Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (39 page)

And what she desired most was her former lover, Luther.

She tried to imagine his face, where he might be, and then suddenly, she saw him huddled before a desk, his back to her.

“Luther?” she asked aloud, her voice sounding distant.

Melody? Melody, is that you?

Nothing then could stop her crying. She felt tears running down her face, the first tears she’d cried in over a year. The image shifted, and suddenly, she was looking up at him and he looking down. He was so beautiful, so kind, and it ripped her heart to pieces that she could not reach out and stroke his face.

“I’m here,” she said.

Praise Karak. I feared the men would only keep the chrysarium for themselves despite all I paid.

“The chrysarium?” she asked.

The device you hold.

He held one as well, she realized, and she was peering up from it. A magical thing, a blessed gift.

“Can you free me from here?” she asked him.

Not yet,
said the priest.
They have banished me west and forbidden me to travel anywhere east of the Rigon. I’m sorry; it will take time, but I promise I will return. Can you survive until then?

She smiled, and despite its darkness, the world was suddenly the brightest it had been in what felt like a dozen lifetimes.

“Yes,” she said. “So long as I can see your face, I can endure.”

The colors faded, her earlier fervent prayers no longer able to sustain the contact. As the gems slowly fell one by one into the center of the shallow bowl, she felt her faith in Karak renewed. She was not forgotten. Not abandoned.

Heart filled, she began to sing her praises to her god, and her voice echoed throughout the dungeon, in stark defiance of its somber hopelessness.

Years passed.

Something was different; there was no denying that. It’d been months since Leon came down to touch her or witness the torture of others brought in for the gentle touchers’ care. Even the gentle touchers themselves seemed off. Old men who used to exude calm control now seemed nervous when they gave her her daily bowl of broth or cup of water. Their glances were furtive, their tongues harsh. What could it be, she wondered, but she had no answers, at least none she dared hope for. Because only one made sense, especially with how often they came to talk with the imprisoned boy beside her. Stephen, Leon’s boy.

When they came for him, it was at night, and she slept. She awoke to see only a passing glimpse of him, a ghostly image lit by four carried torches. It was a procession, she realized, but to a coronation, or a funeral? But deep in her heart, she knew it had to be true. Leon Connington, somehow, someway, had found his way into the grave.

I hope they had to chop you up so you’d fit in a coffin,
she thought. Karak’s fire could not be hot enough for a man like him. Only in the deepest, darkest pit would he find appropriate torture. But what of Stephen? Had they found a replacement? Was he considered a threat to the ascension? She prayed Karak keep him from harm. He was such a sweet thing, full of anguish and hurt, but only because he craved love so desperately, love he never got from his heartless father. The hour passed, and she heard nothing. Sleep finally came for her, and she relented. She dreamed of open fields, and of Luther waiting for her there. For some reason, she could not go to him, only cry out from a faraway place. Sometimes he heard her, sometimes not, but he always looked so sad.

“Melody?”

A voice from the gate. She opened her eyes, her heart leaping into her throat. There before her was thin, frail Stephen, his pale skin seeming to glow amid the light of the torches held at either side of him. She’d seen him before, only rarely, during the times Leon allowed him to leave the cells and venture into the reaches of his mansion. He’d always looked tired then, defeated, but not this time. Now he was all smiles, his shoulders pulled back, his head held high.

“I’m lord now,” he told her as one of the gentle touchers opened the barred door to her cell. “They’ve acknowledged my right. You’re free, Melody. We both are.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet, and she gripped the chrysarium tightly in one hand. She stepped toward the door, and she felt lost in a dream. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be so blessed. But she was, and she fell into Stephen’s arms, clutching him with all her might as her tears ran forth.

They gave her a finely decorated room upstairs. It was night, and she was glad, for even the light of the many candles hurt her eyes. Servants had bathed her, washing away the gunk from her hair and the layers of dirt and shit from her skin. Fine silks wrapped about her body afterward, her neck splashed with perfume. When she stepped into her new bedroom, she felt she stepped back in time, to when she was the wife of Maynard Gemcroft and a powerful lady of the Trifect. And she would have that power again.

