The Daylight War (The Demon Cycle, #3)

by Peter V. Brett

“You’ll face what’s between the Maze walls, but not what’s between a woman’s thighs?” Soli grimaced. “At least in the Maze I am surrounded by strong, sweating men. And who knows? Perhaps one of the push’ting dama will fancy me. The powerful ones like Baden make their favorite Sharum into personal guards who only have to fight on Waning! Imagine, only three nights a month in the Maze!” “Still three nights too many,” Manvah muttered. Inevera was confused. “Is the Maze not a holy place? An honor?” Manvah grunted and went back to her weaving. Soli looked at her a long time, his eyes distant. The easy smile melted from his face. “The Maze is holy death,” her brother said at last. “A man who dies there is guaranteed Heaven, but I am not so eager to meet Everam just yet.” “I’m sorry,” Inevera said. Soli shook himself, and the smile returned in an instant. “Best not concern yourself with such things, little sister. The Maze is not a burden for you to bear.” “Every woman in Krasia bears that burden, my son,” Manvah said, “whether we fight beside you or not.”

“Does a palm fear the wind?” the dama’ting asked. “No, Dama’ting,” Inevera said. “What does it do?” “It bends, Dama’ting,” Inevera said. “The Evejah teaches us that fear and pain are only wind, Inevera, daughter of Manvah. Let it blow past you.” “Yes, Dama’ting,” Inevera said. “Repeat it three times,” Qeva commanded. “Fear and pain are only wind,” Inevera said, drawing a deep breath. “Fear and pain are only wind. Fear and pain are only wind.”

Kenevah,”

“Mother?” Inevera asked. “Yes?” her mother said. Inevera swallowed the lump in her throat. “Will you still love me if I’m barren?” Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to cry, but found herself blinking away tears. A moment later Manvah had folded her in her arms. “You are my daughter. I would love you if you put out the sun.”

Khavel.

“You’ve a poor imagination if this is your sunny place,” Arlen said. “Why?” Renna asked. “I’m rid of Harl and that corespawned farm, stronger than I ever imagined, and dancing in the naked night.” She swept a hand around her. “Everything’s awash in color and glow.” She looked at him. “And I’m with Arlen Bales. How could my sunny place be anywhere else?”

Arlen selected a small goldwood bow and a quiver of arrows, handing it to her. “Time you learned to shoot.” Renna’s lip curled in distaste. He was trying to protect her again. Keep her from fighting in close. Keep her safe. “Don’t want it. Don’t want no spears, neither.” “Why not?” Arlen asked. Renna held up her brook stone necklace in one hand, and drew her knife with the other. “Don’t wanna kill corelings from some hiding spot. I kill a demon, I want it to die knowin’ who did it.” She waited for him to argue, but he only nodded. “Know exactly how you feel.” Arlen continued to hold the weapon out to her. “But sometimes you’re outnumbered, or need to kill a demon quick before it cores somebody.” He smiled. “And got to say, it ent a bad feeling, to just point at a coreling and kill it from afar.” Renna took a deep breath. He was right of course. Yes, he was protecting her, but it was in the way he always had. By teaching her to protect herself.

Arlen caught the look she gave him, and nodded. “I draw wards on a demon, the coreling powers them itself. I draw them in the air, they draw their magic from me, instead.”

When the demon hit the ground, dead, she crouched and reached out her hand, tracing a heat ward on the demon’s rough armor. Nothing happened. “How come you can do it and I can’t?” Renna called as she scanned the field for more demons. There were some still circling, but they were wary of the two humans now, and kept their distance. “Didn’t know myself for a long time,” Arlen said. “Didn’t understand any of my powers. But when I fought that demon along the path to the Core, our minds touched, and a lot came clear. I really have become part demon.” “Demonshit,” Renna said. “You ent evil like them.” Arlen shrugged. “Most demons ent evil, either. Ent smart enough to be evil—or good, for that matter. Might as well call a wasp evil for stinging. The mind demons, though …” “Them bastards are more evil’n Harl,” Renna said. Arlen nodded. “By a month’s ride.”

