A Dance of Shadows

by David Dalglish

  A trap laid out just for her.

  “You won’t stop me!” she cried, leaping at her foe. They collided in a mess of limbs and daggers, lashing and stabbing, neither able to score a solid blow. Pulling herself free, Zusa dropped to her back, flattening beneath a hurled dagger from the other. Hoping to gain some distance, she ran again, but doors started opening, and she heard the deep thrumming of a bell located in the bowels of the temple, alerting all to her presence. One man tried to jump in her way, but she slammed right into him, her knees blasting him to the ground, her daggers ending the spell he’d tried to cast. Another, this one a priestess, remained in her doorway, and at Zusa’s passing she hurled a bolt of red lightning. The power arced through Zusa’s body, and she screamed her agony away.

  The spell slowed her movement, and a foot swept beneath her. Falling, she raised her daggers, just barely blocking Ezra’s downward strike. Pushing her away, she rolled to her knees. A bolt of shadow flew from the hand of another priest rushing to join them from farther ahead. She dodged it, along with his follow-up, but then the priestess caught her with a shadow bolt of her own. It slammed into Zusa’s body, bruising flesh and sapping her strength. This time Zusa gave no scream, unable to muster the strength.

  The two faceless women flanked her, each blocking an entrance, as more and more priests and priestesses gathered. Zusa kept weaving from side to side, struggling to breathe through the pain. She saw no way out, but it didn’t matter. She’d die fighting, and would not die alone.

  “Attack me, cowards!” she screamed, ignoring the pain it caused. Instead they fell back, and furious, she flung herself toward a group. Her daggers plunged and stabbed, but she could not connect. Lightning and shadow swelled against her, forming a wall she could not penetrate. Its very touch jolted her limbs. The faceless women both chose that moment to attack, kicking her with their long legs. One took the air from her lungs, the other connecting with her kidneys. Gasping, Zusa collapsed to the cold floor, unable to stand. A dagger slipped around her neck and pressed against her throat.

  “Don’t kill her!”

  With dazed eyes Zusa looked up to see Daverik pushing through the crowd. He knelt before her, put a hand against her forehead. Whoever held the dagger backed away.

  “You poor thing,” Daverik said, softly stroking her short hair. “You poor, foolish thing. Take her.”

  Something hard struck the back of her head, and then came darkness.

  The first thing Zusa noticed when she came to was the sound of running water. It was constant, and close, as if a river ran in the same room. The second was how her hands and legs were bound with chains, the metal on the inside sharp and jagged so that the slightest movement drew blood.

  “Open your eyes, little doll,” whispered a sweet voice. When Zusa did she saw an older man standing over her. His face was wrinkled and free of any facial hair. His eyes were a pale blue, and when he smiled his serpent’s smile, it was without teeth. He wore the robes of a priest, but instead of black they were a deep red.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Does the little doll not remember me? I am Vrashka. I was there when you were banished, and your little boy beaten. I held the whip.”

  Despite the years, she did indeed remember. More so, she remembered the name of Vrashka, Pelorak’s favorite and most ruthless torturer.

  “I know you,” Zusa said, looking beyond him to take in her surroundings. She was in a small stone cell, poorly lit. The temple’s prison, of course. She sat on the floor, her arms and legs manacled to the wall. The only thing she did not recognize, or understand, was that constant sound of water. “Just a sick old man.”

  “It’s been a long time,” Vrashka said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest so he could look down at her. “I have gotten older, yes I have, little doll. But I have also gotten wiser, too. Do you see this?”

  He stepped aside, revealing the source of the water. It was a strange sight, as if a stalactite had grown from the stone ceiling. Stretching a foot downward, it stopped, its tip hollow so that water might run out in a constant stream. It fell into a small spiral cut into the floor, causing the water to swirl before dropping into a hole, going how far down below, Zusa did not know. Perhaps to the depths of the world, perhaps all the way into the Abyss where it could trickle on Karak’s head.

