David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“An odd boy,” Gran said. “I hope he keeps his mouth shut about where you’re going.”

“I trust him,” Delysia insisted.

“Trust him? Hah.” Gran laughed until she coughed. “You probably love him, too. Dashing, mysterious boy in a mask. Every damsel wants one of them to come sneaking in through their bedchamber window.”

Delysia bunched her face and poked her Gran in the side. When Gran poked back, they both broke into laughs.

“It’s good to see you smile,” Gran said. “I’ll have that one last laugh to keep with me for the end of my days. Now go pack up your things. Not much, now, just what you can carry. I dare not wait a minute longer before bringing you to the temple.”

Gran watched her hurry back into their bedroom. Gran’s face became a sorrowful mask, her lip quivering and her eyes wet. When Delysia returned, her arms full of dresses, Gran smiled away her tears, hid them with a laugh, and then led her granddaughter out the door and away.

B y the next afternoon, by orders of the king’s advisor, Neldaren soldiers had ransacked half the merchants in the city and carried over a hundred back to overcrowded prison cells. Some had other family members or well-paid guards to protect their merchandise; most didn’t. By the time the first major wave of mercenaries arrived the day after, foodstuffs were already dangerously low. The merchants that did pay their way out of prison doubled and tripled the costs of their goods.

Mercenaries expecting easy pay found themselves turned away. Some traveled back toward Ker and Omn, but many took to thievery and murder, preferring that to starvation. The thief guilds absorbed the willing into their organizations. Those that resisted, died.

By that night, the poor western district of Veldaren was primed for a riot.

It was three days until the Kensgold.

P elarak was furious. For two days, he had waited for Eliora and her faceless to return with Alyssa, and for two days, he had not heard a word. He hurried through his morning sermon. He never lost his place or misquoted a scripture, but his mind was elsewhere and his faithful knew it. Anger crept into his words, and his call for penance and destruction of chaos was particularly moving. Afterward he knelt before the great statue of Karak, letting the purple light bathe over him.

“Something troubles you,” said a man as he joined him on his knees.

“The world is a troublesome place,” said Pelarak. He opened his eyes, and then smiled when he realized who was with him.

“Ethric, so good to see you!” Pelarak stood and hugged the man. “I am so glad you came so quickly from the Stronghold!”

Ethric smiled. He was a tall man, and the only reason Pelarak could throw his arms around him was because Ethric had remained on his knees. He still wore his dark black platemail, having arrived so recently he had no time to remove his armor. A two-handed blade hung from a sheath on his back. He was completely shaven. Across his bald head were a myriad of tattoos dyed in a dark purple ink. They looped and curled in an ill pattern.

“Your priests make their way to Omn less and less,” said Ethric. His voice was rich and pleasant to the ear. “Carden hurried me off to see how things were going. The troubles between the Trifect and the guilds have lasted so long we’ve heard of it all the way across the rivers.”

“Come,” Pelarak said. “Are you hungry? Join me in a meal.”

Deep in the recesses of the temple was a rectangular room bare of decorations. A long table stretched along the center with wooden stools for seats. A mere look from Pelarak sent the staff running, comprised of young priests still in training in their devotion to Karak.

“It is hard remembering you were such as these boys,” Pelarak said. “I’ve seen so many grow up and take their armor or their robes. Many aspire to greatness, but so few reach it.”

“I wonder which I will be,” said Ethric as he sat opposite him at the table.

“A dark paladin every pup of Ashhur learns to fear, if Karak is kind,” Pelarak said.

Children surrounded them, carrying bowls, spoons, and a large pot of soup. Once they were served, both bowed their heads and prayed silently for near a minute. Ethric dug in afterward with a healthy appetite, while Pelarak only sipped at it occasionally.

“I must confess, I come here with ulterior motives than just your warm words and food,” Ethric said when his bowl was half finished. “Though Karak knows I needed both. Haven’t had a solid meal since the Stronghold, and that feels like a thousand miles away after so many months of travel.”

“Did you encounter any trouble on the road?”

“A foolish pup thought he could slay me to earn admittance to the Citadel.” Ethric chuckled. “I’d hardly call that trouble, though. More of a nuisance. I was almost to Kinamn, where the pathway winds through all those rocky hills. Imbecile was hiding among the rocks shooting arrows whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. I’m sure he planned a more heroic tale when he brought my head to the Citadel doors.”

“At least he had more fight in him than Ashhur’s paladins have as of late,” Pelarak said, dropping his spoon. “Though I fear we have too much of that fight in our own ranks here in Veldaren.”

“Which is why I am here,” insisted Ethric. “You told Carden you were troubled. Tell me what it is so I may scorch it with fire and cut it with blade.”

“Do you know of the faceless?” asked Pelarak.

Ethric furrowed his brow as he thought.

“No,” he said. “I’ve not heard of them.”

“Come,” Pelarak said as he stood. “Let me show you.”

He led him into the deep recesses of the temple, down a flight of stairs, and into a large but cramped storage. Crates piled this way and that, huddled against the walls or the many pillars that supported the ceiling. Pelarak lifted his hand. Purple fire surrounded his fingers, giving them light.

“About two hundred years ago, the priests of Ashhur succeeded in a massive conversion of our brethren. It was then that our presence in Veldaren weakened, and our kind were banished from the city. We fought them bitterly, as you can imagine, and with heavy hearts. A score of priests repented, sneaking away from Ashhur’s temple and throwing themselves at our temple door in Kinamn.”

The whole time he talked, Pelarak led them through the maze of old armor, racks of swords, crates of cloth, and jars upon jars of food. He stopped, scratched his chin as he thought, then turned toward a stack of paintings propped against each other. Each of them was rectangular, the length of a man laying on his side.

“We tested their faith,” Pelarak said as he looked through the paintings. Even though his hand swirled with purple fire, it did not burn the material. “Those that lived were admitted into the priesthood, but not entirely. The high priest at the time was a brilliant man named Theron Gemcroft.”

“I know of him,” Ethric said, watching the elaborately framed paintings flip forward one after another. He saw mostly portraits of former high priests, though among them were scenes of warfare, battles between angels of Karak and Ashhur, and even serene depictions of nature. “Forfeited his fortune to devote his life to Karak? Carden was particularly fond of his sayings, and used them often in his sermons.”

“How is that old goat?” Pelarak asked.

“Hard as nails and brutal as a mailed fist,” Ethric said with a small smile. “What are we looking for here, my priest?”

“This,” Pelarak said as he lifted up one of the paintings. Ethric grabbed a corner to help. Together they held the picture and stared. It showed seven men and women, their bodies wrapped in black cloth. Only their eyes were visible through cuts in the wrapping. They held daggers, staves, and swords in hands hidden by waves of shadow that rolled off their bodies like smoke from a fire. At their feet lay over twenty dead paladins of Ashhur.