He nodded. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?” Elissa asked gently, laying aside her broom and gliding over to him. She put a hand on his arm. “Scarred? I’ve seen them before.”
He turned from her, and she let her hand fall away. “My scars are selfinflicted.”
“We all have those,” she said.
“Mery took one look at me and fled as if I were a coreling,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Elissa said, coming behind and wrapping her arms around him.
The Painted Man wanted to pull away, but that part of him melted away in her embrace. He turned and held her in return, inhaling the familiar scent of her and closing his eyes, opening himself up to the pain and letting it flow out of him.
After too short a time, Elissa pulled back. “I want to see what you showed her.”
He shook his head. “I…”
“Hush,” Elissa said softly, reaching into his hood to put a finger on his lips. He tensed as her hands came up, slowly, and gathered the hood, easing it down. Fear ran through him, chilling his blood, but he stood like a statue, resigned to it.
Like Mery, Elissa’s eyes widened and she gasped, but she did not recoil. She simply looked at him, taking it in.
“I never used to appreciate wards,” she said after a time. “Before, they were just another tool, like a hammer, or fire.” She reached out, touching his face. Her soft fingers traced the wards on his eyebrows, his jaw, his skull. “It’s only now, working in this shop, that I see how very beautiful they can be. Anything that protects our loved ones is beautiful.”
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
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
