The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear. Peter V. Brett
forbidden to go back there without the Duke’s permission,’ Mery said, watching Arlen’s face fall. ‘Of course,’ she smiled, ‘I am allowed, on account of my father.’
‘Your father?’ Arlen asked.
‘I’m Mery, Tender Ronnell’s daughter,’ she reminded, scowling.
Arlen’s eyes widened, and he bowed awkwardly. ‘Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook,’ he said.
From across the room, Cob chuckled. ‘Boy never had a chance,’ he said.
The months melted together for Arlen as he fell into a familiar routine. Ragen’s manse was closer to the library, so he slept there most nights. The Messenger’s leg had mended quickly, and he was soon on the road again. Elissa encouraged Arlen to treat the room as his own, and seemed to take a special pleasure at seeing it cluttered with his tools and books. The servants loved his presence as well, claiming Lady Elissa was less of a trial when he was about.
Arlen would rise an hour before the sun, and practise his spear forms by lamplight in the manse’s high-ceilinged foyer. When the sun broke the horizon, he slipped into the yard for an hour of target practice and riding. This was followed by a hurried breakfast with Elissa – and Ragen when he was about – before he was off to the library.
It was still early when he arrived; the library empty save for Ronnell’s acolytes, who slept in cells beneath the great building. These kept their distance, intimidated by Arlen, who thought nothing of walking up to their master and speaking without summons or permission.
There was a small, isolated room designated as his workshop. It was just big enough for a pair of bookcases, his workbench, and whatever piece of furniture he was working on. One of the cases was filled with paints, brushes, and etching tools. The other was filled with borrowed books. The floor was covered in curled wood shavings, blotched from spilled paint and lacquer.
Arlen took an hour each morning to read, then reluctantly put his book away and got to work. For weeks, he warded nothing but chairs. Then he moved on to benches. The job took even longer than expected, but Arlen didn’t mind.
Mery became a welcome sight over these months, sticking her head into his workshop frequently to share a smile or a bit of gossip before scurrying off to resume her duties. Arlen had thought the interruptions from his work and study would grow tiresome, but the opposite proved true. He looked forward to seeing her, even finding his attention wandering on days when she did not visit with her usual frequency. They shared lunches on the library’s broad roof, overlooking the city and the mountains beyond.
Mery was different from any girl Arlen had ever known. The daughter of the Duke’s librarian and chief historian, she was possibly the most educated girl in the city, and Arlen found he could learn as much by talking to her as in the pages of any book. But her position was a lonely one. The acolytes were even more intimidated by her than they were by Arlen, and there was no one else her age in the library. Mery was perfectly comfortable arguing with grey-bearded scholars, but around Arlen she seemed shy and unsure of herself.
Much as he felt around her.
‘Creator, Jaik, it’s as if you haven’t practised at all,’ Arlen said, covering his ears.
‘Don’t be cruel, Arlen,’ Mery scolded. ‘Your song was lovely, Jaik,’ she said.
Jaik frowned. ‘Then why are you covering your ears, too?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ she said, taking her hands away with a bright smile, ‘my father says music and dancing lead to sin, so I couldn’t listen, but I’m sure it was very beautiful.’
Arlen laughed, and Jaik frowned, putting his lute away.
‘Try your juggling,’ Mery suggested.
‘Are you sure it’s not a sin to watch juggling?’ Jaik asked.
‘Only if it’s good,’ Mery murmured, and Arlen laughed again.
Jaik’s lute was old and worn, never seeming to have all its strings at one time. He set it down and pulled coloured wooden balls from the small sack he kept his Jongleur’s equipment in. The paint was chipped and there were cracks in the wood. He put one ball into the air, then another, and a third. He held that number for several seconds, and Mery clapped her hands.
‘Much better!’ she said.
Jaik smiled. ‘Watch this!’ he said, reaching for a fourth.
Arlen and Mery both winced as the balls came clattering down to the cobblestones.
Jaik’s face coloured. ‘Maybe I should practise more with three,’ he said.
‘You should practise more,’ Arlen agreed.
‘My da doesn’t like it,’ Jaik said. ‘He says, “If you’ve nothing to do but juggle, boy, I’ll find some chores for you!”’
‘My father does that when he catches me dancing,’ Mery said.
They looked at Arlen expectantly. ‘My da used to do that, too,’ he said.
‘But not Master Cob?’ Jaik asked.
Arlen shook his head. ‘Why should he? I do all he asks.’
‘Then when do you find time to practise messengering?’ Jaik asked.
‘I make time,’ Arlen said.
‘How?’ Jaik asked.
Arlen shrugged. ‘Get up earlier. Stay up later. Sneak away after meals. Whatever you need to do. Or would you rather stay a miller your whole life?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a miller, Arlen,’ Mery said.
Jaik shook his head. ‘No, he’s right,’ he said. ‘If this is what I want, I have to work harder.’ He looked at Arlen. ‘I’ll practise more,’ he promised.
‘Don’t worry,’ Arlen said. ‘If you can’t entertain the villagers in the hamlets, you can earn your keep scaring off the demons on the road with your singing.’
Jaik’s eyes narrowed. Mery laughed as he began throwing his juggling balls at Arlen.
‘A good Jongleur could hit me!’ Arlen taunted, nimbly dodging each throw.
‘You’re reaching too far,’ Cob called. To illustrate his point, Ragen let go one hand from his shield and gripped Arlen’s spear, just below the tip, before he could retract it. He yanked, and the overbalanced boy went crashing into the snow.
‘Ragen, be careful,’ Elissa admonished, clutching her shawl tightly in the chill morning air. ‘You’ll hurt him.’
‘He’s far gentler than a coreling would be, my lady,’ Cob said, loud enough for Arlen to hear. ‘The purpose of the long spear is to hold the demons back at a distance while retreating. It’s a defensive weapon. Messengers who get too aggressive with them, like young Arlen here, end up dead. I’ve seen it happen. There was one time on the road to Lakton …’
Arlen scowled. Cob was a good teacher, but he tended to punctuate his lessons with grisly stories of the demise of other Messengers. His intent was to discourage, but his words had the opposite effect, only strengthening Arlen’s resolve to succeed where those before him failed. He picked himself up and set his feet more firmly this time, his weight on his heels.
‘Enough with the long spears,’ Cob said. ‘Let’s try the short ones.’
Elissa