Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “You know nothing of me,” he whispered.

  “I know you better than you would like to admit. That’s what frightens you.”

  Haern crossed his arms, and he felt his patience wearing thin.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you even here?”

  Thren sighed and put his back to the moon, framing his outline in silver, his face in darkness.

  “I have no more time for games, Watcher. No more patience for it. You stand at a crossroads, and just this once, I’d like you to open your eyes and see the correct path. Fire and death are coming to Veldaren, but we can stop it if we’re strong. If you’re with me. Luther’s future does not have to come to pass.”

  “If I’m with you?” asked Haern. “Tell me you jest, Thren. Tell me it’s all a joke.”

  “Our lives are the joke. Don’t you get it? Humorous playthings in the hands of gods. I know the symbol you wear around your neck, and it isn’t the salvation you think it is. It’s a prison, a shackle weighing you down.”

  He took a step closer, reached out his hand.

  “You are the finest killer I have ever seen,” he said, his voice softening, almost pleading. “You are a thing of beauty, and I will not deny your sense of nobility and honor. But you’ve crafted yourself into something that cannot be maintained. There is a natural order to things, and it is not what you desire. The strong rule the weak, Haern. So it is in the wilds, so it is in our cities. Stop flailing. Stop struggling against the current of the river, the winds of the grasslands, the pull of the earth itself. You don’t need gods. You don’t need creeds and rules, and you don’t need forgiveness to remove the guilt you’ve been taught to feel. Stand at my side. Cast off the burden on your shoulders, and let go in your heart of those who would drag you into the grave.”

  The words were razors cutting into him, but Haern tried to stand strong. He looked into the eyes of his father even as his jaw trembled. From the chill, he told himself. From the icy wind.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “You have to know it. No matter how hard you pretend, I know you’re human. I know you grieve for loved ones lost. I know you’ve watched friend after friend die, and some by your own hand. You’ve sacrificed everything, Thren, and for what? A legacy of fear and bloodshed? A remembrance that will fade in time, fade like all other kings and conquerors? You’ve clawed and killed and set fire to everything your hands may touch. What has it given you? What worth have you found?”

  Haern gestured to grasslands, felt a fire growing in his chest.

  “Look around you. You have nothing left. It’s just you and I on this little hill. You claim I’m at a crossroads, yet you face the same one. You don’t have to go back. You don’t have to return to Veldaren and walk down that same road. Our lives, we’ll both find them cut short, and we’ll both die amid blood and metal, but my hopes are not for this world. My hope is that I will have loved ones to bury me, loved ones I’ll wait for, come their own time after. That is my hope, Thren. What is yours?”

  Thren descended the hill. His lower jaw trembled, and his eyes were wide. There were tears in them.

  “My hope?” asked Thren, standing before Haern so that he towered over him. “My hope? My hope is to carve a scar into this damned world that’s given me nothing, carve one so deep and so bloody that it never heals. And I’ll do it on my own, with my own two hands. No gods, no kings, no priests or prophets. Mine. Of my own body. My own blood. No matter who betrays me, no matter who abandons me. And do you know the difference between your hope and mine? I’ll never need to beg, nor surrender, to achieve it.”

  “I’ll stop you,” Haern whispered. “You know I must. Don’t do this. There’s another life waiting for you, if you’d take it, and I promise you it would not be so alone.”

  Thren reached out and grabbed the front of Haern’s tunic, yanking him close. Haern stood firm, matching his father’s powerful gaze.

  “Alone?” he asked. “That’s all we are. Is that how deep the lies are buried in you, that you think otherwise? I know you believe Ashhur is where I’ll find some measure of comfort, but you’re wrong. When those you love are dead, when you hold one of them bleeding in your arms, console yourself with your prayers. Tell yourself whatever lies you need to put an end to your tears. Truth hurts, Haern. It never heals. Fuck the gods.”

  Thren pushed him away, and as Haern stepped back, a question came to his lips, one meant only to hurt, and he was unable to stop it.

