are for you. Arlen meant for you