“As I recall, it was you who did the leaving,” he said.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Mery shouted at him. “I’ve spent all these years blaming myself, not knowing if you were dead on the road or in the arms of another woman, all because I was selfish and upset one night! How long must I be punished for reacting badly when you told me you wanted to risk your life just to get away from the prison of living here with me?”

He looked at her, knowing she was right. He had never lied to her or anyone, but he had deceived nonetheless, letting her believe his dreams of becoming a Messenger had faded.

Slowly, he lifted his hands, and drew back his hood.

Mery’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to stifle her gasp as the tattoos were revealed. There were dozens on his face alone, running along his jaw and lips, over his nose and around his eyes, even on his ears.

She recoiled instinctively. “Your face, your beautiful face. Arlen, what have you done?”

He had imagined this reaction countless times, seen it before from people all across Thesa, but despite all, he was not prepared for how it cut him. The look in her eyes passed judgment on everything he was, making him feel small and helpless in a way he had not in years.

The feeling angered him, and Arlen of Miln, who had been gaining strength for the first time in years, fled back into darkness. The Painted Man took control, and his eyes grew hard.

“I did what I had to, to survive,” he said, his voice deepening into a rasp.

“No you didn’t,” Mery said, shaking her head. “You could have survived here in Miln, safe in succor. You could have lived in any of the Free Cities, for that matter. You didn’t…mutilate yourself to survive. Truer is you did it because you hate yourself so much you think you deserve no better than to be out in the naked night. You did it because you’re terrified of opening your heart and loving anything the corelings might take from you.”

“I’m not scared of anything the corelings can do,” he said. “I walk free in the night and fear no demon, great or small. They run from me, Mery! Me!” He struck his chest for emphasis.

“Of course they do,” Mery whispered, tears running down her smooth, round cheeks. “You’ve become a monster, yourself.”

“Monster?!” the Painted Man shouted, making her flinch back in fright. “I’ve done what no man has done in centuries! What I’ve always dreamed! I’ve brought back powers lost to mankind since the First Demon War!”

Mery spat on the ground, unimpressed. The sight was unnerving; he had seen it the night before, in his third vision.

“At what cost?” she demanded. “Jaik’s given me two sons, Arlen. Will you ask them to march and die in another demon war? They could have been yours, your gift to the world, but instead all you’ve given it is a way to destroy itself.”

The Painted Man opened his mouth to let fly an angry retort, but none came. Had anyone else said such things to him, he would have lashed out, but Mery stabbed through his defenses with ease. What had he given the world? Would thousands of young men march with his weapons, only to be slaughtered in the night?

“It’s honest word you’ve done what you always dreamed, Arlen,” Mery said. “You’ve made sure no one will ever get close to you again.” She shook her head, and her face twisted. A sob broke from her soft lips, and she covered her mouth, turning and running from him.

The Painted Man stood a long time, staring at the cobbles as people walked by. They saw his tattooed face and the sight sparked animated conversation, but he hardly noticed. For the second time, Mery had left him in tears, and he wished the ground would swallow him.

He wandered the streets aimlessly, trying to come to grips with what Mery had said, but there was nothing for it. Was she right? Since the night his mother was cored, had he truly opened his heart to anyone? He knew the answer, and it lent weight to her accusations. People gave him a wide berth as he walked, his painted flesh as much a barrier to them as to corelings. Only Leesha had tried to break through, and he had pushed even her away.

After a time, he glanced up and realized he ’d wandered instinctively back to Cob’s shop. The familiar place called to him, and he had no strength to resist. He felt empty inside. Void. Let Elissa rail and beat at him with her fists. She could do no worse than had already been done.

Elissa was sweeping the floor of the shop when he entered. She was alone. She looked up as the chimes rang, and their eyes met. For a long time, neither of them said a word.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were married?” he asked finally. It was petulant and lame, but he could think of nothing else to say.

“You didn’t see fit to tell me everything, either,” she returned. There was no anger in her voice, no accusation. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing what she’d eaten for breakfast.

He nodded. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?” Elissa asked gently, laying aside her broom and gliding over to him. She put a hand on his arm. “Scarred? I’ve seen them before.”

He turned from her, and she let her hand fall away. “My scars are selfinflicted.”

“We all have those,” she said.

“Mery took one look at me and fled as if I were a coreling,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” Elissa said, coming behind and wrapping her arms around him.

The Painted Man wanted to pull away, but that part of him melted away in her embrace. He turned and held her in return, inhaling the familiar scent of her and closing his eyes, opening himself up to the pain and letting it flow out of him.

After too short a time, Elissa pulled back. “I want to see what you showed her.”

He shook his head. “I…”

“Hush,” Elissa said softly, reaching into his hood to put a finger on his lips. He tensed as her hands came up, slowly, and gathered the hood, easing it down. Fear ran through him, chilling his blood, but he stood like a statue, resigned to it.

Like Mery, Elissa’s eyes widened and she gasped, but she did not recoil. She simply looked at him, taking it in.

“I never used to appreciate wards,” she said after a time. “Before, they were just another tool, like a hammer, or fire.” She reached out, touching his face. Her soft fingers traced the wards on his eyebrows, his jaw, his skull. “It’s only now, working in this shop, that I see how very beautiful they can be. Anything that protects our loved ones is beautiful.”

He choked, lurching clumsily as he started to sob, but Elissa caught him in a firm embrace, supporting him.

“Come home, Arlen,” she said. “Even if only for a night.”

CHAPTER 23

EUCHOR’S COURT

THE PAINTED MAN LEFT the warding shop and walked some distance before again taking to the rooftops, ensuring he was not followed as he returned to Ragen and Elissa’s manse.

It was smaller than he remembered. When he had first come to Fort Miln at eleven years old, Ragen and Elissa’s home had seemed like a village unto itself with its great wall surrounding the gardens, Servants’ cottages, and house proper. Now even the courtyard, a seemingly endless space when he was young and learning to ride and fight, seemed claustrophobic. So used to walking free in the night, any walls felt stifling to him now.

The Servants at the gate let him in without a word. Elissa had sent a runner back to the manse, and had another go to fetch Twilight Dancer and his bags from the inn. He passed through the courtyard and entered the manse, ascending the marble steps to his old room.

It was exactly as he ’d left it. Arlen had acquired many things in his time in Miln—books, clothes, tools, bits of warding—too much to take Messaging, when a man was limited to what his horse could carry. He had left most of it behind, never looking back, and the room seemed untouched by time. There were fresh linens on the bed and not a speck of dust to be found, but nothing had been moved. There was even still clutter on his desk. He sat there a long time, basking in the safe familiarity of it and feeling seventeen again.