  “Who died in your arms?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. “Whose death left you with so little hope?”

  It was Marion, his mother, whose face he had clouded memories of, snippets of stories and half-remembered songs. But clear was the day his father had come home to their safe house, hands bloodied, a prisoner with him bound by rope. His older brother, Randith, had asked for their mother, where she might be.

  “Dead” had been his father’s only reply, and it was more than Haern would receive now. Thren looked betrayed by the very question, and instead of answering, he drew his swords and held them at his sides.

  “Put those away,” Haern said. “I won’t do this.”

  “You will,” Thren said. “You said you’ll stop me, so here I am. Stop me. Put an end to this part of the game. I swear to kill, to murder. I promise you a thousand souls will suffer before I reach my grave. Aren’t you Veldaren’s Watcher? Aren’t you their protector? Prove it. Draw your damn swords and cut off my head.”

  “No,” said Haern. “I won’t. Not here and now. Not while there’s still a chance.”

  “A chance of what?” shouted Thren. When Haern did not answer, he swung a blade. Haern flinched, but he remained still, even as the edge cut into the side of his jaw and remained pressed there. Staring down Thren’s glare, he refused to give in to the fury growing in his chest, the despair at seeing just how twisted and hurt his father truly was.

  “We’re all murderers,” Thren said, voice cold and quiet. “Some are just better at hiding it than others. Ashhur kills as well as Karak, or did you not see what your priestess did back there?” He pulled away the blade. “I don’t want your mercy. One day, neither will you. Mercy cuts deep and will only harm those you love. This cruel world will make sure of it.”

  Thren sheathed the sword and walked past Haern down the hill. Haern turned to watch him go, the maelstrom of emotions in his heart rooting him firmly to the ground.

  “Why’d you come back?” he asked. “Why not leave me in that dungeon if you resent me so?”

  Thren continued without pause, ignoring the question. As if it were beneath him. As if it were obvious.

  “Father…” Haern whispered.

  Thren hesitated the slightest step at the bottom of the hill, then trudged on. Haern pulled the hood low over his face, felt tears swelling in his eyes, and he let them fall. For a long while, he stood there, watched until his father faded into shadow, became nothing. His chest hurt, and he wished more than anything he’d never come west.

  Back at their camp, he removed his belt and placed the swords beside his bedroll. When he sat down, pulling his cloak and hood off his face, Delysia stirred.

  “Haern?” she asked. He said nothing, only stared into the ashes of their fire. The priestess sat up, tossed the blanket aside. “Haern, you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  She put a hand on his face anyway, and he heard her pray. A gentle ringing sounded in his ears. He closed his eyes against a soft glow of light, and then the skin on his cheek tightened. The pain dulled, then faded away completely when she pulled back her hand. Kneeling, she looked at him, a dozen questions unasked on her lips. Haern wanted to answer them, couldn’t. But she knew what had happened, at least in some fundamental way. Her fingers brushed hair away from his face, and she kissed where she’d healed him. That single kiss felt far more loving than any other she’d given him that night.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I should ha
ve known better.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does,” he said, looking away and feeling embarrassed. “I was a fool and apparently the only one who didn’t know it.”

  Delysia put a hand on his cheek, her warm fingers gently pulling him back to look at her.

  “You saw hope in your father where even I saw none,” she said. “I could never fault you for that.”

  “It just means I was naïve, Del.”

  She wrapped an arm around his waist and put her head against his shoulder. Normally, such closeness would have comforted him, but this time he only felt awkward, exposed.

  “Better that than the man your father would have you be,” she said.

  Haern’s retort died on his tongue. Kissing the top of her head, he finally returned her embrace.

  “You’re better than I deserve,” he told her.

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  He broke from her grasp and lay back down on his bedroll. Delysia joined him, lying on her side with her hand on his chest. Haern put his hand atop hers, clutched her fingers, and closed his eyes tight. The bed of grass beneath him didn’t feel quite so comfortable, the ceiling of stars so vast and empty, he dared not look upon it.

