Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (11 page)

Delysia glanced to her fingers as she bounced down the hill. A moment’s prayer, and a bit of white glimmered on her fingertips. Someday, she might have to remind Haern how capable she actually was. At least he wasn’t as bad as her brother. No doubt Tarlak would have eventually cracked and just teleported her back home to Veldaren while she slept. That he hadn’t done so already showed how much he trusted Haern, or how busy he was with other events. Given the state of the city when she left, her instincts said it was more the latter than the former.

With a shake of her head, she scattered such thoughts. The weather was fine, the sunset a beautiful mixture of red and yellow, and she would not dwell on such frustrations. When she reached where the path veered right to slice through the center of two adjacent hills, she pushed off the path toward the thick set of bushes she saw several hundred feet away. As she neared, a smile spread across her face. She’d been right. They were raspberries and perfectly ripe. The first bush she reached, she yanked off several, popped them in her mouth, and squeezed out the juices with her tongue.

“You can keep your squirrel,” she said, picking several more and filling her mouth. “Nothing is better than this.”

After another minute of indulging, as well as staining the tips of her fingers purple, she grabbed the basket she’d brought with her and began to fill it. The berries would only last for a day at most, but as with every time she picked a basketful during their journey, their moods would lighten considerably. She began to hum a song, focusing on picking faster to ensure the basket would be full before the sun could set completely. So focused, in fact, she did not hear the sound of footsteps through the bushes.

“This patch was well hidden by the tall grass,” said Thren Felhorn behind her. “I’m surprised you were able to see it.”

Delysia tensed on instinct, then quickly recovered. She felt foolish for behaving so, but there was always a seriousness to Thren’s tone that made it impossible to feel at ease. Trying not to show how flustered she’d been, she grabbed the basket and turned to face him. He stood with his head cocked to the side, a curious look on his face. In his right hand, he held a rabbit by the legs, blood running down the brown fur and dripping drop after drop from the creature’s mouth, which was locked open in death. In Thren’s left hand, he held the slender blade that had performed the killing.

“I guess I have an eye for these things,” she said.

“I have an eye for things, too,” Thren said, and he looked to the rabbit. “Where to hide. How to tell a lie. How to kill.”

He only wants to intimidate you,
she told herself. As if the blood and knife were nothing, she turned back to the raspberry bush in front of her.

“A shame yours won’t keep us fed tonight,” she said.

“I disagree, or did you not notice the rabbit?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, as if it were new to her. “So you did. Haern should have a fire ready, and he can start cooking it if you bring it to him.”

It was a subtle attempt to guide him away from her, to show she was not afraid of his presence but still wanted him gone. Instead, he remained standing there, and the longer he did, the more the bloody dagger occupied her mind. The sounds she made as she gathered, the scraping of her feet on the dirt, the rustle of bushes with their thorns, failed to fill the silence between them as he stared.

“I remember you,” Thren said, and Delysia’s heart stopped.

“Is that so?” she asked, keeping her back to him.

“Your name is first what felt familiar, has been ever since I learned the Watcher was staying with your mercenaries. But then I saw your face … and now I see your back. You were younger then, when I put an arrow through it. You should be dead, priestess, just like your father.”

She put the basket down before her, slowly rose to her feet. She wiped the raspberry juices on the lowest part of her dress, turned to face him. Thren Felhorn stood mere feet away, dagger in one hand, dead thing in the other, and never before had Delysia seen someone so perfectly encapsulated by a single image such as then.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said, proud there was no quiver in her voice. “But someone took me to Ashhur’s temple for healing, and it’d have been rude of me to die on them after such a risk.”

“You were corrupting my son,” Thren said.

“I was saving him.”

“The only thing he needed saving from was you.”

“I was but a child and had only my words,” she said, meeting his cold stare. “Yet still you were frightened of me. But I guess you should know how much power there can be in words.”

She felt electricity building in the air around her, felt her power growing in her chest and sliding down into her fingers. Whatever Thren tried, she would be ready. Even if he killed her, she would not die without striking back.

