“Looks like I made it out just in time,” Jaik said. “Had to break curfew to do it.”

The Painted Man dropped from the horse’s back and came over to him. Jaik made no effort to rise or extend a hand, so he simply sat on the rock beside him. “The Jaik I met on this hill would never break curfew.”

Jaik shrugged. “Didn’t have much choice. Knew you’d try and skulk off with the dawn.”

“Didn’t Ragen’s man bring you my letters?” the Painted Man asked.

Jaik pulled out the bundle and threw it to the ground. “Can’t read, and you know it.”

The Painted Man sighed. In truth, he had forgotten. “Came to see you in person,” he offered. “Wasn’t expecting to find Mery there, and she wasn’t eager that I stay.”

“I know,” Jaik said. “She came to me at the mill in tears. Told me everything.”

The Painted Man hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Jaik said. He sat quietly for a time, looking out over the land spread out before them.

“Always knew she was just settling for me,” he said at last. “You were gone a year before she saw me as anything more than a shoulder to cry on. Two more before she agreed to be my wife, and another after that before we made our vows. Even on the day she was holding her breath, hoping you’d storm in and break up the ceremony. Night, I half expected it myself.”

He shrugged. “Can’t blame her. She was marrying down a class, and I ent educated or much to look at. There was a reason I followed you around when we were kids. You were always better than me at everything. I wasn’t even fit to be your Jongleur.”

“Jaik, I’m no better than you are,” the Painted Man said.

“Yeah, I see that now.” Jaik spat. “I’m a better husband than you ever could have been. Know why? Because unlike you, I was there for her.”

The Painted Man scowled, and any feelings of contrition fled from his thoughts. Anger and hurt he would accept from Jaik, but the condescension in his tone burned.

“That’s the Jaik I remember,” he said. “Shows up and does the least he can. Heard Mery’s da had to call favors at the mill so you could afford to move off your parents’ carpet.”

But Jaik stood fast. “I was there for her here,” he snapped, pointing to his temple, “and here!” He pointed to his heart. “Your head and heart were always out there.” He swept a hand out over the horizon. “So why don’t you just go back there? No one needs your delivering here.”

The Painted Man nodded, leaping back up onto Twilight Dancer’s back. “You take care of yourself, Jaik.” He rode off.

CHAPTER 24

BROTHERS IN THE NIGHT

“HEY! WATCH THE BUMPS, I’m tuning!” Rojer cried as the cart trundled along the road. He had carefully cleaned and waxed the ancient fiddle the Painted Man had given him, and purchased expensive new strings at the Jongleurs’ Guildhouse. His old fiddle had belonged to Master Jaycob, and the cheap workmanship had him forever tuning it. Before that, he had used Arrick’s fiddle, which was finer, though it had seen many years of use and was worn down even before Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices smashed it.

This one, rescued from some forgotten ruin, was another class entirely. The neck and body curved differently than Rojer was used to, but the workmanship was exquisite, and the wood had passed the centuries like days. A fiddle fit for a duke to play.

“I’m sorry, Rojer,” Leesha said, “but the road just doesn’t seem to care that you’re tuning. I don’t know what’s gotten into it.”

Rojer stuck his tongue out at her, gently turning the last peg between the thumb and forefinger of his crippled hand while the thumb of his other hand plucked at the string.

“Got it!” he shouted at last. “Stop the cart!”

“Rojer, we have miles to go before dark,” Leesha said. Rojer knew that every moment away from the Hollow ate at her, worried over its citizens as a mother worried over her children.

“Just for a minute,” Rojer begged. Leesha tsked, but she complied. Gared and Wonda pulled up as well, looking at the cart curiously.

Rojer stood on the driver’s seat, brandishing the fiddle and bow. He put the instrument under his chin and caressed the strings with the bow, bringing them to a resonant hum.

“Listen to that,” he marveled. “Smooth like honey. Jaycob’s fiddle was a toy by comparison.”

“If you say so, Rojer,” Leesha said.

Rojer frowned for a moment, then dismissed her with a wave of his bow. His two remaining fingers spread wide for balance, it fit his crippled hand like a part of it as it danced across the strings. Rojer let the music soar from the fiddle, sweeping him up in its whirlwind.

He could feel Arrick’s medallion resting comfortably against his bare chest, hidden under his motley tunic. No longer a trigger to painful memories, it was a reassuring weight, a way to honor those who had died for him. He stood straighter knowing it was there.

This wasn’t the first talisman Rojer had carried. For years, he had kept a puppet of wood and string topped with a lock of his master’s golden hair in a secret pocket in the waistband of his motley pants. Before that, it was a puppet of his mother, capped with a lock of her red.

But with the medallion, Rojer could feel both Arrick and his parents looking over him, and he spoke to them through the fiddle. He played his love and played his loneliness and regret. He told them all the things he had never been able to in life.

When he finally finished, Leesha and the others were staring at him, their eyes glazed like charmed corelings. It was only after a few moments of silence that they shook their heads and came back to themselves.

“Ent never heard anything beautiful as that,” Wonda said. Gared grunted, and Leesha produced a kerchief, dabbing at her eyes.

The rest of the journey to Deliverer’s Hollow was filled with music, with Rojer playing every minute his hands weren’t otherwise occupied. He knew they were returning to all the same problems they had left, but with the promise of aid to come from the duke and the Jongleurs’ Guild, as well as the comfort of the medallion around his neck, he held new hope that all their problems could be solved.

They were still a day from the Hollow when the way became choked with refugees, many of them with tents and warding circles pitched right in the road. Leesha knew them immediately as Laktonians, for as a whole they were stocky folk, short and round-faced, and they stood as those more used to walking on a boat’s deck than dry land.

“What’s happened?” Leesha demanded of the first person they came to, a young mother pacing to calm a crying infant. The woman looked at her with hollow, uncomprehending eyes as Leesha got down from the cart. Then she took note of Leesha’s pocketed apron and a light came back to her.

“Please,” she said, holding out the screaming child. “I think he’s sick.”

Leesha took the babe in her arms, running sensitive fingers over it to check pulse and temperature. After a moment, she simply sat it up in the crook of one arm and stuck a knuckle in its mouth. The child quieted immediately, sucking vigorously.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” she said, “apart from sensing the stress of his mum.” The woman relaxed visibly, breathing a sigh of relief.

“What’s happened?” Leesha asked again.

“The Krasians,” the woman said.

“Creator, have they marched on Lakton so soon?” Leesha asked.

The woman shook her head. “They’ve spread out through Rizon’s hamlets, forcing the women to cover up, and dragging the men off to fight demons. They pick and choose Rizonan girls to take as wives like a rancher picking a chicken to slaughter, and march the boys to training camps where they’re taught to hate their own families.”

Leesha scowled.

“Hamlets ent safe anymore,” the woman said. “Those that could moved on to Lakton proper, and a few stayed to fight for their homes, but the rest of us went to the Hollow looking for the Deliverer. He wan’t there, but folk said he had gone on to Angiers, so that’s where we’re headed. He ’ll put things right, you see if he doesn’t.”