David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“How do you know I’m of sound mind?” Ghost asked as Calan sat down before him.

“You have a charisma about you,” Calan said, inspecting Ghost’s feet as he had his hands. “If you’d come in here shouting and ranting, or perhaps groveling, then I might be more uncertain.”

“I’ve never been one to grovel,” Ghost said, and immediately his memories reminded him of the lie it was, the way he’d begged for the gentle touchers to put an end to his suffering. It’d only been once, just that once, but still he felt the shame of it haunting him. Calan seemed to notice his unease, but he said nothing of it, only stood and tapped his lips with his fingers.

“They were careful with you,” he said. “That, plus Ashhur’s power, gives you hope. Close your eyes, Ghost, and give me your hands.”

Ghost swallowed, and he felt a tightening in his chest. He did as he was told, and he reached out, felt the older man’s thinner, wrinkled hands press upon his. The contact sent a brief spike of pain up his arm, and he gritted his teeth against it.

“This won’t be easy,” Calan said. “And forgive me, but this will hurt.”

Bony fingers clamped down tight, and Ghost clenched his teeth harder. Despite his self-control, he let out a gasp of pain. The whisperings of a prayer reached his ears, but the words were soft, and he could not focus on them. He felt a tearing, the pressure tightening, the fluid in his fingers dripping down his arms as Calan lifted all four of their hands to the ceiling. The words of the prayer quickened, its intensity growing. A sound, like that of a distant ringing, flooded his mind. Ghost had been healed before of a sickness in his knee, but something about this time differed. Was it the age of the injuries, or the sheer amount across his fingers? He didn’t know, and he felt strangely uncomfortable in asking.

He looked only once, and the blinding white light shining from Calan’s hands as it enveloped his own was enough to make him close his eyes and leave them shut until the prayer ended and Calan let him go.

“Was it enough?” he heard Calan ask, and so he opened his eyes.

Where once his fingers had been swollen, they were now back to their original size. The many scars remained, white fleshy dots across his obsidian skin, but they no longer caused him pain. His fingertips, always the worst, were now slick with blood and pus, and he asked for a rag so he might clean them off.

“They feel better,” Ghost said as he accepted a square of white cloth from the priest. He gingerly applied it to his fingertips and was surprised at how he felt no pain at all at its touch. It was strange, like stepping backward to a time before the gentle touchers, the needles, and the permanent care he’d had to take in handling even the smallest of objects.

“Not done yet,” Calan said, sounding out of breath. “Your feet now.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, heels resting on the soft carpet, and then closed his eyes when the priest wrapped his fingers around the tips of his toes. Again came the pressure, this time broader, more evenly spread out across the entirety of his foot. Again, he felt liquid running down to his heel and then dripping to the floor, and it was shockingly cold. The words of the prayer came and went, the light faded, the ethereal hum died, and at last Ghost opened his eyes.

“Amazing,” Ghost said as he wiped the blood and pus from his feet. Calan took the rag from him, cleaned off what he could not see, then wiped it across the carpet, even though it clearly would not remove the stain.

“What is amazing is that I did not make you wait until morning,” said the priest, rising to a stand. “Falling asleep has slowly gotten more difficult over the years, and interrupted rest does not tend to improve matters.”

Ghost ignored him, instead flexing his hands and taking several careful steps back and forth. The priest watched him, his mood turning somber.

“What is it you plan on doing with those hands?” Calan asked. “Will you hurt and kill, as you once did?”

Everyone knew priests of Ashhur could sense a lie as easily as a normal man could feel the wind blowing on his skin. So instead, Ghost avoided it altogether.

“If I say yes, would you have still healed me?” he asked.

The priest chuckled, and he lay back down on his bed and groaned in pleasure as he settled underneath the covers.

“I would have healed you anyway, yes,” he said.

“Then why ask, if it changes nothing?”

The priest shrugged.

“Was hoping you’d put my mind at ease, is all. But I would rather help all I can instead of helping no one for fear of aiding a man with evil in his heart.”

“Seems naïve,” said Ghost. “There are some men that should receive no blessings, for there is nothing good left within them.”

Calan looked over at him, let a smile crack his face.

“I remember you, Ghost. You’re not one people tend to forget, and more than anything, I remember feeling there was a speck of hope buried down deep, perhaps lost along with your original name. Naïve or not, I will be here if you need me. You endured a long time in darkness in our cruel, cold world, and if there is anything this cruel, cold world hates most, it is letting go.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Is it all right if I see myself out?”

“Shut the door behind you,” Calan said, rolling over and putting his back to him. “And snuff out the candles, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The temple was only the first of Ghost’s many stops he had planned for that night. Gaining the strength back in his hands and feet was an important one, and relied solely on the mystical arts Ashhur’s priests were known for. His next step, however, was one far more firmly rooted in the material realm. He hurried to the main road running north to south through the heart of Veldaren, then turned south. Not far into the district, he took a left, stopping before a squat little cube of a building. It bore no written sign, just a large board above the doorway, marked by an image of an x formed by the crossing of a sword and an ink quill.

Ghost checked the door, found it barred on the other side. He frowned, considered trying to break it down, decided otherwise. He had a feeling such measures would be unnecessary.

“Bill!” he cried, banging on the door with his fists. “Bill Trett, get your ass out of bed and to this door!”

Making such a ruckus at night might normally have unnerved him, but four years under torture had removed much of his caution. What enemies did he have that might come for him? Only one, the Watcher, and if he had not already spotted his white face hurrying through the streets, then hollering at the mercenary guild’s headquarters would hurt matters none.

“Bill!” His fist thumped against the wood, and he took considerable pleasure in its rough feel, and more importantly, how it caused no pain to his hand. “I know you’re there, Bill; now open the door!”

When he paused to listen, he heard a scuffling, coupled with a veritable barrage of curses, at last followed by a lifting of the bar.

The door flung open, and an old man with a badly scarred face and bushy white unibrow stepped forward, a dagger in hand.

“What the bloody Abyss do you want?” Bill asked. “Answer now, before I stab you in the…”

The man froze, and his watery eyes widened as he caught sight of Ghost in the moonlight.

“Well, I never,” he said. “Ghost? Is that really you?”

“Back from the dead,” Ghost said. “Now put that toothpick away and let me in.”

Bill hobbled away from the door, but he kept ahold of the dagger. The man wore a long night robe, and when Ghost stepped inside the cluttered mess of papers, names, lists of locations and jobs all strewn about the shelves, he was not surprised to see a single cot in the center of the room.