  “Am I supposed to be afraid of water?” Zusa asked, hoping to keep him talking. She felt her strength returning, and where she was manacled there were many shadows. The chains would not hold her, not for long.

  Vrashka chuckled, and the sound made her skin crawl.

  “You have poor imagination, girl. You do not understand where you are, or what we have. Daverik made this himself. I know what you think, that you will slip into the shadows.”

  He reached into his robe, pulled out one of her daggers, and cast it on the floor mere feet away.

  “Take it,” he said, smiling. “Slip through the shadows, grab it, and cut my throat. You can do that, can’t you, little doll?”

  She smiled back, then pulled in the power, demanded it, stole it with the strength of her soul. Falling backward, she expected the familiar cold feeling, but instead something grabbed her. She felt like a bird trapped in a thunderstorm. Her body became a distant thing, and lost in horror she watched her vision be pulled toward the swirling water. It was so thin, like a single thread of silk. Before her eyes it grew larger, larger, and then her whole form was swirling with it, down into the void, a boat doomed in a maelstrom. Colors faded, only the water retaining vibrancy, shining a brighter and brighter blue that made her entire body ache. Panic settled in, and she yearned for her body, to pull out from the shadows.

  And then she was back in her manacles, gasping for air. Vrashka bent down and grabbed her dagger.

  “Does she understand now?” he asked. “Your magic will not work here, nor that of any priest. It will be lost into the funnel, the holy water taking in every bit of Karak’s power. You will not escape us, little doll. You are ours now, to be made pure over the crawling years.”

  He knelt before her and pressed the dagger against the skin of her breast.

  “And I say years, because I know you are stubborn. I know you will resist. Much time, much effort, but I have little else to do at my age. You wear the wrappings of your order, but in your heart you blaspheme against Karak. You expose your face to the world, and in doing so spit in the eye of our god.”

  He withdrew the dagger and walked over to the door. Beside it was a small bag, and he pulled out a set of sewing needles. When he turned back to her, his pale blue eyes were feverish.

  “Whatever you came here for, you failed. Think on that as I do my needlework.”

  The chains held her as he took her hand in his and uncurled her fist. She tried to tense, but he held her firm with surprising strength. She wanted to struggle further, but the inner surfaces of the manacles were sharp and filled with barbs. Doing so would only cause her pain.

  Taking a needle in his mouth, Vrashka softly ran a finger along her fingertip.

  “Even old as I am, it is never too old to learn,” he said. “I spent time with Leon’s gentle touchers years ago, did you know that? You will soon. They are masters, artists. I hope my needlework can begin to compare.”

  There were many hooks along the wall, and he looped the chains holding her arm through one so that it held her tight. Teeth gritted, she tried not to let out a cry, even when he jammed the first needle underneath the fingernail of her forefinger.

  “Karak is not my god,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm. “I will not repent.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Perhaps. But I have many needles.”

  One after another they were jammed into her skin. Each was worse than the one before, and she cried out in agony after the seventh. Leaving them in, he moved on to her other hand. Even more slender needles pierced underneath her fingernails, tearing the soft skin. Tears ran down her face, but he asked no
questions, and made no demands. Time became meaningless. All she could think of was Alyssa, and Nathaniel, but their memories were poison, for she was trapped in a prison, which meant they would soon suffer death, or, even worse, join her there in the pits of the temple.

  “The gentle touchers are artists,” Vrashka said, stepping back to observe his work. “So careful, so clever. They view whips and daggers as crude toys for children. It is a mark of disdain for any of them to leave a bruise.”

  Zusa kept her head low, not caring to look at him or acknowledge his words. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she felt blood trickling down her wrists. As he crept closer, she shut her eyes, tried to imagine herself far, far away. His rough hands grabbed her face, forced her to look up at him.

  “Such beautiful eyes,” he said, staring into them. “But you do not need them anymore, just a tongue to pray, and knees to confess upon.”

