David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“People are too scared to form bucket lines,” he said. “The fires will only spread.”

She sighed. She should have known, of course. Probably did, even, but let her hatred blind her. Let the whole city burn, she’d thought plenty of times, so long as it burned the rats with it. But this was her war now, and that meant dealing with all its ills, all its blame.

“Send someone to the castle. Tell the king I request the aid of his soldiers in putting out the fires. With the castle guard there, it should outweigh any fear.”

“Self-preservation is strong,” Arthur said, letting her go. “For so many to remain in hiding, willing to lose everything to the fire, shows how great a fear you have created.”

“I meant to scare the thieves,” she said. “Not the innocent. But are there any innocent anymore? How deep does Veldaren’s sickness run? Maybe I should let it burn, all of it. My son is nothing but ash, so why not them, why not…?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, and in them she let herself cry. She found herself crying often in his presence. There was a strength in him, and a desire to please. More than anything, she felt she could trust him. He’d been there for her when she needed him most.

“Was this wrong?” she asked. “Have I truly erred so badly?”

His response was long delayed, to the point she thought he might not answer.

“You have done what you thought was right, and what was best for the Gemcroft family. I will not fault you for that, if you will do the same for me.”

“And what is that, Arthur?”

He turned her about and kissed her. His hands were firm on her shoulders. She felt herself responding. She was so exhausted, so drained. His touch was like an awakening, a pull from a nightmare that threatened to consume her day in and day out.

“The messenger,” she breathed while her mind remained able to think.

Arthur leaned close, his hot breath against her ear.

“Let the fires burn a little longer. If the cowards cannot save their own city, the blame lies with them.”

The study lacked a bed, but the carpet was soft. They made love, him atop her. She wrapped her arms around his chest and clutched him as if her life might end if she let go. She tried to forget the death and fire, her call for revenge. Even as the pleasure tore through her, she could not help but wonder if that wicked, wicked man responsible for the death of her son lay dead somewhere in the street, or if his body were nothing but ash in a distant fire. Atop her, Arthur continued to grunt and thrust.

*

T he arrival of the sun was a blessed thing to Veldaren’s citizens. The mercenaries retreated, having fought and searched long through the night. Those with cloaks and colors buried themselves inside whatever safe houses they had to recuperate and plan. Those who sided with neither filled the streets, forming bucket lines from the wells and digging ditches to combat the fires. Many others went to their families and friends, needing confirmation of their survival before beginning their daily tasks. The market’s bustle was subdued, the streets awash with murmurs.

Haern watched it all through the window of the small apartment. The fire had gotten dangerously close to Senke and Delysia’s home, reaching all the way to Prather’s Inn and burning it to the ground. People were everywhere, half-buried in the smoke that billowed from the dying fire. Soldiers of Veldaren hurried about, but their presence in the streets did nothing to ease people’s minds.

“You look troubled,” Delysia said, and he flinched as if poked with a stick. Blushing for no reason, he turned back to her and accepted the cup of warm milk she’d brought him.

“I mixed in some herbs,” she said, sitting opposite him in a rickety chair. “You’ll sleep well, and by looks of it, you could use the rest.”

He thanked her again and sipped the milk, wisely deciding not to comment on how terrible the drink tasted. His eyes lingered on her face, and he struggled not to make his staring obvious. She’d grown so much over the past five years, filling out into womanhood. Her hair was longer, but still the same fiery red. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and in her priestess robe she looked almost regal. Her chest was also significantly larger. Out of everything, he tried to make sure his glances at that remained uncaught.

He continued to sip the drink, mostly to avoid conversation. He had no clue what to say to her. The last time they’d met, he’d come to her in desperate need for guidance. He’d needed to understand a life outside the cold retribution of his father. His tutor, Robert Haern, had spoken of the god Ashhur, and now here she was, a priestess of the same god. His thoughts had turned only to survival, yet now came back with a burning vengeance. What was it he’d told Delysia? He needed Ashhur, otherwise he’d end up like his father. He’d be a killer without mercy, a terrible creation the city feared.

Long live the Watcher, he thought. What have I become?

“I…I’m glad you’re all right,” Haern blurted, feeling lame as he said it. He saw a shadow cross over Delysia’s face, but she pushed it aside with a smile.

“I try not to think about that night,” she said. “There’s too much I don’t understand, even now. Who you were. Who you are. What Ashhur’s purpose might have been. I must confess, I almost hoped I’d die. I was so tired, so confused. But I feared I might never see my brother, and so I struggled for every breath…”

The room fell silent. The rest were asleep, exhausted from the long night, but Delysia had stayed awake, insisting she could manage for a few more hours. Haern, used to going long periods without sleep, had dully stared out the window and waited for a chance to talk. Now he had the chance, he didn’t have a clue what to do with it.

I’m better at killing. Does that prove just how far I’ve fallen? You’d be proud, father.

“The man who shot you was my father,” he said, figuring to start with what he knew for certain. “He feared what your influence might do to me. He was right to fear it, too. They dragged me to Karak’s temple and did their best to burn away my faith.”

“Did they succeed?” she asked, sipping from her own cup. Her green eyes peered over its edge. He felt like he was that same stupid kid she’d trapped in her cupboard. He remembered watching her cry moments after Thren had executed her father. What could he ever be to her but a remembrance of those painful times? He saw her watching him, and he remembered her question.

“No,” he said.

The past five years, murdering men in the streets, seemed to have done a fine job of it, though.

“What have you been doing?” she asked. “How have you survived?”

He didn’t want to answer. Why was he so afraid she’d judge him? So long ago, he’d come to her for advice. Now he feared every word she might say?

“I slept in the streets,” he said. He was the Watcher of Veldaren, damn it. He would fear no one, nothing. “Ever since, I’ve been killing members of the thief guilds, hoping to destroy them. It’s pointless, futile, but still I try. It’s the only thing that gives me meaning.”

He thought she’d berate him, or challenge his claim. Instead, she looked at him with sad eyes, and that was worse.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because you protected me?”

His mouth fell open.

“Of course not. Don’t be…Delysia, I chose everything I did. I would have stayed with you, spoken with you forever if I could. That night…that single night, I’ve cherished that memory. It was one of the few bright spots in my entire childhood. But then my father darkened it with blood. My precious memory always leads to him, his murder, his guilt. It pushes me on, consumes everything. I have become something I don’t think either that little girl or that little boy could ever have understood or accepted.”