The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  Whatever building he was in was small in space but attempting to make up for it by being two stories tall. He saw a second door across from him, and a few feet away, stairs curling downward at sharp angles to the bottom floor. He heard muffled talking from the other door. Feeling like a trespasser, he hurried along as fast as his wounds allowed him to go. The bottom floor was blessedly empty. Sparsely furnished, he saw a table, an oak desk in the corner, and a modest pile of books atop it. At the door, he removed the bolt and stepped out into the street.

  He looked around a moment, taking in his surroundings. The sun was rising, still low enough to hide behind the city’s walls. There was an inn not far away, Prather’s if he read the sign right, and that meant he was on…Crimson Alley, deep in southern Veldaren. He felt muted horror at the realization. Senke and Delysia lived on the Crimson, one of the most dangerous places in the city? No wonder he never saw either of them when he patrolled the night. They’d certainly keep their doors locked and windows bolted. How often had he passed right on by when scouring for isolated members of the guilds?

  He worried about his injuries, but those desperate enough to rob in daylight he could certainly handle. Giving one last glance at the dilapidated building to memorize its location, Haern rushed north, eager to put some distance between him and his sudden assault from the past.

  Veliana floated in silence, and that alone convinced her she was dead. She didn’t know if her eyes were open or closed. All she saw was darkness, though she didn’t really see it as much as be swallowed by it. The numbness she felt she likened to cold, so at least she felt something, however faint. Time drifted by as if it were bored of her. Then came a sudden, shocking pain to her chest. It lit up her darkness with streaks of red. Again she felt the pain, but this time there was a comfort to it, a strange familiarity. The third time it hit, she realized it was her heartbeat restarting.

  Pins and needles came in waves, first to her chest, then her face, and last her extremities. The darkness gradually faded from black, to yellow, to red, and at last to an assortment of colors that congealed together to create the unmasked face of Deathmask.

  “Welcome back,” he said with a smile.

  She would have hit him if her limbs bothered to listen to her commands.

  He vanished. She lay on her back, and now she stared at a cobwebbed ceiling. Based on the cold she felt, she decided she was on a dirt floor. Her ears, about the only thing working properly, heard shuffling, followed by a laugh.

  “I’m sure you’re angry with me, but let me assure you, I hope I never have to do that again.” Deathmask leaned over, and she felt him press his hands against her neck. “Pulse is getting stronger. Good. Never actually tried that spell before, so consider yourself a lucky first try. Stopping someone’s heart is never easy. Well, not if you want to start it again.”

  “What…happened?” she forced her dry throat and swollen tongue to ask.

  “I faked killing you. The thrust to your chest wasn’t deep enough, but I made sure no one bothered to investigate the matter. With your heart stopped, and your body in stasis, there wasn’t much reason to think otherwise. I took over the burial, and here we are. Simple enough explanation, and once you get your bearings, I think you’ll be pleased with its elegance.”

  The pins and needles returned throughout her body, and this time she felt herself regaining control. Her head pounded with the unholiest of headaches, but she forced herself to sit up, forced the memories to come back. She’d been in their headquarters, Garrick was there, accusing her of…

  She reached for a dagger at her side but all she did was topple herself back to the dirt.

  “Don’t rush things,” she heard Deathmask say. “You’ll be fine in a few more minutes. We have much to discuss, so try not to do anything stupid like killing me, all right?”

  No promises, she thought amid her delirium.

  As her body reawakened, so did her mind. She glanced about, taking in her surroundings. They appeared to be in a cellar of some sort, the only light coming from a single torch lit behind her head. She saw no door but assumed it was also behind her. Deathmask leaned against a stone wall to her right, his arms crossed, his face blanketed with a smug grin she’d give everything to cut off. Feeling far better, she sat up, braced herself for the ensuing dizziness, and then sat on her knees.

  “I’m fine now,” she told him. “You say we have lots to talk about, so let’s talk.”

  He nodded, as if perfectly fine to hurry through the bullshit.

