David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Answer me this question first,” she said. “Did you really kill your brother at the age of eight?”

He sucked in his lips and bit. He was staring at her ears. She brushed them once, realizing they still bled.

“Yes,” he said.

She felt her heart wince a little, but that wasn’t what mattered. The second question was what mattered.

“Why?” she asked.

Aaron answered without the slightest hesitation.

“Because my father wanted me to.”

Kayla nodded. Of course. What else mattered in Aaron’s life? He was being steadily created, a work of art that only Thren Felhorn could find beautiful. To see such parental devotion twisted and turned to murder and fratricide…

“Listen to me,” she said, lowering her voice. “I can’t love you, Aaron. I can’t even treat you with kindness, and my reason is the same as why you killed your brother. Take the earrings. Don’t hide your hurt. Don’t be ashamed of your tears.”

She took his chin in her fingers and tilted his head upward.

“But I can love Haern,” she said. “I’m not sure what Aaron might become. He may scare me, even hurt me at his own father’s request. So you must keep Haern hidden and safe. Keep him alive. Can you do that for me?”

His tears rolled down his cheeks, but he nodded. She saw that strength and felt beyond proud.

“Aaron must never love me,” she said as she turned to the door. “But Haern can.”

“I’ll remember,” Aaron said. As Kayla left, he grabbed one of his many swords and slammed the side of a training dummy. He had learned another lessen of what it meant to have power. It meant crushing the will of another to meet your own.

More and more, Aaron Felhorn felt rebellion growing in his heart at the very notion of wielding that same power. He choked it down. Those thoughts didn’t belong to Aaron. They weren’t who he was.

He cut one of his blankets in half, poked in a few eyeholes, and then wrapped it about his face. Lost in his training, he swung his sword about the room, shifting from stance to stance. He let his anger and rebellion grow, for he was Haern now, and those thoughts belonged to him.

K ayla entered Thren’s room and knelt before his table.

“My task?” she asked.

“Were you successful?” Thren asked her first. Knowing her life was on the line, Kayla kept her smile hidden deep inside her breast.

“Beyond expectations,” she answered.

W earing the same disguise as the night before, Maynard returned to the priests’ temple. He dismissed his guards when he reached the gate, confident his threats were more than enough to keep him safe. It was the ruffians and cutthroats that wandered the streets that worried him. He didn’t want to imagine the celebration that might erupt in the underworld if he was found and killed in the open.

Not surprisingly, his reception was far less warm than before. He was immediately led to Pelarak’s room and then made to wait. The high priest arrived shortly after.

“You have put us in an uncomfortable position,” Pelarak said as he shut the door behind him.

“Welcome to the rest of Veldaren,” Maynard said. “No one is comfortable, not while vermin pretend to be kings.”

“When men pretend they to be gods, things are just as dire,” Pelarak said. Maynard ignored the thinly veiled insult.

“I’ve come for my answer. Will you aid us in destroying the thief guilds, or will you cling to your worthless neutrality?”

Pelarak walked around him and then sat at his desk. He tapped his fingertips together, then put his forefingers to his lips.

“You must understand that I do what Karak desires of me,” Pelarak said. “This decision is not mine, but his.”

Under normal circumstances, Maynard would have paid lip service to Pelarak’s faith. With his daughter missing and his estate lacking a true heir, he had no time or patience. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t feed me that nonsense. You are in charge here, high priest, not some voice in your head.”

“You doubt Karak’s power?”

“Doubt it?” Maynard said. “Would I be so insistent you help me if I doubted it? I just don’t want to hear any nonsense about prayers or obscure promises and prophecies. I want an answer. The correct one.”

Pelarak smiled a wolfish smile.

“You won’t get it. Not the one you want.”

“I will carry out my promise,” Maynard said.

“And we believe you,” Pelarak insisted. “Listen to what I have to say.”

He gestured to the chair opposite of him. Annoyed, Maynard sat down. Part of him knew he should calm himself. He was being hotheaded and rash, something he always dismissed in others. The priests had vexed him for years, however. If diplomacy and bribes did nothing for them, it was time to try threats and brute force.

“Look for a moment from my perspective,” Pelarak said. “Let’s assume I agree with you; the rogues need put in line, and this nonsensical war ended. But if I join now after you hold a sword over our heads, what prevents us from being puppets of the Trifect instead of servants to our god? We would kill kings for making the same threats you have made.”

Maynard felt a bit of his hotheadedness leave him. Something very dangerous was about to happen. Pelarak did not make threats lightly, and his assumption of safety seemed to be arrogance in hindsight. The priests could kill him with a wave of their hands. All his power and gold meant nothing if they felt Karak wanted his head.

“Rudely put, perhaps,” Maynard said, falling deeper into his political persona, “but you do speak a bit of truth. We need your aid, Pelarak. For if you are not with us, then I fear the actions of your women assassins places you against us.”

“I will deal with them in time,” Pelarak said. “I told you, they do not represent us. Karak is our lord, and I am his closest servant. He wishes this war over. How, though, is where you and I will disagree.”

“Presumptuous,” Maynard said. “How will we disagree?”

Pelarak stood, smoothing out his black robe as he did. A free hand rubbed his balding head. Maynard did not like this at all. The high priest was very rarely hesitant. This was bad. Very bad.

“We will aid you, but only under the condition that you give us someone into our safekeeping, someone to join our order. The next time you wave a sword over our necks, we will have someone to wave ours over as well.”

Maynard felt his heart sink.

“Who do you want?” he asked.

Pelarak might have smiled or gloated, but that was not the man he was.

“Two of the faceless sisters came to me last night to inform me of their actions. I did not reprimand them, not yet. They have your daughter, Alyssa. She must join our order.”

Maynard felt his world tear and twist in chaotic ways inside his mind. Alyssa, a priestess of Karak? She would be safe from the Kulls, perhaps, and certainly no threat to his estate. But would he ever see her again? Who would she become cloistered within the walls, battered daily with Karak’s rhetoric of order and darkness?

Then he saw the hidden threat. If the faceless women had Alyssa, then they could do to her whatever they wished. If he refused…

“I must accept,” he said.

“Good,” Pelarak said, a smile spreading across his face. “I am glad we could reach an agreement. We aid one another, as friends, not master and servant.”

“Of course. You speak most wisely,” Maynard said, the lie bitter on his lips.

When he turned to leave, Pelarak stopped him with a word.

“Oh, Maynard,” the high priest said. “Make sure she is still heir to your estate. If you render her worthless, we will do the same.”

A shard of ice grew inside his heart.