Peter Brett: The Desert Spear

The Painted Man had expected the demon's will to have weakened, but it was no less potent now, and they clawed through each other's minds, jabbing fingers into any delicate crevice they could find. The coreling prince laid bare all his life's failures, mocking him with the fate he had abandoned Renna to, or brought upon the Rizonans. Teasing him with images of Jardir forcing himself upon poor innocent Leesha.

It was almost too much, but in his pain he lashed out, cracking through the mind demon's own defenses. He saw in that moment a glimpse of the Core, a place of eternal darkness, but lit with magic's glow more brightly than the desert wastes.

Instantly the demon's will retreated, ceasing its attack to protect its own thoughts. The Painted Man sensed the advantage and pressed his assault. The coreling prince shrieked in his mind as he learned of the Hive.

The Painted Man might have won then, if not for the horror of the sight. The corelings that came to the surface to hunt were but the barest fraction of what the Core could spew forth. Millions of demons. Billions. For the first time since he had found the wards of old, he despaired that they could ever be defeated.

The mind demon's will roared over him, and their struggle fell to a more basic level, the simple will to survive. But here the Painted Man held the advantage, for he had no fear of death, and did not look over his shoulder as it approached them both.

The demon did, and in that instant its will broke, and the Painted Man absorbed its magic into his own essence, leaving a burnt remain he threw from the path to the Core to scatter away forever.

Alone on the path, the Painted Man could finally hear the true call of the Core, and it was beautiful. There was power there. Power not evil in itself. Like fire, it was beyond good or evil. It was simply power, and it beckoned him like a teat to a hungry infant. He reached for it, ready to taste.

But then another call reached him.

"Arlen!" The voice was a distant echo that reverberated down the path.

"Arlen Bales, you come back to me!"

Arlen Bales. A name he hadn't used in years. Arlen Bales had died out on the Krasian Desert. The voice was calling a ghost. He turned back to the Core, ready to embrace it.

"Don't you leave me again, Arlen Bales!"

Renna. He 'd left her in dire straights twice now, but the third would be the deepest cut, damning her to the very life he sought to escape after she had worked so hard to save his.

What could the embrace of the Core offer that hers could not? Renna's throat was hoarse from screaming when the mist seeped back up from the ground and began to take Arlen's form. She laughed through her tears and nearly choked. It seemed only a moment ago that he was as good as cored and she expecting no better, but now suddenly every demon in the area was dead, the night hauntingly quiet as she and Arlen stared at each other. The mind demon's magic feedback had been intense, and Renna's senses felt more alive than they ever had in her life. She practically crackled with energy, and her heart was pounding like a Jongleur's hand drums. Arlen glowed so intensely he hurt to look at.

"Dancer," Arlen breathed suddenly, breaking the silence. He ran to his horse.

"Broke a lot of bones," Renna said sadly. "Ent never gonna run again, even if he makes it through. Da would say to put him down."

"To the Core with anything your da would have done!" Arlen growled. Renna felt his pain like a slap in the face, and knew in that moment how much he loved the horse. She knew what it was like, when an animal was your only friend in the world. She wished he could love her half so much.

"Wounds've stopped bleeding," she noted. "Must've taken some magic off that changing demon before he was struck."

"Mimic," Arlen said. "They're called mimics."

"How d'you know?" Renna asked.

"Learned a lot, when I touched the coreling prince's mind," Arlen said. He reached out, gripping one of the stallion's broken legs and pulling the bones straight. Holding them in place with one powerful hand, he drew a ward in the air with the other.

He grunted in pain, but the ward flared and the bones knit before her eyes. One by one, Arlen tended the horse's wounds, but as Twilight Dancer began to breathe comfortably, Arlen's own breath began to labor. His magic, so bright a moment ago, was dimming rapidly. Already it was darker than she had ever seen it.

She touched his shoulder, and felt a flash of pain as some of her own magic flowed into him. He gasped and looked up at her.

"Enough," she whispered, and he nodded. The Painted Man looked at Renna and felt a profound sense of guilt.

"I'm sorry, Ren," he said.

Renna looked at him curiously. "Sorry for what?"

"Turned my back on you once when we were young, leaving you to Harl so I could chase demons," he said. "And then tonight, I did it again."

But Renna shook her head. "Felt that demon in my head. Felt it slither into me worse 'n Da ever could. It was pure evil, straight from the Core. Killing that monster was worth more 'n a thousand Renna Tanners."

The Painted Man reached out and touched her cheek, his eyes unreadable.

"Thought so before," he said, "but now I ent so sure."

"I ent takin' back my promise," Renna said. "If this is your life, then I aim to support it like a proper wife should. No matter what."

Dawn was approaching, and the Core called to the Painted Man still, but it was a distant thing now, easily ignored. Because of her. Because with Renna he finally remembered who he was. The words came easily to him.

"I, Arlen Bales, promise myself to you, Renna Tanner."