David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Then again, she’d seen his strength. For good or ill, giving up didn’t ever seem to be an option with him. Slowly, carefully, as if reaching toward a frightened animal, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She wanted to be reassuring, but such talk was awkward for her, almost foreign to her tongue. It didn’t help that she was unaware of his deeper troubles.

“You are strong,” she said. “None can defeat you, so do not be afraid.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Haern said, but despite the frustration in his voice, he did not pull away from her touch. “I may kill thousands, but I will still die. What happens then, Zusa? What will I have accomplished? There will be no peace when I am buried, only a celebration of fire, theft, and murder.”

Zusa swallowed. “Tears will be shed.”

“Not for me.”

“You are wrong.”

He stood, but his head remained low, his back hunched. His cloaks curled over him like gray wings. Her admission seemed to slide off him like water.

“Fine then,” Zusa said, feeling her temper flaring. “What if you’re right, and it is pointless? Why continue?”

Haern chuckled. “Because I’m not dead yet. Have a safe night, Zusa.”

“You too, Watcher.”

Pulling his hood over his head hid his face in shadow, but she could still see his mouth, and the way it curled into a half-smile at the mention of the Watcher.

“Haern,” he said. “To you, let me always be Haern. The Watcher should have no friends.”

At this she laughed, then blew him a kiss as he vanished into the night. Staring where he’d been, she thought on his words.

“Victor,” she whispered. “Who is Victor?”

Haern had told her to look into it, so she would, but not yet. With his absence, her mind drifted once more to the mansion, and Melody waiting there. Must she burden Alyssa with even more worries? Whoever this Victor was, Zusa hoped that he would indeed be friend instead of foe. Their life had been turned upside down enough as it was.

She once more took to running across the rooftops, the exertion welcome to her muscles. She was getting older, felt it in her bones. It had been nine years since she’d stumbled upon a frightened, endangered Alyssa. Zusa had been young then, but not anymore. It seemed everyone she knew was getting older. How long until even the Watcher was nothing but bent back and wrinkled hands? At the image she laughed. As if Haern would ever age. He probably wouldn’t let it happen, too stubborn for even time to defeat him.

Old instincts guided her along, up walls, through windows, and across dark alleys many feared to tread when the sun went down. She was unaware of where she went, her thoughts elsewhere, but when she crept to the top of a roof and stared out across the street before her, she shivered. Sinking into old patterns, she’d come to the temple of Karak, hidden deep in Veldaren’s wealthy district. A thousand memories assaulted her, most of them painful. The beatings. The trials. The methodical breaking of everything that made her a woman, coupled with the hiding of her body and face with cloth and wrappings. The priests had branded her a faceless, an outcast meant only to serve in penance.

But not all the memories were terrible. She fondly recalled her sisters Eliora and Nava, and their camaraderie in the face of such persecution. And of course Daverik’s touch, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands upon her, before they’d been discovered, been punished…

A chill spread through her chest, and she shoved such memories away. Looking to the temple, she muttered a curse, a hope that the earth would swallow up the obsidian pillars and lion statues, leaving nothing but a scar where the temple had been. And it was then that she saw the movement, just a shadow among shadows. The sight of it nearly stopped her heart.

“No,” she whispered.

Drawing her daggers, she leaped from the roof and gave chase. It had been heading north, a black shape with a cloak. But it was no thief she’d seen. Oh no, something far worse than that. Her legs pumped, and she was but a blur on the streets. When she lost sight of her prey, she leaped atop a nearby home and catapulted herself into the air. Calling upon the innate powers she’d developed over her years of training, she sailed forward, her arms outward, her daggers pointed down like the talons of a hawk. As she slowly fell, she once more spotted her prey. Twisting her arms together, Zusa spun, and she plummeted at a vicious speed.

When she landed, it was upon a large two-story set of homes, the roof long and flat. Before her, at the edge of the roof, was her nightmare. She wore black and dark-purple wrappings, tightly woven around her body. A white cloth covered her face, masking her features. A gray cloak trailed behind her.

Another faceless.

“Who are you?” Zusa asked as the other woman turned around, her own daggers drawn.

“You?” the faceless woman asked, her voice revealing her surprise. “Zusa, yes? The betrayer, the murderer of the faithful. They’ve told us of you, warned us of your blasphemy.”

“They?” asked Zusa, her whole body tensing. “I was the last of the faceless. What cruel joke are you?”

“My name is Ezra,” the woman said, adopting a crouch similar to Zusa’s. Her body was thinner, and shorter. Judging by the voice and the hint of features she could see through the cloth mask, Zusa guessed her to be very young. “And I am the first of the new. The order has been remade, and it is my honor to deliver you to Karak so we might wash away your sins with blood.”

“My sins?” Zusa asked, grinning. “Which ones?”

“You show your face,” said Ezra. “You are a disgrace. A weakling. My faith will bring you low!”

Ezra’s lithe body uncoiled, leaping out like a viper, her daggers twin fangs. Zusa fell back, surprised by the speed. Twisting to one side, she avoided a stab, then batted away the other. Planting her feet, she ducked low and cut. Ezra blocked with both her daggers, then tried to kick. A foolish move. Zusa spun again, her feet dancing. When she leaped forward, Ezra was out of position, the snap-kick having put her balance at risk. Her daggers flashed in, finding flesh. Ezra screamed, but instead of countering, she tried to retreat.

Zusa gave her no chance. Her grim smile remained. Ezra was younger, faster, but she was clearly new to the order, and could not hope to match the sheer skill Zusa had developed over many long years. She’d fought the Watcher to a standstill. This little whelp of a woman was nothing compared to that. A feint pulled Ezra’s weapons out of position, and then Zusa stepped close, leg sweeping. Ezra hit the ground with a cry of pain. Blood spilled across the rooftop. Zusa fell atop her, knees pressing against her shoulders, locking them in place. With one hand Zusa clutched Ezra’s wrists together, the other pressing a dagger against the woman’s throat.

“You think your faith means anything?” Zusa asked, breathing the question into her ear. “You think it gives you the strength to challenge me? You are a fool, Ezra, as is whoever brought back our order.”

“Kill me,” Ezra said. “I am not afraid.”

Zusa’s eyes narrowed. She shifted her weight, tightening with her thighs so that she squeezed against the two stab wounds she’d given Ezra in her stomach. They weren’t deep enough to be fatal, but they’d certainly hurt like the Abyss. Ezra clenched her teeth, but Zusa squeezed tighter until she finally let out a scream.

“You should be afraid of me,” Zusa said, pressing the dagger hard enough to draw a drop of blood. It ran down the edge of her dagger, then dripped from the hilt to the dark wrappings. “I can do more than hurt you.”

She picked up Ezra’s wrists, then slammed them down to make her drop her weapons. With her unarmed, Zusa then took the dagger from her throat and began to cut, quick, calculated strikes. She knew where. She’d wrapped herself in a similar manner for over a decade. The wrappings about Ezra’s face fell to the roof, exposing her small nose, cream-colored skin, and short brown hair. Her hazel eyes stared up at Zusa with a mixture of horror and fury.