  He’s wrong, he told himself, thinking of all the vile words his father had spoken. He’s wrong; he has to be wrong. We’re meant for more than this, for more than living and dying and suffering at the hands of others. We are not alone. We’re not.

  Easy words to tell himself.

  Hard words to believe.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Tarlak sat with his elbows on his desk, hands holding up his head as he stared at the large map of Veldaren spread out before him. At one time, it’d been color-coded to show the estimated territory of the various guilds, but that was gone now. There was no point. From the castle at the north to the slums in the south, it all belonged to the Sun Guild. Instead, he’d placed little pins to mark the location of their tiles, though by the fiftieth, he’d stopped. As he stared at it with his head pounding and the morning sun rising, he wondered if that had been a mistake.

  “Come in,” he said when he heard a knock on the door behind him, refusing to turn around. It was either Brug or a person come to kill him, and given his mood, Tarlak didn’t feel like spending the effort to address either one.

  “Starting early, are we?” asked Brug, and he leaned over Tarlak’s shoulder at the map. “Gods, there’s a lot of them, aren’t there?”

  “No kidding,” said Tarlak, slumping back in his chair. “I saw five more along the marketplace yesterday; didn’t even bother to put them on the map.”

  “There’s another two on Iron Road,” Brug said. “Probably added them a day or so ago.”

  Tarlak glanced over at the bearded man.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  Brug nodded, brow furrowed.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “Where do you think I get my metal to make all your little toys? I go there once a week, and trust me, they’re new.”

  Back to the map Tarlak turned, and if he could have glared it into flames, he would have. Technically, he could have burned it with a snap of his fingers, but that’d have involved effort.

  “We’re missing something,” he said. “Something obvious. Why would Muzien be adding in more of those tiles to the Sun Guild? The city’s his, and ever since that sickening display at the marketplace, everyone knows it, too. Who else is left to oppose him?”

  Brug shrugged.

  “The king, maybe? I think the Ash Guild’s holding on, too, but they’re more hiding than anything else. Victor’s not dead yet, either.”

  “None of them are threats, not anymore,” Tarlak insisted. “Besides, you think a few more tiles will change that? There’s something to them, and I’m thinking it is time we go and find out.”

  Brug gestured to his long red bedrobes.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Now,” Tarlak said, rising from his chair.

  “Haven’t even eaten breakfast yet,” Brug mumbled as he headed for the door to change.

  “Suffer for your vocation,” Tarlak said, following him. “Besides, I pay you to obey my every whim, not eat.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Brug asked as they walked down the main road running from the western gates of the city to its center.

  “You assume I have one?” Tarlak asked as he kept his eyes open for the tiles. “That’s just foolish.”

  “Well, you’re a foolish guy,” Brug said. “Any chance we can get something to eat while we’re out here?”

  “Not until we’re done.”

  “But I don’t know what it is we’re doing.”

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow his way.

  “Well, then,” he said. “You’ll just have to trust me to tell you when we’re done.”

  Even amid the constant rumble of chatter and those passing by, there was no hiding Brug’s groan. Not that Tarlak would argue with him. Even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, just playing a hunch. The tiles were important, and more and more, he felt certain it wasn’t for serving as a way to mark territory. That left relatively few possibilities for them, and none of them were particularly good.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get somewhere a little quieter and less likely to have a member of the Sun Guild notice our poking and prodding.”

  They ventured south, past the various workshops, past the large granaries and warehouses, and into the poorer stretches of Veldaren. Tarlak felt eyes upon him, not that he minded. Of course he stood out. He was wearing bright yellow robes, after all. Even without them, his hair and goatee were neatly trimmed, his clothes clean, his skin pale and free of dirt. Under normal circumstances, he’d have a sign floating above his head screaming, “Rob me,” but Tarlak knew wizards carried enough mystique, no one would dare harass him. When first setting up his mercenary band, he’d reinforced the matter by turning a few troublesome ruffians into frogs and leaving them in their respective guild territory, their cloaks still tied to their little green bodies. Some men didn’t fear death, but life as a frog?

