Peter Brett - The Desert Spear

"You warded the Holy Library," he said in awe, pointing. "A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world."

"Just the furniture," the Painted Man said.

Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. "The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!"

"That's nonsense," the Painted Man said.

Ronnell got to his feet. "Pray, put your hood up," he said, going to the door.

The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.

The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.

Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive-original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.

The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night's reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.

The acolyte bowed low at the Tender's approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke's Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read: Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.

"The Age of Science had terrible weapons," Ronnell said. "Weapons that could kill hundreds, even thousands of men. It is no wonder the Creator grew wroth with us."

The Painted Man ignored the comment. "Euchor will seek to rebuild them?"

"The most terrible are beyond our ability to re-create, requiring vast refineries and lectric power," Ronnell said. "But there is much that can still be built by any man with access to simple chemics and a steel forge. That book," he pointed to the volume in the Painted Man's hands, "is a detailed account of those weapons and how they are built. Take it."

The Painted Man raised an eyebrow. "What will Euchor do when he learns it's gone?"

"He will grow wroth, and demand I re-create it from the original texts," Ronnell said, gesturing to the rows of glass bookcases. Glass the Painted Man had etched with wards himself.

Tender Ronnell followed his gaze. "When the Warders' Guild began charging glass, I had them put out in the night. Your wards made those cases indestructible. Another miracle."

"You mustn't tell anyone who I was," the Painted Man said. "You would endanger everyone I ever knew."

Ronnell nodded. "It is enough for now that I know."

If he hadn't told Ronnell who he was, Mery likely would have, but he had never expected the strict man to honestly believe that he, Arlen Bales, was the Deliverer. The Painted Man scowled as he put the book in his satchel. It was the last night of the new moon when the mind demon tracked the Painted Man to Fort Miln. The coreling prince could only rise on the three darkest nights of the cycle, but it picked up its quarry's trail quickly, following a lingering scent in the air, even days after his passing. It was an intriguing scent-not quite human and warm with stolen Core magic.

Atop its winged mimic, the mind demon stared down at the net atop the human breeding ground. The walls were powerfully warded, but there were large gaps in the lines of magic crisscrossing the rooftops. A winged drone, unable to see the net unless it activated, might never find the gap save by accident, but to the coreling prince the pattern was clear, and it guided its mimic to slip neatly through into the city proper.

Windows were shuttered closed, streets dark and empty. The mind demon felt the pull as the house wards tried to leech its magic, but the mimic glided by so quickly that they could find no draw. Clumsy wardnets were cast throughout the city, but the coreling prince avoided them as easily as a man might step around a puddle.

They passed through the city following the invisible path in the air. They paused at a great inner keep, but a sniff at the gate made it clear it was not their final destination. Next they came to a giant building whose wards were so powerful, the coreling prince hissed as it felt their pull even from a distance. There was usually at least one such place at the center of every breeding ground, and they were places best avoided, especially since his quarry had not remained there. A fresher scent headed away from the building.

The trail led at last to another wardwall, this one tightly crafted and without flaw. The wards were not keyed to their castes, but the coreling prince knew they would still activate and cause great pain should it or its mimic cross the net. The demon was forced to disable some of the wards so they could pass the barrier safely.

They drifted silently up to the dwelling, and in the window, the mind demon caught sight of its quarry at last. Those with him were dull and colorless creatures, but the one had warded his flesh, and glowed fiercely with stolen magic.

Too fiercely. The coreling prince was thousands of years old, a creature of caution, consideration, and decisive action. This deep in the breeding ground, it could not summon drones to attack, and the mind demon was loath to risk its mimic. Having seen the human, there was no question he must be killed, but there would be better chances in the coming cycles when he was less protected, and there were unanswered questions about his power to answer first.

It moved to the window, absorbing the crude grunts and gestures of the human stock. " 'You would find yourself with two less guards?' " Ragen said with a deep, rich laugh. "I thought Euchor was going to burst a vein right there! I told you to act like a king, not a suicidal Krasian!"

"I didn't expect him to demand a marriage," the Painted Man said.

"Euchor knows full well he is not going to produce a direct heir," Ragen said, "so it's wise to get at least one of his daughters out of the city before they tear Miln apart for his throne. Whichever girl Rhinebeck chooses, she 'll likely welcome the escape, and the chance to put her own issue on the throne of Angiers."

"Rhinebeck will never accept it," the Painted Man said.

Ragen shook his head. "Depends on how much of a threat the Krasians prove," he said. "If it's half as bad as you say, Rhinebeck may have no choice. Will you share Euchor's book of weapons with him?"

The Painted Man shook his head. "I have no interest in ducal politics, or helping the men of Thesa kill one another with the Krasians in our lands and the corelings clawing at the wards. I've more interest in turning these weapons against the corelings, if it can be done."

"No wonder Ronnell thinks you the Deliverer," Ragen said.

The Painted Man looked at him sharply.

"Don't look at me like that," Ragen said. "I believe it no more than you do. At least, not that you're divine. But perhaps it's natural that when the time is right, a man of sufficient will and drive 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…"