David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“Put it on,” she said. “This is what you are, what you were always meant to be.”

He took it from her, dipped a hand into the white. As he smeared it across his face, he swore it burned far worse than it ever had before. That done, he stood, retrieved his sword, and glared at Daverik.

“You tread dangerous ground,” he told him.

“In this age, we all walk in danger,” Daverik said. “You no less than others.” He turned to Melody. “Alyssa’s stubbornness will be our undoing. We have no more time to wait, Melody. Ghost, Deborah, the two of you will go and kill her protector. Once Zusa is dead, overthrowing Alyssa will be a sure thing.”

“I don’t need his help,” Deborah said, glaring at Ghost.

“She defeated all of you together,” Daverik said. “Keep your pride to yourself. You’ll need Ghost’s help with this.”

Ghost looked to his hands, covered with paint. His feeling in them was already fading. It was like a limb falling asleep, only across his entire body. Panic pounded in his heart, but he did his best to hide it.

“No,” he said.

Daverik crossed his arms, and despite Ghost’s defiance, he seemed only amused.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” Ghost repeated. “I won’t do this. I am not your slave.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Daverik said, taking a step closer. “But this will help. Speak it again. Tell me you refuse to kill those Melody instructed you to kill.”

“I will not kill Zusa, nor the Watcher, nor the Eschaton,” he said.

The moment the words were gone from his lips, he felt a pain stabbing him in the forehead. It was incredible, like a metal spike jamming through his skull and into his mind. Emotions flooded forth, panic, terror, anger, and helplessness. Again, he dropped to his knees, and he let out a scream that this time echoed on and on in the cramped space.

“There is now a curse upon your body, Ghost,” said the priest. “Should you fail at your task, it will take your life. You have no choice in this. If I were you, I’d control my thoughts. Even the temptation to disobey will prove … uncomfortable.”

That was it, then. His choice was made for him, all because he followed Melody down into the pit. He glared at her, wishing her could make her suffer for betraying his trust, but she only smiled back at him.

“Soon, you’ll know,” she said. “Offer up yourself as sacrifice. There is such beauty in the surrender.”

Ghost rose back to his feet, swearing a vow that made his head ache just by the thinking of it.

I will never surrender. Not to you. Not to anyone.

“Go,” Daverik said. “Both of you. Kill Zusa so we may prepare the way.”

Deborah cast him a foul look, then turned to leave. Ghost thought of making his way back through the tunnel, past the great statue of Karak, and decided anything would be better than that. Taking a deep breath, he leaped, his hands reaching for the sky. As he thought, the stone ceiling was nothing to him, and he rose and rose, dirt and rock passing across his eyes, and somehow he could see it, though he knew there was no light for him to see. At last, he tore up through the very street, not far from the iron gates. It was dark now, and he wondered just how long he had lain on the cold stone floor. Upon reaching the night air, he felt his ascension cease, and he hit the ground with a satisfying thud. Glancing east, he saw the telltale signs of the rising sun. All night? he wondered. What had felt like mere moments of agony, of having the spells branded upon him, had taken all day and night.

Slowly he stood, staring at the temple, which was once more just a plain, well-crafted mansion. A plan forming in his mind, he waited until Deborah emerged from the mansion’s door. She quickly saw him, and still frowning, she went to his side.

“I’ll have no need of you,” she said, “but Daverik insists. Are you ready to kill for our god?”

She didn’t even wait for his answer, just turned and ran down the street. Ghost smiled, feeling the paint cracking on his face.

“Yes,” he lied, following her into the morning light.

King Edwin Vaelor had just blown out the last candle in his bedroom when he heard a man clear his throat. He froze, sudden fear paralyzing him where he stood. The little orange dot that was the candlewick slowly faded out, completing the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Edwin asked. His room was large, without windows. Too easy for someone to climb in. All day and night, guards watched the doors to his room. No one should have been inside, yet when a soft chuckle greeted his words, there was no doubt that someone was.

“I’ve been curious to meet you,” said the invader, ignoring the question. The voice came from his large four-poster bed, and when Edwin took a step back, the man shimmered into view. His ears were maimed, and he wore a long dark coat, his shirt and pants a pale gray. Both hands were resting easily on his lap as he sat on his bed. Edwin could not puzzle out where the light was coming from, for it just seemed that amid the darkness, there was the elf, as if his very skin and coat glowed the softest of colors.

“Scream and you’ll die,” said the elf, tapping his fingers on the hilts of his swords.

Edwin almost did anyway, nearly shrieked for his guards to come and rescue him, but the elf’s tone was so commanding, so certain of itself, that he kept his mouth shut.

“Excellent. You’re capable of behaving. That’s a good sign, Edwin. If you continue this, then you might live through the coming months.”

“Who are you?” Edwin asked as the elf rose to his feet, still atop the bed. He seemed so thin, but what muscle was there looked corded and tight, a feline predator eager to pounce on its prey.

“You should know if your advisors are worth anything, or if you would bother to listen to them if they are. I am Muzien the Darkhand, come from Mordeina, and you and I must have a few words. Between us, I would like there to be an understanding.”

Edwin felt a tremble work its way up and down his neck.

“I do know,” he said. “You came here from the west. Gerand assured me you would be no more a bother than any other of the guilds.”

Muzien flashed him a smile.

“He was wrong.”

Off the bed he jumped, landing silently mere feet away from the king at the foot of the bed. He did not draw his swords, yet Edwin tensed anyway, expecting to die, or at least to suffer some sort of horrible injury. Despite it, he did not cry out for guards, and he felt ashamed at his own cowardice.

“What … what do you want from me?” Edwin asked, trying to muster up some kernel of bravery.

Muzien took another step, his smile fading away. It felt like he was being analyzed, dissected with his innards revealed, and the elf did not appear impressed with what he found.

“You will continue to rule because I allow it,” he said. “Not because of your soldiers, and not through your birthright. The Sun comes to Veldaren, and you will not interfere with its rise. At any time, I can kill you; do you understand? If you fear death, then stay clear of my path. Tell your soldiers to look the other way when they see the four-pointed star. They are not to investigate killings done with my mark left upon them. They will charge us no tariffs to enter the city, they will investigate none of my merchandise, and your tax collectors will never see a single coin come from my pocket. Am I clear, or must I carve it into your chest so you will remember?”

Edwin swallowed down what felt like a jagged stone in the back of his throat.

“I’ll make sure my soldiers know,” he said.

Muzien smiled.

“Not so hard, is it? Obedience will come naturally, I assure you, just as it does for all humans. You were never meant to lead, only serve.”