The Desert Spear

Messaging, when a man was limited to what his horse could carry. He had left most of it behind, never looking back, and the room seemed untouched by time. There were fresh linens on the bed and not a speck of dust to be found, but nothing had been moved. There was even still clutter on his desk. He sat there a long time, basking in the safe familiarity of it and feeling seventeen again.
    There was a sharp rap on the door, snapping him from the reverie. He opened it to find Mother Margrit, her meaty arms crossed in front of her as she glared at him. Margrit had cared for him since he first came to Miln, treating his wounds and helping him understand the ways of the city. The Painted Man was amazed to find she could still intimidate him after so long.
    “Let’s see, then,” Margrit said.
    He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He steeled himself and pulled down his hood.
    Margrit looked at him for some time, showing none of the horror or surprise he expected. She grunted and nodded to herself.
    Then she slapped him full in the face.
    “That’s for breaking my lady’s heart!” she cried. It was a surprisingly powerful blow, and he hadn’t fully recovered before she slapped him again.
    “And that’s for breaking mine!” she sobbed, and clutched at him, pulling him close and crushing the air from him as she cried. “Thank the Creator you’re all right,” she choked.

    Ragen returned soon after, and clapped the Painted Man on the shoulder, meeting his eyes and making no comment about his tattoos at all. “Good to have you back,” he said.
    In truth, the Painted Man was more shocked by Ragen, who wore the keyward symbol of the Warders’ Guild as a heavy gold pin on his breast.
    “You’re the Warders’ Guildmaster now?” he asked.
    Ragen nodded. “Cob and I became partners after you left, and the ward brokering you started made us the dominant company in Miln. Cob served three years as guildmaster before the cancer took his strength. As his heir, I was the natural choice to succeed him.”
    “A decision no one in Miln regrets,” Elissa put in, pride and love in her voice as she looked at her husband.
    Ragen shrugged. “I’ve thrown in where I could. Of course,” he looked at the Painted Man, “it should have been you. It still can. Cob’s will made it clear his controlling share of the business was to be turned over to you, if you ever returned.”
    “The shop?” the Painted Man asked, shocked that his old master would have included him in his last wishes at all after all this time.
    “The shop, the ward exchange, the warehouses and glasseries,” Ragen said, “everything down to the apprentice contracts.”
    “Enough to make you one of the richest and most powerful men in Miln,” Elissa said.
    An image flashed in the Painted Man’s mind, him walking the halls of the Duke Euchor’s keep, advising His Grace on policy and commanding dozens if not hundreds of Warders. Brokering power…building alliances…
    Reading reports.
    Delegating responsibility.
    Surrounded by Servants to care for his every need.
    Stifling in the city’s walls.
    He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Any of it. Arlen Bales is dead.”
    “Arlen!” Elissa cried. “How can you say that, standing right here?”
    “I can’t just pick up my life where I left off, Elissa,” he said, pulling off his hood and the gloves as well. “I’ve chosen my path. I can never live inside walls again. Even now, the air seems thicker, harder to breathe…”
    Ragen put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve Messaged, too,” he reminded him. “I know what the open air tastes like, and how you thirst for it behind city walls. But the thirst dies out in time.”
    The Painted Man looked at him, and his eyes darkened. “Why would I want it to?” he snapped. “Why would you? Why lock yourself back in prison when you had the keys?”
    “Because of Marya,” Ragen said. “And because of Arlen.”
    “Arlen?” the Painted Man asked, confused.
    “Not you,” Ragen growled, his own temper rising. “My five-year-old son. Arlen. Who needs a father more than his father needs fresh air!”
    It was a blow as hard as Margrit’s slap, and the Painted Man knew he deserved it. For a moment, he had spoken to Ragen as if he were his true father. As if he were Jeph Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, the coward who had stood by while his own wife was cored.
    But Ragen was no coward. He had proven that a thousand times over. The Painted Man himself had