David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

She knelt down and touched the girl’s neck, startled by the slow pulse she felt. The girl was alive.

“You owe me,” Kayla whispered as she hoisted the girl onto her shoulder.

She was being stupid. She knew she was being stupid. Her survival instincts screamed to keep her hands clean and let the girl die. But she couldn’t. Once Aaron found out she was the one who had followed him, she couldn’t imagine facing the sorrow and betrayal in his eyes.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “If your god is real, then hopefully he’ll realize I’m down here needing all the help I can get.”

Carefully she climbed down to the street, Delysia’s body slung over her shoulders. The whole while she did her best to ignore whatever torture awaited Aaron within the temple of the dark god.

T hren was one of very few who knew the location of Karak’s temple. Once they were near, he took Aaron into his arms and ordered the rest to return home. The coming day and night would be the most important day in the past five years. His men needed to be fresh, and he was already straining them enough. All because of his son. All because of Ashhur.

“I see through your illusions,” said Thren when he stood before the thick iron gates surrounding what looked to be a luxurious but empty mansion. The image wavered. The fence opened on its own. Thren stepped through, walking along the smooth obsidian path leading up to an enormous pillared building of darkest black. The skull of a lion hung above the door, its teeth stained with blood.

The double-doors swung open. A young man stepped out, his hair tied behind his head in a long ponytail.

“I ask that you remain outside,” he said. “Pelarak knows of your arrival.”

Not waiting for an answer, the man shut the door. Thren leaned Aaron’s body against one of the pillars and waited. It had been many years since he’d come to someone for aid, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to act. He had no intention of bowing before the priests, nor would he plead like a commoner. Perhaps a trade.

The doors opened. Thren snapped to attention, his hands falling to his blades out of instinct too engrained to deny.

“It is a strange night that grants me a visitor such as you,” Pelarak said as he stepped outside and closed the doors behind him. “For you are Thren Felhorn, are you not? Master of the Spider Guild, puppet master of the thieves? To what do I owe this honor?”

His eyes glanced at Aaron but he kept his mouth shut.

“I need my son cured,” Thren said.

“We are not as skilled at the healing arts as our rivals,” Pelarak said. “Though I doubt they would aid you. I heard they ousted their former high priest after you killed one of their own.”

Thren frowned. That was a damn shame. He had spent many months slowly working on Calvin, bribing him with every possible vice in search of the man’s weakness. Once he discovered his love of crimleaf, the process had gone considerably easier. Must everything fall apart so close to the Kensgold?

“You misunderstand the healing I desire,” Thren said, forcing the subject back to the task at hand. “My son has taken foolish notions into his head that I want expunged.”

Pelarak scratched his chin.

“He’s fallen for the seductive grace of Ashhur?” he asked.

Thren nodded.

“This will require much time,” Pelarak said. “And more importantly, it will potentially ruin me. Maynard Gemcroft has threatened our very existence if I do not side with him against you, Thren. Tell me, what would you do in my place?”

“Destroy those who threaten me,” Thren said. “Never let a man keep a sword readied above your neck.”

“Words we cannot live by,” Pelarak said. “Ashhur’s presence here is too deeply embedded. Maynard could send mobs against us. Blood would fill the streets. Nothing of your little war with the Trifect would compare to the carnage we would unleash. But that would end our work here. So I have few choices.”

Thren drew his shortswords.

“I’d tread carefully,” the guildmaster said.

Pelarak chuckled.

“Put those away. Even with your skill, you cannot match my power. I am Karak’s most faithful servant, save for his prophet. If I wanted you dead I would not announce or explain myself.”

Thren lowered his swords but did not sheathe them.

“What are your choices?” he asked.

“I can either turn you away, making you a potential enemy. In doing so, I also remain a puppet of the Trifect. However, even that option has been denied to me. Maynard Gemcroft’s daughter is missing. She was to be in my care, yet is not. For this alone, Maynard will destroy us.”

“There is another way,” Thren said, realizing what Pelarak was leading to. “There is my way. Take my son. Cure him. Burn all remnants of Ashhur from his flesh so he may be pure.”

“Can you kill Maynard Gemcroft?” Pelarak asked. “My time has already passed. By the end of the Kensgold he will carry out his threat.”

Thren saluted with his sword.

“By tomorrow’s eve, Maynard will be dead,” he vowed. “Can you save my son?”

“We will take him,” Pelarak said. He banged twice on the doors. Two other priests came out. When Pelarak pointed to Aaron, they picked the boy up and carried him inside. As they did, Thren briefly described the events that had transpired, from Aaron’s prayers, his chain of the golden mountain, to at last his secret meeting with Delysia.

“How much time will it take?” Thren asked when finished.

“A day or two at most, unless he resists our methods,” the priest replied.

“Can he?” Thren asked, watching the double-doors close with a groaning of wood and iron locks.

Pelarak laughed softly.

“Of course not. He’s just a boy.”

Thren bowed.

“May our endeavors aid us both,” he said.

“Go with the true god’s blessing,” Pelarak said before returning inside.

Thren felt lighter as he vaulted over the iron fence and raced down the streets, taking a winding path back to his safehouse. Matters were out of his hands now. The priests would convert his son or kill him in the process. Any influence Ashhur had on him would be gone. Thren would keep his killer, his perfect heir.

Assuming his plans for the Kensgold unfolded without error.

A aron’s awareness rose and fell, and as it rose he felt the pain. It stabbed into his wrists and forced him back down. Water splashed across his tongue. Dull chanting shook the rhythm of his dreams, flooding them with color that vibrated to the sound. He saw red and purple. The colors worked a sharp discomfort in his mind. More pain, this time in his ankles. Water dribbled up his lips. That didn’t make any sense. Why up?

He opened his eyes. Expecting to be upside down, he was surprised to see a man standing before him. He was balding, with sharp eyes and a bitter frown. He wore dark robes. Hanging from his neck was a pendant shaped like the skull of a lion.

“Where am I?” Aaron asked.

“A room of faith,” said the priest. “My name is Pelarak, and you are in a most holy place. Here Karak is master, not the goddess of the elves, not Ashhur, not the moon or the stars or the sun. Just Karak.”

He held out his hand. In it was a waterskin. When he pressed against it, the water traveled up instead of down, splashing across the ceiling. The sight was so strange Aaron felt a sense of vertigo. He turned to the side, vomited, and then watched in horror as it smacked atop the ceiling, splattering it a messy red.

“To be expected,” the priest said. “Many things are strange here, and you will see only a blessed few. Karak is god everywhere, but we have consecrated this room with blood and prayers.”

Aaron tried to move but couldn’t. He looked to his wrists where he felt cold iron chains. He saw nothing but air. The same for his ankles. As he struggled, he saw indents press against his skin, made by no visible source.