David Dalglish: A Dance of Ghosts

“You’re not going to wear that hood the whole trip, are you?” Thren asked.

Haern froze.

“I might,” he said.

“It’s been three weeks, and I’ve never once seen you pull it down. Do you fear me seeing your face, Watcher? And must I call you by such a stupid title?”

“You wish to know my face and name?” Haern asked. “What makes you think I’d be foolish enough to give either?”

Thren opened an eye.

“You freely travel with me, rely on my skills in combat to keep you alive, and sleep opposite of me by a fire. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done so already. If you thought I would kill you, you’d have already tried to kill me, or at least run off to infiltrate the Stronghold on your own. So, please, let’s drop at least a little of the suspicion, hrm? Besides, you don’t have to give me your true name. Any other name would be preferable to ‘Watcher.’”

Haern took a step back at the rebuke, then glanced around. So many times he’d endured such rants while growing up, and it did to him now what it always did to him then: made him feel like a complete fool. His fears were naïve, his wisdom unfounded. And sure enough, he’d hidden his face all during their travel southwest, down through the green lands of the Kingstrip and past the hills of Omn as they made their way toward the Gods’ Bridges.

He sat back down, taking meager comfort that his father could not see the way his face blushed or how frustrated he was. Of course, Thren would still sense it, read it from the way he sat, the gestures his hands made, the tiniest of inflections in his voice. But at least it’d be somewhat less obvious. He thought to give a false name but decided keeping such a thing straight in his head was pointless. Haern was a common enough name, and already it was a disguise, a burial of the Aaron he had been.

“Haern,” he said, crossing his arms. “For now, call me Haern.”

“Very well, Haern. Care to tell me how you really obtained that magical hood?”

Haern tried to think of where to start, where was appropriate. In the distance, a coyote sounded, and the noise emphasized to Haern just how far from home he was, how distant the walls of Veldaren. Where he sat, there were only the woods, the animals, and Thren Felhorn … and his father more closely resembled the animals than any fellow human he’d normally associate with. The howl continued but was not taken up by any other animals, and that made it seem all the more lonely. When it stopped, Haern began.

“I went south to Angelport at the request of a friend,” he said. “An elf was using my old mark as a way to mock his victims as well as pay homage to my own reputation in Veldaren. This elf was killing anyone he needed to bring the entire city crumbling down. He thought war would purge the evil from it, a desperately needed cleansing at the hands of his race. The reason I took that hood was to remind myself to never, ever believe as he did. My skills, my blades, they can shape the future, but it is never my place to do so as if I were a god.”

He fell silent, and in the center of his chest, he felt a pressure growing, a strange anxiety. He knew what it was, but that just made it all the stranger. He wanted to know what his father thought of it. Why, he could not say. The man was a monster, he knew that, he truly believed that. But for some reason, that didn’t seem to matter.

While Haern had thought Thren would immediately mock him, instead, his father stayed relaxed by the fire, leaning against his tree. His left hand slowly picked at a leaf beside him, systematically stripping it so only the stem remained.

“Humility is rarely a virtue I practice,” Thren said when the leaf was naked. “I’ll admit there are times when accepting your own limitations can save your life, as well as lead to necessary growth in skill, but you taking that hood for such reasons is nothing more than a self-serving lie.”

Haern opened his mouth to ask why, then closed it. Thren would tell him why, of course. He always did. Better to remain silent, hide behind the shadowed mask so his father would not see just how deeply his words stung.

But for once, Thren did not continue. His own face had grown distant, his gaze elsewhere.

“Why?” Haern asked when it was clear he would not continue.

Thren looked up, and there was something hidden in his face, something … proud.

“Because you are a god among the people of Veldaren,” Thren said. “You command the fear and loyalty of so many, it makes a mockery of our own king. With your blades, you have shaped Veldaren’s future more than any other man and woman alive. Yet that power scares you, doesn’t it, Haern? Better to tell yourself you aren’t that powerful. Better to tell yourself it isn’t your place to make such decisions over the lives of others. You’re a giant stooping down to pretend to be a man. You convince no one but yourself.”

“You would call me a fool?”

“No. I merely question the man who is afraid to be everything he was meant to be.”

The comment stung far worse than it should have. Haern knew who his father had intended him to be. He’d wanted a perfect killer, denied friends, starved of affection, left without faith or family. Only the skills to take a life, and the ruthless training to lead his father’s guild. Haern was never meant to be anything other than an echo of Thren living on after his father’s death.

“Who are you to decide what I was meant to be?” Haern asked him, unable to keep the bite from his voice.

“Just a man slowly getting older,” Thren said, laying down and closing his eyes to sleep. “But I know denial when I see it. All I said was that you are a god among the people of Veldaren. Never once did I say how you should wield that power.”

The darkness was deepening, the sound of the cicadas growing loud enough to overwhelm. In that midnight cacophony, Haern pulled his knees to his chest, crossed his arms over them, and stared at the man that had been his father.

“Why did you never kill me?” he asked, softly enough he wasn’t even sure if Thren would hear. But he did hear, and after a moment, he answered.

“My men whisper that I couldn’t even if I tried. Your reputation has surpassed mine, or have you not noticed?”

Haern swallowed, and he felt naked as he spoke.

“For years, I struck at your guild, killing those loyal to the Spider. I ended your war with the Trifect, effectively putting all thief guilds on a leash, and no matter what Deathmask tells me I know it was against your wishes. Yet night after night, I prowl, and never once have you tried to bring me down. No ambushes. No plots. Tonight, you ask me for my name … have you not once searched for it? You ask of my face … have you never looked for those who have seen it? I know you, Thren. I know you were never afraid of me, so why was I left alone? Why did you not crush me when you had the chance?”

On and on droned the cicadas.

“Your inaction can only be two things,” Haern whispered. “Either I meant something to you … or nothing at all.”

A lengthy silence, followed by a sigh.

“You presume much,” Thren said without ever opening his eyes. “You want to know why I never did? Because I didn’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“You’re right,” Thren said, rolling over and putting his back to Haern. “It’s not a reason. It is the reason for all we mere mortals do, and it is the only one I’ve ever needed in my life. Perhaps you’d best learn that yourself.”

Haern rose from the fire and stalked off into the forest. He’d done it before when they first traveled, needing space, needing a winding path between him and the fire so he might sleep feeling safe. The following morning, he’d find Thren waiting for him on the road west, tired and in a sour mood. He always did.