David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“You make me do this, then,” he said. “Remember that. Everything that happens, it’s your fault, and that damn god of yours.”

He called for soldiers, and they took her to a carriage. She didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her daughter. Maynard joined not much later, and in the deep of night, they rode through the streets of Veldaren. Melody sat quietly, watching out the window with a mercenary at either side of her. At first, she did not know where they went, but as they neared their destination, a creeping certainty came over her.

When the carriage rolled to a stop before Leon Connington’s mansion, she knew it to be true.

They took her in, and Leon was waiting for her at the door.

“Make it quick,” Maynard said. She watched as her husband pulled out four coins, two gold and two silver, and dropped them into the fat man’s eager hand.

“It’ll be masterfully done,” Leon said. “I promise.”

They took her deep into the mansion, down the stone steps and into the black dungeons. Maynard never said a word to her, neither in anger nor love. The moment those coins changed hands, she was gone, and she knew it. Into a cell they took her, casting her onto the hard floor and leaving her in total darkness. There she remained, and for how long until Leon came to her, she could only guess.

“Are you in here, my little doll?” he asked, light of torches flickering across his face. On either side of him, holding the torches, were men in strange clothes. The gentle touchers, Melody realized, and she felt her creeping horror growing in strength.

“You promised it’d be quick,” Melody said as the men with the torches lifted her from the ground, each holding a wrist with a frighteningly strong grip.

“I promised it’d be masterful,” Leon said. “Not that it’d ever be quick.”

They chained her to the wall, her struggles not even an inconvenience. She cried as the fat man loomed closer, his breathing heavy.

“I always thought you were beautiful,” he said. “So much better than that uptight prick Maynard deserved.”

He leaned in, she screamed, and then his lips were on her body. Thrashing, kicking, it all was hopeless. Chained to a wall, chained and helpless as his trousers dropped to the floor, and in the torchlight, Leon smiled the sickest of smiles.

“But now you’re mine,” he said. “All mine.”

And there was nothing she could scream or do to deny it.

Years passed.

The darkness had closed in on her, and she much preferred it to the alternative. People meant the rare gentle toucher, come to experiment with a few of his needles and knives should Leon take too much time between his visits for the torturer’s liking. Or worse, it meant Leon himself. His touch was everything Luther’s was not: sick, greedy, hateful. Not once had they moved her to a different cell, and as she lay on the cold stone, she could trace her fingers along the dried spots of her own blood.

In the distance, she heard a door opening, and she tensed. That was the door from upstairs, the groan of its hinges much deeper and louder than those of the one leading to the rooms the gentle touchers slept and ate in. Upstairs meant either new prisoners … or Leon. As much as she felt guilty for it, she prayed it was someone new coming down to suffer as she did. Anything was better than Leon’s touch. Anything.

A man came to the entrance of her cell, but it was not Leon as she feared. Instead, it was one of the gentle touchers, but the way he stood there was off. He had no desire to perform his art upon her, she could tell. Then, what?

“I have a gift,” said the elderly man. “One we’ve been paid a handsome sum to bring to you, so I pray you appreciate it.”

The cell door opened, he stepped inside, and then he placed an object on the floor, one which left her bewildered. It was a slender bowl, and in its center, held by thin silver string, were gems of a rainbow of colors. She took it onto her lap, cradling it as if it were a child.

“What am I to do with this?” she asked.

“Pray,” said the gentle toucher. “That’s all we were told.”

With that, he left her holding the strange object.

Pray? she wondered. Pray what? And why?

It’d taken weeks before she discovered it. Many times she’d closed her eyes and prayed, clutching the strange shallow bowl in her hands, yet nothing ever happened. It was only after one of Leon’s visits, as she lay on her side staring into its center, that she decided to try again. This time she would watch it, she decided, determined to see if her prayers did anything to the device. Never before or after did she notice a change, but just perhaps during …

And then as she prayed with her eyes open, focused on the bowl, she saw the colors begin to swirl within the gems. Hope blossomed in her breast, the emotion strange and foreign after her time in the cells. Her prayers faltered for a moment, the colors dimmed, and with frantic strength, she begged Karak for mercy and guidance. Back came the colors, and they were the greatest gift she could have ever imagined. The gems lifted into the air, straining the lengths of their silver chains.

And yet it was not done. As she stared into its center, yearning for freedom, she found herself sinking into a vision. She saw mountains, forests, the waters of the Rigon flowing beneath her as she soared with the wings of a falcon. Her prayers spilled from her lips as if they were those of another, or perhaps from some more primal part of her mind. She saw flowing fields of grain, the walls of the city of Veldaren, and then the barren wastelands of the Vile Wedge. It seemed nothing could contain her, her mind able to go wherever she desired.

And what she desired most was her former lover, Luther.

She tried to imagine his face, where he might be, and then suddenly, she saw him huddled before a desk, his back to her.

“Luther?” she asked aloud, her voice sounding distant.

Melody? Melody, is that you?

Nothing then could stop her crying. She felt tears running down her face, the first tears she’d cried in over a year. The image shifted, and suddenly, she was looking up at him and he looking down. He was so beautiful, so kind, and it ripped her heart to pieces that she could not reach out and stroke his face.

“I’m here,” she said.

Praise Karak. I feared the men would only keep the chrysarium for themselves despite all I paid.

“The chrysarium?” she asked.

The device you hold.

He held one as well, she realized, and she was peering up from it. A magical thing, a blessed gift.

“Can you free me from here?” she asked him.

Not yet, said the priest. They have banished me west and forbidden me to travel anywhere east of the Rigon. I’m sorry; it will take time, but I promise I will return. Can you survive until then?

She smiled, and despite its darkness, the world was suddenly the brightest it had been in what felt like a dozen lifetimes.

“Yes,” she said. “So long as I can see your face, I can endure.”

The colors faded, her earlier fervent prayers no longer able to sustain the contact. As the gems slowly fell one by one into the center of the shallow bowl, she felt her faith in Karak renewed. She was not forgotten. Not abandoned.

Heart filled, she began to sing her praises to her god, and her voice echoed throughout the dungeon, in stark defiance of its somber hopelessness.

Years passed.

Something was different; there was no denying that. It’d been months since Leon came down to touch her or witness the torture of others brought in for the gentle touchers’ care. Even the gentle touchers themselves seemed off. Old men who used to exude calm control now seemed nervous when they gave her her daily bowl of broth or cup of water. Their glances were furtive, their tongues harsh. What could it be, she wondered, but she had no answers, at least none she dared hope for. Because only one made sense, especially with how often they came to talk with the imprisoned boy beside her. Stephen, Leon’s boy.