“Look out!” Arlen cried as they turned a tight bend. Right in front of them, a cart was turned across the road, thick bushes to either side making it impossible to ride around. Renna dug her knees into Promise and pulled hard on her mane. The giant horse reared, whinnying and kicking wildly, and it was all Renna could do to keep her seat. Arlen watched, amused, from atop Twilight Dancer, who had already pulled up short and composed himself. “Promised you no halter,” Renna said to the mare when she finally calmed. “Din’t say nothin’ about no saddle. You think on that.” Promise snorted.

Arlen, now holding the spear in one hand, put his foot on the man’s chest and looked at the others. In the struggle, his hood had come down, and the men gaped at the sight. “The Warded Man,” Brice said, and all the bandits began to mutter among themselves. After a moment, the graybeard remembered himself. “So you’re the one everyone says is the Deliverer.” He squinted. “You don’t look like the Deliverer to me.” “Never said I was,” Arlen said. “I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I ent gonna deliver anything but a whipping to anyone doesn’t start acting neighborly right quick.” The graybeard looked at him, and then around at his men. He waved a hand and they put their weapons up, all staring at Arlen, who glared back at them like Renna’s mam when she’d caught the girls at mischief and was readying a scolding.

“Sounds like you made quite the Jongleur’s show of it. Figure you must want them thinkin’ you’re the Deliverer, at least a little.” Arlen’s face darkened. “Last thing I want anyone thinking. Waitin’ for the Deliverer’s kept us hiding behind wards for three hundred years.” “Ay, but the wait’s over, ent it?” Renna said. “Warded Man’s come to save us all.” Arlen scowled, but Renna dismissed it with a wave. “Oh, you slap the fool out of any that bow to you and call you Deliverer, but you’re just as quick to temper when folk don’t take one look at you and start hopping to your words.” Arlen pulled back, stung, but Renna matched his stare and didn’t back down. Finally he gave a helpless chuckle and shrugged. “Can’t deny it helps get things done, Ren. And there’s a lot to do. Folk ent got any idea of what’s coming with the next new moon, and I ent got time to baby ’em.”

Arlen leaned forward, his face utterly serene, but his eyes intense. “You telling me Leesha’s gone to marry Ahmann Jardir? That lyin’, rapin’, murderin’ son of the Core? That what you’re fixing to tell me, Darsy Cutter?” His low voice grew louder as he spoke. Not loud, but louder. Again, Renna saw the ambient magic in the area rush to him, his wards beginning to glow. Darsy drew back from him as one might from a hissing rattlesnake. “She ent said yes!” Darsy practically shouted. “And she ent playing the fool. Said it was an excuse to see what he’s done to the south. To count his troops and learn his ways. Didn’t go alone, either. Took Rojer, Gared, Wonda, and her parents to watch over her.” “Don’t matter,” Arlen said. “The fact she went at all, and took her da, tells the Krasians Erny’s put her to market and is just waiting for the right price.” Darsy scowled. “How dare you! Mistress Leesha ent some cow to buy and sell!” “To them she is!” Arlen snapped. “Krasians don’t treat women as free folk. Don’t matter if they’re a duchess or a milkmaid, women are just property to those people, bought and sold. And no one outbids Ahmann Corespawned Jardir when he sets his mind on a prize, Darsy Cutter. No. One.”

“Do you prefer red or white?” “Say again?” Renna said. Franq smiled. “Wine, child. What kind would you like?” “There’s more than one kind?” Renna asked, and she felt her face color as Jasin, Arther, and Franq laughed. “What’d I say?” she murmured to Arlen under her breath. Arlen looked ready to spit fire. “Nothing,” he said, making no effort to keep his voice low. “They’re being rude, looking down over their fancy food and drink while folk a mile from here are eating weeds and thanking the Creator they have that much.”

“Despite her lack of respect, Melan is not incorrect. It is the wardwalls, not warriors, that protect the Desert Spear. Until the Deliverer comes again, alagai’sharak is only the pride of men, throwing lives away for victories not worth their price.” Inevera’s eyes widened at the blasphemy. Soli and Kasaad risked themselves in the Maze every night. Her grandfathers, uncles, and male ancestors going back three hundred years had died in the Maze, as she had always thought her own sons would. It could not simply be the pride of men. “Does not the Evejah tell us that killing alagai is worth any price?” “The Evejah tells us that obeying the Shar’Dama Ka is worth any price,” Qeva said. “And the Shar’Dama Ka commanded we kill alagai.” Inevera opened her mouth, but Qeva raised a finger and cut her off. “But the Shar’Dama Ka has been dead for three thousand years, and took the fighting wards to his grave. Each night, more men die in the Maze than are born each day. There were millions of us before the Return. Now, less than a hundred thousand, all because of men and their ridiculous game.”