  “Garrick surprised me with his boldness. I’d feel more upset if he didn’t surprise you as well, and you’ve known him far longer than I. Even a rigged die will roll something new with enough throws, if you know what I mean. I tried to save us both, but clearly Garrick wasn’t one to be persuaded. He wanted you dead, and I did my best to fool him regarding that. I succeeded, of that I’m sure. My position in the guild is tenuous right now, esteemed in most of the lower members that despised you, but Garrick wants me killed, that much is obvious. And now here we are. It’s only been a day, and I managed to keep you wrapped and safe so no bugs or worms could get at you.”

  Veliana shuddered at the prospect.

  “So here we are,” she said. “What is it you want? Why keep me alive?”

  “Because I made you an offer, and I won’t let some idiot guildmaster interfere with my plans. That offer still stands, though I need your answer now. Will you aid me, or must I find another?”

  “And if I say no?”

  His eyes held no joy, no amusement, only grim truth.

  “I’ll put you as you were, though this time no spell will bring you back.”

  She thought of the cold, the darkness. An involuntary shudder coursed through her, too strong to hide. She couldn’t go back to that, even if it wasn’t a true death. Garrick had turned against her, and even now she would be a outsider, a banished ghost from her own guild.

  “I’ll help you,” she said. “Even if I did have a choice, I’d still help you. I want that son of a bitch to die, slowly, painfully, and at my hand. That is all I ask. Can you promise me that?”

  Deathmask handed her a small bottle of some red vintage. She tore out the cork and drank.

  “That, my dear,” he said, “is something I can assure you of. He’ll be your kill, all yours.”

  The alcohol burned going down, but damn did it feel good.

  “Then enough lies and games. I can hardly turn against you, now that I’ve been ‘executed’ by the Ash Guild. What is your plan? Why have you come to Veldaren?”

  Deathmask smoothed his robe and then sat opposite her on the floor. He scratched at his chin, as if thinking where to start.

  “I was once a member of the Council of Mages,” he said. “Less than six months ago, in fact. They preach non-involvement in political matters, but it’s nonsense. We had our eyes everywhere, especially on the kings and their capitals. When this war erupted between the guilds and the Trifect, I was assigned to watch. Through coin and magic, I learned of every guildleader, their goals, and the reaches of their power. As the years dragged on, and my boredom grew, I formulated various plans and contingencies. I was not a high ranking member, Veliana; far from it. My strength was equal to many, but my years were few. Not enough gray hairs, if you will. I also had a reputation as a…troublemaker.”

  “Shocking,” Veliana muttered. He chuckled and continued.

  “They told me nothing of why I was tracking Veldaren’s underworld, so left to my imagination, I thought of every possible reason. Recently I came up with a plan I was sure could work. It wasn’t foolproof, and would involve risk to whoever tried carrying it out, but I was certain of its worth. This stupid grudge war wasn’t going to end, not without killing off Thren Felhorn, and I knew a way. When I tried to convince the Council of this, they gave me strict orders not to interfere. I saw a wealth of gold, but gold means nothing to those aging bastards. They want influence, power, and information. Gold helped with that, but was h
ardly their true ambition.

  “I went on with my plan without their approval, and that is when I realized how dangerous they thought me. Several of my contacts were actually in the pockets of other higher ranking members. My assassination attempt accomplished nothing but my banishment. They took my name from me, Veliana. They stole it with a spell, called my ambitions foolish, my desire for gold a young man’s folly. We call you nameless, they said, for you are death. They refused to see the power I might gain, the wealth the underworld of Veldaren smuggled every single night.

  “I came here to prove them wrong. I lurked until the right moment to introduce myself. I have a plan, many in fact, and this is just one of them. We will take over the Ash Guild and turn it into a powerful force no one will dare act against. We’ll kill many accomplishing this, possibly hundreds. Does this bother you?”

  She thought over everything he’d said. It made sense, and it explained many of his strange powers. Of course he could be lying, but even if he was, it didn’t change what Garrick had done to her. As for his question…

  “No,” she said. “Not if it lets me kill Garrick. The innocent aren’t long for this world anyway.”