  He was reaching for another needle when the door opened, and Daverik stepped inside. Zusa stared at him amid her delirium, the man just a blurred figure outlined with light from a distant torch.

  “I would have a word with her,” he said.

  Vrashka stepped back, bowing low.

  “Of course,” he said. “She is yours to convert. But it will take time, and I have only started to break her.”

  “She might still see reason,” Daverik said, not looking at her. Vrashka bowed again, then stepped out. As the door closed, the priest noticed the needles still in her fingers and frowned.

  “I warned you,” he said. “Now keep still.”

  “Not sure I can,” she said. She felt his hand close around hers, pinning it to the wall. One by one he removed the needles, dropping them into a bloody pail Vrashka had brought with him. Switching to the other hand, he worked in silence. Zusa kept her eyes downcast, let her mind focus on the pain as the needles slid out from within her fingertips. When he was done, he sat opposite her and pushed aside Vrashka’s bag. Tension filled the room, broken only by the soft trickle of water.

  “You set a trap for me,” Zusa said.

  “Not a trap, just protection. I thought you might come for me after what happened at Alyssa’s mansion.”

  Zusa shook her head, feeling like a stupid child. Her warning had been clear, so of course Daverik had planned for her arrival. Eyes still downcast, she wondered if she had anything to say to him, but found herself strangely empty inside.

  “They want you executed,” Daverik said. He paused a moment, as if waiting to see if she would respond. She didn’t.

  “I’m not sure I can stop them,” he continued. “You killed two of my faceless, and you have blasphemed against Karak for many years now by showing your face after abandoning the order. You also fought against one of our paladins sent to retrieve you in the early days of your betrayal.”

  “His name was Ethric,” she said. “I killed him in a river, cut out his throat, and then left him there so the fish could eat his flesh. He’d been sent to kill me, not return me to the temple. We did as we were told, as we have always done, and were branded outcasts for it. But that’s what Karak does, isn’t it? He finds ways to punish his faithful should they ever be an inconvenience to his temple. Our lives are nothing to him.”

  “You’re wrong,” Daverik said. “Karak showed you forgiveness. He gave you a chance to repent, to make right the wrongs…”

  “What wrongs?” She laughed. “Our love wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t sin. It was just against the rules. It complicated things, made people worry. But you were lashed, and I imprisoned, and now you come here to remake the order that took me from you. You’re a disgrace.”

  “They didn’t take you from me,” he said.

  It felt as if a fever had overcome her, and she laughed again. Her hands were giant throbs of pain, and she could not feel her individual fingers.

  “They didn’t? Then who?”

  “It was me,” Daverik said, and he looked away as if ashamed. “I told them of our affair.”

  The last words he’d spoken to her echoed in her head.

  I’m sorry…

  “You bastard,” she whispered. “You damned, stupid bastard. Why? Why would you do that to us?”

  “Because we would have been caught,” Daverik said, standing so he might pace. His eyes never met hers. “Because it was only a matter of time. And because it was wrong. I neglected prayers, I stopped paying attention in services. I only thought about you, cared about you. When I should have been meditating, I was thinking of seeing you, imagining what I might do the next time we…”

  He stopped himself. Frustrated, he struck the wall with his fist. Zusa wanted to feel fury, to feel betrayal, but instead she saw the torment deep within her former lover and knew what had brought him back.

  “You came to Veldaren for me,” she said. “Just for me.”

  He looked to the door, nodded his head. “Every single night since, I’ve lain down in my bed and felt guilt for what I did. I thought it would get better. I thought the certainty of my faith would prove what really mattered, and that in time, with separation, I’d know without a doubt I’d been right. But it never happened. That I was asked to train the new faceless is a cruel joke, Zusa, but I agreed to do it for you. You can come back. We can be together. Perhaps not as we were, but I’d still see you, still be able to hear your voice.”

  He breathed in deeply, then let it out in a sigh.

