David Dalglish: A Dance of Ghosts

She took a step back, surprised he knew her name.

“Oh, yes, I’ve been told all about you,” he said, seeing her reaction. “You’re some highborn whore of the Trifect whose very presence should leave me in awe.” He glared at Warsh. “They wanted me to behave.”

Melody walked over and slapped him across the face.

“I am not some highborn whore,” she said. “I was the wife of Maynard Gemcroft. Soon, the entire wealth of the Gemcroft family will be in my hands, and I assure you, I have earned every single gold coin that will touch my fingers.”

“Forgive me,” said the man. “My years down here have stolen from me my usual courtesy, but you’re convincing no one but yourself that you earned the pile of wealth you either married or were born into. Look around you, woman. Do you think you could even comprehend the suffering I’ve endured?”

Despite his anger, his naked hatred, she stepped even closer, falling to her knees before him, not caring that it would sully her dress. The floor was cold, shivers worked their way up her spine, but it had to be done.

And then she began to sing.

“ I was born beneath a darkened sky, ” she sang. “ Screaming out a false name. I was born while the Lion roared, yet I could not hear him, could not hear him … ”

At her words, a change came over him, and for the first time since stepping before his cell, she saw him let down his guard.

“You,” he whispered when she fell silent, her song over. “The woman beside me, the one who sang…”

Melody rose from her knees.

“Stephen freed me a year ago,” she said. “Nursed me back to health before revealing me to the world. You remember my voice, don’t you? Remember my sorrow? Would you still mock my suffering, my understanding of your world? You’ve been here for four years, yet I suffered for nine in this cruel place.”

“I thought they killed you,” the man said. “When they took away everyone else, when they emptied out this horrible place, I thought they killed you. Your voice, I’ve missed it. Melody? Your name is Melody…”

Even the lowliest of criminals will cling to order when lost in darkness, but only if you offer it to them, thought Melody, mirroring the words she’d learned from Luther’s tutelage of Karak’s way. She stepped closer, slowly, carefully letting her hand brush the side of his face. It was warm and slick with sweat, but unlike with the stone beside the stairs, she did not pull away in revulsion.

“I’ve come to free you,” she said. “All I ask is that you kill those who are a danger to my ascension. Because of them, they put our entire city at risk of destruction and fire.”

“Who are they?” he asked.

“A woman named Zusa,” Melody said. “She used to be one of Karak’s faceless women, and now protects my daughter with a disturbing zeal. Her very existence threatens my own, and she must be dealt with swiftly. You’ll find her skulking about our mansion, acting like the loyal watchdog she is.”

“Who else?” he asked.

“The Eschaton Mercenaries continue to interfere with my plans. Do you know of them?”

The man nodded.

“I do. Is that all?”

“No,” she said. One name left, the one she’d felt certain would earn his cooperation no matter how stubborn he might be.

“The Watcher,” she said. “He’s gone into hiding, but you can find him, can’t you? Bring him to justice?”

The man fell silent for a long moment, then nodded.

“For three long years, the beauty of your voice helped me endure the darkness,” he said. “For that, I owe you greatly. Release me.”

Melody stepped away, and she gestured for Warsh. The old man hobbled forward, a set of keys jangling in his wrinkled hands. Off came one lock, then the other. With a groan, the dark-skinned man stretched and leaned forward, letting out gasps of pain as his back popped. Warsh exited the cell, and he cast a strange look at Melody as he did. Not caring what it meant, Melody at last unfurled the cloth from around the small box she’d brought with her.

“I’ve been told of your certain … peculiarities,” she said. “So, I brought this with me. I thought it might help remind you of who you were and who you truly are.”

She put the box down before him, and he reached over for it and removed the top. Within was an expensive white powder, and it clung to his fingers when he dipped his hand inside. With practiced efficiency, he bathed in the powder, covering the skin of his face, even rubbing it into the uneven growth on his chin. That done, he put aside the box and rose to his feet. There was something truly terrifying about him then, the contrast of the paint on his skin, the way he towered over her, rising up as if from a grave. He smiled at her, and for the first time, it seemed as if he were truly alive.

“I once had many names, but Ghost was the one I carried the longest,” he said. “And after four years in this death pit, I daresay I’ve earned the damned title.”

He stretched out his hand and she took it. His fingers were puffy and speckled with scars, the results of the gentle touchers’ needles.

“The Watcher, the Eschaton, and the faceless woman,” said Ghost. “I’ll kill them all but the Watcher. Him I get to drag down these stairs and make suffer just as I suffered. After that, I make my own life.”

There was a nobleness to him, a sincerity to his promise. Above all, he doubted not a single word he spoke. The deaths of her enemies, the interlopers to Karak’s great plan, would die by Ghost’s hands.

Melody smiled.

“Then we have a deal.”

Haern did not consider himself a skilled tracker when it came to the wilderness, but it didn’t take much to know a successful ambush when he saw one.

“Impressive,” Thren muttered as they looked upon the carnage.

It’d only been three days since they had overrun the Sun Guild wagons, and they’d traveled through light forest for all three, following the well-worn path toward the Gods’ Bridges. Not long after dawn, they’d traversed a brief stretch of hills, rising up like warts on the land amid the forest. At the top of the third hill, they’d come upon the bloodied remnants of what had once been men and women. Blood soaked much of the road, and at the crest of the hill was a great pit where there’d been a fire. Haern tried to count the bodies, but they were all cut to pieces and strewn about as if they were but playthings for their murderers. Crows had already descended upon the various pieces, and they shrieked out their annoyance at Haern and Thren’s arrival.

“Should we proceed?” Haern asked as he drew his swords. “Whoever did this might still be near.”

Thren shook his head, walking nonchalantly into the midst of the gore.

“If there was an ambush planned, it’d already be sprung on us,” he said, glancing about as if looking for something. “These butchers have already moved on.”

Haern followed his father, and he winced at the smell. From what he could tell, the deaths were recent, perhaps only the day before. He stepped over a severed hand, kicked at a crow pecking at a face, and then searched the ground for any sort of belongings, finding none.

“Bandits?” he asked.

“It seems as such,” Thren said, kneeling down before a mutilated head, half a spine still connected at the base. He brushed aside stiff, dark hair to reveal an ear torn in multiple places.

“The last of the Sun Guild who fled,” Haern said, guessing at what his father was inferring. “Whoever killed them ripped out the earrings.”

“That would be my guess,” Thren said, standing up and giving a disapproving glare about the hill. “Though whoever did it has rather poor taste.”