  Deathmask smiled.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Then you shouldn’t mind what you must do next.”

  11

  Evelyn washed her hands in the bowl and wiped them on a nearby cloth. Feeling like a morbid butcher, she tossed her bloody apron aside. Matthew stood beside her, looking down at the boy.

  “Will he live?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” she told her husband. “I sewed him up quick enough. Lost more blood tending to the Kender’s boy when he hit his head on their fence.”

  “He was also older,” Matthew said. Evelyn nodded but said nothing. The silence stretched as they both looked upon the sleeping boy, his skin pale and slick with sweat. She hoped that meant his fever was finally breaking, but it easily could be because of the amputation. The human body did strange things when in pain, and Evelyn didn’t want to imagine what the boy had felt when she took the saw to his shoulder. He’d been feverish and unable to talk, so maybe he hadn’t felt much.

  “Strange not knowing his name,” Matthew said.

  “We could give him one.”

  “Not much point. If he wakes, he’ll tell us it himself.”

  “When he wakes.”

  Her husband gave her a look, then nodded. It was the closest she ever got to an apology with him.

  “Right. When he wakes. Give me a moment to take care of this.”

  The boy’s arm lay wrapped in rags on the floor by the bed. Matthew scooped it up and carried it outside. Though he didn’t tell her, she knew the hogs penned out back were about to get an interesting addition to their diet. They’d kept the children out of the house while she cut, though her oldest, Trevor, had insisted he watch. Just shy of fourteen, he might have been able to stomach it, but truth be told, she couldn’t afford the distraction should he have cried out or lost control of his stomach.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said when Matthew returned. “We might as well name him. Both him and that Haern were injured, and I have no doubt they’re hiding from someone. I’d hate for one of us to let slip his real name before we can get him home.”

  “I reckon you’re right. Any ideas?”

  “Always wanted to have a boy named something fancy. How about Tristan?”

  “Too fancy. No one would believe us when we say he’s ours. How about John?”

  She frowned. “He’ll only have this name for a week or two at most, and you want something so plain as John?”

  He blinked at her. “My father’s name is John.”

  “Your father was a very plain man himself.”

  He took an angry step toward her, grabbed her wrists, and then, laughing, pulled her against him. Her own laughter faded as he held her tight, and she wrapped her arms about him.

  “You going to be all right?” he asked.

  “Just blood and dead flesh,” she said. “Not as if he was squealing like a hog.”

  “It’s just you and me right now. You know that, right? We can open the stitches, say he bled out when we took the arm. Wouldn’t be a lie…”

  She pulled away.

  “We gave our word,” she said, as if that should explain everything. “I don’t know what’s going on, but what I do know is anyone out to kill a boy that young ain’t on the side of right. That stranger paid us a fortune for this. We can buy more land from the Potters, those acres they can’t till worth a damn, but we could do it. We can hire help, extra salt and meat for next winter, lumber for the house…I won’t better our life on the blood of a dead child, and I expect you to feel the same.”

  His cheeks flushed red. When he went to speak, he shut his mouth again and waited another moment to get his composure back.

  “True enough,” he said. “Hard as it is to get the kids to avoid a lying tongue. Won’t do no good to go lying ourselves. I’m scared, Evelyn. We’re just farmers. I don’t like going up to Tyneham to trade our wares to the miners, let alone all the way south to Veldaren where the real crooks are. Whoever’s after this boy…”

  “Tristan.”

  He laughed. “Fine. Whoever’s after Tristan probably has money, soldiers…Who’ll take care of Debbie, or Anna, or little Mark should something happen to us? Or, Ashhur forbid, what if something happen to them?”

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

  “Stop worrying. We’ll deal with each problem as it comes, and Ashhur will keep us safe. Now let Tristan here sleep.”

  “Tristan,” Matthew muttered as they passed through the curtain into the other room. “You really wanted to name one of our children Tristan?”

  Tristan woke them a few hours past midnight. Evelyn was the first at his side. The boy was moaning, and his legs and arm twitched every few moments. She touched his forehead. It was like touching fire.

