The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy
didn’t,’ Rojer protested.
‘You kept things from me,’ Leesha said. ‘It’s no different.’
Rojer looked at her for a time. ‘Why did you leave Cutter’s Hollow?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Leesha asked. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘If these people mean so much to you that you’re willing to risk anything, endure anything, to get home,’ Rojer pressed, ‘why did you leave?’
‘My studies …’ Leesha began.
Rojer shook his head. ‘I know something about running away from problems, Leesha,’ he said. ‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business,’ Leesha said.
‘Then why am I waiting out a rainstorm in a cave surrounded by corelings in the middle of nowhere?’ Rojer asked.
Leesha looked at him for long moments, then sighed, her will for the fight fading. ‘I suppose you’ll be hearing about it soon enough,’ Leesha said. ‘The people of Cutter’s Hollow have never been very good at keeping secrets.’
She told them everything. She didn’t mean to, but the cold and damp cave became a Tender’s confessional of sorts, and once she began, the words overflowed; her mother, Gared, the rumours, her flight to Bruna, her life as an outcast. The Painted Man leaned forward and opened his mouth at the mention of Bruna’s liquid demonfire, but he closed it again and sat back, choosing not to interrupt.
‘So that’s it,’ Leesha said. ‘I’d hoped to stay in Angiers, but it seems the Creator has another plan.’
‘You deserve better,’ the Painted Man said.
Leesha nodded, looking at him. ‘Why did you go out there?’ she asked quietly, pointing her chin towards the cave mouth.
The Painted Man slumped, staring at his knees. ‘I broke a promise,’ he said.
‘That’s all?’
He looked up at her, and for once, she didn’t see the tattoos lining his face, only his eyes, piercing her. ‘I swore I would never give them anything,’ he said. ‘Not even to save my own life. But instead, I’ve given them everything that made me human.’
‘You didn’t give them anything,’ Rojer said. ‘I took the circle.’ Leesha’s hands tightened on her bowl, but she said nothing.
The Painted Man shook his head. ‘I facilitated it,’ he said. ‘I knew how you felt. Giving them to you was the same as giving them to the corelings.’
‘They would have continued to prey on the road,’ Rojer said. ‘The world is better without them.’
The Painted Man nodded. ‘But that’s no excuse for giving them to demons,’ he said. ‘I could as easily have taken the circle – killed them even – face-to-face, in the light of day.’
‘So you went out there tonight out of guilt,’ Leesha said. ‘Why all the times before? Why this war on corelings?’
‘If you haven’t noticed,’ the Painted Man replied, ‘the corelings have been at war with us for centuries. Is it so wrong to take the fight to them?’
‘You think yourself the Deliverer, then?’ Leesha asked.
The Painted Man scowled. ‘Waiting for the Deliverer has left humanity crippled for three hundred years,’ he said. ‘He’s a myth. He’s not coming, and it’s time people saw that and began standing up for themselves.’
‘Myths have power,’ Rojer said. ‘Don’t be so quick to dismiss them.’
‘Since when are you a man of faith?’ Leesha asked.
‘I believe in hope,’ Rojer said. ‘I’ve been a Jongleur all my life, and if I’ve learned one thing in twenty-three years, it’s that the stories people cry for, the ones that stay with them, are the ones that offer hope.’
‘Twenty,’ Leesha said suddenly.
‘What?’
‘You told me you were twenty.’
‘Did I?’
‘You’re not even that, are you?’ she asked.
‘I am!’ Rojer insisted.
‘I’m not stupid, Rojer,’ Leesha said. ‘I’ve not known you three months, and you’ve grown an inch in that time. No twenty-year-old does that. What are you? Sixteen?’
‘Seventeen,’ Rojer snarled. He threw down his bowl, spilling the remaining broth. ‘Does that please you? You were right to tell Jizell you were nearly old enough to be my mother.’
Leesha stared at him. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but closed it again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said instead.
‘And you, Painted Man?’ Rojer asked, turning to him. ‘Will you add “too young” to your list of reasons why I shouldn’t travel with you?’
‘I became a Messenger at seventeen,’ the man replied, ‘and I was travelling much younger than that.’
‘And how old is the Painted Man?’ Rojer asked.
‘The Painted Man was born in the Krasian desert, four summers ago,’ he replied.
‘And the man beneath the paint?’ Leesha asked. ‘How old was he when he died?’
‘It doesn’t matter how many summers he had,’ the Painted Man said. ‘He was a stupid, naïve child, with dreams too big for his own good.’
‘Is that why he had to die?’ Leesha asked.
‘He was killed. And yes.’
‘What was his name?’ Leesha asked quietly.
The Painted Man was quiet a long time. ‘Arlen,’ he said finally. ‘His name was Arlen.’
332 AR
When the Painted Man awoke, the storm had broken temporarily, but grey clouds hung heavy in the sky, promising more rain to come. He looked into the cave, his warded eyes easily piercing the dark, and made out the two horses and the sleeping Jongleur. Leesha, however, was missing.
It was early still; the false light before true sunrise. Most of the corelings had likely fled to the Core long since, but with the heavy cloud, one could never be sure. He rose to his feet, tearing away the bandages Leesha had tied the night before. The wounds were all healed.
The Herb Gatherer’s path was easy to follow in the thick muck, and he found her not far off, kneeling on the ground picking herbs. Her skirts were hiked up far above her knees to keep them from the mud, and the sight of her smooth white thighs made him flush. She was beautiful in the predawn light.
‘You shouldn’t be out here,’ he said. ‘The sun’s not yet risen. It’s not safe.’
Leesha looked at him, and smiled. ‘Are you in a position to lecture me on putting myself in danger?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Besides,’ she went on when he made no reply, ‘what demon could harm me with you here?’
The Painted Man shrugged, squatting beside her. ‘Tampweed?’ he asked.
Leesha nodded, holding