David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Haern almost reached out to her, wishing he could comfort her, but his hand remained at his side.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. “You deserve so much better.”

“I deserve nothing,” she said. “I have no family line. No money, no land, no reputation or soldiers sworn to my name. No matter how many years I stay at Alyssa’s side, I’ll always be the strange little woman lurking in the shadows. I’m a priestess hated by the only god she ever worshipped; a bodyguard abandoned by the only woman she ever loved; a stupid girl who killed the only man who ever loved her.”

“Stop it,” Haern said. “You’re more than that, so much more.”

She looked to him.

“And you?” she asked. “It’s good to see you back, Haern, but I fear you’ve returned far too late. Will you still prowl the night, even without reason?”

“I’ll always have reason.”

“And I’ll always have reason to protect Alyssa and her son,” she said. “But it only means I’m a stubborn fool.”

Haern shrugged.

“You’re hardly alone in that, either.”

Finally, she smiled, and it lit up her face, even if only for the briefest of moments. Zusa shifted so that she sat closer to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, her short hair pressing against his neck. Unsure of what to do, Haern slowly put his arm about her, and he felt her relax at his touch.

“I’m so tired, Haern,” she said. Her voice was quiet, distant. “I have no home, nowhere to go, no person to be. Have I robbed myself with my devotion? Has my love cheated me of a true life?”

“I pray not,” he whispered.

“But you’ve made it work. I’ve seen it, the way they care for you at that tower. Who are you, Haern? When the cloak and hood come off, who are you that allows them to love you so?”

He held her tighter against him, imagined Delysia’s betrayal, the way she’d struck his hand when he’d reached for her.

“I’m not sure I know anymore.”

They fell silent, Zusa in his arms, watching together as the deep night wore on. When she finally pulled away, a look was in her eyes, and he could not discern it.

“Forgive me,” she said.

And then she kissed him. His entire body froze, but she pressed herself against him, put her hands on his neck. They were so soft, so controlled, yet when he kissed back, he felt them dig into his skin with a strength bordering on desperation.

“Zusa,” he said, pushing her away, his scrambled mind trying to regain control.

“Don’t misunderstand this,” Zusa said as she unhooked his cloak and spread it out behind him on the rooftop. “A man and woman needing comfort. That’s all this is. Can you give me that?”

She put a hand on his chest, slipped it underneath his shirt to touch his skin.

“Please,” she said, and he saw a fragile honesty so rarely allowed upon her face. To reject her would break it, perhaps forever. She’d endure, he knew, but it’d be alone. Delysia’s face flashed in his mind, and he thought of his fumbling attempt to caress her. Her rejection had been the kindest possible, but it’d still left him feeling ashamed, foolish, lost. In time , she’d whispered. But now he saw only her tears, felt only her anger and betrayal as Ghost died at his feet. She might come to forgive him … but would she ever love him? Would there be enough time in the world for that wound to heal? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

A man and a woman needing comfort. Zusa was the one ready to break, the sorrow naked on her face, but as Haern reached out, he felt his need for comfort just as terrible. His hand looped behind Zusa’s neck, and pulled her close so he could kiss her again. Her hands were on him, and she breathed in his kisses as if afraid each one would be the last. Off went his shirt, as did hers, and she took his hands and placed them upon her breasts before forcing him onto his back, her lips returning to his. Even now, she needed to be in control, Haern sensed, but he let her, feeling swept away and refusing to do anything that might dare stop it. Another long moment later, she pulled up, her breathing heavy, the last of her clothes quickly removed. Haern stared at her in the moonlight, beautiful, naked, body so strong, eyes so dark.

Zusa leaned back so she could pull away his pants, then climbed atop him. One more kiss, and then she guided him inside, body curled into him, her forehead pressed against his. She moved slowly at first, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he reacted only in concert. His hands drifted down her sides until he held her waist, keeping her against him, almost fearing she might leave. The way she clutched his body, he knew she felt the same.

Haern leaned his head back, and above him, Zusa moved faster and faster. Her strong legs were unrelenting, and she closed her eyes and tilted her neck so that her short hair covered her face. For some reason, it made the moment all the more private and her all the more vulnerable. There was no denying her sorrow, her despair, but her pleasure was a mask across it, and that was one thing Haern could understand. Finally, he took control, pulling her against him, moving beneath her so that she could remain wrapped in his arms. Her lips flitted across his neck, everything even slower now, but it was enough.

His body tensed, his arms a vise, her moans in his ear, and then he let go. Slowly, he exhaled, and he felt her body go limp atop him. Still he held her, fearful of the moment when her warmth would leave him, when all the world would come crashing back in. Her face remained pressed against his neck, his skin wet from tears he didn’t realize she’d cried.

“Can you stay with me?” she asked.

“I will.”

His voice sounded so far away. Wishing for the right words yet not finding them, he clutched her thin frame tightly to his body, felt her shudder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, just as when they first started. She pulled off him, reached for his cloak, and then curled it about her so she could lie with her head on his chest and her eyes closed.

“It’ll be all right,” he whispered as she nestled against him. A sigh escaped her lips, content enough that he allowed himself to believe the lie he spoke. Her breathing steadied, and he put his arms around her, holding her close.

Happiness, he thought. At least one night of happiness.

It was only then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and let his own tears fall.

Pelarak, high priest of Karak’s faithful, rose from his bed at the sound of knocking. He grabbed his deep black robe from a hook on the wall, slid it over his thin body, and then opened the door to his room.

“What is it?” he asked another of the priests, a handsome, clean-shaven man named Essau.

“Grim tidings,” Essau said, bowing his head low. “I fear Daverik has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” said Pelarak. “How?”

In answer, Essau stepped aside, revealing two little girls standing in the dimly lit hall. The very sight of them was a prick to the back of his neck. Kneeling before them, he offered them his hands, yet they shied away, afraid.

“Lesha, Jayda, you have no reason to fear me,” he told them. “I am Karak’s most faithful, and so long as you are faithful too, then I am your fiercest protector in all the land.”

Lesha, the darker-skinned of the two, crossed her hands behind her back and looked to the floor. All her body but her face was covered with dark black and purple wrappings, and through the white cloth covering the gap, he saw that she was crying.

“What is the matter?” he asked. “Is it true? Did someone kill your master?”

“With a dagger,” Lesha said. “She told us not to come here. She said…”