  “Get water in the tub,” she told Trevor, “mix in some snow, too. If you can stand to keep your hand in it for long, it ain’t cold enough.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Trevor said, his eyes lingering on Tristan as he put on his coat and boots. They had a small tub inside their home (a luxury if I ever saw one, Liza, her crone of a neighbor, had once told her). They had to bring the water in by buckets, and that would take time. Until then, she tore off the boy’s blankets and clothes, stripping him naked upon the bed.

  “He going to be all right?” asked Anna as she poked her head through the curtain. She was twelve, old enough to help her mother when she acted the healer.

  “Wake your father,” Evelyn said, ignoring her question. “And make sure Mark and Julie stay in bed. Probably already scared, and I don’t want them scared worse.”

  Anna nodded, and her head vanished behind the curtain. Evelyn lifted Tristan in her arms, and it was like picking up a burning log. When she brushed through the curtain into their living room, she found Matthew putting on layers.

  “Trevor said you needed water in the tub. The fever gotten that bad?”

  She nodded.

  “I told you he hadn’t had enough to drink,” he said. “Can’t sweat off a fever if you ain’t got nothing to sweat.”

  “I know,” she said. “Now’s not the time.”

  She caught her younger children looking at her, and she turned her back to them and hurried to the tub. The door to the house slammed shut, whether from Matthew leaving or Trevor coming in, she didn’t know. In the tub she found a single bucketful of water, barely enough to wet the surface. She put him in anyway and held him down as his body flailed against the cold.

  “Anna!” she cried. Her daughter hurried in after. “Help me hold him down. His shivers are going to get worse. Don’t feel bad about the chill, either. He’ll burn to death before he catches cold.”

  She shifted so that Anna might hold his arm, then pressed down on the boy’s knees. Trevor came in with another bucket of water, and he looked lost about what to do
with it.

  “Just dump it on him,” Evelyn said, trying to be patient. “It’s only water!”

  Trevor hesitated, but the look in his mother’s eyes got him going. He upended the bucket, cold water from the well. Tristan’s moan turned to a full-fledged wail. Rather than stay, Trevor hurried out. Evelyn leaned more of her weight on her arms as Tristan’s struggling grew. Beside her, Anna quietly cried.

  “Start praying,” she whispered. “It’ll help you, but don’t you dare let go of that arm.”

  Matthew came in with a larger bucket, and he poured it in by the boy’s feet. The water was halfway up his body, and Evelyn told him one more should be enough.

  “Still need the snow?” he asked.

  “This water will be warm soon enough.”

  “All right.”

  When they came back, she put the bucket of snow beside her, saving it for when the chill left the tub. Tristan was still shivering, and he cried when he had the energy, and moaned when he did not. After twenty minutes she dumped in the half-melted bucket of snow, sending Tristan’s shivers back to full strength. Ten more minutes and she lifted him out, wrapped him in a towel, and brought him back to his bed. Matthew was there not long after, a small cup of milk in one hand, a slender funnel in the other. Evelyn recognized it sure enough. They used it to feed their animals various herbs and tonics should they catch ill.

  “He needs to drink,” Matthew said. “Hold open his jaw, and don’t let him move. I have no intention of drowning him.”

  Once the milk was gone, they wrapped him tighter in blankets and waited.

  “Go rest,” she told her husband. “You have enough work in the morning, and it won’t be no good for you to do it on a half night’s sleep. Get the kids back to bed as well. I’ll keep vigil on him.”

  Matthew squeezed her shoulder and then left. Once he was gone she gently stroked Tristan’s forehead with her fingers. He looked like a drowned rat, but his fever had finally dropped. He’d fallen back asleep, too, for which she was thankful. She’d mixed a bit of Hogroot in the milk, and she prayed it’d break his fever completely while he slept. A quick inspection showed the stitches on his shoulder to be clean. No infection, thank Ashhur. There wasn’t anywhere higher left to cut, other than his neck just to end the suffering.