But first …

“Luther?” she said as she took the chrysarium into her hands. “Luther, I have such wonderful things to tell you!”

She saw his face, and when he asked, she blurted out everything, of Leon’s death, Stephen’s ascension, and her freedom from the cell. She thought he’d be happy, and he was, but the joy was tempered.

This was meant to be,
Luther said into her mind when she was done.
Dark times come for Veldaren, Melody, but you can help us fight them. Stay hidden and do not reveal yourself to the Gemcroft family just yet. Stephen needs you to be with him, to teach him how to act, to speak, to rule as a true lord. All these things he won’t have learned in the dungeon.

“Yes, of course,” Melody said. “I owe him all this and more.”

Not just that, Melody. I have seen Veldaren’s future, and it is full of flames and death. We can stop it, though, with your help.

“What must I do?” she asked. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

I will,
said Luther.
But not yet. I cannot come to you, but a friend of mine can. His name is Daverik, a priest loyal to the Karak that was. When he comes to you, listen well, and obey with
out question. Can you do that, Melody?

“I can,” she said. “Anything and everything, I’ll do it. Karak has given me freedom. Whatever life I have left is his.”

My beloved Melody, I pray you never understand the sacrifice you’ve sworn to make. The most frightening thing a god may do when offered a life is say yes.

Years passed.

Melody sat in her room in the Gemcroft mansion. The door was locked, though she knew it would not hold long when the soldiers came for her. Tears ran down her face, and her trembling hands held the sides of the chrysarium. She was hunched over on her bed, and she felt more trapped than she had during her final years in Leon’s horrible prison. Down there, she always had the hope of escape. Now, though? Now there was no escape. She
had
escaped, yet no peace had awaited her, no happiness. Just a cruel, cold world in desperate need of cleansing.

“Luther?” she whispered, trying her best not to cry. “Luther, please, are you there? I’ve done all you’ve asked, and it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”

She’d watched from her room as Victor Kane’s forces rushed the gate, with men of the city guard accompanying them. They’d had no warning, no chance to prepare. Melody berated herself for not having expected it, but John insisted to her they would hold. Their claim was strong, and if given a chance to argue the law before the king, he felt strongly they would be proven correct. It was all nonsense, though. Men with swords came for their heads. No claim or law would protect them, not when the city guard itself was out for blood.

From the window, she’d watched, and prayed, and felt her tears building as John’s men fell one by one. The wretched betrayer, the former faceless woman Zusa, was the worst. She’d leaped over the gates protecting the compound as if the distance were nothing, and with some sort of blasphemous magic, she shattered the lock so the rest of the men could come charging in.
If only Ghost had killed her as he’d promised,
she thought. With Zusa at the front, John’s men could do nothing. They tried at first, but as the blood flowed, she watched them throw down their weapons. They would not bleed for her, die for her. From the cries she heard repeating throughout the mansion, it seemed like John might have even ordered a surrender.

So stupid,
she’d thought.
The law does not protect the faithful, not in this godless city.

After that, she’d shut the curtain, granting her the necessary darkness, and then found the chrysarium. Only one person could help her, and begging for Karak’s strength, she prayed for there to be no weakness within her come the end. Into the chrysarium’s empty center she stared. She’d done her hurried best to block the windows, but she didn’t need the darkness like she had before. Her focus was greater, her faith even stronger. Within the gems appeared the light, and dipping her mind into it, she vaulted across the many miles, granted sight of distant places and people. Right then, the one person she needed more than anything was her poor, beloved Luther. She needed to hear him tell her it would all be made right, that her sacrifices had made a difference.

The vision came, first cloudy, then stronger. It was Luther, and he was in the same room he’d been in for the past year. He sat at a wooden desk, book open before him, head down. Normally, the sight of him would have made her heart feel light, but this time, she knew something was wrong. He was too still, positioned too awkwardly to be asleep. And then she saw the blood staining the back of his robe.

“Luther!” she screamed. “Luther!”

The image shifted, and she saw him from the side. His face was still, his eyes locked open. No breath. No life.

