The Desert Spear

to have them.”
    Elissa took the bundle and nodded. “Thank you. Do you plan to stay in Miln long? My husband is out, but he will surely have questions for you. Arlen was like a son to him.”
    “I am only in town for the day, my lady,” he said, wanting no part of a conversation with Ragen. The man would press for details where there were none. “I have a message for the duke, and a few others to pay respects to, and then I am off.”
    He knew he should leave it lie there, but the damage was done, and his next words came unbidden. “Tell me…does Mery still live at the house of Tender Ronnell?”
    Elissa shook her head. “Not for many years. She—”
    “No matter,” the Painted Man cut her off, not wanting to hear more. Mery had found someone else. It was no great surprise, and he had no right to feel stung by the news.
    “What about the boy, Jaik?” he asked. “I’ve a letter for him, as well.”
    “No more a boy,” Elissa said, looking at him with piercing eyes. “He’s a man now. He lives on Mill Way, in the third workers’ cottage.”
    The Painted Man nodded. “Then, with your permission, I’ll take my leave.”
    “You may not like what you find there,” Elissa warned.
    The Painted Man looked up at her, trying to read her meaning, but it was lost in her wet puffy eyes. She looked tired and guileless. He turned to go.
    “How did you know my daughter’s name?” Elissa asked.
    The question surprised him. He hesitated. “You introduced her when she came over.” The moment he said it, he cursed silently, for of course, Elissa had been cut off before she could introduce the girl, and he could have claimed the knowledge came from Arlen in any case.
    “I suppose I did,” Elissa agreed, surprising him. He took it as a stroke of luck and made for the door. His fingers were closing on the latch when she spoke again.
    “I’ve missed you,” she said quietly.
    He paused, fighting the urge to turn and run back, crushing her in his arms and begging her forgiveness.
    He left the warding shop without another word.

    The Painted Man cursed himself as he strode down the street. She had recognized him. He didn’t know how, but she had, and in walking out he had likely hurt her more deeply than news of his death ever could have. Elissa had been as a mother to him, and his leaving must have seemed the ultimate rejection of her love. But what could he have done? Shown her what he had done to himself? Shown her the monster her adopted son had become?
    No. Better she think he had turned his back on her. Better any lie than that truth.
    Even though she deserves to know?
the nagging voice in his head asked.
    The question pained him, so he put it from his mind, focusing on the real reason he had come to Miln. Rhinebeck’s message. He presented himself at Duke Euchor’s keep, but the gate guards were not welcoming.
    “His Grace ent got time to see every ragamuffin Tender in town,” one of them growled as they saw him approach in his hood and robes.
    “He’ll see me,” the Painted Man said, holding up the Messenger pouch bearing Rhinebeck’s seal. The guards’ eyes widened, but then they turned back to him suspiciously.
    “You ent any Royal Messenger I met before,” the first guard said, “and I met ’em all.”
    “What kind of Messenger goes around in Tender’s robes, anyway?” the other asked.
    The Painted Man, his mind still reeling from the encounter with Elissa, had no patience for the petty posturing of minor functionaries. “The kind who will crack your skull if you don’t open that gate and announce me,” he said, pulling off his hood.
    The guards both took a step back as they saw his tattooed face. He ges tured to the gate, and they stumbled over each other in their haste to open it. One scrambled ahead to the palace.
    The Painted Man pulled his hood back up, hiding a smile. There were some benefits to being a freak, at least.
    He walked toward the palace at a steady pace, drawing eyes from all in the courtyard as their whispers reached his sharp ears. Before long the duke’s chamberlain, Mother Jone, appeared to greet him, led by the gate guard. Gaunt the last time the Painted Man had seen her more than a decade ago, Jone had become almost desiccated in the years since, her skin translucent and pale, thinly stretched over blue veins and liver spots. But her back was still straight, and her stride quick. Ragen had likened the chamberlain to her own breed of coreling, and none of