David Dalglish: A Dance of Ghosts

“And that is why it must be me,” Melody said. She put a hand on the stone wall beside her, but the stones were clammy, and when she pulled back, dirty water was on her fingertips. The old man, Warsh, continued on as if not realizing she had paused.

“If you insist,” Warsh said. The hand not holding aloft the torch scratched at his balding pate. “I wonder at what magic you think you have to make him listen.”

“Not magic,” Melody said, continuing once more to follow. Her right hand clutched tighter at the jar wrapped in cloth she held. “Just a song and a gift.”

“I’d more suggest offering freedom, but I doubt he’d stay loyal to you the moment he stepped into the open air. Impressive, really. Usually, after a few years with the gentle touchers, a man would willingly obey.”

“I am well aware of the sick things the gentle touchers might do to a man,” Melody said. “Or a woman.”

The venom in her voice caused the old man to stop and turn.

“The gentle touchers have served the Conningtons since the earliest days of the Gods’ War,” Warsh said, staring at her with his red, weepy eyes. “Kings and thieves, peasants and princes, they’ve all had their time in these cells. There is an art to what we do, a gift that involves a lifetime of sacrifice and study. I understand your anger for what my fellows have done to you, but I assure you none of it was ever done with malice. You were like a painting, Melody, a beautiful painting, and you endured greater than most any I have seen descend these stairs. When Leon died, and Stephen granted you your freedom, I was so very happy for you. So, please, remember that you are a guest here now, not a prisoner, nor a queen, so treat us gentle touchers with the respect we deserve.”

Melody bit back her retort. Instead, she dipped her head and gestured for Warsh to continue.

At the bottom of the stairs deep beneath the Connington mansion, closed in on either side by stone walls, there was a single door. Melody felt her breath catch at the very sight of it. She had seen that door only twice. The first was when she’d been dragged there by the bulbous Leon himself. The second had been when Leon’s son, Stephen, had granted her her freedom … nine years later. The wood was aged and thick, blackened steel strips and bolts holding it together. On the other side would be the rows of cells, having never once been touched by the light of the sun. After all those years, all her suffering and torture, she was to return, and guided back by one of her torturers, no less.

“I would understand,” Warsh said, seeing her hesitance. There was pity in his old eyes, and for some reason it made her angry.

“Open it,” she said.

Stepping into the dungeon filled her heart with terror, but she choked it down. The darkness closed in on her, and the distant dripping of water in the prison’s lone well brought back countless nights of passing the time counting those little plinks. She pushed it away. Keeping her head high, keeping her eyes on Warsh’s torch, she followed him along the path. They passed the cells to either side of her, the fronts barred but the sides built of thick stone, preventing any one prisoner from seeing another. Nearly all of them were empty. Stephen had cleared out most upon his ascension to control of the Connington fortune, but a few he’d left alive, the few with special purpose, or those the gentle touchers had asked to leave under their care for political or social reasons. Sometimes, even kings wanted someone to disappear, after all.

Step after step, she felt her breath tightening, and at last she stopped before the cell that had been hers. She put her hands upon the cold bars, leaned in close. It’d been more than a year since her stay within, but still she remembered every last crack and scrape upon the stone. She saw the marks she’d made to signify the months and years, scratched with another piece of stone she’d managed to pry loose from the ground. So many times she’d thought to use that stone to slit her throat but never did. It’d have been a sin to die in such a way, and she would not kneel before her beloved Karak only for him to rebuke her for her rejecting the life he’d given her. So, instead, she’d sung her songs, flooding the darkness with the only worthwhile thing she had left to offer.

Warsh said nothing, only stayed behind her, torch held high to help her. He seemed to understand her curiosity at seeing it, her need to be before the place of her lengthy torture. There on the floor she saw the pillow they’d given her, still in the corner where she’d left it. There on the wall were the chains Leon would put her in when he came down for his perverted pleasure. And everywhere, just faded spots on the stone, were the dried markings of her blood.

“Where are the other touchers?” she asked, her voice faint even to her own ears.

“They are away,” Warsh said. “I was the only one to never lay a hand upon you, and that is why they felt it best I be the one to accommodate your request.”

“Are they afraid of me?” she asked.

Warsh shrugged.

“You’re a woman of power now. They are not unreasonable in their fear.”

Melody felt a bitter smile stretch across her face.

“The gentle touchers are the ones afraid of me ,” she said. “I guess I should find humor in that. But they’re right to hide. Should I have seen them … I might not have been forgiving.”

Closing her eyes, Melody prayed to Karak once more for the strength to continue, for wisdom to influence the words she was to speak. And then she continued on to the next cell, and to the man she’d come to find.

He was chained to the wall on his knees, his arms spread wide and clamped down with iron. His skin was dark as obsidian, and when he stared out at her with his brown eyes, the whites seemed to nearly glow in the gloom. His stare followed her as she walked alone to the door, much like a panther might watch its prey. He was naked from the waist up, revealing several brutal scars running across his chest. Dirty hair was matted to his face, and an uneven beard grew from his chin. Even on his knees, she could tell he was a giant of a man. His body was obviously malnourished, yet he still had enough muscle to overpower any ordinary man.

Without a word, Warsh ambled forward, unlocked the door, and then gestured for her to enter.

“Do you have a name?” Melody asked as she stepped inside. She glanced back once, involuntarily. No matter how hard she berated herself, she could not shake the fear that she’d be locked into one of the cells, this time to stay forever.

“I once had many names,” said the prisoner.

“Tell me your real name.”

The man chuckled as if terribly amused.

“I do not know it anymore,” he said. “The gentle touchers here have pricked me, beaten me, burned flesh, and dislocated joints, yet I have no one to blame for that particular loss beyond my own wretched self.”

Melody crossed her arms, studying the man further. He spoke eloquently enough, and despite the years she knew he’d been imprisoned, he acted fairly controlled and aware of his surroundings.

“I was told you were once a skilled killer,” she said.

“I was,” said the man. “One of the very best there ever was.”

“Until the Watcher defeated you.”

At the name, the prisoner tensed, and his smile faded away.

“I let my guard down; that is all. I was better. I should have won.”

Melody could tell he believed it. She shifted the cloth package she held from one hand to the other, trying to decide how best to broach her request.

“I have need of you,” she said at last.

“And I have need of many things, but you’re fooling yourself if you think I’m going to let you debase me any further than you already have. I won’t be your slave just because you’ve thrown me into a prison and left me to rot, Melody.”