He choked, lurching clumsily as he started to sob, but Elissa caught him in a firm embrace, supporting him.
“Come home, Arlen,” she said. “Even if only for a night.”
CHAPTER 23
EUCHOR’S COURT
333 AR SPRING
THE PAINTED MAN LEFT the warding shop and walked some distance before again taking to the rooftops, ensuring he was not followed as he returned to Ragen and Elissa’s manse.
It was smaller than he remembered. When he had first come to Fort Miln at eleven years old, Ragen and Elissa’s home had seemed like a village unto itself with its great wall surrounding the gardens, Servants’ cottages, and house proper. Now even the courtyard, a seemingly endless space when he was young and learning to ride and fight, seemed claustrophobic. So used to walking free in the night, any walls felt stifling to him now.
The Servants at the gate let him in without a word. Elissa had sent a runner back to the manse, and had another go to fetch Twilight Dancer and his bags from the inn. He passed through the courtyard and entered the manse, ascending the marble steps to his old room.
It was exactly as he ’d left it. Arlen had acquired many things in his time in Miln—books, clothes, tools, bits of warding—too much to take 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 seen him face demons with nothing but his spear and shield. Ragen didn’t give up the night out of fear. He did it to conquer fear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I had no right to…”
Ragen exhaled. “It’s all right, boy.”
The Painted Man walked to the rows of portraits on the walls of Ragen and Elissa’s receiving room. They had one commissioned every year, to mark its passing. The first was only Ragen and Elissa, looking very young. The next was some years later, and the Painted Man looked at his own face staring back at him without wards, something he hadn’t seen in years. Arlen Bales, a boy of twelve, sitting on a chair in front of where Ragen and Elissa stood.
He grew progressively older in the portraits until one year, he stood between Ragen and Elissa, holding infant Marya.
The next year’s portrait, he was gone, but soon after, a new Arlen appeared. He touched the canvas gently. “I wish I’d been there to see him born. I wish I could be there for him now.”
“You can,” Elissa said firmly. “We ’re family, Arlen. You don’t have to live life like a Beggar. You’ll always have a home here.”
The Painted Man nodded. “I see that now. See it in a way I never did before, and for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than I gave, better than I can give. I’m leaving Miln once I’ve had my audience with the duke.”
“What?!” Elissa cried. “You’ve only just arrived!”
The Painted Man shook his head. “I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve got to walk to its end.”
“Where will you go then?” Elissa asked.
“Tibbet’s Brook, to start,” he said, “long enough to return battle warding to them. And then, if you can broker the wards throughout Miln and its hamlets, I’ll do the same for the Angierians and Laktonians.”
“You expect every tiny hamlet to rise up and fight?” Elissa asked.
The Painted Man shook his head. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. But if my da had owned a bow with warded arrows, my mam might be alive. I owe everyone the chance she didn’t have. Once the wards are everywhere, spread so far and wide that they can never be lost again, people can make their own decision about what to do with them.”
“And then?” Elissa pressed, her tone still ho
peful that one day he might return for good.
“Then I fight,” the Painted Man said. “Any that stand beside me will be welcome, and we ’ll kill demons until we fall, or until Marya and Arlen can watch the sun set without fear.”
It was late, and the Servants had long since retired. Ragen, Elissa, and the Painted Man sat in the study, the air thick with the men’s sweet pipe smoke as they shared brandy.
“I’ve been summoned to the duke’s audience with ‘the Painted Man’ tomorrow,” Ragen said, “though I must say I never in a century would have thought they were talking about you.”
He smirked. “I’m to have Warders disguised as Servants try to copy your tattoos while you’re distracted talking to His Grace.”
The Painted Man nodded. “I’ll keep my hood up.”
“Why?” Ragen asked. “If you mean for everyone to have them, why keep them secret?”
