David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“A shame yours won’t keep us fed tonight,” she said.

“I disagree, or did you not notice the rabbit?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, as if it were new to her. “So you did. Haern should have a fire ready, and he can start cooking it if you bring it to him.”

It was a subtle attempt to guide him away from her, to show she was not afraid of his presence but still wanted him gone. Instead, he remained standing there, and the longer he did, the more the bloody dagger occupied her mind. The sounds she made as she gathered, the scraping of her feet on the dirt, the rustle of bushes with their thorns, failed to fill the silence between them as he stared.

“I remember you,” Thren said, and Delysia’s heart stopped.

“Is that so?” she asked, keeping her back to him.

“Your name is first what felt familiar, has been ever since I learned the Watcher was staying with your mercenaries. But then I saw your face … and now I see your back. You were younger then, when I put an arrow through it. You should be dead, priestess, just like your father.”

She put the basket down before her, slowly rose to her feet. She wiped the raspberry juices on the lowest part of her dress, turned to face him. Thren Felhorn stood mere feet away, dagger in one hand, dead thing in the other, and never before had Delysia seen someone so perfectly encapsulated by a single image such as then.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said, proud there was no quiver in her voice. “But someone took me to Ashhur’s temple for healing, and it’d have been rude of me to die on them after such a risk.”

“You were corrupting my son,” Thren said.

“I was saving him.”

“The only thing he needed saving from was you.”

“I was but a child and had only my words,” she said, meeting his cold stare. “Yet still you were frightened of me. But I guess you should know how much power there can be in words.”

She felt electricity building in the air around her, felt her power growing in her chest and sliding down into her fingers. Whatever Thren tried, she would be ready. Even if he killed her, she would not die without striking back.

He took another step, bringing him dangerously close. She could smell the blood dripping from the rabbit, almost taste the coppery liquid on her tongue.

“Because of you, I lost my son Aaron forever,” he said. “I won’t let that happen with the Watcher. Go home, Delysia. Go, and leave him far behind. He’s beyond needing your weak morality, your false teachings. I know what he is, and what he can become, far better than you do. It’s time to let the beast within go unchained so all of Dezrel may cower before his blades. You cost me a son. Don’t cost me an heir, not if you want to live.”

“I’m not leaving, Thren,” she said, and she prepared for an attack. “I’m staying at his side. I won’t let you have him.”

Light sparked from her fingertips, but if he was afraid, he showed no sign of it.

“You mistake my kindness,” Thren said, leaning in close so his cheek was brushing against hers, so that his lips were whispering into her ear. “Leave now, or pay the price for staying. Don’t you see? It won’t be by my hand that you suffer. Keep that in mind when you make your choice.”

And with that he left, casually strolling back toward the road, rabbit swinging in his right hand. As he faded from sight, Delysia dropped to her knees, letting out a breath she never realized she’d been holding. With both hands, she grabbed the basket’s handle, and she held it as she tried to regain her composure.

He’s a madman, she told herself. Mad, absolutely mad, and he won’t stop until Haern’s just like him.

It seemed the whole world stopped, the soft wind blowing through the field becoming still as the realization hit her like a stone to her chest.

Just like him …

Thren knew. The Watcher wasn’t an enigma, a foe, a counter to his Spider Guild. No, he had to know, for why else would he be so defensive? Why else would he fear her influence so powerfully?

You cost me a son … don’t cost me an heir.

Delysia grabbed the basket and ran back to their camp, ignoring the cuts against her skin from the thorns. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, and part of her feared what Thren would do. But what could he do other than kill her? Even that would be a risk. If he wanted to win Haern over, her death would put an end to their cooperation. Thren needed time; he needed opportunity.

The sun was almost set and she out of breath, by the time she reached the camp. Haern sat before the fire, a crude spit set up to cook the rabbit above it. He smiled when he looked up and saw her and the berries, but he quickly sensed something was amiss.

“Del?” he asked.

Beside him sat Thren, and he glanced at her with a passive expression, as if nothing at all had been said between them only minutes before.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Alone.”

“Whatever needs to be said I’m sure can be said in front of me,” Thren said.

“No, it can’t,” Delysia said, glaring. Haern looked between them, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword.

“I’m sure you won’t mind giving us a moment of privacy,” Haern said as he stood.

Thren shrugged.

“Go ahead, but I make no promises on the raspberries. If you take too long, and I eat them all, it’s on you.”

At Delysia’s lead, the two wandered away from the camp, until she felt comfortable Thren would not hear. Leaning against one of the few trees nearby, Delysia crossed her arms over her chest and tried to make sense of her thoughts.

“We have to go back,” she said.

“What?” asked Haern.

“All of us, we have to go back; we have to stop this. Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish, it isn’t worth it. We can do more good in Veldaren.”

Haern glanced back to the campfire, and a frown came over his face.

“Is that why you came all this way?” he asked. “To tell me to turn back? Because I won’t, Delysia. I have to know what is going on, and this is the only way.”

She knew it wasn’t, but there was no doubt in Haern’s voice, no questioning in his eyes. His mind was set, and she felt her stomach sink.

“It’s not worth it,” she said, voice quieter. “Not for such a risk.”

“I can handle a few dark paladins.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Haern let out a sigh, and he kicked at the tall grass.

“I’m not afraid of him,” he said. “He needs me.”

“He does,” Delysia said. “And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

She pushed off the tree, took a step toward him. She put her hand on Haern’s cheek, guided his eyes to hers. His eyes were so blue, she thought. Like a child’s. Like his father’s.

“He knows,” she whispered. “Who you are. Don’t you understand? He knows. ”

His entire body tensed as if preparing for battle.

“Did he tell you this?” he asked, his own voice softer.

“No,” she said. “But I feel it in my gut. After all these years, he views this as a second chance. He wants to bring you back to him, make you as you were. Can’t you see that? Thren Felhorn wants his son returned to him. He wants his heir.”

“It’s impossible,” Haern said, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t he have confronted me before now? Why let me live on the streets for so long, working against him? It’s not like him; he wouldn’t have…”

“He’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted,” Delysia said. “And he won’t let anyone stand in his way. He told me so while I was in the field.”

His face darkened, and she saw the thought go through his mind.