A Dance of Shadows

by David Dalglish

  A black fire gave him his answer, rising up from the ground toward the rooftop. Grayson dropped to his stomach, avoiding Deathmask’s attack. Glancing over the edge of the roof, Thren saw the Ash guildmaster leading a squad of six armored soldiers, Victor at his side. Grayson looked up from where he lay, saw Thren watching. His lips were grinning, but his eyes promised death. Thren grinned right back. The two were about to be kindred spirits in their homelessness. Grayson, as if imagining his thoughts, only shook his head in disagreement.

  Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally himself with someone as unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor had created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in pursuit. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them smoke billowed into the air as Roark’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.

  Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His short swords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near-fatally wounded his son as well. What hope did Thren have that now would end any way other than with his death?

  Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him. Let death come for him if it must, but it would not find him a coward.

  They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing Thren back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar.

  “This stops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His short swords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours.”

  Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered Grayson nonetheless.

  “It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear… mine, and I do not share!”

  “Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath and rebalance himself before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. He died, and at my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you never did. You coward…”

  Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.

  “Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”

  “All this time you let him live. Why?”

  Thren’s grin spread from ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.

  “Because he’s my son,” he said.

  Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant. “Your son?” he asked.

  “Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. Come, Grayson. Let’s see which of us still lives come the dawn.”

  Thren leaped at him, every ounce of his speed sending him flying toward the giant man. Once more their swords clashed, but Grayson’s mind was overcome for just a moment, unable to maintain the balance needed against such an opponent. Thren had cried his tears for Marion, and he’d long since buried her in his heart. Grayson’s wounds, though, they’d stayed fresh, and because of it new ones slashed across his chest as Thren pressed harder and harder. He felt rage boiling in his veins, and it gave him strength. Looping closer, he slashed through Grayson’s left wrist, severing tendons. The blade dropped to the ground. Thren hammered the other, staying close, denying Grayson the chance to flee. The other blade fell, its hilt soaked with blood as Thren hacked into his arm.

  Grayson tried to sweep out his feet with a kick, but Thren leaped into the air, his knee catching Grayson’s forehead. The man fell back, and Thren stabbed through his side, the blade puncturing the roof so it held him there like a stake. Grayson screamed, and he pulled against the blade. Another stab, this one through the shoulder, kept him down.

  Thren leaned close, so they were mere inches apart.

  “Who is he?” he asked. “Your arrival was not coincidence. You’ve spit in my face, and for that you’ll die, but first you’ll tell me who.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grayson asked, still struggling against the two blades. Thren had made sure neither punched through a vital organ, wanting to control Grayson’s death, to have it be exactly when he desired it.

  “The one mocking me,” he said. “The one who has killed my members, taken their eyes, and left rhymes written in blood. The Widow. Tell me who it is.”

  “I don’t know,” Grayson said. He reached toward Thren with a shaking hand, and despite his wounds, tried to grab his neck to strangle him. Thren admired his dedication, but had no time for that. He released the hilts of his swords, grabbed Grayson’s wrists, and held him down.

  “You lie.”

  “I was never told his name.”

  Thren’s eyes narrowed. “Told by who?”

  Grayson shook his head, and he laughed despite his pain.

  “It’s all a game, Thren, and I played along because it suited us well. His name’s Laerek, a priest of Karak.”

  It made no sense, but Thren detected no lie. “A priest?” he asked. “What have I done to them that Karak’s followers would hate me?”

  Another laugh. “I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit. Laerek helped us get into the city, all so we’d help him with something later. It was too tempting to say no.”

  Thren grabbed Grayson’s neck with a hand and pushed his head down. “Tell me where to find him.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  Thren swallowed, and then he nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

  Grayson let out a soft sigh. His dark skin was turning pale, yet he kept total control of his voice.

  “So be it. He’ll be waiting for me in an alley off Songbird Road, by that shoemaker’s place.”

  Thren again sensed no lie. He stood, and his hand closed around the hilt of one of his swords.

  “Thren,” Grayson said, and for the first time his voice wavered.

  “Yes?”

  Grayson grinned darkly. “The Sun Guild doesn’t die with me. You know that. The Darkhand will be here soon. Whatever life you have now, cherish it. Once he arrives, your time is done.”

  Thren knelt down beside him so he could whisper in his dying friend’s ear.

  “Let him come. This student has long ago surpassed his teacher.”

  Thren stood, yanked the blade free, spun it around, and then slashed open Grayson’s throat. His body convulsed for a moment as blood spilled across his neck and chest, and then he lay still. Thren stood over him, breathing heavily, and despite himself, he felt tears run down his face.