“Because Euchor will covet them,” the Painted Man said. “And I can use that to gain advantage. I want him distracted, thinking he is buying them from me, while you distribute them quietly to every Warder in the duchy. Spread them so far that Euchor can never suppress them.”
Ragen grunted. “Clever,” he admitted, “though Euchor will be livid when he learns you’ve double-dealed.”
The Painted Man shrugged. “I’ll be long gone, and it’s no less than he deserves for locking up all the knowledge of the old world in his library for only a handful to see.”
Ragen nodded. “Best for me to act as if I don’t know you in the audience, then. If your identity gets out, I’ll act as shocked as the rest.”
“I think that’s wise,” the Painted Man agreed. “Who else will be there, do you think?”
“As few people as possible,” Ragen said. “Euchor’s actually pleased you’re coming at dawn, so he can have you in and out before the Tenders and Royals even catch wind of the meeting. Apart from the duke and Jone, there will be myself, Messengers’ Guildmaster Malcum, Euchor’s daughters, and my Warders, dressed as Servants.”
“Tell me of Euchor’s daughters,” the Painted Man said.
“Hypatia, Aelia, and Lorain,” Ragen said, “all as thick-skulled as their father, and none of them prettier. Mothers all, with born sons. If Euchor doesn’t produce a son of his own, the Mothers’ Council will choose the next duke from among that group of unholy brats.”
“So if Euchor dies, a boy becomes duke?” the Painted Man asked.
“Technically,” Ragen said, “though truer is the boy’s mother becomes duchess in everything but name and rules in his stead until he reaches manhood…and perhaps longer. Don’t underestimate any of them.”
“I won’t,” the Painted Man said.
“You should know, too, that the duke has a new herald,” Ragen said.
The Painted Man shrugged. “What does that matter? I never knew the old one.”
“It matters,” Ragen said, “because the new one is Keerin.”
The Painted Man looked up sharply. Keerin was Ragen’s Jongleur partner when they found young Arlen on the road, unconscious and dying of demon fever after crippling One Arm. The Jongleur had been a coward, curling under his bedroll and whimpering as demons tested the wards, but years later the Painted Man had caught him giving a performance where he claimed to have crippled the demon himself, a demon that nightly tried to break into the city to revenge itself upon Arlen, and one time even succeeded in breaching the wall. Arlen had called Keerin a liar publicly, and he and Jaik were badly beaten by Keerin’s apprentices as a result.
“How can a man who refuses to travel herald the duke?” the Painted Man asked.
“Euchor holds tight to power by hoarding people as well as knowledge,” Ragen said. “Keerin’s stupid little song about One Arm made him sought after by Royals, and that got Euchor’s attention. Keerin had a ducal commission soon after, and now performs solely at the duke’s pleasure.”
“So he doesn’t truly herald,” the Painted Man said.
“Oh, he does,” Ragen said. “Most of the hamlets can be reached without ever leaving proper succor, and Euchor even built some way stations on the way to others to accommodate the stoneless little weasel.”
The gates to the Duke’s Keep opened at dawn, and the person who strode out to greet the Painted Man was none other than Keerin.
Keerin was much as the Painted Man remembered, tall even for a Milnese, with carrot-colored hair and bright green eyes. He had fattened a bit, no doubt due to the benefits of his new patron. His thin wisp of a mustache still refused to join with the curl of hair at his chin, though powder crinkled in the lines of his face, attempting to preserve a fading youth.
But where he had last seen Keerin in a Jongleur’s patchwork motley, he was now a royal herald, and dressed accordingly. His tabard was patched in Euchor’s gray, white, and green, cutting a much more somber figure, though his pantaloons were still loose, should he be called upon to tumble, and the inside of his black cloak was sewn with patchwork colored silk that could be revealed with a twirl.
“An honor to meet you, sir!” Keerin said, bowing formally. “His Grace is preparing for the arrival of a few of his key councilors before your audience. If you’ll come with me, I will escort you to a waiting salon.”