  “My decision cost you your faith in Karak. I have committed no greater crime than that.”

  Zusa’s anger had been softening, but those last words were worse than Vrashka’s needles.

  “Are you really still so blind?” she asked. “You carry guilt not for my torment, but because I turned my back on Karak?”

  “What could be a worse crime?” he asked. “To see you lost to the fires of the Abyss…”

  He approached her, knelt before her so they might see eye to eye. His hand gently stroked her cheek, brushing away tears.

  “Come back to me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you, not again, and not forever.”

  He looked so young then, so much like the boy she’d loved. His face was leaning ever closer. Shackled, helpless, she could not stop him as his lips closed around hers. Her insides twisted and curled with turmoil. She felt fury at his foolishness, yet hope that he might free her. She felt sick at his desires, that he could find beauty in her while she was captive and tortured, yet at the same time it was so easy to slip back into the past, to escape from her cell into memories of him and her, young, foolish, and clumsy as they sneaked into each other’s rooms late at night. She felt pain, sorrow, and betrayal.

  Her lips did not kiss him back. When he tried to kiss her again, she turned to the side and steeled her gaze at the wall.

  “You’re a cruel, evil man,” she whispered.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. You were a fool, a naïve child to have done what you did. But that was then. For you to still think it now, to kiss my naked face while begging me to have it covered, shows just how sick your mind has become.”

  His whole body tensed, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. But he did not. Instead he stood and went to the door so he could lean his back against it.

  “I told you Alyssa was in danger,” he said. “That she still lives is a miracle, but it won’t be long before her death. It’s inevitable, Zusa. You should know that. We are the servants of Karak, and we will not be swayed.”

  “What has she done to you?”

  “I’m sure if we dug into her past we’d find sins, but that isn’t what matters. I told you to make her a friend of Karak, but your stubbornness struck you as always. Dangerous times are coming, and we must prepare Veldaren for the prophet’s arrival. The world will suffer dearly if we fail.”

  “The prophet?” Zusa asked. She wanted to laugh, and would have had she not been so exhausted. “You speak of phantoms from the past, of a man long dead. You would kill us, make us all suffer, because of bedtime sto
ries about Karak’s first priest?”

  Daverik slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Good night, Zusa. I’ll buy you some time before Vrashka returns, claim that I’m giving you a day or two to think on my request. Come back to the order, and all will be forgiven.”

  “They won’t let me come back,” Zusa said as he opened the door. “You know that. What would stop me from leaving once I am free of the temple? What would keep me chained and bound to the faceless? The moment I accept myself into the faceless is the moment I die. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? At least my soul would be saved.”

  She could not deny the hurt she saw in Daverik’s eyes at her words.

  “Someone will bring you food in a few hours,” he said. “Rest well.”

  The door closed, plummeting her into darkness. The water glowed a soft blue, yet it cast no light about the room. The sight of it made her head hurt and her stomach twist, so she closed her eyes, shifted her arms as much as she could given the constraint of the manacles, and tried to sleep.

  CHAPTER

  24

  One after another died to the executioner’s ax, and the sight slowly calmed Victor’s nerves. The deal he’d made with the thief Alan had left a bad taste in his mouth. The results, however, were undeniable. The Spider Guild was all but crushed, except for one niggling detail that kept Victor pacing everywhere he went. Somehow, Thren Felhorn had escaped. The one person who mattered, and he had gotten through their lines.

  “It’s been a good day,” said Sef, joining him there in the shadow of the castle as the sun began to fall.

  “Could have gone better,” Victor said, nodding toward the executioner’s block. “Thren should be up there, bound and gagged.”

  “We’ll have his head hanging from the city gates soon enough,” Sef said. “But the whole city’s buzzing about it. People are far more willing to talk to our men now, their lips loosening. I think after last night everyone expected a war, for something like what happened before. But instead they got a bunch of dead thieves and their symbolic leader broken and in hiding.”