The Desert Spear

appears to guide the rest of us.”
    The Painted Man shook his head. “I don’t want to guide anyone. I just want to see the fighting wards spread wide so they can never be lost again. Let men guide themselves.”
    He moved to the window and glanced out the curtains at the sky. “I’ll leave before first light, so none will mark my…”
    He almost missed it, his eyes on the sky and not the ground. It was just a glimpsed thing, vanished before he got a good look, but there was no mistaking the glow to his warded eyes.
    There was a demon in the yard.
    He turned and ran for the door, pulling off his robe and throwing it on the marble floor as he went. Elissa gasped at the sight of him.
    “Arlen, what is it?” she cried.
    He ignored her, lifting the bar off the heavy oak door and flinging it open as if it were weightless. He leapt out into the yard, looking about frantically.
    Nothing.
    Ragen was at the door an instant later, spear in hand and warded shield on his arm. “What did you see?” he demanded.
    The Painted Man turned a slow circuit, scanning the courtyard for signs of magic, and straining his other senses to catch some hint confirming what he had seen.
    “There’s a demon in the yard,” he said. “A powerful one. Stay behind the wards.”
    “Good advice for you as well,” Elissa called. “Come inside before my heart stops.”
    The Painted Man ignored her, moving about the yard, scanning. There were Servants’ houses inside Ragen’s wall, as well as his garden and stables. Many places to hide. He drifted through the darkness, seeing all with absolute clarity, even better than he did in the light.
    There was a presence in the air, like a lingering stench, but it was insubstantial and impossible to pinpoint. His muscles grew tight, ready to flex at an instant’s notice.
    But there was nothing. He searched the compound from one end to another, and found nothing. Had he imagined it?
    “Anything?” Ragen asked, when he returned. The guildmaster was still in the doorway, safe behind the wards, but ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.
    “Empty my pockets,” the Painted Man said with a shrug. “Maybe I imagined it.”
    Ragen grunted. “No one gets cored for being too careful.”
    The Painted Man took Ragen’s spear as he came back inside. A Messenger’s spear was his trusted companion on the road, and Ragen’s, though he had not Messaged in nearly a decade, was still well oiled and sharp.
    “Let me ward this before I leave,” he said. He glanced outside. “And you check your wardnet come morning.” Ragen nodded.
    “Must you go so soon?” Elissa asked.
    “I draw too much attention in town, and I don’t want it to lead back here,” the Painted Man said. “Better I be gone before sunrise, and out the dawn gate the moment it opens.”
    Elissa did not look pleased, but she embraced him tightly and kissed him. “We expect to see you again before another decade passes,” she warned.
    “You will,” the Painted Man promised. “Honest word.”

    The Painted Man felt better than he had in years when he left Ragen and Elissa just before dawn. They had refused sleep and stayed up with him through the night, filling him in on the goings-on in Miln since his departure, and asking after the details of his life. He told them stories of his early adventures, but never spoke of his time in the desert, when Arlen Bales had died and the Painted Man been born. Or the years after.
    Still, there were enough tales to fill the remainder of the night and to spare. He barely made it away before the dawn bell, and had to trot to be far enough from the manse not to draw suspicion as people began to open warded doors and unshutter warded windows.
    He smiled. Likely, his missing the bell and being forced to stay another day had been Elissa’s plan all along, but she had never been able to cage him.
    The guards at the day gate were still stretching out morning kinks when he arrived, but the gate was open. “Seems everyone’s up early this morn,” one said as he passed.
    The Painted Man wondered what he meant, but then he rode past the hill where he had first met Jaik and found his friend waiting there, sitting on a large rock.
    “Looks like I made it out just in time,” Jaik said. “Had to break curfew to do it.”
    The Painted Man dropped from the horse’s back and came over to him. Jaik made no effort to rise or extend a hand, so he simply sat on the rock beside him. “The Jaik I met on this