The Desert Spear

creation,” she said. “I altered wards of confusion and sight, along with a mild forbiddance, so that no coreling big or small can see one wearing it.”
    “Incredible,” Jardir said. “Everam must speak in your ear, if you are altering wards, especially to make something of such divine beauty and power.”
    Leesha looked down at her cloak, fingering it absently. Finally, she clucked and got to her feet, unfastening the silver ward clasp at her throat. “Take it,” she said, holding the cloak out to Jardir.
    “Are you crazed?!” Elona shouted, moving to block her way, much as Ashan had done to him before.
    “The cloak’s only good against demons,” she said, as much to her mother as Jardir. “Take it to remind you who the real enemy is, when the sun rises tomorrow.” She pulled her arm away from her mother and held the cloak out to Jardir.
    Jardir put his hands flat on the tabletop and bowed. “That is too great a gift, and I have nothing to give in return. By Everam, I cannot accept.”
    “The reminder is all I want in return,” Leesha said. Jardir bowed again, taking the wondrous cloak with widening eyes. If the wards on this so-called Painted Man’s weapon were a harmony, Leesha’s Cloak of Unsight was a symphony. He folded the cloak carefully and tucked it in his robe before he or any of his councilors began to study the gift to distraction.
    “Thank you, Mistress Leesha, daughter of Erny, Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow,” he said, bowing again. “You honor me greatly with your gift.”
    Leesha smiled and returned to her seat. For a moment, the greenlanders made a great pretense of sipping their tea, murmuring to one another as they did. Jardir allowed them this conference time, looking to Abban.
    “Tell me of the red-haired boy who dresses like a
khaffit,
” he commanded.
    Abban bowed. “He is what the greenlanders call a Jongler, Deliverer. They are traveling storytellers and music makers who dress in bright colors to announce their craft. It is considered an honored profession, and its practitioners are often highly regarded figures of inspiration.”
    Jardir nodded, digesting the knowledge. “He had power over the
alagai
with his music. Commanded them with it. What of that?”
    Abban shrugged. “The tales of the Painted Man speak of such a one, who charms
alagai
with his magic, but I know nothing of this power. It is not common, I imagine.”

    Rojer watched uneasily as the Krasians cast furtive glances his way. It was obvious they were talking about him, but while Rojer’s trained ear had already begun to isolate the sounds and patterns of their surprisingly musical tongue, understanding was still far off.
    The Krasians both terrified and fascinated him, much as the Painted Man did. Rojer was a teller of stories as much as a fiddler, and he had woven many a tale of Krasia yet he had never met someone from that land. A thousand questions shouted in his head, but caught in a jumble before they could reach his tongue, because these weren’t the exotic princes of his stories. Rojer had ridden the road to Rizon and seen their handiwork. Cultured or no, these were murderers, rapists, and bandits.
    Jardir glanced his way again, and before Rojer could avert his gaze, their eyes met. Rojer started, feeling like a cornered hare.
    “Forgive me, we have been impolite,” Jardir said, bowing.
    Rojer pretended to scratch his chest, but it was just an excuse to touch his talisman. He drew strength both from the medallion and the reassuring presence of Gared at his side. Not for the first time, Rojer was glad for the mighty woodcutter’s oath to keep him protected.
    “No offense taken,” he said, nodding.
    “There are no Jonglers among my people,” Jardir said. “Your profession interests us.”
    “You don’t have musicians?” Rojer asked, shocked.
    “We do,” Jardir said, “but in Krasia, music is used only to praise Everam, not to charm demons on the battlefield. Tell me, is this power common in the North?”
    Rojer barked a laugh. “Not in the least.” He threw back his tea, wishing the cup held something stronger. “I can’t even teach it. Don’t know quite how I do it myself.”
    “Perhaps Everam speaks to you,” Jardir suggested. “Perhaps He has blessed your line with this power. Have any of your sons shown promise?”
    Rojer laughed again. “Sons? I’m not even married.”
    The Krasians seemed shocked at this. “A man of your power should have many brides