  “You loved Marion more than I,” he told the corpse. “A shame it cost you so.”

  He yanked
the other sword free, not bothering to clean off the blood. He still had work to do.

  “Laerek,” Thren whispered as trumpets sounded, the raid on the Sun Guild nearing its end.

  CHAPTER

  33

  Alyssa tossed and turned, but she could not sleep. Zusa had still not returned, and with the sun long ago set she felt her hope dwindling. With every creak of a board she sat up in bed, looking to see if Zusa was opening the door or climbing down from the ceiling. Always nothing. She’d give so much to have the faceless woman climb into her bed, to wrap her arms around Alyssa and tell her everything was well, everything was safe. Despite her wealth, Alyssa could not buy the one thing she so desperately needed.

  Still feeling anxious, she at last gave up on sleep and slipped out of bed. She threw a robe over her thin nightgown and stepped out into the hallways. It was dark despite the many candles. Something gnawed at her tired mind, but she couldn’t place what it was. Even more impatient, she hurried to Nathaniel’s room. If she was stuck awake, at least it’d be with her son. Seeing him asleep, and at peace, was often what it took to reassure her troubled mind that all was well. She’d done it plenty when he was a newborn, and though it felt weak to do so now that he was older, she didn’t care. Reaching his door, she again felt that gnawing fear, an awareness that she was missing something both troubling and obvious.

  Opening the door to her son’s room, she stepped inside, and was surprised to find that he was still awake.

  “Mom?”

  His head tilted higher, and he clearly looked relieved. Two candles burned in a candelabra hooked to the opposite wall, filling the room with yellow light.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, sitting down beside his bed. He sat up, which revealed the stump of his arm. It was scabbed over, with several spots bleeding from his picking at it. Nathaniel seemed oblivious, just scratching repeatedly with his hand as he shuddered and looked away. Alyssa felt the worry in her gut strengthen.

  “I don’t want to sleep,” he said.

  “You know you need to. I can see how tired you are.”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “I… I don’t want to dream. I keep seeing him, and I don’t want to anymore.”

  “Him?” Alyssa frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He looked feverish, yet when she touched his face, he was bathed in a cold sweat.

  “Every time I dream, I see him laughing,” he said. “Veldaren’s burning, and he laughs.”

  Alyssa kissed his forehead, then gently pushed him onto his back. Tucking him in, she tried to hide her own fears. Nathaniel had had night terrors before, particularly after he’d lost his arm, and it took a year for them to go away. Yet this seemed different. He’d never really been aware of what frightened him back then, why he’d awaken screaming.

  “How long have you had these dreams?” she asked, trying to sound more tired than worried.

  “Ever since Grandmother showed me the chrysarium.”

  Alyssa forced herself not to frown. Chrysarium? What in Karak’s name was a chrysarium? It sounded like something a wizard might conjure up. That her mother had exposed him to it without checking with her first immediately made her angry.

  “Honey, what did Grandmother show you?”

  He shrank into the bed, scratched harder at the stump of his arm.

  “She made me promise not to tell.”

  “You can tell me. You know that. You can always tell me everything.”

  She reached down and grabbed his hand to stop the picking.

  “Tell me,” she said, letting a little of her earnestness come through.

  “I saw visions,” he said. “Grandmother said they were from Karak, and it meant I was special. But I don’t want them, they’re horrible, and they won’t let me sleep!”

  Alyssa swallowed, and a hundred things she might scream at Melody ran through her mind.

  “Listen to me, Nathan,” she said. “They’re just visions. They can’t hurt you, and they don’t mean anything. I want you to lie here and relax. You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to. I’m going to talk to Melody and find out what happened. If she did something, maybe she can fix this.”

  “But she’ll be asleep.”

  A dry smile stretched across Alyssa’s lips.

  “Then I’ll wake her.”

  She kissed his cheek, then stood. When she reached his door, she stopped, for she heard shuffling on the other side. For some reason her heart froze, and she remained perfectly still as the sound slowly faded away. Door open a crack, she peered through and saw a young woman with dark brown hair heading down the hall. Alyssa frowned. She didn’t look like a servant, nor was she dressed like one, yet Alyssa could not place her despite their time in the mansion.

  “Nathan,” she whispered, turning back to her son. “When I step out, I want you to lock the door, all right? No questions, and don’t open it for anyone but me, you understand?”