“When you control a man’s loins in the pillows, you control him,” the dama’ting said, “and you can ensure your own pleasure besides. Most men barely know where to put it, and will simply hump like a dog if given their liberty.”

“Sharum do not bend.” Inevera looked up at that. “Eh?” “They do not bend, they do not weep,” Kenevah said. “These are luxuries Sharum cannot afford in the Maze, when life and death are a hair’s breadth apart. Where we bend before the wind, Sharum embrace their pain and ignore it. To the untrained, the effect seems much the same, but it is not. And as a great wind can break even the most supple tree, there are pains too great for Sharum to hold. When this happens, they hurl themselves into its cause in hopes they might die an honorable death with no submission on their lips.” “Cashiv wanted such a death,” Inevera said. “He and my brother were lovers.” Kenevah sipped her tea. “Other Sharum lock their loved ones away in the Undercity at night when they go into the Maze. Push’ting stand side by side with them. They fight more wisely because of this, but also feel the loss more keenly when one of them is taken.” She looked at Inevera. “But you denied him this death. And your father, too, though the Evejah demanded it.” “The Evejah gave me a choice,” Inevera said, “and why should Cashiv be given a release from suffering over Soli’s death when I am not?” Kenevah nodded. “We have become too free with death in Krasia. A frequent but unwelcome visitor has become like an old friend, greeted with open arms. Three centuries ago there were millions of us, filling this great city and all the lands beyond. We fought among ourselves even then, but a few lives lost over stolen wells was not...

Inevera shook her head. “I do not accept that. Everam is testing us. He will not let our people fall.” “He has been letting it happen for three centuries,” Kenevah said. “Everam favors the strong, but also the cunning. Perhaps He has lost patience suffering fools.”

At last she found her center and dared touch the surface, marveling at its perfection. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took her sharpest carving tool and sliced the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger, letting her blood mingle with the dice, settling into the ward grooves. As she did, she prayed. “Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children are dying. We fight among ourselves when we should band together, throw away lives when we should succor them. How can we return to your favor and be saved from passing from this world?”

“Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.” She could feel the dice flaring with power as she shook. “Is he the Deliverer reborn?” she murmured, too low for the boy to hear. And she threw. Inevera lost all sense of center as she leaned in, staring hungrily at the dice as they settled into a pattern in the dust of the Maze. The first symbols made her blood run cold. —The Deliverer is not born. He is made.— She hissed, crawling in the dust, mindless of how it clung to her pure white robes as she studied the rest of the pattern. —This one may be, but if he takes the veil or knows a woman before his time, he will die and his path to Shar’Dama Ka will be lost.— Made, not born? The boy before her might be the Deliverer? Impossible. “These bones must have been exposed to light,” she muttered, gathering them up and cutting the boy again for a second throw, more vigorous than the first. But despite the move, the dice fell in precisely the same pattern. “This cannot be!” she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time, putting a spin on the hora as she did. But still, the pattern remained the same.

Command what only a fool would refuse enough times, the Evejah’ting taught, and even the proudest Jiwah Sen will become accustomed to obedience.

She had known for years that she and Ahmann were fated to marry, but she had not anticipated falling in love with him.

“Perhaps you should have shown some self-control,” she said. “Like you should tell,” Rojer said. “And what is that supposed to mean?” Leesha asked. Rojer’s face became one of such comic incredulity Leesha almost laughed, but for the lash of words that followed. “Do you honestly think there isn’t a person in this room, this palace—this city, even—who doesn’t know you’ve been sticking Ahmann Jardir?”

“Leesha Paper!” Erny barked, and all eyes turned. Erny was close to sixty, much older than his wife, but he looked older still. He was thin, with only a few wisps of gray hair atop his head. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and his pale skin was almost translucent. A moment ago his head was down, looking ill as Elona harped at him, but now he met Leesha’s gaze and his eyes were sharp. “Is that how I raised you? You demand respect, and that’s your due, but you give it in return and tell honest word.”

