David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

Haern had none to offer. His neck had flushed, and he’d shook his head. What could he say? I’m sorry a mercenary broke into your home, hurt you, your sister, and your friends, all while trying to find me? He’d always thought he was so careful, but he’d slipped up as usual. What had Senke said? It didn’t pay to be his friend. Yet again, that remained painfully true.

He’d left, but lacked the heart to go far, so up to their rooftop he went. Part of it was because he didn’t want to leave them, to say goodbye to Delysia and Senke forever. Part of him also feared that the giant man with the painted face might return, and if he did, he wanted to be there, waiting.

“Haern?”

He looked down from the roof to see Delysia peering up at him.

“Will you come down?” she asked. He shook his head. “Then can you help me up?”

Sighing, he grabbed the side of the roof with one hand and hung. He offered her his other hand, and she took it, for reasons he’d never understand, still trusting him. Using him as a guide, she stepped on a window ledge, then with his aid, jumped up to catch the roof. Once she climbed all the way up, he swung himself up to join her.

“I think a set of stairs might be easier,” she said, brushing off her priestess robes.

“And defeat the whole point of me coming up here,” Haern said, immediately regretting it. Why should he snap at her? Her silence showed the comment stung, and he tried to think of something to say.

“Is Senke all right?” he asked.

“I stopped his internal bleeding, and I sealed the wound best I could. He’ll be sore for days, but yes, he’ll be fine.”

He walked back to the center of the roof and sat down. She sat beside him, and immediately he felt himself pulled back to the past. Would Thren arrive once more, death in his smile and a crossbow in his hand?

“I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “He can be a bit of a hothead.”

“No kidding. Why’d you join up with him, anyway? Mercenary work doesn’t seem suited to you.”

“Because he asked,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. “When I left the priesthood, they gave me back my father’s wealth from their safekeeping. It wasn’t much, not after it’d been used to settle my father’s estates and debts. We used it to buy this place. Was all we could afford.”

“But here?” Haern asked, gesturing about. “On the Crimson? You deserve someplace better. Someplace safer.”

She shrugged. “My brother had a place he wanted, but the king refused to even hear his offer. It’s no matter. I spent two years in the temple unable to leave for fear of Thren’s anger. I’m used to keeping inside.”

“It’s not right,” Haern said. She smiled at him.

“You living on the street is what isn’t right. At least I have a warm bed, and a family to share my meals with. What do you have, Haern? What have you done over the years?”

He thought of his deals, his rumors, his ambushes in the night and days spent sleeping with the homeless and destitute.

“I tried to stop my father’s war. I tried to kill until there’d be no one left to fight in his name. I failed.”

She took his hand and held it.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all make mistakes. You once wanted something more, to understand a life beyond what your father taught you. I think you still do. But you won’t find a new life in vengeance, Haern, only sadness and loneliness.”

Silence fell over them. He let it linger, trying to find the courage to ask what he needed to know.

“Do you hate me for killing?”

“No. I am not so naive. I would like to live in a world where no killing was needed, but I fear I may never see it. I won’t judge you for what you do, Haern. I can only try to be a light, and to shine as long as I can in a world that seems obsessed with darkness. If you need forgiveness, then know you have it from me, and from Ashhur. If you need guidance, ask, and I will do my best to answer. I’ll heal your wounds, and pray for you before I lay my head down to sleep. I won’t hate you. How could you ever think so?”

He felt like a child, and he clutched her hand tight. She shifted so she might sit next to him, and her head rested against his shoulder.

“Will you go out tonight?” he asked her.

“No. Tarlak didn’t understand the magnitude of what was going on when he first agreed. Our fault for not being part of the mercenary guild, I guess. We gave one night, and that is all Alyssa will get from us.” She paused. “Will you?”

“I think I will. I have some part to play in all of this, whether I want it or not.”

She pulled back and gently took his injured elbow into her hands. For the first time he truly looked at her, and he saw how tired she was, the whites of her eyes rimmed with angry veins. Still, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began praying. Soft light shone from her fingers, and he felt their healing magic pour into his elbow. Several minutes later, she stopped. The pain had become a vague ache, like a sore muscle, but little else. He flexed it twice, and it felt strong enough for combat.

“I should go,” she said. “It’s not safe for me out here after dark.”

“Please,” he said, taking her hand. “Just…sit with me awhile longer. You’re safe with me.”

He saw the look on her face, and he wished he could understand what it was she thought. Her hesitation was brief, and then she sat back down. Her arms wrapped around him, and he allowed his own eyes to close. It wasn’t until he was with her that he realized he never relaxed, that he was always like a coiled spring. But there, with her, he felt able to let it go. He had nothing to hide, and no reason to. Together, they watched the sun sink further, until it was nothing but a glow peeking over the wall.

“Help me down,” she said at last. “Senke wants you to see him before you leave. He seemed certain you wouldn’t be staying tonight. I think he knows you better than I.”

“He understands the world I came from is all. Tonight will be worse, for everyone. I think he knows that.”

The rest were eating when the two came in. Brug and Tarlak seemed to act as if he weren’t there, but Senke greeted him warmly enough.

“Follow me,” he said, leading Haern to a closet built into a space underneath the stairs. He pulled out a wooden crate, wincing at the effort. Feeling guilty, Haern ordered him aside and pried open the crate himself. Inside were an assortment of weapons, from knives to two-handed swords, and various instruments in between.

“I saw your fight with that mercenary,” Senke explained. “That cloakdance you did was something special, but your swords weren’t right for it at all. Here, take these.”

He lifted a pair of weapons out and handed them over. They were long and slender, with the ends gently curved.

“These sabers are designed for slashing, and should do well with how you’re always moving. The points are sharp, but you’ll still have a hard time thrusting through heavier armor. Same with heavy chops, but I have a feeling brute force isn’t your usual method given your speed.”

Haern swung the swords about, getting a feel for their weight. They were lighter than his previous swords, with a slightly longer reach. Their grips were comfortable, feeling natural, like an extension of his body when he wielded them. He could tell they were expertly made.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Brug over there. He made them.”

“Just don’t break ‘em,” Brug muttered from the table.

“Both sides will be out for blood tonight,” Senke said, leaning against a wall and holding a hand against his stomach. “You sure you have to go out? People will kill each other just fine without your help.”