  Well, everyone had their limits.

  “Getting quiet,” Brug said. A few children played down one alley, and stray dogs barked farther up the street. All around were ramshackle homes with heavily locked doors.

  “Good enough for me,” Tarlak said. “See one of Muzien’s tiles lying about?”

  “By the corner,” Brug said, pointing.

  It was at the intersection of a road, a single tile dug into the rough dirt adjacent to the last home on the block. Tarlak knelt before it, analyzing it. It looked like all the others, thick, heavy stone with the four-pointed star carved into its front. His fingers traced along the star, and he racked his mind for any magical symbols or meaning the star might have beyond the guild affiliation. There were none that he knew of, though he made a note to check on it when he returned to the tower. As particular as Muzien was, Tarlak had a feeling he’d stolen it from somewhere to use as his own.

  “Receiving any magical revelations?” Brug asked, leaning against the home beside him with his arms crossed.

  “Not yet,” Tarlak said. “But that’s next on the agenda.”

  Closing his eyes, he put his palm flat on the tile and began murmuring the words to a spell. It was fairly simple, the very first one taught to any student that gained admittance to the Apprentices’ Tower governed by the Council of Mages. His eyes changed for a brief moment, accessing a vision spectrum known to very few. Any object that contained a spell or enchantment would shimmer and glow with a multitude of colors, revealing to him its intricate mechanics so he might dispel or activate the magic if necessary. The required incantations finished, he opened his eyes.

  The tile was as dim as the dirt it was buried in.

  “Huh,” said Tarlak, baffled.

  “What is it?” Brug asked. “They enchanted?”

  “I can’t decide if it’s good news or bad,” Ta
rlak said, standing. “I was sure they had some sort of arcane effect sneaked into them, but, well … nothing. Far as I can tell, they’re plain old regular stone.”

  “Excellent,” Brug said. “We’ve learned what they’re not. I’m willing to call that a good day. Care if I run off to the market and grab me a caraway cake?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Tarlak. “Teach me to try making you work on an empty stomach.”

  “Work?” asked Brug. “You want me to work, how about this? I’ll start scouting out the northern district, tallying up these tiles, where and how many. May not know what it is they’re for, but at least we’ll know where they all are.”

  Tarlak scratched at his red goatee, frowning down at the stone tile as if it’d insulted him.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll start here in the south. Make sure you check the symbol carved into them. You find any that are different in the slightest, I want to know about it.”

  “Will do,” said Brug, who was already walking away with his back to him.

  What am I missing? wondered Tarlak. And what game are you playing, Muzien?

  He’d told Brug he’d work on the south, but his heart wasn’t in it yet. The four-pointed star surely had some history to it, and he’d feel more comfortable scouring his personal library for books than wandering around jotting down locations of those stupid tiles. That was more his territory, anyway. After all, what other reason had he hired Brug for other than for grunt work and blacksmithing skill? Surely not his prowess in combat.

  Tarlak returned to the main crossroad, then headed west. As he left the city, a wagon was passing through the guard post, and painted in white on the wagon’s side was the symbol of the Sun Guild. Tarlak watched the guards wave the driver in without even a cursory glance at his goods.

  What did you just let in? Poisons, wines, more of those damn tiles?

  Ignoring a childish desire to set the wagon aflame, he continued on to his tower. The weather was fine, the sun high and warm, and so he enjoyed the breeze blowing against him as he crossed the grass. By the time he reached his tower, he was smiling, and he was thinking maybe he should just take a break and relax for a few hours. He couldn’t spend his whole life trying to keep track of the underhanded dealings of a city. Snapping his fingers, the door opened for him, and pulling his hat off his head, he moved to step inside, then froze.