David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“The Watcher’s dead!” he shouted. His deep voice echoed throughout the night. “Praise be, the Watcher’s dead! We are free!”

He heard no cry in return, but he felt it flowing through the city’s veins. Day was near, and when it arrived, they’d all listen, all wait to hear proof against the claim. But if none appeared, then come nightfall…

Four years of pent-up rage and vengeance would be unleashed across the city. This was everything he’d hoped for. Letting out another primal cry, he punched the air, his heart still pounding from the fight. The Watcher had been good, no question, but he’d been better. And if he was better, then nothing in Veldaren could stop them.

Not when the Suns came in from Mordeina, slipping through every crack and window. The city was ripe for the taking. Within days they would pluck it from the soft hands of the current guilds, and with an iron fist, show all of Dezrel who should truly be feared when the sun went down. It wasn’t Thren. It wasn’t the Watcher.

It was him.

When word reached Antonil, he pushed aside his morning meal and hurried to his room. A knot in his stomach, he put on his tunic with trembling hands. Over it went his armor; he needed the hard metal against his body to feel safe. If it was true… if the Watcher was dead…

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the cold truth. Victor had already stirred them into a frenzy. With the Watcher gone, his ability to keep the peace, whether it was symbolic or real, was over.

“Antonil,” Sergan said, spotting him as he exited the castle.

“I have matters to attend to,” Antonil said, not slowing.

“The king’s looking for you,” Sergan said. “He’s talking about calling in soldiers from all corners of Dezrel, even leaving his throne to… sir, please, listen to me!”

“It sounds like Edwin needs comforting,” Antonil said, spinning about and grabbing his friend by the shoulders. “Shame you weren’t able to catch me before I left the castle.”

Sergan swallowed, and his jaw clenched. “Understood, sir,” he said.

In peace, and without escort, Antonil passed through the streets. He looked like any other guard, and earned himself hardly a second glance. Ears open, he listened to the conversations, the hushed whispers of the marketplace. All wondered the same thing. The Watcher was dead? What did that mean? A few were glad, and some blamed all the bloodshed on him, but most understood. Most remembered the chaos of Thren’s decade-long personal war.

Antonil passed through the western gates of the city, then hooked off the beaten path. It wasn’t often he went to the Eschaton Mercenaries, only when he needed to speak with the Watcher personally about something he’d done or witnessed. But this was something he had to know. Rumors and questions would not suffice, nor would he entrust this knowledge to a messenger. Eyes downcast, he approached their tower along the edge of the King’s Forest. Pausing a moment before the door, he took a breath, then knocked.

“I am Sir Antonil, and I come to”-he hesitated a moment-“I come to speak with the Watcher.”

The door opened halfway, and Tarlak peered out from within.

“You alone?” the wizard asked.

“I am.”

“Good. Then come in.”

Antonil stepped into the well-furnished bottom floor of the tower. A fire burned low in the fireplace. The blacksmith, Brug, sat beside it, a full mug of ale sitting ignored beside him as he stared into the fire. Both the priestess and the Watcher were gone.

“You must know why I am here,” Antonil said as the door shut behind him.

“I know,” Tarlak said as he headed toward the stairs. “Follow me.”

On the fifth floor, Tarlak opened the door, and they stepped into the sparse room of the Watcher. He lay on his bed, pale, eyes closed, a blanket pulled all the way up to his neck. His hood was off, and Antonil looked upon his face. He was a handsome man, and that made his sickly look all the more noticeable. Beside his bed sat Delysia, dark circles under her eyes, her long red hair pulled back and slick with sweat. Blood covered her white robes.

“Try not to disturb him,” the priestess said. “He needs his sleep.”

“So he’s alive?” Antonil asked, trying to keep his relief in check.

“Barely,” Tarlak said, his voice low per Delysia’s request. “We’ve been out the past few nights trying to find this Widow killer at Alyssa Gemcroft’s expense. Last night Haern got himself in a fight. With whom, I have no idea. Throw a dart into a crowd and odds are high you’ll hit someone who wants him dead.”

It took Antonil a moment to realize the wizard had given him the Watcher’s true name. Did that signify their trust, or how much Tarlak was truly worried for his friend? Of course Antonil had already seen his face… did his name really matter? He looked to the wounded man, repeated the name in his head. Haern… a simple, earthy name. For some reason he’d always imagined the Watcher coming from a line of kings or assassins. But carrying the name of poor farmers?

“How’d he survive?” Antonil asked. “Rumors are saying his killer watched him die.”

“Who?” Tarlak asked, his voice rising. His fingers twitched, and they sparked with fire. “Who do they say it was?”

“His name is Grayson. I know little more than that.”

Tarlak nodded, repeating the name as he looked down at Haern. “If you pull down his covers, you’ll see burn marks around his middle finger. It was a ring I had Brug make for him. If he ever got in trouble, all he had to do was break the gem on top and I’d know where he was, sort of like a beacon. Found him hiding on a rooftop down in the southern district, bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“How bad are his wounds?”

“They would have been fatal,” Delysia said, slowly standing. She looked beyond exhausted. “Whoever this Grayson is, he was right to think him dead. He’d been stabbed through the side, pierced his lung so that it was filling up with blood. Something also hit the back of his head, and hard. If I hadn’t been there, if I’d shown up even a minute later…”

She fell silent, looked back to where Haern lay asleep. Tarlak hugged her, kissed her forehead. “Sometimes it pays to have a priestess of Ashhur as a little sister,” he said, forcing a smile.

Delysia smiled back, then took her seat once more at Haern’s bedside. Tarlak grabbed Antonil by the arm and led him from the room.

“How long until he’s better?” Antonil asked as the door shut behind them.

“Del’s been praying at his side every few hours,” Tarlak said. “She’s a miracle worker, but this is taxing her far more than I’d like. By the time we found him, I honestly thought Haern was dead. It’ll take two days, maybe three, before he’s a shadow of his former self.”

“That’s two to three days too long,” Antonil said as they returned to the bottom floor. “Everyone thinks this Grayson killed him. The truce between the guilds and the Trifect was already fraying. It is all but torn without him.”

“What do you want me to do?” Tarlak asked, his temper flaring. “Prop him up with some rope and dance him about the rooftops? He’s not leaving that bed. Announce to the city you’ve seen him, he’s alive and well, and that you expect everything to go on as normal.”

“They won’t believe me, and you know it.”

“Then get every soldier out into the streets, because tonight’s going to be anarchy!”

“Will you two shut your traps?” Brug called from over by the fire. “Making it hard for a man to enjoy his drink.”

Tarlak looked away as if ashamed. Antonil frowned, feeling similarly embarrassed.