Elona didn’t relent, her voice a lash that made the pain in Leesha’s head flare. “Couldn’t what? Accept the best marriage offer anyone’s ever heard of? Jardir is rich and powerful beyond belief. Sit next to me and shut up for ten minutes alone with Inevera and the girls, and you can have it all. Lands. Titles. Peasants to tax and rule. More gold than a Milnese mine.” “Stolen gold,” Leesha said. “Stolen people. Stolen lands.” Elona waved a dismissive hand. “Everything’s stolen in the end, land most of all. Those people it was taken from ent getting it back in any event, and Rojer’ll be a better lord than some Krasian.”

Inevera and Elona had done everything in their power to pressure Rojer into accepting the brides. Abban wanted him to dance around the promise. Leesha seemed to want him to turn them down on the spot, though she herself danced Abban’s dance like she was in the center of a reel. No one seemed at all interested in what Rojer himself wanted.

“You taught me that chin means ‘outsider,’ ” Leesha said. “These are people living in the land they were born to, or driven from it by your army. You are the chin here.”

Rojer turned back to him. “You say Everam speaks to me. I cannot say if this is so or not, but if true, He is telling me there was real magic in your court just now. Magic older and deeper than warding. He is telling me that if I pursue that magic with your daughters, we may learn to kill alagai with song alone.” “He tells me the same, son of Jessum,” Jardir said. “I accept.”

“You could have at least said something if that was your plan, Rojer,” Leesha said as Abban escorted them to the caravan. “I hadn’t decided anything until the song was done,” Rojer replied, “but even if I had, what business is it of yours who I marry? Let us not pretend you would consult me if the positions were reversed.” Leesha gripped her skirts tightly in her fists. “Need I remind you that those young women tried to murder me?” “Ay,” Rojer agreed. “Yet you’re the one that treated Amanvah when the antidote made her sick, and offered asylum to her and Sikvah both.” “Don’t fool yourself,” Leesha said. “They’re still Inevera’s creatures.” Rojer shrugged. “Perhaps. For now.”

Shamavah

Qeran glared at him, but Abban glared right back. At last, the drillmaster shrugged. “Would that you had such steel when you were a boy, I could have made a man of you.” Abban smiled and gave a slight bow. “It was always there, Drillmaster. Just not for battle.”

Kajiton,

“You didn’t seem to mind performing for the Sharum and dama in Everam’s Bounty,” Rojer noted. “That was in the Deliverer’s court, praising Everam before honored guests and loyal Sharum!” Amanvah hissed. Sikvah moved quickly away, busying herself around the room. “Your honor was boundless that day, husband, but you cannot mean to compare it to debasing yourself playing the fool for khaffit and chin.” “Khaffit,” Rojer said. “Chin. These words have no meaning to me. All I saw in that square were people, and each and every one of them deserves a little joy in their life.”

‘An act practiced in private will eventually be seen,’ as my master used to say.”

“No one gets to dance for free. I’ll put my coins in the hat, but corespawned if I’ll be overcharged.”

Rojer grit his teeth. Did they really know what they were asking for? He had not been fool enough to sing The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow while in the confines of Everam’s Bounty—it bordered on blasphemy. But they weren’t in Everam’s Bounty. They were in Laktonian lands now, and surrounded by Thesans who deserved to know that their cousins in the North were growing in power, and had their own savior to rally to. Rojer didn’t really think Arlen Bales was the Deliverer any more than he did Ahmann Jardir, but if folk needed to look to one for strength in the night and a way forward, he would still take the Warded Man over the Shar’Dama Ka. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life lying about it and hiding that fact from his wives. Now was as good a time as any. Slowly, he began to play. As he fell into the music, his fear and anxiety began to drift away like demon ashes in the morning breeze. He had been so proud of the song when he had written it, and as his fingers danced across the familiar notes, he found he still was. The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow might not have the sheer power of the Song of Waning, but he could weave a shell of protection in the night with it, keeping corelings at bay, and it had power over the hearts of all good folk. It was already sung far and wide, and would likely outlive him, lasting into the ages like the ancient sagas.

