David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

His right hand was curled about her back, clutching the fabric of her priestly robes. Slowly, he brought it around, across her side, to cup her breast in his palm.

Immediately, he felt her body stiffen in his arms. He kissed again, but there was no response this time, no give to her lips. It was as if her fire had suddenly gone cold. He felt her hand grab his wrist, and she sucked in a gasp of air as she gently pushed him away.

“In time,” she whispered, and he could tell she was still short of breath, her heart aflutter. “I’m sorry, Haern. Just … in time.”

Haern’s mind was a racing mixture of anger, embarrassment, and shame. He kissed her one more time, trying to pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. Hand free of her grasp, he pulled her close, this time into a hug that she could not object to. As she pressed against him, he felt her grip him tightly, clutching him as she might a piece of driftwood in a storm.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “And I’m sorry.”

She pulled back, kissed him once more on the lips, and then lay down on her bedroll, back to him. Haern stared at her, at her beauty in the red glow of the firelight, and then shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it. Dejected, he lay down in his own bedroll, wondering if she were mad at him. That was quickly answered by her turning to him, arm draping over his chest, face pressed into the side of his neck. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Haern slid his arm beneath her, holding her against him, and did his best to relax.

The night wore on, and it took her awhile, but at last she slipped into a deep sleep. Sky clear, cicadas singing, Haern did his best to drift off as well. The grass was a soft blanket, the stars above his ceiling. He stared at them as Delysia began to softly snore beside him.

She’s worse than Brug, Haern thought, and the remembrance of home made him smile. It’d be good to return to Veldaren, he decided. The streets were a burden, but at least he had family there, a clear purpose. As always, it seemed venturing outside those walls only reminded him how little he knew, how little he could change. Come their return home, tonight would just be something to forget, a mistake to pretend never happened. Closing his eyes, he let his mind begin its drift into sleep, only to be halted by something hard and small striking his cheek. Haern’s eyes snapped open, and his heart leaped. There was only one person it could be, and as a second stone bounced against his chest, he looked to see his father standing at the edge of the dying fire’s light. He said nothing, only met his gaze before turning and walking away.

Damn it, thought Haern. Just when the night seemed it could get no worse …

Careful not to wake Delysia, he slipped out from his bedroll, buckled his swords to his waist, and then followed.

Several hundred yards to their east was a slender hill, which Haern had positioned between them and the road in hopes of hiding the light of their fire. At the top of it, wind blowing through his hair, stood Thren. His swords remained sheathed, his eyes locked upon the pale moon.

“So, why did you betray me?” Haern asked, stopping at the foot of the hill.

“I had no choice but to go alone,” Thren said, not turning to face him. “A man with your abilities, I trusted you to endure whatever might be below. Despite your temporary imprisonment, I was not wrong.”

“If you needed to go alone, you might have just asked.”

“And what would have been your answer?” Thren asked, cold blue eyes suddenly glaring at him. “Do not pretend you’d have let me visit with Luther without you. I am no fool.”

Haern quietly accepted the rebuke. His father was right, of course. Under no circumstances would he have allowed Thren to go alone into the Stronghold. Together, they’d come to visit with Luther, to learn the man’s secrets. And now they were solely in Thren’s hands, and he would receive only what his father offered.

“What did he tell you?” Haern asked, hoping he might at least glean something. “Did he say why he did what he did?”

Thren’s gaze returned to the moon.

“Religious nonsense,” he said. “Fate and prophecy and other such things. He thought he was on the side of righteousness, of course. Men like him always do.”

There was more his father was hiding; that much was obvious. Haern shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to think of a way to drag it out of him. The night, which had been pleasant as he lay down beside Delysia, now carried an icy bite upon the steadily growing wind.

“I’ve traveled with you this far,” he argued. “And it was at your suggestion, Thren. Don’t betray me like this, not after all your pompous speeches about how I could trust you. What did Luther want? Why send the Sun Guild after us in Veldaren?”

Thren scratched at his face, thinking.

“The Sun Guild was smuggling something into Veldaren for him,” he said.

“Smuggling what?”

His father chuckled.

“Remember that wagon full of tiles marked with the symbol of the Sun? Those.”

It was the last thing Haern expected. It made no sense. For what reason would a priest desire the heavy stone slabs distributed throughout the city? Was there a trick to them? A trap, perhaps, or a spell he wished to perform in Karak’s name?

“So, what he did,” Haern said, trying to scrape the slightest bit more of information out of him, for he felt certain his father was still keeping secrets, “he did for Karak?”

A smirk tugged at the side of Thren’s face.

“To be honest … I have no idea. Such are the ways of gods and servants. The moment you start letting right and wrong be decided by imaginary whispers in the heads of men, the world becomes a confused, twisted place. The weak think they are strong, the dead in their graves yearn to rise, the strong put chains on their wrists and bow their heads to idols and ideals.”

Thren looked to him, half his face in shadow, the other seeming to glow in the moonlight.

“You’re one such fool, aren’t you?” he asked.

Haern’s first instinct was to deny it, to declare his own strength to his father, and the realization nearly made him sick.

“You know nothing of me,” he whispered.

“I know you better than you would like to admit. That’s what frightens you.”

Haern crossed his arms, and he felt his patience wearing thin.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you even here?”

Thren sighed and put his back to the moon, framing his outline in silver, his face in darkness.

“I have no more time for games, Watcher. No more patience for it. You stand at a crossroads, and just this once, I’d like you to open your eyes and see the correct path. Fire and death are coming to Veldaren, but we can stop it if we’re strong. If you’re with me. Luther’s future does not have to come to pass.”

“If I’m with you?” asked Haern. “Tell me you jest, Thren. Tell me it’s all a joke.”

“Our lives are the joke. Don’t you get it? Humorous playthings in the hands of gods. I know the symbol you wear around your neck, and it isn’t the salvation you think it is. It’s a prison, a shackle weighing you down.”

He took a step closer, reached out his hand.

“You are the finest killer I have ever seen,” he said, his voice softening, almost pleading. “You are a thing of beauty, and I will not deny your sense of nobility and honor. But you’ve crafted yourself into something that cannot be maintained. There is a natural order to things, and it is not what you desire. The strong rule the weak, Haern. So it is in the wilds, so it is in our cities. Stop flailing. Stop struggling against the current of the river, the winds of the grasslands, the pull of the earth itself. You don’t need gods. You don’t need creeds and rules, and you don’t need forgiveness to remove the guilt you’ve been taught to feel. Stand at my side. Cast off the burden on your shoulders, and let go in your heart of those who would drag you into the grave.”