Calan continued staring at him with his soft blue eyes, and then abruptly stepped aside.
“If you feel you must, then so be it,” he said. “Though if I were you, I’d ask myself if this woman has truly saved you from darkness, or merely pulled you from one and thrown you into another.”
“Stop it,” Ghost said. “Stop judging me; stop staring at me like you can see everything I am. You’d condemn me for killing … then why save me, Calan? Why, if you knew the reason for my injuries? No one held a sword to your neck. No one forced you to heal these wounds.”
The songs Melody had sung when she was down there, her cries of faith, he remembered the few which spoke of Ashhur, of the anger and abandonment. Calan seemed nothing like the cowardly god Melody had decried, yet at the same time, he acted hypocritical, condemning him for his deeds yet still healing him to do them once again. It left Ghost baffled and furious.
“Listen well,” Calan said. “If you wish to see the measure of a man, do not judge him by how he reacts to your successes. Judge him by how he reacts to your failures. Ashhur teaches us that if we see a man fall, we reach down our hand so they may take it and stand again.”
He gestured to the door.
“Your clothes and swords await you,” he said. “Go, return to the lady who saved you. See the truth of whom you’ve sworn your life to, and how great your debt truly is.”
Calan left him, and he offered nothing else at his departure. Ghost stepped out the door, took his clothes and dressed. They were simple enough, brown pants and a white shirt that was surprisingly too large. His boots had survived, though, and as he strapped them on last, he let out a deep breath.
Ghost had always considered himself wise, never stubborn, never one to close his eyes to the brutal truth of the world. The priest’s words left him disturbed, and there would be only one way to solve it. Out the door he went, into the hallway. He found the same boy from earlier keeping watch, and when he asked, the boy pointed him toward the entrance. Ghost walked across the red carpet, his weight causing his boots to sink into it, leaving deep imprints after his passing. When he stepped into the main worship hall, he hooked to his left, and at the grand doors surrounded by pillars, a young priest waited, two swords in his arms.
“Take them, though I pray you have no need of them,” said the priest.
“You’ll be praying for a long time, then,” Ghost said, and he strode out of the temple, down the steps, and then hurried north, to the Gemcroft family mansion.
With his clothes new, and his face lacking any paint, he strode unworried up to the mansion’s front gates and demanded the guards there deliver a message for him.
“Don’t see much reason why we should,” said one of the guards, sniffing.
“The choice is yours,” said Ghost, “but I will come again, and again, until Melody knows. When she discovers a message she has waited for was delayed because of your laziness, tell me, how do you think she will react?”
The two guards glanced at one another, and the one on the right shrugged.
“Fine,” he said. “What’s your message?”
“Tell her a ghost waits for her in the market.”
The left guard lifted an eyebrow.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. She’ll understand.”
With that, he walked away, toward the nearby market to wait. He searched his pockets, and sure enough, the coin Bill Trett had given him was still there. Pulling out the bag to scan within, he saw that they’d not even taken a single piece to cover the cost of the healing, or to replace his clothes. Shaking his head, he drew out a handful of coins, bought a meat pie from a portly man at a stall, and then found himself a vacant spot against a wall to eat. He wolfed the food down, each bite seemingly making him hungrier. His appetite was like a dormant beast, suddenly awakened. When finished, he returned to the stall, bought another, and finished it as fast as the first.
Finally sated, he crossed his arms, leaned his head back against the wall, and watched the men and women as they passed. Envy built in his chest as the time dragged on, childish as it was. A woman browsed a nearby stand, bickering over the cost of apples while her son tugged on her hand, crying against some surely horrible slight. Two skinny men passed by in front of him, each with the four-pointed star on their sleeves. They were laughing, one of them telling a story to the other. Young and old, those browsing, those hoping to steal, all able to live within the day. All in their own world, focused on primal needs like food and a warm place to sleep. Who of them could understand what it meant to be in darkness for years, stuck with needles and knives, bleeding, always bleeding …
And then he saw the one woman who could understand. Melody Gemcroft casually drifted through the market, browsing with a slender bag on her left arm and a wide violet hat atop her head. She looked like any other well-to-do woman, and she smiled just as easily. For a moment, Ghost looked once more to the market, to those he had dismissed so quickly, and wondered how many others hid their pain and past as well as Melody hid hers.
