David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“You should,” Maynard said. “My people will be among them, and I assure you, they are excellent at inciting violence. Once people die, the king will be forced to send his soldiers. Tell me, how does one win over a city after slaughtering their peoples and their guards? Even better, how does one preach to a city after one’s death?”

Pelarak stopped his pacing and focused his eyes on Gemcroft’s face with a frightening intensity. His old voice was deep and firm as a buried stone.

“Every action has its cost,” the priest said. “Are you prepared to pay?”

“When patience ends, every man is willing to pay a little bit more,” Maynard said as he opened the door to leave. “My patience ended years ago. This war must end. Karak will help us end it. I’ll await your answer by tomorrow. I pray you make the right decision.”

Pelarak let him go. He rubbed his balding head with his fingers, his cold anger giving way to cunning.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he whispered to the empty room. “Perhaps for too long we have stayed neutral in this conflict.”

He knelt by the bed to pray, knowing only Karak’s guidance could keep him on the straight and narrow path to victory.

W hen they approached the guards, Nava brushed back her cloak and stood to her full height. With her dark clothing and white cloth over her face there was no doubt as to what she was.

“We see nothing,” one of the guards said, repeating the line he had been instructed to say when one of the faceless sought exit or entrance into the city.

Alyssa followed, still clutching Nava’s hand. She had no idea why they were leaving the safety of the walls, and the faceless woman had given her no explanation. Even with her father hunting for her, there had to be safe places in the city to hide.

But why hide? The thought slapped her like a wet cloth. Her claim to the Gemcroft line was most certainly severed. She had been gone so long, little within her family’s organization would welcome her over her father. Perhaps she could flee to safety with one of the foster families she had stayed with the past couple years. The Pensleys would surely welcome her, thought they might also report her whereabouts to Maynard. And of course, there were the Kulls…

They exited the western gate. The road leading southwest was packed tight from all the daily wagons and caravans of trade. Off the path, the tall grass was a deep green and grew as high as Alyssa’s knees. The tug on her wrist giving her little choice, Alyssa followed Nava into the wide fields. They traveled north, curling around the walls and toward the King’s Forest. As they neared the forest, the grass grew shorter in height, and by the time they walked through the rows of thick trunks, it gave way to carpets of fallen leaves.

“Why are we here?” Alyssa asked, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand as if she were cold. She had spent many nights listening to her maids tell ghost stories of the King’s Forest, with its faithless maidens lost for eternity, chivalrous knights who had wandered astray, and scores of evil robbers and rogues eagerly awaiting a man foolish enough to enter alone. Of course, the stories were just to keep the children away from the forest, where poaching was a serious enough offence to warrant death. Knowing this did little to fight back the ghostly chill that gave her goosebumps.

“Do not ask questions when you should know the answer,” Nava said. “Why else would we enter the forest?”

They would kill her, Alyssa realized. Cut her throat and hide her body so when Yoren asked what happened, they would tell him she was already dead when they found her, her blood spilled across the floor and rats gnawing on her insides…

Alyssa waited until Nava tugged on her wrist, and then after her initial stumble forward, she jerked her entire arm to the side. The sudden pull back surprised the faceless woman, and Alyssa’s thin hand slipped free. She bolted the opposite direction, praying she had not gotten turned around inside the forest. Branches lashed at her face, and bushes they had easily walked around seemed to suddenly spring up and claw at her legs and ankles. Her attire was silky and thin, a poor guard against the grasping fingers of the forest.

She heard no shout behind her, but she knew the faceless woman would give chase. She imagined Nava holding a serrated dagger in her left hand, her right reaching for her hair or the neck of her dress. One tug, just one tug, and she’d stumble and fall.

Her heart soared when she saw the forest’s edge. The trees spaced further and further apart, and she ran easier. When she dared look behind her, the faceless woman was gone. Then she looked back, and a large, masculine shape stepped directly in her path.

Alyssa cried out, and as rough hands grabbed her arms, she felt her legs weaken at the thought of being raped by a lowborn ruffian.

“Alyssa?” she heard the man shout, and for a moment she ceased her thrashing. Her eyes opened (she never realized she shut them) and then she saw who it was that held her: Yoren Kull, sporting a fresh set of scratch marks on his face.

Relief broke her tension. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed against his chest, all the while mumbling incoherently about robbers and ghosts and faceless women.

“She’ll kill me,” Alyssa shouted once she regained a bit of her whereabouts. She spun and pointed to where Nava approached from the forest, no longer running but instead flowing around the bushes and trees as if her muscles were liquid.

“Kill you? Why?” Yoren glanced over to the faceless woman, and his right hand drifted to his sword hilt.

“Do not be a fool,” Nava said. She pointed to Alyssa. “I was taking her to your camp, but she fled like a child.”

“Your camp?” asked Alyssa. Her cheeks flushed. She felt a fool.

“Yes, my camp,” Yoren said. He smiled at her, and she felt her flush grow bolder. Gingerly, she touched the scratches she had made, and when she felt no blood she kissed them.

“Forgive me,” she said. She disentangled herself from his arms and curtseyed in her dirty, torn dress. Her hair was a mess, and no quick wipe from the back of her hand could hide her tears.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Yoren said, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. “All is safe now. All is safe.”

Her sobbing began anew. After the long days and nights in the cells, shivering in the cold and desperate for conversation, to hear comfort and concern in his voice was more than she could bear. If he was embarrassed, he did not show it. She felt his arms tighten around her. With her face buried against his neck, she did not see the cold glare he shot to Nava, who only sheathed her dagger and glided back into the woods.

I expected all three of you back sooner,” Yoren explained once they were deep in the woods. Alyssa sat next to him, the warmth of the fire divine on her cold flesh. Nava sat opposite them, keeping her distance from the flame.

“There were complications,” Nava explained.

“If Alyssa is here with me, I can imagine so,” Yoren said. “She should be the ruler of the Gemcroft estate, not a runaway outcast. Tell me how you erred so horrendously.”

“They were ready,” Nava said. “When Eliora and Zusa return, they will tell you the same thing. Hundreds of mercenaries were hidden within the walls. You fooled no one with your request, Kull, only in your choice of aid. We should all be dead.”

“I was told you never failed,” Yoren said. He had tied his blonde hair behind his head, giving his face a stretched, dangerous look. “I was told even Thren Felhorn would quake if he knew you came for him; so how did some fool-headed merchant defeat you so easily?”

“If you had come,” Nava said, her voice cold enough to freeze water, “then you might have seen for yourself. You’d have died, but at least you’d have your answer.”