“The shop, the ward exchange, the warehouses and glasseries,” Ragen said, “everything down to the apprentice contracts.”

“Enough to make you one of the richest and most powerful men in Miln,” Elissa said.

An image flashed in the Painted Man’s mind, him walking the halls of the Duke Euchor’s keep, advising His Grace on policy and commanding dozens if not hundreds of Warders. Brokering power…building alliances…

Reading reports.

Delegating responsibility.

Surrounded by Servants to care for his every need.

Stifling in the city’s walls.

He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Any of it. Arlen Bales is dead.”

“Arlen!” Elissa cried. “How can you say that, standing right here?”

“I can’t just pick up my life where I left off, Elissa,” he said, pulling off his hood and the gloves as well. “I’ve chosen my path. I can never live inside walls again. Even now, the air seems thicker, harder to breathe…”

Ragen put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve Messaged, too,” he reminded him. “I know what the open air tastes like, and how you thirst for it behind city walls. But the thirst dies out in time.”

The Painted Man looked at him, and his eyes darkened. “Why would I want it to?” he snapped. “Why would you? Why lock yourself back in prison when you had the keys?”

“Because of Marya,” Ragen said. “And because of Arlen.”

“Arlen?” the Painted Man asked, confused.

“Not you,” Ragen growled, his own temper rising. “My five-year-old son. Arlen. Who needs a father more than his father needs fresh air!”

It was a blow as hard as Margrit’s slap, and the Painted Man knew he deserved it. For a moment, he had spoken to Ragen as if he were his true father. As if he were Jeph Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, the coward who had stood by while his own wife was cored.

But Ragen was no coward. He had proven that a thousand times over. The Painted Man himself had seen him face demons with nothing but his spear and shield. Ragen didn’t give up the night out of fear. He did it to conquer fear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I had no right to…”

Ragen exhaled. “It’s all right, boy.”

The Painted Man walked to the rows of portraits on the walls of Ragen and Elissa’s receiving room. They had one commissioned every year, to mark its passing. The first was only Ragen and Elissa, looking very young. The next was some years later, and the Painted Man looked at his own face staring back at him without wards, something he hadn’t seen in years. Arlen Bales, a boy of twelve, sitting on a chair in front of where Ragen and Elissa stood.

He grew progressively older in the portraits until one year, he stood between Ragen and Elissa, holding infant Marya.

The next year’s portrait, he was gone, but soon after, a new Arlen appeared. He touched the canvas gently. “I wish I’d been there to see him born. I wish I could be there for him now.”

“You can,” Elissa said firmly. “We’re family, Arlen. You don’t have to live life like a Beggar. You’ll always have a home here.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I see that now. See it in a way I never did before, and for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than I gave, better than I can give. I’m leaving Miln once I’ve had my audience with the duke.”

“What?!” Elissa cried. “You’ve only just arrived!”

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve got to walk to its end.”

“Where will you go then?” Elissa asked.

“Tibbet’s Brook, to start,” he said, “long enough to return battle warding to them. And then, if you can broker the wards throughout Miln and its hamlets, I’ll do the same for the Angierians and Laktonians.”

“You expect every tiny hamlet to rise up and fight?” Elissa asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. But if my da had owned a bow with warded arrows, my mam might be alive. I owe everyone the chance she didn’t have. Once the wards are everywhere, spread so far and wide that they can never be lost again, people can make their own decision about what to do with them.”

“And then?” Elissa pressed, her tone still hopeful that one day he might return for good.

“Then I fight,” the Painted Man said. “Any that stand beside me will be welcome, and we’ll kill demons until we fall, or until Marya and Arlen can watch the sun set without fear.”

It was late, and the Servants had long since retired. Ragen, Elissa, and the Painted Man sat in the study, the air thick with the men’s sweet pipe smoke as they shared brandy.

“I’ve been summoned to the duke’s audience with ‘the Painted Man’ tomorrow,” Ragen said, “though I must say I never in a century would have thought they were talking about you.”

He smirked. “I’m to have Warders disguised as Servants try to copy your tattoos while you’re distracted talking to His Grace.”

The Painted Man nodded. “I’ll keep my hood up.”

“Why?” Ragen asked. “If you mean for everyone to have them, why keep them secret?”

“Because Euchor will covet them,” the Painted Man said. “And I can use that to gain advantage. I want him distracted, thinking he is buying them from me, while you distribute them quietly to every Warder in the duchy. Spread them so far that Euchor can never suppress them.”

Ragen grunted. “Clever,” he admitted, “though Euchor will be livid when he learns you’ve double-dealed.”

The Painted Man shrugged. “I’ll be long gone, and it’s no less than he deserves for locking up all the knowledge of the old world in his library for only a handful to see.”

Ragen nodded. “Best for me to act as if I don’t know you in the audience, then. If your identity gets out, I’ll act as shocked as the rest.”

“I think that’s wise,” the Painted Man agreed. “Who else will be there, do you think?”

“As few people as possible,” Ragen said. “Euchor’s actually pleased you’re coming at dawn, so he can have you in and out before the Tenders and Royals even catch wind of the meeting. Apart from the duke and Jone, there will be myself, Messengers’ Guildmaster Malcum, Euchor’s daughters, and my Warders, dressed as Servants.”

“Tell me of Euchor’s daughters,” the Painted Man said.

“Hypatia, Aelia, and Lorain,” Ragen said, “all as thick-skulled as their father, and none of them prettier. Mothers all, with born sons. If Euchor doesn’t produce a son of his own, the Mothers’ Council will choose the next duke from among that group of unholy brats.”

“So if Euchor dies, a boy becomes duke?” the Painted Man asked.

“Technically,” Ragen said, “though truer is the boy’s mother becomes duchess in everything but name and rules in his stead until he reaches manhood…and perhaps longer. Don’t underestimate any of them.”

“I won’t,” the Painted Man said.

“You should know, too, that the duke has a new herald,” Ragen said.