If someone asks why at sunset Demons all get shivers Hollowers say with honest word It’s ’cuz we’re all Deliverers Not a one would run and hide, They all did stand and follow Killing demons in the night The Warded Man came to the Hollow

“Could have had the real me fifteen years ago, you’d kept your mouth shut.” “Know that,” Gared said. “Curse myself for it every night. It’s why I was always so angry. But I wonder, maybe it was the Creator’s Plan?” “Eh?” Leesha asked. “Whole world would be different, we’d kept our promise,” Gared said. “You might never have trained with Bruna, or gone away to study in the Free Cities. Might not have brought the Deliverer back with you.” “The Warded Man is not the Deliverer, Gared,” Leesha said. “How do you know?” Gared asked. “What makes you so sure you got it all figured out? Maybe the Creator din’t make him perfect for a reason. Maybe he’s testing the rest of us, too. Maybe the Deliverer’s just supposed to show the path, and we’re the ones to walk it.” Leesha looked at him curiously. “Why, Gared Cutter, when did such deep thoughts climb into that thick head?” Gared scowled. “Just an idiot to you, ent I? Not worth the attention of that big brain of yurs?” “Gared, I didn’t mean—” “Course you did,” Gared cut her off. “Yur always so humble, but it’s all an act as you talk to the simpletons.”

Her father stood at the entrance to her mother’s pavilion, calling to prospective buyers in a loud voice. Though there was gray at his temples, the years had been kind to Kasaad. His peg leg was gone, replaced with a fine limb of polished wood, jointed and sprung. He still carried a cane, but used it more to wave at onlookers and gesture to his wares than for support. Still sober, she marveled, and when he laughed, a rich booming sound that carried far, it warmed her heart. This was not the jackal laugh he used to share with the other Sharum when they were deep into the couzi. This was the laugh of a man happy and at peace. So different was he to the man she knew, it seemed impossible this could be her father—the man who had murdered Soli. Inevera could have breathed away the tears in her eyes, but she let them fall, hidden by the sweat on her face and the thick black dal’ting veil. Why should she hold back tears for her brother, or her father? It seemed both men had died that night, and Manvah had gained a new husband, one more worthy of her, if without a Sharum’s honor.

“You did not see her people, or spend weeks with her on the road,” Ahmann said. “The Northerners are strong, Inevera. If the cost of securing their alliance is that there be a single woman in all the world who need not bow to you, is that too high a price?” “Is it for you?” Inevera asked. “The Warded Man, the one the Northerners call Deliverer, is the key to Sharak Sun, Ahmann. Even a blind fool can see it! And your precious Leesha Paper is protecting him, keeping him safe to put a spear in your back.” Ahmann’s face darkened and Inevera feared she had pushed him too far, but he did not lash at her. “I am not such a fool. We have agents in the Hollow now. If this Warded Man appears I will hear of it, and kill him if he does not bow to me.”

“Hold out your arm, Arlen, son of Jeph,” he told the Northerner when she drew her knife. The chin frowned but didn’t hesitate to roll up his sleeve and hold out his arm. Brave, Inevera thought as she made the cut. The dice seemed to hum in her hands as she shook and threw. A chill ran down her spine as she read the result. No … She pressed her thumb into the chin’s wound. He grunted but did not resist. Inevera wet the dice afresh and threw them again. And a third time. The fate of Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook spread out before her, the same on the third throw as it had on the first. Inevera had cast the bones for countless warriors, but never since Ahmann had she seen the like. Could he be the Deliverer? She glanced at the greenlander. He was not much to look at, neither short nor tall, his hair the color of sand and his face bare like a khaffit. He wasn’t uncomely, but neither was he as handsome as Ahmann. But his eyes were hard like her husband’s, and the same potentials buzzed around him like insects drawn to a lamp—futures where men called him Deliverer, where he was martyred, or died alone, or failed, driving humanity into extinction. If only I could take husbands like Ahmann takes wives. Her mind ran through the possibilities, but in the end it was impossible. Her powers were not infinite, and even a dama’ting could not take two mortal husbands. Just one pushed the boundaries. This greenlander, for all his potential, could not be the leader her people followed, a...

—When the zahven finds power, he will share the secret with his true friends, but die before giving it up.—

“Thank Everam,” Inevera exhaled, unclenching muscles she hadn’t even realized were held tight. Even the dice had not been able to say with certainty that he would murder his friend. And it was murder, despite the honeyed words she’d used to make bitter betrayal easier to swallow. The greenlander was a godless grave robber, but he had not been raised to Everam’s truths, and she would have robbed the grave of Kaji herself had she known where it lay and what it contained. Already she counseled Ahmann to return there as soon as possible.