  With that she entered the hall, and then waited until she heard the rattle of his lock. Satisfied, she hurried in the opposite direction from the unknown woman, coming upon Stephen’s room, the door slightly ajar. Was the woman a prostitute, perhaps? Not that she cared to judge Stephen’s actions, but it seemed odd the guards would not escort her…

  And then it hit her, the obvious fear that had gnawed at the back of her mind. The guards. There should have been guards stationed all around the home, at her door, Nathaniel’s, and especially Stephen’s. But there were none. A chill spread through her veins. Why were there no guards?

  Her instincts were to run to her son, but his door was locked, and she’d checked it the first night he’d stayed in there alone. It’d take a solid beating by grown men to break the bolt. Swallowing the instinct down, she instead slipped into Stephen’s room. Always before it had been locked and guarded. She’d assumed this was because of well-founded fear of assassins. Now, though…

  Inside she found a room similar to her own, well furnished and with an enormous bed in the center, its lavender curtains pulled back. Moonlight streamed in through three windows, faintly illuminating the room in a soft blue. The bed itself was empty. In the far corner she saw a door, also open. Yellow light shone from within, flickering from an unseen candle. Curious, she walked toward the door, glad her feet were bare. On the thick carpet, she made hardly a sound with her passing. Stopping just before the entrance, she drew a deep breath, and prayed it was nothing, all a strange misunderstanding. There’d be nothing within but clothes, finery, maybe some old armor…

  Alyssa stepped inside.

  Three candles in a golden candelabra rested atop a small stool. On either side of her, covering the walls of what appeared to be an extraordinarily large closet, were portraits of Leon Connington, painted in various styles and with varying skill. She recognized them well, for they’d decorated the walls upon her visits before Leon had been killed by the Watcher. She remembered Zusa remarking upon their absence, and the implied dislike the son might have for the father. But there in that room she knew it was the reverse, a clandestine reverence for the man whose eyes glowered down from all corners.

  Every instinct of warning fired off in her mind. The mansion was no longer safe for her. Turning to leave, she stopped, for on the ground, nearly hidden from the light of the candles, was a jar. The mere sight of it twisted her stomach, despite her being unable to identify the contents within. With shaking hands she knelt down, grabbed it, and lifted it up to the candlelight. It was made of thick, clear glass. Swirling within a syrupy liquid of some kind were over a dozen naked eyeballs.

  It took all her control to hold back her scream. The jar fell from her hands and landed with a dull thud on the carpet. Alyssa left it there and rushed for the door. They had to flee. Even the wild streets at night would feel safer than the enclosed walls of the Connington mansion. Before exiting she had the presence of mind to stop and check the hall. From the crack in the door she saw the approach of the same unknown woman… except now she wasn’t qui
te so unknown. Alyssa recognized those eyes, the softness of the nose and chin…

  It can’t be him, she thought, but knew it was. She ducked behind the door. Was he coming back to his room? She had no blade, no weapon, and none appeared to be in his room. In her indecision she tensed, waiting for the door to press open. It did not. Holding her breath, Alyssa once more peered out through the door and saw that he’d continued. She could see the small crossbow in his hand, pressed against his side as he walked. Sticking her head out, she could just barely see her own door down the hall, and sure enough, Stephen slowly pushed it open and slid inside without making a sound.

  The moment he vanished within, Alyssa ran, once more thankful for the bareness of her feet. When Stephen found her room empty there was only one place he’d think to go, and it was the one place she had to beat him to.

  At the door to Nathaniel’s room, she stopped, knocked twice (the noise seeming unbearably loud), and then waited for a sound of movement.

  “It’s me, your mother,” she said, not waiting for him to ask. “Unlock the door, now!”

  He did, and she shoved it open hard enough to send him staggering backward. Stepping inside, she spun, shut it, and then pressed in the bolt. That done, she grabbed Nathaniel, held him against her, and wondered what in all of Dezrel she could possibly do now.

  “Mom?” he asked when she said nothing, only held him.

  “Shush,” she said, blowing out the candles to plunge the room into darkness. “Don’t make a noise.”

  He nodded.

  The two backed away, slowly, as if a monster lurked on the other side of the door. One did, except it wasn’t a creature of legend or fireside tales. This one was real, its venom deadly, its appetite sick and deranged.

  The doorknob turned. Alyssa’s breath caught in her throat, and she put a hand over Nathaniel’s mouth. The door pressed inward, just a fraction, before the bolt caught it. There was a pause, and then the knob returned to its resting position. Two knocks followed.