“It’s a fine day to take in the sights, isn’t it?” Ghost asked her as she walked past. She glanced his way, and he could tell she had something pleasant yet dismissive to say to him. The comment died when her eyes met his and she realized who he was.
“No paint,” he said. “I’m sure that made it more difficult.”
“Nor the hair on your face when I last saw you,” she said, crossing her hands before her and smiling as if she’d just met a long lost friend. “What you did was dangerous. Zusa suspects me already, and if she can use you to … my god, Ghost, what happened to your arms?”
Ghost grinned at her, hardly surprised it took her so long to notice.
“You sent me after a wizard who likes to play with fire,” he said. “Did you not think I might get burned?”
He’d thought she’d be gruff, uncaring of his wounds. So many men and women he’d done jobs for had been like that, viewing him as an expendable tool, a walking killing machine they fed with coins and forgot about when the job was done. Melody, however, grimaced with pain and took his hands in his.
“Your face, too,” she said, looking up at him. “Forgive me, Ghost, I thought you could kill them with ease. Your reputation spoke so highly of you.”
“Consider me still working to remove the rust.”
He swallowed, and strangely enough, he realized he was nervous. This was something he had little experience about. As a mercenary, he’d never before failed to kill a target once they’d been found. In truth, the Watcher had been the first. Now that he was to tell Melody, he felt anxious, but why?
Judge him by how he reacts to your failures.
“Melody,” he said, glancing about to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do this. The wizard is too powerful, and by all rights, I should be dead. Even with surprise, he defeated me, and now he will be prepared. I will help you with the others, but in this, I have failed you.”
Ghost did not know how she might react. Having others around in the market made it even harder to predict. But out of all his guesses, pity was the farthest from his mind, yet she took a step closer and put a hand on his scarred face.
“You poor thing,” she said. “Your time in the pit has left your soul broken, hasn’t it? But I can look in your eyes and see buried in you a man who would never admit defeat. We must free him once again.”
Ghost frowned, confused.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“You will. Follow me.”
She took his hand, and it surprised him further. She was a pale thing of white next to him, her hand dwarfed in the black of his own, and the looks they received were far from flattering. Melody leading the way, they left the market and traveled east, heading deep into the wealthiest parts of Veldaren. The traffic thinned out more and more until they were alone on the road, approaching a secluded area built close to the eastern section of the stone wall surrounding the cit
y. Before what appeared to be nothing more than a dark mansion encircled by tall iron gates, Melody stopped, and she looked to either side to ensure no one watched.
“I see through your illusions,” she whispered, putting her hands on the gate. She beckoned he do the same, and still confused, Ghost obeyed.
“I see through your illusions,” he repeated.
Immediately, the house before him changed, and he let out a gasp. It was a towering building, just as large as the temple to Ashhur, yet it was built with black marble, and leading toward it across the grass was a walkway of obsidian. Rows of pillars lined the exterior. Carved lions roared from either side of the entrance, mouths open, teeth bared. The light of the day seemed denied to it, a shadow cast across the entirety of the building with no discernible source.
“Welcome home,” Melody said as the gate opened, and she stepped inside.
Ghost had never considered himself afraid of anything, and only that stubborn pride allowed him to follow without hesitation. Even through his boots, it felt as if the obsidian beneath his feet were warm, uncomfortably so. At the temple, the doors opened before their arrival, and an elderly man with gray hair and deep black robes stepped out, nodding his head in respect.
“Lady Melody, you are most welcome as always,” said the man. “May we know the name of your guest before we permit him entrance?”
“I have none,” Ghost said, before Melody could answer for him. “Mine was lost long ago.”
