David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“Tarlak’s not searching for the Widow,” he said. “You’d tell me that. What’s going on, Del?”

She dipped a washcloth in a basin at her feet, then wiped his forehead. The cold water felt glorious, and he tried to relax as she dipped it again, this time moving it across his neck.

“The man who attacked you,” she said hesitantly. “His name is Grayson. He told all the guilds that he’d killed you, and they believed him.”

Haern felt his blood chill.

“How bad is it out there?” he asked.

She shook her head, clenched her teeth. Into the basin went the washcloth.

“I can see the fires from the window,” she said. “Beyond that… I don’t know.”

Haern curled his hands into fists. As his heart pounded, a bright light flashed across his eyes, and his headache intensified tenfold. He clenched his eyes shut, let out a gasp. Immediately Delysia’s hands were upon his face, still cold from the water. He heard whispers of a prayer, and a distant ringing of an unearthly bell. Waiting out the pain, he focused on her touch, until at last her fingers pulled away, and the pain with them.

“I know you were stabbed deep,” he heard her say. “But the blow to your head worries me more. I never saw this when at the temple, but I did hear of warriors who suffered symptoms such as yours. It can last for days, if not weeks or months. You need to rest. I’ll do what I can, I promise.”

The thought of enduring such headaches, of feeling that pain throbbing from the top of his head down to his feet for weeks, was horrifying. He remembered how when he was fighting Grayson his balance had consistently eluded him, and at times his vision had even gone blank. How could he be the Watcher under such a handicap? How could he tame the chaos Tarlak was out there struggling against while he lay there stricken?

“He was right,” Haern said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Damn it, he was right.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Victor. He said this would happen. He knew I’d fail like this one day. He knew it. I was a fool to think I could control them. To think I could do this forever.”

A sudden cough hit him, and he turned to one side. Each sharp breath hurt, and he coughed louder, harder. He spit blood across his white sheets, the rest dribbling down his lip.

“Shit,” Haern said, seeing it. He lay back down and closed his eyes as he felt the beginning of another headache forming. Tears swelled, and he was too sick to stop them. Delysia’s cloth went back to work, cleaning away the blood, even dabbing at his tears.

“What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “Was it ever right?”

“It isn’t my place to tell you,” Delysia said. “But I don’t think you’re a fool. I don’t think you’re a failure. You’re allowed to err, Haern. No one would believe you human otherwise.”

“And what if Tarlak dies out there tonight? Does that make me even more human?”

It was a cheap blow, but the worries were valid, and what weighed most heavily on his mind. It should be him out there bleeding and dying to protect the city. He’d given his life away as an orphaned child, sworn it while watching the Connington mansion burn years ago during the Bloody Kensgold. He could have kept killing. He could have continued his attempts to wipe them all out. But instead he’d forced peace. A fool’s peace, the weight of it solely on his shoulders. And now it was breaking, and it seemed all the world had seen it coming.

“Stop this,” Delysia said. Her voice was soft, wavering from the anger and determination behind it. “This isn’t you. I didn’t sit at your bedside praying so you could wallow in misery and doubt. I didn’t do it because you are a fool, or I feared for my brother’s safety.”

“Then why?”

His eyes still closed, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. In answer, she knelt down over him, her hair cascading across his face, and then pressed her lips to his. He almost resisted, almost turned away, but could not. He kissed back, gently lifting a hand so he could touch her face. His mind whirled, too sick and tired to think of anything beyond the softness of her lips. When she pulled away, he finally dared open his eyes to look. She was tired, her eyes swollen and black from exhaustion, but through it all he saw a strength greater than his, and he clutched her hand tightly as if to never let it go.

“The world will continue without you,” she told him. “People will kill, steal, bleed, and die, whether you live or not. Stop judging yourself by what you’ve done with your swords. If you would despair, remember those who love you. Let your life be judged by that instead.”

“Do you love me, Delysia?” he whispered.

She met his eye, and he saw the hardness in her soften. She nodded, and he reached for her. She curled against his chest, and he let his hands surround her, let his face press against her hair as he kept his breathing controlled so he would not cough blood upon her. Together they lay there, not moving, not talking. The comfort of each other’s presence was enough.

“I don’t know if I can,” Haern said after a time. “I’ve hurt everyone I loved. And I can’t hurt you, Delysia. I could never live with myself if I did.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll still be here. I always will be.”

A memory came to him, from when they were just children, and he still in the care of his father. Together they’d met in secret on a rooftop, for Thren had denied him any knowledge of faith or love, all to make him the perfect killer. With Delysia, Haern had glimpsed a life with meaning, with purpose… only to have Thren shoot Delysia with an arrow, her bleeding body falling into his arms. That she’d survived at all was a miracle, a parting gift from another woman he’d loved before Thren had killed her. He thought of that moment, of how his cruel life had so vehemently rejected such a light as hers.

He couldn’t bear the thought of it again. He couldn’t hold her in his arms and watch her die. Whatever good in him existed would break. Did she know that? Did she understand?

“Let me sleep,” he said.

Her fingers went to stroke his cheek, but hesitated just before. Before she could pull away, he leaned forward, forcing the touch, turning his face so she could cup him with her hand. She said nothing, only held him for a moment before leaving him alone in his room to sleep.

But instead of sleeping, he turned to one side and through the window watched the distant flicker of flame that spread throughout his beloved city, burning away like a hundred candles lit in memorial.

“These damn idiots have a funny way of celebrating,” Brug muttered as he kicked a corpse that lay at his feet. Tarlak had to agree.

“Whatever they don’t want, they’re burning,” Tarlak said, rubbing his throbbing temples. “Good thing they want nearly everything.”

The two stood near the center of town, before a home with wrecked windows and a smashed-in door. Tarlak could only begin to guess why they’d chosen that particular place. The owner lay at the entrance, dragged out and throat cut. They’d arrived too late to do much of anything other than give the dead man vengeance. Three dead Wolves-just a fraction of the guilds roaming the night.

“It’s all meager pickings,” Brug said, wiping blood off his punch daggers. “Been out here for hours, and only small-time stuff. One of them’s got to have something bigger planned. Maybe the Conningtons’ place, or Alyssa’s.”

“Might not have anyplace big to hit,” Tarlak said, walking aimlessly north. “Both have their places crawling with guards. It’s the rest of the city that’s vulnerable, but thankfully Victor and Antonil have their men running round like mad.”