David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“It’s a fine day to take in the sights, isn’t it?” Ghost asked her as she walked past. She glanced his way, and he could tell she had something pleasant yet dismissive to say to him. The comment died when her eyes met his and she realized who he was.

“No paint,” he said. “I’m sure that made it more difficult.”

“Nor the hair on your face when I last saw you,” she said, crossing her hands before her and smiling as if she’d just met a long lost friend. “What you did was dangerous. Zusa suspects me already, and if she can use you to … my god, Ghost, what happened to your arms?”

Ghost grinned at her, hardly surprised it took her so long to notice.

“You sent me after a wizard who likes to play with fire,” he said. “Did you not think I might get burned?”

He’d thought she’d be gruff, uncaring of his wounds. So many men and women he’d done jobs for had been like that, viewing him as an expendable tool, a walking killing machine they fed with coins and forgot about when the job was done. Melody, however, grimaced with pain and took his hands in his.

“Your face, too,” she said, looking up at him. “Forgive me, Ghost, I thought you could kill them with ease. Your reputation spoke so highly of you.”

“Consider me still working to remove the rust.”

He swallowed, and strangely enough, he realized he was nervous. This was something he had little experience about. As a mercenary, he’d never before failed to kill a target once they’d been found. In truth, the Watcher had been the first. Now that he was to tell Melody, he felt anxious, but why?

Judge him by how he reacts to your failures.

“Melody,” he said, glancing about to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do this. The wizard is too powerful, and by all rights, I should be dead. Even with surprise, he defeated me, and now he will be prepared. I will help you with the others, but in this, I have failed you.”

Ghost did not know how she might react. Having others around in the market made it even harder to predict. But out of all his guesses, pity was the farthest from his mind, yet she took a step closer and put a hand on his scarred face.

“You poor thing,” she said. “Your time in the pit has left your soul broken, hasn’t it? But I can look in your eyes and see buried in you a man who would never admit defeat. We must free him once again.”

Ghost frowned, confused.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You will. Follow me.”

She took his hand, and it surprised him further. She was a pale thing of white next to him, her hand dwarfed in the black of his own, and the looks they received were far from flattering. Melody leading the way, they left the market and traveled east, heading deep into the wealthiest parts of Veldaren. The traffic thinned out more and more until they were alone on the road, approaching a secluded area built close to the eastern section of the stone wall surrounding the city. Before what appeared to be nothing more than a dark mansion encircled by tall iron gates, Melody stopped, and she looked to either side to ensure no one watched.

“I see through your illusions,” she whispered, putting her hands on the gate. She beckoned he do the same, and still confused, Ghost obeyed.

“I see through your illusions,” he repeated.

Immediately, the house before him changed, and he let out a gasp. It was a towering building, just as large as the temple to Ashhur, yet it was built with black marble, and leading toward it across the grass was a walkway of obsidian. Rows of pillars lined the exterior. Carved lions roared from either side of the entrance, mouths open, teeth bared. The light of the day seemed denied to it, a shadow cast across the entirety of the building with no discernible source.

“Welcome home,” Melody said as the gate opened, and she stepped inside.

Ghost had never considered himself afraid of anything, and only that stubborn pride allowed him to follow without hesitation. Even through his boots, it felt as if the obsidian beneath his feet were warm, uncomfortably so. At the temple, the doors opened before their arrival, and an elderly man with gray hair and deep black robes stepped out, nodding his head in respect.

“Lady Melody, you are most welcome as always,” said the man. “May we know the name of your guest before we permit him entrance?”

“I have none,” Ghost said, before Melody could answer for him. “Mine was lost long ago.”

The priest looked him over carefully, then nodded.

“Even the nameless may find comfort within our walls, if their hearts are true,” he said. “Come. Do you wish to speak with Pelarak?”

“With Daverik, actually,” Melody said as they stepped through the doors. “Tell him I must meet with him in the room of purity.”

Ghost followed, and they passed through a cramped entranceway and into a grand worship hall. So much of it felt like a mirrored image of the temple to Ashhur, yet when he entered the hall, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Towering over everyone was a statue lit by violet flames that put off no smoke. It was of Karak, he had no doubt, for who else could it be? The god was carved of stone, the likeness frightening in its lifelike pose, in the raw power conveyed by that raised fist defying the heavens. What looked like fresh blood stained the statue’s greaves, and more dripped from the serrated sword Karak held. He looked beautiful yet dangerous, powerful and unrelenting. The very thought of standing in Karak’s presence in the ancient times, when he supposedly walked the land, filled him with both wonder and terror.

Melody slowly approached the statue, and the guide allowed it. On either side were many pews, and several younger men sat in them, lost in prayer. The sound was like nails scraping against his spine. How he wished they might sing a song like Melody sang instead. Bringing his attention back to her, he saw her kneeling before the statue, head bowed, a single hand lifted above her, timid as a child as she touched the very foot of the statue. It lingered there but a moment before she stood, and when she turned back to him tears were in her eyes.

“I am ready,” she said.

Several corridors led out from the grand hall, and through one of them they exited, the path slowly slanting downward. Ghost felt as if he were descending into the pit of the world, with their only light that of the purple torches that burned on either side, letting off no heat, no smoke, just a glow whose very presence filled him with unease. Deeper and deeper they went, until they reached an abrupt stop at a door. Their guide opened it, revealing within a simple square room, its brick walls barren, its floor empty. Inside was an even deeper darkness, lit by two torches that burned at the center of the ceiling.

Ghost nearly turned away and left. Entering that room was a bad idea, he knew it, but Melody was so peaceful and seemed so earnest to help him. Calan’s challenge remained in his mind, and deep down, he wanted to know how this woman who had sung him to sleep for hundreds of nights would react to his failure.

Melody stepped into the room as if oblivious to his hesitation, walking to the center before sitting on the bare floor.

“Daverik will join you soon enough,” said their guide. With that, he left. Berating himself for his cowardice, Ghost stepped into the room, sitting opposite Melody. The floor was cold, and he kept his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm.

“Where are we?” he asked her.

“The room of purity,” she said. “It is a special place within the temple. It’s said Karak himself meditated here for days as he prepared for his holy war against his brother, and his tears have blessed the very stone with his power. Be careful what you say and do here, Ghost. We’ve left the realm of man. Veldaren’s king has no power here, only the true King.”