The Painted Man followed him through the palace. The last time he had walked here, it was a bustle of activity as Servants and Mothers scurried to and fro on the duke’s business. But this early in the morning, the halls were still empty save for the occasional Servant, trained to be all but invisible.
Buzzing lamps lit the way with a pulsing glow. These needed no oil or wick, no Herb Gatherer’s chemics. Lectrics, it was called, another bit of old science Euchor kept only for himself. It seemed like magic, but the Painted Man knew from his time in the Duke’s Library that it was just harnessed magnetics, no different from wind or running water turning a mill.
Keerin ushered him into a room plush with velvet and a warm hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a mahogany writing desk. If he were alone, it might be a pleasant place to wait.
But Keerin made no move to leave. He went to a silver service, pouring goblets of spiced wine, and returned to hand one to the Painted Man. “I, too, am a demon fighter of some renown. Perhaps you have heard the song I composed about it, titled ‘One Arm’?”
Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Painted Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the shoulder. “An honor to meet one so brave. Come out with me tonight, and we will find a quake of rock demons to show the sun!”
Keerin paled at the offer, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The Painted Man smiled in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps he was not so far above such things after all.
“I…er, thank you for the offer,” Keerin stammered. “And I would be honored, of course, but my duties to the duke would never allow for it.”
“I understand,” the Painted Man said. “A good thing you were not so bound when you saved the life of that young boy in the song. What was his name again?”
“Arlen Banes,” Keerin said, regaining his composure with a practiced smile. He moved in close, putting a hand around the Painted Man’s shoulder and speaking in a low voice.
“One demon fighter to another,” he said, “I would be honored to immortalize your deeds in song, if you would grant a short interview when your business with His Grace is concluded.”
The Painted Man turned to face him, lifting his head to allow the lectric lamplight to show into his hood. Keerin gasped and removed his arm, drawing away sharply.
“I don’t kill demons for glory, Jongleur,” he growled, advancing on the poor herald who backed away until his back hit the bookshelf, causing it to rock unsteadily. “I kill demons,” he leaned in close, “because they deserve killing.”
Keerin’s hand shook, spilling his wine. The Painted Man took a step back and smiled. “Write a song about that, perhaps,” he su
ggested.
Keerin still did not leave, but the herald did not speak again, and for that the Painted Man was thankful.
Euchor’s great hall was smaller than the Painted Man remembered, but still impressive, with soaring pillars holding up a ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It was painted to look like blue sky, with a yellow-white sunburst in the center. Mosaics covered the floor, and tapestries the walls. There was room for a crowd, as the duke held a great many balls and parties there, watching the proceedings from his high throne at the hall’s end.
Duke Euchor was waiting on his throne as the Painted Man approached. Behind him on the royal dais stood three women whose uncomely faces, so like the duke’s, and expensive gowns covered in jewels made it clear they were his daughters. Mother Jone stood at the foot of the dais stairs holding a writing board and pen. Opposite her were Guildmasters Ragen and Malcum. The men, retired Messengers both, stood easily with each other. Ragen whispered something to Malcum, who snickered, drawing a glare from Jone.
Next to Jone stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian. And Mery’s father.
The Painted Man cursed himself. He should have expected to see Ronnell. If Mery had told him…
But while Ronnell looked at him with interest, there was no recognition in his eyes. His secret was safe, at least for now.
Two guards closed the door behind them and crossed their spears over it from the inside. “Servants,” all with writing boards, drifted on the far side of the pillars, unobtrusive as they watched him closely.
Up close, Euchor had grown fatter and older by far than the Painted Man remembered. He still wore jewels on every stubby finger and a fortune in gold chains, but there were fewer hairs underneath his golden crown. Once an imposing figure, he now looked as if he could barely rise from his throne without help.
“Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln,” Keerin called, “may I present to you the Painted Man, Messenger on behalf of Duke Rhinebeck, Guardian of the Forest Fortress and Lord of Angiers.”