Plant the seeds you have, the Evejah’ting said. For they may bear unexpected fruit.

Leesha moved over to Gared, dropping her voice. “Gared, if the count tries to give you a title and a uniform, don’t accept right away.” “Why not?” Gared said, not bothering to keep her hushed tones. “Because you’d be giving away our army, you idiot,” Rojer said, coming up on his other side. His voice, too, was too low for the others to hear. Gared turned an angry glare the Jongleur’s way. “Just a big joke to you, too, ent I? Warded Man told me to keep you safe while he was gone, Rojer. I swore by the sun and promised I would. Stood in the way of charging demons and Krasians and Creator knows what else to keep it.” He loomed forward suddenly, and the smaller man, his bearing so proud a moment before, shrank back from the sheer menace of his presence. “But he never told me I had to eat yur shit, and you been takin’ a lot of liberty. Way I see it, him back in town means my promise is kept and done. Watch yur own back from now on, you crippled little runt. And next time you call me idiot? Gonna put your teeth out.” He licked two fingers and held them up high enough to catch the sun topping the count’s walls. “Swear by the sun.” “Gared,” Leesha said carefully, as Rojer stood shocked. “You have every right to be angry about how we’ve taken you for granted, and for my part, I’m sorry. I blame you for everything wrong in my life sometimes, but truer is, you didn’t do anything a million other boys haven’t done. I forgive you. You’ve made up for it many times over.” Gared grunted. “...

“What makes you think you have a right to tell me who I will or will not marry?” she demanded as Arlen approached her. “Know your prospective bridegroom a lot better than you,” Arlen said. “You were gone much longer, I was coming to save you.” Leesha felt another flare of anger and didn’t bother to hide it. “I didn’t need saving.” “This time,” Arlen said. “Don’t be fooled by the silk pillows and fancy manners. Krasians come to you with smiles, but there are fangs beneath. Ahmann Jardir most of all.” “Who are you, to speak so familiarly of my holy father?” Amanvah demanded. Arlen turned to the dama’ting, dipping a shallow bow and switching smoothly to Krasian so flawless he sounded like a native. “He is my ajin’pal. I am Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook, known to your people as …” “Par’chin!” Kaval growled. He turned to Coliv and made a quick gesture across his throat. The Watcher reacted instantly, reaching into his black robes and flinging out an arm, sending a spray of sharpened metal triangles flying at Arlen. Leesha feared he would be killed, but Arlen didn’t even flinch or step aside. His arm was a blur as he batted the spinning blades away as easily as leaves borne on a gentle breeze.

The battle between Arlen and the Sharum continued to rage. Kaval and Coliv attacked as fiercely as Leesha had ever seen, but Arlen dodged and blocked easily, his expression one of calm focus. Occasionally, he returned a blow, simply to show he could do so with impunity.

The Warded Man was born on the Krasian desert, four years ago, Arlen had told her, when she asked his age on the road last year. And the man beneath the wards? Leesha had asked. How old was he when he died? He was killed, Arlen said, though he had never said by whom. Leesha watched as Arlen fought the two Sharum, and knew she was looking at two of the killers. Two of the men who had kicked him onto the path that led to the madness of warding his own flesh. Had Ahmann been one as well? Probably, if Abban’s warning had been true. If you know the son of Jeph, if you can get word to him, tell him to run to the end of the world and beyond, because that is how far Jardir will go to kill him. There can only be one Deliverer. Whatever he had done to her, Arlen was a good man. A good man these men had tried to murder, and very nearly succeeded.

“Please, Par’chin,” Amanvah said. “Enlighten us about the night of which you speak.” Arlen shook his head. “You want to know? Ask the Spears of the Deliverer. Ask your father. And if they won’t tell you, perhaps you ought to wonder why.”

Leesha gestured at Renna with her chin. The young woman caught the look, her eyes fierce. “Didn’t you beg me not to paint blackstem wards on anyone?” Arlen sighed. “Ent the first time I been wrong about somethin’, Leesha Paper. Don’t reckon it’s the last, either.”