The priest looked him over carefully, then nodded.
“Even the nameless may find comfort within our walls, if their hearts are true,” he said. “Come. Do you wish to speak with Pelarak?”
“With Daverik, actually,” Melody said as they stepped through the doors. “Tell him I must meet with him in the room of purity.”
Ghost followed, and they passed through a cramped entranceway and into a grand worship hall. So much of it felt like a mirrored image of the temple to Ashhur, yet when he entered the hall, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Towering over everyone was a statue lit by violet flames that put off no smoke. It was of Karak, he had no doubt, for who else could it be? The god was carved of stone, the likeness frightening in its lifelike pose, in the raw power conveyed by that raised fist defying the heavens. What looked like fresh blood stained the statue’s greaves, and more dripped from the serrated sword Karak held. He looked beautiful yet dangerous, powerful and unrelenting. The very thought of standing in Karak’s presence in the ancient times, when he supposedly walked the land, filled him with both wonder and terror.
Melody slowly approached the statue, and the guide allowed it. On either side were many pews, and several younger men sat in them, lost in prayer. The sound was like nails scraping against his spine. How he wished they might sing a song like Melody sang instead. Bringing his attention back to her, he saw her kneeling before the statue, head bowed, a single hand lifted above her, timid as a child as she touched the very foot of the statue. It lingered there but a moment before she stood, and when she turned back to him tears were in her eyes.
“I am ready,” she said.
Several corridors led out from the grand hall, and through one of them they exited, the path slowly slanting downward. Ghost felt as if he were descending into the pit of the world, with their only light that of the purple torches that burned on either side, letting off no heat, no smoke, just a glow whose very presence filled him with unease. Deeper and deeper they went, until they reached an abrupt stop at a door. Their guide opened it, revealing within a simple square room, its brick walls barren, its floor empty. Inside was an even deeper darkness, lit by two torches that burned at the center of the ceiling.
Ghost nearly turned away and left. Entering that room was a bad idea, he knew it, but Melody was so peaceful and seemed so earnest to help him. Calan’s challenge remained in his mind, and deep down, he wanted to know how this woman who had sung him to sleep for hundreds of nights would react to his failure.
Melody stepped into the room as if oblivious to his hesitation, walking to the center before sitting on the bare floor.
“Daverik will join you soon enough,” said their guide. With that, he left. Berating himself for his cowardice, Ghost stepped into the room, sitting opposite Melody. The floor was cold, and he kept his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm.
“Where are we?” he asked her.
“The room of purity,” she said. “It is a special place within the temple. It’s said Karak himself meditated here for days as he prepared for his holy war against his brother, and his tears have blessed the very stone with his power. Be careful what you say and do here, Ghost. We’ve left the realm of man. Veldaren’s king has no power here, only the true King.”
The door opened, and in stepped a bald man, his features sharp, his large lips pulling back into a smile as he offered Melody his hand so she might kiss it. Following him into the room was a startling sight, a woman dressed similar to Zusa, only her face was fully covered but for an open slit across her eyes, and even that had a thin strip of white cloth to hide her features. She was taller than Zusa, too, and moved with an easy grace, her hands always close by the hilts of her daggers belted to her waist. Ghost figured the man to be Daverik, though he could only guess as to the strangely dressed woman.
“Welcome to this sacred place,” Daverik said, turning to Ghost. “Melody has told me of your purpose. You are Luther’s executioner.”
“I suppose,” said Ghost, hiding his confusion. Luther? Who was this Luther? And Zusa, the Eschaton, the Watcher … were these people Luther wanted dead, and not Melody?
“But he has failed,” Melody said, rising to her feet. “He tells me the wizard’s power is greater than his own.”
“Is this true?” Daverik asked.
Ghost almost denied it. He could try again, find new ways to surprise Tarlak Eschaton and his oafish friend. But Calan’s wisdom kept echoing in his mind, and despite his fear, despite the chill of the floor beneath him and the cold wind that somehow blew softly from the corners of the sealed room, he vowed to continue to the bitter end.
