David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Zusa forced him to look her in the eye.

“Protect them?” she asked. “Tell me … were they whipped?”

He said nothing.

“Stripped naked before their lover?”

Again, nothing.

She smashed her knee into his groin, then slammed his head back against the wood. Holding him by the hair, she pushed her other dagger tighter against the flesh of his throat.

“Damn you,” she seethed. “Did you not think to stop them? Did you not think to argue that no man can be seduced by a nine-year-old? ”

“I did what I could,” Daverik said, breathing quickened from the pain. “I swear, I did what I could. You know the laws-Karak’s laws-and they don’t change.”

Such a pathetic excuse, and even worse, she knew he believed it. By bringing them with him to Veldaren, hiding their faces, hiding every stretch of their skin with wrappings, he thought he made them pure. Made them holy.

“You’re sick,” she said. “Sick, blind, and pathetic.”

He looked down at her, and in his eyes, she saw something broken. Something empty.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Will you kill me?”

“You think you deserve better?”

With his free hand, Daverik grabbed her wrist, but instead of trying to force her away, he only pushed it harder so that it drew blood when he talked.

“I am but a sinful creature deserving death,” he said. “But what I’ve done, Zusa, even you would have done the same. The prophet is almost here, and the future he brings with him … I’ve given everything to save us from it.”

Zusa leaned closer, so that her lips could brush against his ear. She’d once kissed that man’s neck, once let his hands drift about her body, but now she only wanted him to feel the heat of her breath when she spoke.

“The prophet is a myth , you damn fool. All you’ve done, you’ve done for a lie, and now you’re dying for one.”

Before he might react, she cut across his throat, slicing it open. His blood spilled upon her. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could not form the words. Holding him aloft, she stared into his eyes as he died. She wanted the last thing he saw on this world to be her face, her eyes, empty of tears, empty of sorrow.

When he was gone, she freed her dagger, returned to the bedroom, and pulled open the door to the hidden room. The two girls were within still, and they’d completed the process so that their tiny little bodies were covered with wrappings. The sight of it brought tears to her eyes where Daverik’s death could not.

“Remove the cloth,” she told them. “Let me see your face.”

They looked to one another, clearly unsure, but with a bloody dagger in her hand and her chest covered with the blood of their master, she was hardly surprised they obeyed. Off came the white cloths, revealing their cherubic faces. Zusa knelt before them, but the first she reached for backed away.

“How long have you been with Daverik?” she asked them.

“Six months,” said the pale girl with the blue eyes.

“Then you’ve been taught to hide, to steal, to survive,” Zusa said. “Both of you, you have to understand. What happened, what you’ve been told … it’s not your fault. It was never your fault. Listen to me, I beg of you. There is no salvation for you at the Lion. There is nothing to feel shame over, nothing to condemn you. Your master is dead. Flee. No one will look for you. No one will know you’re gone, I promise. Make a life for yourselves; just please, do not return to the temple. Don’t let them hide everything wonderful about you. Your face is not sinful. Your hair is a gift, your eyes a temple, your smile a blessing. Let all the world see. Can you do that? Can you? You’re beautiful … so beautiful…”

She was crying, she realized, and the two girls stared at her with expressions she could not begin to read. They merely nodded, and when Zusa stepped away, the two ran for the door. Zusa watched them go, and in her gut, she felt certain they would return to the temple. Where else would they go? Here she was, sick and terrified of making a life for herself, and she was a woman grown. Them? Children.

She looked down to her wrappings, the markings of the faceless that she’d carried even after turning her back on Karak. Suddenly, every reason she’d ever used for keeping them rang false. Stupid, cowardly, and petty. She wanted nothing to do with them now. The only meaning they carried was that when those two girls first saw her, they saw what they would one day become.

Taking the bloody knife to her neck, she cut down, into the cloth. Tears still running down her face, she sliced them away, strip after strip. Her movements grew quicker, more rash. Sometimes she cut into herself, and she did not care. She wanted the wrappings gone. Hacking away, she freed herself from them as if they were bonds. Finally naked, she crouched atop the shredded remains, feeling the weight of the day crushing her. Openly, she sobbed, and there was something cleansing to finally letting it all free. She said good-bye to the memories, to her sisters, to every life she’d known before stumbling into Maynard Gemcroft’s mansion all those years before.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, and she felt her emotions seeping back under control.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the ghosts of the women who had once stayed there. “I’m so sorry, but I will wear them no more. Not even in remembrance of you.”

The drawers had no other clothes, which left her with but one choice. She went to Daverik’s body and stripped him naked. His trousers were a bit too wide, but she cinched the belt tight enough so they would not fall. Over her neck went the shirt, and she cut at its overly long sleeves with her dagger so they would not interfere. His blood was on it, and she stared down at the stain with a growing detachment. What did it matter, the blood?

“All for a myth,” she whispered, chest hollow, eyes wet.

To the growing dark outside she went, but before she did, she grabbed the lone copy of The Lion’s Walk and tossed it into the fire, let it burn with all the rest.

Into his adulterous city Thren walked, keenly aware she’d abandoned him for another. Night had fallen, and it seemed so strange to see how dead the streets had become. With the gate closed, he’d had to climb the wall, using a hook and rope stashed by his disbanded guild for whenever they needed to smuggle in goods better left unseen by the city guard. Before a lantern-wielding patrol discovered him, he’d paused, overlooking the homes. Even the very feel of the place was different, and he’d wondered just what it was he’d sensed.

Have you changed in my absence? he’d wondered. Or do you merely hide your head and pray for the Watcher to come save you?

At the end of the marketplace were several taverns, competing with one another for nightly clientele. The one on the left, the far more ragged-looking place named simply Filled Cup, had always been his former second-in-command’s favorite. Assuming he was still alive and Muzien had not killed him. Pulling his hood lower over his face, Thren pushed open the door and stepped into the lively bustle within.

It seemed tonight was a night for celebration. Men and women filled the seven tables, gathered together with plenty of drink to go around. Three of the tables were singing songs, though each of the songs was different from the others, which made them only compete to see whose song could drown out the others. Flitting through the tables, their assets on clear display, were the whores, smiling, laughing, acting as if each man were the handsomest they’d ever seen … at least until it was clear they had no coin to pay for the privilege. Of the women, all but one wore a simple yellow gem on a cord around their neck, pinned to their blouse, or in a ring on their finger. The gem signified their allegiance to Muzien, as well as who would come to their aid should someone try to skimp on a payment or play too rough in bed.