David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Haern pulled away from Brug and retrieved his swords from the chair.

“I’ve had more than enough time to rest,” he said. “Has every guild fallen to Muzien?”

“All but the Ash,” Tarlak said. “And I’m not sure if they’re still alive.”

Haern pulled his hood over his head, feeling the comfortable shadow encasing him.

“Let’s hope so. We could use whatever allies we may find.”

Haern went to the door, and he saw Tarlak go to stop him, then change his mind.

“Stay safe,” Tarlak called after him. “It’d be a damn shame for you die on your first night back home.”

Despite his dour mood, Haern chuckled.

“That it would, Tar,” he said, shutting the door to the tower behind him.

The walk to the looming walls of the city was a long and familiar one, and Haern felt himself slipping back into the persona he’d carefully crafted. His hood hung low over his face, his cloak disguising his movements, melding him into the darkness. At his sides were his swords, and at least they were a reliable comfort. He knew the fear he carried, the reputation, and as he began to run to close the distance, his troubles drifted away. Just like when he’d come home from the snow-covered northern plains or the distant city of Angelport, there was something comforting about his city’s familiarity. The guilds, the Trifect, the cowardly king: he knew them all and they him.

Using disguised handholds he’d had Tarlak magically carve into the side, Haern scaled the wall, slipped across it after a patrol passed on by, and then raced down the steps and to the street below. Home at last, he ran, letting the familiar sights welcome him … only, the sights weren’t so familiar. Street after street, he checked for the hidden markings of the Wolf Guild, the scrawled legs of the Spider Guild, even the thick smear of Ash, but they were not there. Along the sides of homes and stalls, and even in the very street, he saw only where they’d been. The symbols had been burned, scraped, and painted over if necessary. No guilds, no colors.

Just the Sun.

“You weren’t kidding, Tar,” Haern said as he continually scanned the rooftops on either side of him. Surely a scout from one of the guilds would have located him by now. Haern used a window to vault up, and from atop a shop he looked about. No one. The night was calm, and he did not like it. Panic nipped at the edges of his mind. Going into the city, he’d always felt in control, the mad puppeteer holding all the strings, but it seemed his absence had been far too long.

Haern raced along the rooftops, extended his body to leap across the alleys, his legs pounding to keep up speed, his body shifting to adjust his weight as he moved across the consistently uneven terrain. Sometimes he stopped, but each time was only to see the symbol of the Sun, a reminder of the underworld’s new king. The truce, his deal with the king … Haern tried not to dwell on it, to let the pounding blood in his veins drown it out, but all he could think of was how his entire legacy, everything he’d killed for, had vanished like a puff of smoke from the end of Tarlak’s pipe.

His movements slowed. It seemed there would be no trouble that night, not unless he went looking for it in the various safe houses about the town … and even then he had no guarantee they’d be in use anymore. And with the silence, with the isolation amid the shadows, he could not hide from his thoughts.

You wanted me to be there for you …

Always, he thought. Always, he’d relied on Delysia to understand, to never judge him for the blood on his blades.

… I’m not sure I can …

His foot slipped, and he rolled down a slanted rooftop, gaining his balance only moments before leaping over an alley and crashing along the wood shingles of another.

I can’t be the one to help you remember who you are.

Teeth clenched, he tried pushing himself back up, to run with a frenzy and purpose that showed he still ruled the night. Instead, he stumbled again, and when he leaped to the next home, he did not cover the distance necessary. Arms out, he caught the side, felt the shingles dig into his hands. His momentum sent his knees smacking into the side, and he sucked in air to keep his cry down. Pulling himself up, he crouched there, body heaving breaths in and out, as he felt his deadened mind betray him with its cruel remembrance.

Your father would be so proud.

It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. He’d denied him, denied everything his father would have him become. That’s why he wore the Wraith’s hood … wasn’t it? His choices, his killing of Ghost, they all had their reasons. The type of man to treat life as a mere obstacle in the way of his goals … that wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

But Delysia was supposed to be there for him, to let him know if he ever stepped foot on his father’s path; only, now she was gone, he was alone, and all he had were his memories of the arrow piercing her breast intertwined with the way she’d stared at him with a mixture of horror and rage as he lifted a bloodied saber to ensure she did not heal the dying Ghost.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and looked out across the city. He’d once sworn to never call it his city, and he understood the wisdom of that even more clearly. Only a few months gone and it had forgotten him, moving on to new masters, with the Darkhand spreading fear with strength far beyond what he as the Watcher had fostered. There was a way to pull it back to him, he knew. All he had to do was inspire fear above all others, just as he’d once set out to do that night Senke died. But doing so would take him to places far beyond comfort. Onto a path he might recognize all too painfully well.

As he looked, he finally saw another with him on the rooftops, and a familiar face at that. Trying to shove away his troubled thoughts, he carefully made his way there, having to climb down only once to cross a street and then snake back up the side of a home. Sitting with her back against a stone bird atop a modest mansion, Zusa stared into nowhere, head resting on her knuckles.

“A quiet night,” Haern said, standing beside her.

“If only all may be this quiet,” Zusa said, eyes never shifting. Haern followed her gaze, and in the distance, he saw the Gemcroft mansion, its windows shining by the light of dozens of candles. Around its fences patrolled men with torches, looking like little bugs in the night.

Haern noticed her clothing, loose-fitting pants and a shirt that clearly did not belong to her. There was blood on it, though from no apparent source. Tarlak had said nothing of the Trifect, Haern realized, and he wondered just how well Alyssa had taken Muzien’s rise and subsequent dissolution of the Watcher’s truce. By the looks of it, not well at all.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

She finally looked his way, and he saw the redness of her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

Haern pushed his cloak aside so he could sit. Looking about, he saw they were very much alone, and he removed his hood as well. Hiding his face from her seemed pointless given their time in Angelport, and honestly, did it matter if someone else saw? Reckless, he knew, but his foul mood made him not care.

“Trouble at the mansion?” he asked, seeing her gaze return to her home.

“In a way,” she said. “Alyssa will soon marry Victor Kane, and I fear I will no longer be welcome in their home.”

Haern did not bother containing his surprise.

“You’ve been with Alyssa since the beginning,” he said. “How could you not be welcome?”

Zusa rubbed at her eyes, and he heard her sniffle.

“Because staying means obeying that madman as if he were an equal to Alyssa. I can’t do it, Haern. I can’t pretend to serve him.”