“It is true,” he said.
“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Daverik said. “And the Watcher defeated you years ago as well, did he not?”
“He did,” Ghost said, and the words were ash on his tongue.
Daverik paced before him, hands behind his back. He looked lost in thought, puzzling over something.
“What will you do, now that you have abandoned your task?” he asked him.
“If I am of no more use, I would travel west,” Ghost said. “Find a life for myself somewhere, in a place where I no longer must wear paint on my face.”
Daverik ceased his pacing.
“Your life was sworn to Karak,” he said. “And such vows can never be escaped.”
He opened his hand, and suddenly it felt like every bone in Ghost’s body weighed a thousand stone. Trying to draw his swords was like lifting a boulder with a lone finger. He collapsed onto his back, gasping for air. The very act of lifting his chest was a burden. The muscles in his neck and arms bulged as he tried to stand, to fight against whatever foul magic was upon him, but he could not pull his body from the stone.
Above him, Daverik resumed his pacing.
“There are too many like you in this world,” he said. “Willing to abandon everything at the first struggle. Willing to sacrifice vows, beliefs, anything and everything sacred and blessed to avoid risks, to shed no blood, to give up nothing of meaning. But you are too powerful to be so weak, Ghost. There is a brilliant soul within you, aching for meaning, for purpose. And I will free it for you.”
Daverik leaned down so they might stare eye to eye. Ghost struggled, wanting to do nothing more than strike the man across the face, but he was helpless.
“I will make you serve,” the priest whispered. “I will grant you power untold and a responsibility to use it that matches such power. And when you taste victory, when you hear the Lion whisper
to you, ‘Well done, my son,’ then you will thank me for what I am about to do.”
He stepped away, and Ghost stared up at the ceiling. Above him were the two torches, and he realized now that there was more to the ceiling. Faint white lines were drawn across it, forming a powerful feline shape. The torches were the eyes of the Lion, and they burned down at him, and it was at them he stared until Daverik’s hand settled upon his face. Even through the fingers, he still saw the eyes burning.
“Karak, my god, hear me,” said the priest. “Here in your presence, I present to you my offering.”
The fire grew, and in the far distance, Ghost heard the roar of a lion. The sound sent a chill throughout his body, and more than ever, he wished he could move, wished he could scream. Beside him, he heard Melody praying, her beautiful voice no longer a comfort, her song just as terrifying as the low growl that came from behind his head. All sense of time left him, and it seemed Melody’s prayers became an unending chorus, punctuated only by Daverik’s demands for order, for retribution. Brighter and brighter the fire burned, the lion above him closer, angrier. Many times he heard it roar, and within its mouth he saw the reaches of eternity.
Say your name.
He didn’t know who asked him, didn’t know from where the sound came. The voice was deep and cold. Its rumblings pulled him from his dream-sleep, reawakening an awareness of the floor beneath him, the torches above, the touch of Daverik’s hand against his face, and how hoarse Melody’s voice had grown from her singing.
“I don’t know it,” he answered, his own voice a whisper.
Then what are you?
What was he? What else could he be? After years in the dungeons, after a lifetime knowing only murder and payment?
“Ghost.”
As you are called, then so shall you be.
The darkness swallowed him. The roar of the Lion overwhelmed him. Only the twin torches remained, furious eyes burning violet. From Daverik’s touch at his forehead he felt electricity piercing him, traveling down his spine, and into his arms and legs. He flailed, unable to fight the motions. Everything burned with pain, and when he opened his mouth to scream, he swore he saw smoke exhaling from his lungs. If his cry made a sound, it was pitiful and insignificant, the Lion’s roar easily drowning it out so it went unheard, at least by him. He wanted to pass out, begged for unconsciousness to take him, yet it felt as if the pain would find him even there, overwhelming his dreams, piercing the unconscious veil.
Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts Page 18