David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Ghost closed his eyes and waited for it to begin. Calan began whispering words of a prayer, and then he felt it, a sharp tingling as if spiders were crawling across his face, each one with little hooks at the ends of their feet. The sensation increased, and he heard a ringing in his ears so loud, it overwhelmed Calan’s prayers. Sudden as it began, it ceased. Ghost opened his eyes, and the priest took a step back to observe his handiwork.

“Better,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ghost; this is the best that I can do.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a small circular looking glass. Ghost accepted it and, refusing to show any reluctance, held it up before his eyes.

The scars ran over every inch of his face, starting from the top of his head down to the base of his neck. The work of Calan’s magic was evident, for the skin, while raised, was not discolored like the rest of his body. It still gave his entire face a sickly, distorted look, and he put away the glass, unwilling to look at it more.

“My things,” he said. “Where are my things?”

“Just outside your door,” Calan said. “Your clothes were burned beyond repair, but we purchased you replacements that should fit well enough. As for your swords, though, you will have to wait until you are ready to leave.”

“I’m ready now.”

“Are you sure you would not prefer something to eat first?”

The rock in Ghost’s stomach shifted, reminding him of just how long it’d been since he ate or drank. But staying inside the temple was something Ghost just could not handle right now.

“I’ll swing by the market,” he said. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Of course,” Calan said, though he did not step aside, instead leaning his weight against the door so that he blocked the way. He stayed there, arms crossed, examining Ghost.

“The man who burned you,” he said. “Were you trying to kill him?”

This was it, of course, what the priest wanted. Ghost swallowed down an exasperated sigh.

“Yes,” he said. “I was.”

“Did you want to?”

The question was so odd, and not what he expected. He opened his mouth to answer, then paused so he might think it over and answer truthfully. The priests had clearly done much for him. Was it really so much to ask in return to tell him the truth?

“No,” he said.

“Then why? For money?”

Ghost shook his head.

“I do this because I must, priest. I owe someone my life, my life and beyond. She saved me from the darkness, pulled me out. Killing is what I’m good at. It’s what I’m best at, and if I must kill a few more times before I am free, then I will do so to repay my debt.”

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.