He took another step, bringing him dangerously close. She could smell the blood dripping from the rabbit, almost taste the coppery liquid on her tongue.

“Because of you, I lost my son Aaron forever,” he said. “I won’t let that happen with the Watcher. Go home, Delysia. Go, and leave him far behind. He’s beyond needing your weak morality, your false teachings. I know what he is, and what he can become, far better than you do. It’s time to let the beast within go unchained so all of Dezrel may cower before his blades. You cost me a son. Don’t cost me an heir, not if you want to live.”

“I’m not leaving, Thren,” she said, and she prepared for an attack. “I’m staying at his side. I won’t let you have him.”

Light sparked from her fingertips, but if he was afraid, he showed no sign of it.

“You mistake my kindness,” Thren said, leaning in close so his cheek was brushing against hers, so that his lips were whispering into her ear. “Leave now, or pay the price for staying. Don’t you see? It won’t be by
my
hand that you suffer. Keep that in mind when you make your choice.”

And with that he left, casually strolling back toward the road, rabbit swinging in his right hand. As he faded from sight, Delysia dropped to her knees, letting out a breath she never realized she’d been holding. With both hands, she grabbed the basket’s handle, and she held it as she tried to regain her composure.

He’s a madman,
she told herself.
Mad, absolutely mad, and he won’t stop until Haern’s just like him.

It seemed the whole world stopped, the soft wind blowing through the field becoming still as the realization hit her like a stone to her chest.

Just like him …

Thren knew. The Watcher wasn’t an enigma, a foe, a counter to his Spider Guild. No, he had to know, for why else would he be so defensive? Why else would he fear her influence so powerfully?

You cost me a son … don’t cost me an heir.

Delysia grabbed the basket and ran back to their camp, ignoring the cuts against her skin from the thorns. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, and part of her feared what Thren would do. But what could he do other than kill her? Even that would be a risk. If he wanted to win Haern over, her death would put an end to their cooperation. Thren needed time; he needed opportunity.

The sun was almost set and she out of breath, by the time she reached the camp. Haern sat before the fire, a crude spit set up to cook the rabbit above it. He smiled when he looked up and saw her and the berries, but he quickly sensed something was amiss.

“Del?” he asked.

Beside him sat Thren, and he glanced at her with a passive expression, as if nothing at all had been said between them only minutes before.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Alone.”

“Whatever needs to be said I’m sure can be said in front of me,” Thren said.

“No, it can’t,” Delysia said, glaring. Haern looked between them, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword.

“I’m sure you won’t mind giving us a moment of privacy,” Haern said as he stood.

Thren shrugged.

“Go ahead, but I make no promises on the raspberries. If you take too long, and I eat them all, it’s on you.”

At Delysia’s lead, the two wandered away from the camp, until she felt comfortable Thren would not hear. Leaning against one of the few trees nearby, Delysia crossed her arms over her chest and tried to make sense of her thoughts.

“We have to go back,” she said.

“What?” asked Haern.

“All of us, we have to go back; we have to stop this. Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish, it isn’t worth it. We can do more good in Veldaren.”

Haern glanced back to the campfire, and a frown came over his face.

“Is that why you came all this way?” he asked. “To tell me to turn back? Because I won’t, Delysia. I have to know what is going on, and this is the only way.”

She knew it wasn’t, but there was no doubt in Haern’s voice, no questioning in his eyes. His mind was set, and she felt her stomach sink.

“It’s not worth it,” she said, voice quieter. “Not for such a risk.”

“I can handle a few dark paladins.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Haern let out a sigh, and he kicked at the tall grass.

“I’m not afraid of him,” he said. “He needs me.”

“He does,” Delysia said. “And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

She pushed off the tree, took a step toward him. She put her hand on Haern’s cheek, guided his eyes to hers. His eyes were so blue, she thought. Like a child’s. Like his father’s.

