David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“You’re right,” James said after a length. “Either we aid him, or stop him. He is either friend or enemy. The question is, can we afford Thren as anything other than a friend?”

“That,” Veliana said, “is a very dangerous question.”

A t least she had a blanket. For that, Alyssa was grateful. The cells underneath the Gemcroft estate weren’t built with comfort in mind, and in the deep stone underground the warmth of the sun was a forgotten notion. While growing up, she had heard one of her father’s men brag about how the stone walls had been cut just the right way to always ensure a draft blew to every corner of the room.

Soaked in moisture that dripped from the ceiling and unable to avoid the constant, chilling blow of air, many prisoners had broken down in desperate clamoring for warmth. While the deep cold of snow and ice eventually numbed the skin, the Gemcroft cells chilled relentlessly.

The draft in mind, her father’s head guardsman had given her a thick blanket. Still, no matter how tight she wrapped it around her body, she always felt a draft sneaking up her leg or down the small of her back. She trembled, remembering tales of men who had been thrown into their cell naked and without any source of light. Growing up as a girl, she thought it an uncomfortable situation. Given just a taste, she now understood its potential for torture.

And that wasn’t even counting the actual torture that went on either, something she was most obviously spared.

Alyssa wasn’t sure how long she’d been in her cell, though judging by her meals it had only been two days. The first day she had shouted and threatened and demanded her release. When she finally crumpled into a corner huddled underneath her blanket, most of her anger had subsided. A deep core remained in her breast, but she did her best to keep it contained. She had more important things to deal with.

There was only one thing that could have rankled Maynard so, and that was her mention of the Kulls. They certainly held no love of her father. Through whispers and traders, they had convinced nearly every man and woman outside of Veldaren that the Trifect had grown soft and stupid. While Alyssa did not believe it all, she knew mistakes had been made, and a menace like the thief guilds should have been eradicated years before.

He’ll come for me, she thought. Her father would have to. He just wanted to show her how serious he took her words. Perhaps when the door opened, and he appeared holding a torch in one hand and another blanket in the other, she’d forgive his punishment. She’d wrap her arms around him, kiss his cheek, and willingly tell him everything about the Kulls. They had no sinister plans. They had no ulterior motives. How much time had she spent with Yoren? The Kull family felt that if the Trifect fell, then they would be the next in line for the hungry maw of the guilds to feast upon.

“You know how you stop a raging bull?” Yoren had asked her. “Kill it before it starts running. It has already gored the Trifect. It needs to die before it turns its horns to us.”

Maynard did not come that second day.

On the third morning, he appeared with two guards. One held another blanket, while the other carried her food. Maynard stood between them, his arms crossed. He wore no cloak or vest, as if the sweeping chill meant nothing to him.

“Believe me, my daughter, when I say I have no ill will toward you for this foolishness,” he said. Alyssa fought down an urge to stand and fling her arms around him. “But you must tell me what the Kulls are planning. They are liars, girl, liars and thieves and conniving men, so tell me what it is they want.”

She shook her head. Her anger lashed out, temporarily uncontrolled.

“They’re mad at your incompetence, same as I,” she said. “And if they plan a move against you, it is your own doing, but I swear I know nothing.”

Maynard Gemcroft nodded, and the sides of his mouth drooped a little.

“A shame,” he said. He turned to one of the guards. “Take her blanket.”

She felt panic bubble up her throat as she watched the second blanket leave, and she felt even worse when her first blanket was ripped from her arms. She clawed at it frantically, screaming that it was hers, hers, they couldn’t take it. But they did, and she was cold now, very cold, and it was only day three, and she still knew nothing.

On the fourth night, she was cold, miserable, and suddenly not alone.

“Do not be frightened,” a voice whispered into the cell. Alyssa jumped like a startled rabbit. Her lips were blue, and her skin a sickly pale color, wrinkled from the moisture that hung thick in the air and clung to the stone walls. She felt wet and disgusting, and her mind leapt to the darkest conclusions of why someone might come calling in the deep of night.

“My father will find out,” she said from her crouched position on the far side from the cell bars. “He’ll punish you if he…”

Unless her father had sent the stranger. She choked the thought down. Her voice caught in her throat, for there was no one at her cell. Again she heard the voice, echoing from wall to wall like a magician’s trick. This time she clearly realized that a woman was doing the whispering, a fact that should have calmed her but strangely did not.

“We are Karak’s outcast children,” said the whisper. “We are his most fervent, his most faithful, for we have much to atone. Are you a sinner, girl? Will you lift your arms to us and accept our mercy?”

Shadows danced around her cell, not cast from the single torch flickering on the outside of her bars. Alyssa put her hands atop her head and buried her face into her knees.

“I want to be warm,” she said. “Please, my father, he’s not bad, he isn’t. I just want to be warm.”

While Alyssa peered over her knees, she saw the shadows swarm together, grow volume and mass, and then finally fill with color, becoming a woman shrouded in black with a white cloth covering her face.

“There is warmth in the abyss,” the woman said as she drew a serrated dagger. “Would you like me to send you there? Careful of what you ask, girl. Be clear with your demands, or accept the cruel gifts fools and selfish men may give.”

Alyssa forced herself to stand. She felt skinny and naked before the strange woman, and it took all her willpower to keep her hands at her sides, stop them from shaking.

“I want out of this prison,” she said. “I have done nothing to deserve its cold. Now tell me, who sent you here?”

“Who else would send us?” the woman asked. “Do not ask questions where you already know the answers. Remain quiet. We are few, and some things must be done in silence.”

She wrapped her cloak around her body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and she was gone, her body exploding into dark fragments that splashed across the walls and faded like smoke.

“You have accepted the help of the faceless,” echoed a whisper throughout her cell. “Always remember, the cost you pay is always dearer once it has left your hand.”

Alyssa sat back down, curled her knees to her chin, and began to cry. She wondered what Yoren would say if he saw her like that. He was so beautiful, and she knew she could be too, but not here, not cold and wet and crying like a pathetic street urchin. Her tears did not stop like she hoped. Instead, she cried louder.

Far away, she heard a door open, the sound thick with bolts and metal. Her eyes lifted, and with detached curiosity, she watched and waited.

A hefty man lumbered into view, his thumbs tucked into his belt. His eyes were beady and close together, and his long mustache dripped with grease. Alyssa had never met him before returning home to Veldaren, though she had quickly learned his name. Jorel Tule, master of the cold cells.