The Desert Spear

miracles.”
    “Miracles?” the Painted Man asked, incredulous. “Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender? What miracles?”
    “Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,” Ronnell said. “You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders’ trap.”
    The Painted Man shrugged. “So what? Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.”
    “I can’t think of anyone who ever did,” Ronnell said. “And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.”
    “I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,” the Painted Man said.
    “You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,” Ronnell said. “The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.”
    “What trial?” the Painted Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.
    “A Beggar boy found on the road,” the librarian went on, “yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!” He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.
    “You warded the Holy Library,” he said in awe, pointing. “A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.”
    “Just the furniture,” the Painted Man said.
    Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. “The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!”
    “That’s nonsense,” the Painted Man said.
    Ronnell got to his feet. “Pray, put your hood up,” he said, going to the door.
    The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.
    The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.
    Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive—original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.
    The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night’s reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.
    The acolyte bowed low at the Tender’s approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke’s Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read:
Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.
    “The Age of Science had terrible weapons,” Ronnell said. “Weapons that could kill hundreds, even thousands of men. It is no wonder the Creator grew wroth with us.”
    The Painted Man ignored the comment. “Euchor will seek to rebuild them?”
    “The most terrible are beyond our ability to re-create, requiring vast refineries and lectric power,” Ronnell said. “But there is much that can still be built by any man with access to simple chemics and a steel forge. That book,” he pointed to the volume in the Painted Man’s hands, “is a detailed account of those weapons and how they are built. Take it.”
    The Painted Man raised an eyebrow. “What will Euchor do when he learns it’s gone?”
    “He will grow wroth, and demand I re-create it from the original texts,” Ronnell said, gesturing to the rows of glass bookcases. Glass the Painted Man had etched with wards himself.
    Tender Ronnell followed his gaze. “When the Warders’ Guild began charging glass, I had them put out in the night. Your wards made those cases indestructible. Another miracle.”
    “You mustn’t tell anyone who I was,” the Painted Man said. “You would endanger everyone I ever knew.”
    Ronnell nodded. “It is enough for now