“He knows,” she whispered. “Who you are. Don’t you understand?
He knows.
”

His entire body tensed as if preparing for battle.

“Did he tell you this?” he asked, his own voice softer.

“No,” she said. “But I feel it in my gut. After all these years, he views this as a second chance. He wants to bring you back to him, make you as you were. Can’t you see that? Thren Felhorn wants his son returned to him. He wants his heir.”

“It’s impossible,” Haern said, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t he have confronted me before now? Why let me live on the streets for so long, working against him? It’s not like him; he wouldn’t have…”

“He’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted,” Delysia said. “And he won’t let anyone stand in his way. He told me so while I was in the field.”

His face darkened, and she saw the thought go through his mind.

“Did he threaten you?” he asked.

Delysia swallowed. Haern would not return to Veldaren. His mind was set, but if she revealed the threat, she knew what he’d do. He’d send her away, refusing to trust her. That was how Haern worked, and she’d come to accept it. The man would take any risk so long as the consequences were only on himself, but should it be someone else, someone he cared for …

“He never said he would harm me,” she said, as close to a lie as she could manage, and still she felt ill by it.

Haern let out a sigh.

“I’ll pay more attention, all right?” he asked. “But I refuse to believe he knows I’m his son. He’d have acted far sooner. The moment he knew, he’d have torn Veldaren apart to have me back at his side. Listen, perhaps you’re right, and he wants to recruit me in some way. If that is the case, I promise you, I’ll never be what Thren wants me to be. I’m stronger than I ever was, smarter, wiser. I can stand against him far better than when I was a child.”

The words were like tiny needles to her heart, and she stood on her toes so she could kiss his cheek.

“Don’t you see?” she asked him. “It’s the child you were that must survive.”

With that, she returned to the fire, determined to deny her fear of Thren, to be there no matter the cost. At her arrival, Thren tore off a leg of the rabbit and tossed it her way.

“Dig in,” he said as she caught it. “It’ll be tougher than it looks, though.”

He winked, and she smiled sweetly back as she bit into the flesh, vowing that no matter the cost, she would not let such a horrible man win.

L
ord Victor Kane stood before the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt for the third time.

“Forget it,” he said, yanking off the silken garment. “It’s not me, anyway.”

Instead, he put on a plain undershirt, followed by his finely woven chain mail shirt. It was heavy, but when he clasped his sword belt to his waist, it helped to distribute some of the weight. That done, he grabbed his sword, pulled a tunic with his family’s crest over his head, and then looked once more into the mirror. This time, he looked ready for battle, the rings of his chain mail shining in the light streaming in through his window.

Much better,
he thought. Better he be comfortable than pretend to be something he wasn’t.

“Milord?” asked a man at the door after a quick set of knocks.

“Come in, Sef,” Victor said.

The door opened, and into Victor’s small room stepped Sef Battleborn, a heavyset and bearded man whose long brown hair had more than a fair share of gray in it. Sef had been a loyal soldier of his family for decades now, and Victor hoped he’d be around for decades more.

“Going to Alyssa’s again?” he asked, looking Victor up and down.

“Hard to woo a woman when you’re not at her side.”

“The poets say differently.”

“The poets write their ballads so that young maidens will throw themselves at their feet afterwards,” Victor said, tugging on his chain mail to readjust its weight so it was centered instead of too far on his right shoulder. “And since when do you listen to poets?”

“When I’m off drinking,” Sef said. “Something you used to do with me before all this started.”

Victor ran a hand through his hair, glanced at Sef.

“Is there a reason you’re here, other than to complain about my not getting shit-faced with you at a tavern?”

“Sadly, there is,” Sef said, and he sighed. “The mercenary captains have all gathered downstairs. They want to be paid, Victor, and they aren’t leaving until they get what they think is theirs.”

“How many?” Victor asked Sef, who stood in the doorway to Victor’s room looking miserable.

“Fifteen,” his old friend said. “If you tally up those under their command, it’s nearly six hundred of our mercenaries.”