David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“Fire and destruction,” he said, his eyes clouded gray, his voice losing strength. “Forgive me, Jerico, but I saw no other way.”

Nathaniel could take no more. He slammed his eyes shut, and he begged to be home, to be in the arms of his mother. A roaring filled his ears, his entire body shook, and suddenly he was back in his room, his grandmother lurking over him.

“You were not out long,” she said, taking the chrysarium from him. Nathaniel looked at her, then away. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be with her. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt the vision chasing after him, the man with the ever-changing face lurking just behind his neck.

“What did you see?” she asked, the question he knew she would ask. He thought to tell her of the man at the chasm, but the very idea of it made his throat constrict. Instead, he thought of the second man, the dying one, and he hoped that by his speaking of him instead, she might leave him alone.

“I … I saw a man in a tower,” he said. “An older man with gray hair.”

Nathaniel hadn’t expected her to know him, nor react, but instead, she froze as if he’d flung a rope around her neck and pulled it tight.

“An older man?” she asked. “His robes, were they black, like a priest’s?”

He nodded, and he watched her swallow.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Nathaniel felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he thought of the man’s cut throat, and of the way his eyes had turned a cloudy gray.

“He was dying,” Nathaniel said. “His throat was cut. He said he only knew fire and destruction. That’s when I woke up.”

He’d thought the second vision would be easier, less frightening, but the way Melody grabbed his shoulders terrified him. She fell to her knees, staring at him as tears filled her eyes.

“No,” she said. “He can’t be dying. He can’t. I need him, I need … We need…”

She started crying, and she pulled him against her, holding him with his face pressed against her neck. Her entire thin body seemed overwhelmed by her sobs. Nathaniel waited it out, awkward and confused.

“I’m sorry,” she told him when she regained control. “It’s only that … sometimes when you love someone, love them so much, you’ll forfeit everything to be with them. And if this world were just, that sacrifice would mean something, but it never does. This world is cruel and horrible, and it’s only going to get worse without Karak here to guide us.”

She leaned back, eyes red, her hair sticking to her face, which was wet from her tears.

“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said. He wasn’t sure for what, but it felt like the appropriate thing to say at the time.

“Shh,” she said, touching his face with her shaking fingers. “It’s not your fault; you see only what you were meant to see. But if Luther falls, we’ll need you all the more. So much will rest on your tiny little shoulders…”

When she stood, he went to the windows and pulled back the curtains, letting in the light. Immediately, he felt better, the images fading in Nathaniel’s mind, becoming like dreams, hazy and distant.

“Not yet,” Melody said, and she walked back to the curtains, shutting them, spoiling his relief. “I must use it myself.”

“May I go?” he asked, and he could not describe the relief when she said yes. He bowed his head in respect, then rushed to the door. As he stepped out into the hallway, he turned to shut the door, and as he did, he saw Melody on her knees before his bed, the chrysarium settled atop the blankets.

“Luther?” he heard his grandmother ask. “Luther, are you there? Please, my love, answer me…”

He shut the door and hurried away.

Let me tell you, Brug,” said Tarlak as he slumped back in his chair, “this whole city’s gone insane.”

The squat man stood behind him in his room, a small apple in each hand. He alternated bites, each one spilling juice down his beard.

“Give me some credit,” Brug said, mouth half full. “I’ve been telling you that for years.”

“Well, you weren’t right before, but you’re sure as the Abyss right now.”

He pushed back his chair and stood, then gestured to the scattered pieces of paper on his stained oak desk. Every single one was a letter written to him from those who had, until recently, been on his payroll to leak him information about the various thief guilds of Veldaren.

“Six resignations,” he said. “From carefully worded apologies to ones merely telling me to do fairly difficult things to myself using other parts of myself. Not a damn one of them is willing to cross the Sun Guild. Either they’re scared witless, or they’re making more money than I’m offering.”

“These guys were greedy, cowardly turncoats,” Brug said, “and now you’re surprised they’re acting out of either greed or cowardice? You might want to rethink who’s the insane one.”

Brug took another large bite of the apple, then tossed the core to the stone floor. Tarlak frowned at it, then waved his hand, vanishing the apple with a puff of smoke.

“Lazy bastard,” Tarlak muttered.

The other man shrugged.

“Fine, I’ll toss the next one out the window, Your Highness, just like you could have done if you walked five feet and picked it up yourself.”

“What, now I’m the lazy one?”

Brug shrugged.

“If the pointy yellow hat fits…”

Tarlak froze, then let out a groan.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s head out to the city. Bad enough without Haern patrolling and keeping us informed, but now everything’s changing at a whirlwind’s pace. Let’s see just how much the Sun Guild’s really taken over.”

The two headed down the stairs, then exited the stone tower into the early-morning light. They left the King’s Forest behind, following a path across the grass toward the main trade route leading to the west gate entrance of Veldaren. As they walked, Brug kept glancing over his shoulder, and come the third time, Tarlak couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“We’re being followed,” Brug said, trying to keep his voice low.

“Followed? By who, and how? We’re in the middle of a damn road.”

To accentuate the point, he spun in a full circle, hands out, to show there wasn’t anyone either ahead or behind them on the road for at least half a mile. Brug’s neck turned red, but he refused to back down.

“I’m telling you, I keep seeing something out of the corner of my eye, but whenever I look back, they drop to the grass where I can’t see. You think, given all we’ve done, we might not have a few enemies?”

“Plenty of enemies, sure, but competent enemies? That I’m more skeptical of.”

Tarlak gave another scan, not caring if their pursuer actually saw that they were aware of his or her presence. The grass on either side of the road was tall, up to Tarlak’s waist, so someone could easily be following them. Bigger question was why … and whether or not their intentions were lethal. Given their various fights with the Bloodcrafts only weeks prior, Tarlak did not feel all that hopeful.

“Stand still,” Tarlak said, putting a hand on Brug’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and spoke a few words of simple magic. Before his friend could ask what was going on, a heavy wind blew in from the east, strong enough they had to raise their voices to hear each other.

“What’s the point of this?” Brug asked.

“Just a precaution,” said Tarlak. “Let’s see him fire an arrow or crossbow through this. Now come on; the wind won’t last but a few minutes.”

They continued on toward the city entrance, directly into the unrelenting windstorm. Tarlak glanced over his shoulder occasionally, but the whipping of the wind made it all but impossible to catch a sign of movement.