The Painted Man found an inn and led Twilight Dancer to the stable. There was a boy already there, mucking the stalls. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, and he was filthy.

Servant class, the Painted Man thought, which explained why he was working so early. The boy likely slept in the stables, and counted himself lucky at that. He reached into his purse and took out a heavy gold coin, putting it in the boy’s hand.

The boy’s eyes bulged as he looked at the coin. It was likely more money than he had ever held in his hand, enough to purchase new clothes, food, and succor for a month.

“See my horse is well cared for, and there ’ll be another when I claim him,” the Painted Man said. It was extravagant and might draw attention, but money meant nothing to him anymore, and he knew how easily the Servants of Miln could become Beggars. He left the boy and headed into the inn.

“I need a room for the next few nights,” he told the innkeeper, pretending as if his saddlebags and gear were a troublesome weight when they felt like feathers.

“Five moons a night,” the innkeeper said. He was young, seeming too young to run a business, and he bowed conspicuously, trying to peek under the Painted Man’s hood.

“Flame demon spat in my face,” the Painted Man said, the real irritation in his voice driving the man back. “It ent a pretty sight.”

“Of course, Messenger,” the innkeeper said, bowing again. “I apologize. Wern’t right of me to stare.”

“It’s fine,” the Painted Man grunted, carrying his gear up the steps and locking it in his room before heading out into the city.

The streets of Miln were bright and familiar, the stench of dung fires and coal from the ironworks almost welcoming. It was just as he remembered, and yet alien.

He was different.

The way to Cob’s shop was second nature even now, but the Painted Man was shocked by what he found. Large extensions had been built to either side. The small house behind the shop that he and Cob had lived in had been torn down and replaced with a warehouse many times its size. Cob had been prosperous when Arlen left, but it was nothing compared with this. Steeling himself, he went to the main entrance.

Chimes rang as the door opened, and the sound, like a part of his soul that had been missing, sent a shudder through him. The shop was larger now, but still filled with familiar sights and scents. There was the workbench he had hunched over for countless hours. The small handcart he had pulled all over the city. He walked over to a windowsill and reverently ran his gloved fingers over wards he had etched in the stone. He felt he could almost pick up a warding tool and return to work as if the last eight years had never happened.

“Can I help you?” asked a voice, and the Painted Man froze, his blood turning to ice. He had been lost in another time and hadn’t heard anyone approach, but without turning, he knew who it was. Knew, and was terrified. What was she doing here? What did it mean? Slowly, he turned to face her, keeping his face shadowed by his hood.

The years had been kind to Mother Elissa. With forty-six winters behind her, her long hair was still dark and rich, and her cheeks smooth, with only the faintest lines about her eyes and mouth. Smile lines, he ’d heard them called, and it gave some relief.

Let her have spent the last eight years smiling, he thought.

Elissa opened her mouth to speak, but a young girl with long brown hair and large brown eyes came running over to them, stealing her attention. The girl wore a dress of maroon velvet, with a matching ribbon in her hair. The ribbon was askew, thick locks of hair falling in front of her face, and her cheeks and hands were white with chalk that streaked her dress as well. The Painted Man knew in an instant that she was Marya, Ragen and Elissa’s daughter, whom he had held mere moments after her birth. She was innocent and beautiful, and he ached, seeing in her all the joy of the years he had missed.

“Mother, see what I drew!” the girl cried. She held out a slate, upon which a warding circle had been drawn. The Painted Man scanned the wards in a blink and knew they were strong. More, he saw that many of them were his, brought with him from Tibbet’s Brook. He took comfort knowing that in some small way he had touched her life.

“These are beautiful, sweet one,” Elissa congratulated, bending to secure her daughter’s hair in the ribbon once more. She kissed Marya’s forehead when she was done. “Soon your father will be taking you on his Warding calls.” The girl gave a little squeal of delight.

“We have a customer to attend, sweet,” Elissa said, turning back to the Painted Man, her arm around the girl. “I am Mother Elissa.” The pride in that title was still evident in her voice after all these years. “And this is my daughter—”

“Are you a Tender?” the girl asked him, cutting her mother off.

“No,” the Painted Man said, using the deep rasp of a voice he had adopted since warding his flesh. The last thing he needed was for Elissa to recognize his voice.

“Then why do you dress like one?” the girl demanded.

“I am demon-scarred,” he told her, “and I don’t want to frighten you.”

“I’m not scared,” the girl said, trying to peek under his hood. He took a step back, pulling the hood lower.

“You’re being rude!” Elissa scolded her. “Run along and play with your brother.”

The girl took on a rebellious look, but Elissa stared her down and she darted back across the room to a worktable where a boy of perhaps five winters was stacking blocks with wards painted on their sides. The Painted Man saw Ragen in his young face, and felt a profound gladness for his mentor, mixed with a terrible regret that he would never know the boy, or the man he would become.

Elissa looked abashed. “I am sorry for that. My husband, too, has scars he does not care for the world to see. You’re a Messenger, then?”

The Painted Man nodded.

“What can I help you with, today?” she asked. “A new shield? Or perhaps repairing a portable circle?”

“Looking for a Warder named Cob,” he said. “I was told he owned this shop.”

Elissa looked sad as she shook her head. “Cob has been dead almost four years,” she said, her words hitting harder than a demon’s blow. “Taken by a cancer. He left the shop to my husband and me. Who told you to seek him here?”

“A…Messenger I knew,” the Painted Man said, reeling.

“What Messenger?” Elissa pressed. “What was his name?”

The Painted Man hesitated, his mind racing. No name came to him, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the risk he would be discovered. “Arlen of Tibbet’s Brook,” he blurted, cursing himself as he did.

Elissa’s eyes lit up. “Tell me of Arlen,” she begged, placing a hand on his arm. “We were very close, once. Where did you last see him? Is he well? Can you get a message to him? My husband and I would pay any price.”

Seeing the sudden desperation in her eyes, the Painted Man realized how deeply he had hurt her when he left. And now, stupidly, he had given her false hope that she might somehow see Arlen again. But the boy she knew was dead, body and soul. Even if he took off his hood and told her the truth, she would not have him returned. Better to give her the closure she needed.

“Arlen spoke of you that night,” he said, his decision made. “You’re every bit as beautiful as he said.”

Elissa smiled at the compliment, her eyes moist, but then she stopped, as what he had said fully registered. “What night?”

“The night I was scarred,” he said. “Crossing the Krasian Desert. Arlen died, so that I might live.” It was true enough, after a fashion.

Elissa gasped, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Her eyes, moist a moment before with joy, now brimmed with water as her face screwed up in pain.

“His last thoughts were of you,” he said, “of his friends in Miln, his…family. He wanted me to come here and tell you that.”