The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear

They wound their way up a hill until they reached a large manse. A gated wall six feet high surrounded the sprawling property, and the great house itself was three storeys high and had dozens of windows, all reflecting light from their glass. It was bigger than the great hall on Boggin’s Hill, and that could hold everyone in Tibbet’s Brook for the solstice feast. The manse and the wall around it were painted with brightly coloured wards. Such a magnificent place, Arlen decided, must be the home of the Duke.

‘My mam had a cup of warded glass, hard as steel,’ he said, looking up at the windows as a thin man came scurrying up from inside the grounds to open the gate. ‘She kept it hidden, but sometimes she took it out when company came, to show how it glittered.’ They rode past a garden untouched by coreling mischief, where several hands were digging vegetables.

‘This is one of the only manses in Miln with all glass windows,’ Ragen said proudly. ‘I’d pay a lot to ward them not to break.’

‘I know the trick,’ Arlen said, ‘but you need a coreling to touch the glass to charge it.’

Ragen chuckled and shook his head. ‘Maybe not, then.’

There were smaller buildings on the grounds as well, stone huts with smoking chimneys and people going to and fro, like a tiny village. Dirty children scampered about, and women kept watch over them while tending their chores. They rode to the stables, and a groom was there in a second to take Nighteye’s reins. He bowed and scraped, as if Ragen were a king in a story.

‘I thought we were going to stop by your house before visiting the duke,’ Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. ‘This is my house, Arlen! Do you think I risk the open road for nothing?’

Arlen looked back at the house, his eyes bulging. ‘This is all yours?’ he asked.

‘All of it,’ Ragen confirmed. ‘Dukes are free with their coin to those who stare down corelings.’

‘But Graig’s house was so small,’ Arlen protested.

‘Graig was a good man,’ Ragen said, ‘but he was never more than a passable Messenger. He was content to make a run to Tibbet’s Brook each year, and shuttle to the local hamlets in between. A man like that might support his family, but no more. The only reason there was so much profit for Jenya was that I paid for the extra goods I sold Hog out of my own purse. Graig used to have to borrow from the guild, and they took a hard cut.’

A tall man opened the door to the house with a bow. He was stone-faced, wearing a faded blue coat of dyed wool. His face and clothes were clean, a sharp contrast to those in the yard. As soon as they entered, a boy not much older than Arlen sprang to his feet. He ran to a bell rope at the base of a broad, marble stair, and chimes rang through the house.

‘I see your luck has held one more time,’ a woman called a moment later. She had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a deep blue gown, finer than anything Arlen had ever seen, and her wrists and throat sparkled with jewels. Her smile was cold as she regarded them from the marble balcony above the foyer. Arlen had never seen a woman so beautiful or graceful.

‘My wife, Elissa,’ Ragen advised quietly. ‘A reason to return … and a reason to leave.’ Arlen was unsure if he was joking. The woman did not seem pleased to see them.

‘One of these times, the corelings will have you,’ Elissa said as she descended the stairs, ‘and I will finally be free to wed my young lover.’

‘Never happen,’ Ragen said with a smile, drawing her close for a kiss. Turning to Arlen, he explained, ‘Elissa dreams of the day when she will inherit my fortune. I guard against the corelings as much to spite her as to protect myself.’

Elissa laughed, and Arlen relaxed. ‘Who is this?’ she asked. ‘A stray to save you the work of filling my belly with a child of our own?’

‘The only work is melting your frozen petticoats, my dear,’ Ragen shot back. ‘May I present Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook. I met him on the road.’

‘On the road?’ Elissa asked. ‘He’s just a child!’

‘I’m not a child!’ Arlen shouted, then immediately felt foolish. Ragen eyed him wryly, and he dropped his gaze.

Elissa gave no sign that she heard the outburst. ‘Doff your armour and find the bath,’ she ordered her husband, ‘you smell like sweat and rust. I’ll see to our guest.’

As Ragen left, Elissa called a servant to prepare Arlen a snack. Ragen seemed to have more servants than there were people in Tibbet’s Brook. They cut him slices of cold ham and a thick crust of bread, with clotted cream and milk to wash it down. Elissa watched him eat, but Arlen couldn’t think of anything to say, and kept his attention on his plate.

As he was finishing the cream, a serving woman in a dress of the same blue as the men’s jackets entered and bowed to Elissa. ‘Master Ragen awaits you upstairs,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ Elissa replied. Her face took on a strange cast for a moment, as she absently ran her fingers over her stomach. Then she smiled and looked at Arlen. ‘Take our guest to the bath,’ she ordered, ‘and don’t let him up for air until you can tell what colour his skin is.’ She laughed and swept out of the room.

Arlen, used to standing in a trough and dumping cold water over himself, was out of sorts at the sight of Ragen’s deep stone tub. He waited as the serving woman, Margrit, poured a kettle of boiling water in to take the chill from his soak. She was tall, like everyone in Miln, with kind eyes and honey-coloured hair showing just a hint of grey peeking from underneath her bonnet. She turned her back while Arlen undressed and got into the tub. She gasped as she saw the stitched wounds on his back, and quickly moved to inspect them.

‘Ow!’ Arlen shouted as she pinched the uppermost wound.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she scolded, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together and sniffing at them. Arlen bit down as she repeated the process down his back. ‘You’re luckier than you know,’ she said at last. ‘When Ragen told me you were hurt, I thought it must be just a scratch, but this …’ She tsked at him. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to be outside at night?’

Arlen’s retort died on a sniffle. He bit his lip, determined not to cry. Margrit noticed, and immediately softened her tone. ‘These are healing well,’ she said of his wounds. She took a cake of soap and began to gently wash them. Arlen gritted his teeth. ‘When you’re done in the bath, I’ll prepare a poultice and fresh bandages for you.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Are you Elissa’s mother?’ he asked.

The woman laughed. ‘Creator, boy, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘She called you mother,’ Arlen said.

‘Because I am,’ Margrit said proudly. ‘Two sons and three daughters, one of them soon to be a Mother herself.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Poor Elissa, all her wealth, and still a Daughter, and her on the dark side of thirty! It breaks the heart.’

‘Is being a mam so important?’ Arlen asked.

The woman regarded him as if he had asked if air were important. ‘What could be more important than motherhood?’ she asked. ‘It’s every woman’s duty to produce children to keep the city strong. That’s why Mothers get the best rations and first pick of the morning market. It’s why all of the Duke’s councillors are Mothers. Men are good for breaking and building, but politics and papers are best left to women who’ve been to the Mothers’ School. Why, it’s Mothers that vote to choose a new duke when the old one passes!’

‘Then why ent Elissa one?’ Arlen asked.

‘It’s not for lack of trying,’ Margrit admitted. ‘I’ll wager she’s at it right now. Six weeks on the road will make any man a bull, and I brewed fertility tea and left it on her nightstand. Maybe it will help, though any fool knows the best time to make a baby is just before dawn.’

‘Then why haven’t they made one?’ Arlen asked. He knew making babies had something to do with the games Renna and Beni had wanted to play, but he was still vague on the process.

‘Only the Creator knows,’ Margrit said. ‘Elissa might be barren, or it might be Ragen, though that would be a shame. There’s a shortage of good men like him. Miln needs his sons.’

She sighed. ‘Elissa’s lucky he hasn’t left her, or gotten a child on one of the servant girls. Creator knows, they’re willing.’

‘He would leave his wife?’ Arlen was aghast.

‘Don’t look so surprised, boy,’ Margit said. ‘Men need heirs, and they’ll get them any way they can. Duke Euchor is on his third wife, and still only daughters to show for it!’

She shook her head. ‘Not Ragen, though. They fight like corelings sometimes, but he loves Elissa like the sun itself. He’d never leave. Nor Elissa, despite what she’s given up.’

‘Given up?’ Arlen asked.

‘She was a Noble, you know,’ Margrit said. ‘Her mother is on the Duke’s Council. Elissa could have served the Duke, too, if she’d married another Noble and got with child. But she married down to be with Ragen, against her mother’s wishes. They haven’t spoken since. Elissa’s Merchant now, if well moneyed. Denied the Mothers’ School, she’ll never hold any position in the city, much less one in the Duke’s service.’

Arlen was quiet while Margrit rinsed out his wounds and collected his clothes off the tiles. She asked as she inspected the rips and stains. ‘I’ll mend these as best I can while you soak,’ she promised, and left him to his bath. While she was gone, Arlen tried to make sense of everything she had told him, but there was too much he didn’t understand.

Margrit reminded Arlen a little of Catrin Hog, Rusco’s daughter. ‘She’d tell you every secret in the world, if it let her hear her own voice a moment longer,’ Silvy used to say.

The woman returned later with fresh, if ill-fitting clothes. She bandaged his wounds and helped him dress, despite his protests. He had to roll up the tunic sleeves to find his hands, and cuff his breeches to keep from tripping, but Arlen felt clean for the first time in weeks.

He shared an early supper with Ragen and Elissa. Ragen had trimmed his beard, tied back his hair, and donned a fine white shirt with a deep blue suede jacket and breeches.

A pig had been slaughtered on Ragen’s arrival, and the table was soon laden with pork chops, ribs, rashers of bacon, and succulent sausage. Flagons of chilled ale and clear, cold water were served. Elissa frowned when Ragen signalled a servant to pour Arlen an ale, but she said nothing. She sipped wine from a glass so delicate Arlen was afraid her slender fingers would break it. There was crusty bread, whiter than he had ever seen, and bowls of boiled turnips and potatoes, thick with butter.