From a faraway place, she heard soldiers shouting, and she pulled up from the vision as if rising from the grave. Her tears fell upon the chrysarium, whose gems had fallen dark.
Dead
, she told herself. Luther was dead. He wouldn’t be there to calm her, to whisper words of Karak’s wisdom. Just a corpse.

Pounding on the door. She looked over to it, a growing horror in her chest. This was it, then. No more future. Another pounding, and then the door burst open. Melody wasn’t surprised to see it was Zusa who came rushing in, a dagger drawn, her face revealed in purposeful blasphemy against her beloved god’s command. If only she could have removed her from Alyssa’s side. If only Zusa had not forever tainted her daughter’s opinion of the Lion. Then she wouldn’t be sitting there helpless on a bed as Alyssa’s well-trained attack dog came barking in.

“It’s over,” Zusa said, smacking the chrysarium from her hands and then grabbing her neck with her free hand. Zusa’s fingers tightened, choking the breath from her as she lifted her to a stand.

“Then finish it,” Melody said as she felt the dagger’s edge press against her throat. Their eyes met, and she tried to show the woman the strength of her will, the lack of fear for her death. Zusa hesitated, and when Alyssa arrived at the door, accompanied by soldiers as well as Lord Victor Kane, her indecision only deepened.

“Do it,” Melody insisted, grabbing Zusa’s hand and pushing the tip hard enough to draw blood. “Do it, or I will.”

“Zusa, stop!” Victor ordered, panic in his voice.

“You nearly destroyed everything,” Zusa said, soft enough so that only she could hear. “But you failed, Melody. Know that as you burn in Karak’s embrace.”

Knifing pain, all across her throat. She tried to breathe, but blood interfered, her severed windpipe unable to draw air. As the blood flowed and her vision darkened, she heard her daughter scream her name, not that Melody cared. Alyssa was dead to her, they were all dead, and they’d suffer at the prophet’s hands. Collapsing onto the bed, she reached out, bloody fingers clasping sheets, reaching for the chrysarium. Light-headed, she felt its polished surface, and with the last of her strength, she pulled it to her. Her blood spilled across the shallow bowl, covering the priceless gems. She stared into it, imagining Luther’s face, wondering what his own final words and thoughts had been, and if they were of her.

Luther …
she mouthed, unable to force out the air to make a sound. The darkness enclosed around her, her body now a foreign thing. As she fell through the world, she felt the heat of flames, heard the roar of the Lion.

H
aern was given no indication of time beyond his own innate tracking. Carden came back twice, his only words delivered with his fists and the sadistic gleam in his eye. After the second time, Haern assumed it nightfall, for no one came to deliver him pain. At no point was he given food or water, and as he lay on the cold hard floor, he could feel his body starting to rebel. All he had were the enclosed walls of stone and the final wall of flame, a fire that gave no heat, no light, only discomfort.

Though the fire was strong, he could still see through it to whoever might stand on the other side. For a long period of time, perhaps half an hour at his estimate, he saw no one. It didn’t mean he was unguarded, but it helped convince him that night had returned. He waited longer, just to be sure, and that was when his guard finally arrived.

“What are you doing awake?” asked the man, though he seemed more of a boy than a man. Seventeen at Haern’s estimation, maybe eighteen. He wore light mail, and at his waist was a sharpened sword. The fire made it difficult to know for sure, obscuring the color of his hair and eyes, eyes that glared at him with surprising hatred. It was that hatred that put a smile on Haern’s face, and he positioned himself to a stand best he could given the manacles, and since he could not walk he rolled along the wall until he was as close to the fire as he dared be.

“I take it you drew the shortest straw of your friends,” Haern said, and he was annoyed at the weakness of his voice. Coughing to clear his throat, he made sure his mocking laughter was much stronger.

“It is an honor to ensure the captivity of Karak’s most hated,” the guard said.

“Oh, of course,” Haern said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He couldn’t quite stand erect, not with how short the chain connecting his wrists and ankles was, but if he bent his knees, he could straighten his back enough so it didn’t hurt. “I’m sure lots of things you’re told to do are an honor to Karak. Heathen fools like me might not see the honor in it, but I’m sure that’s my own failing, not you being lied to. Staying up late in a dark cell while the rest of your friends sleep? Truly an honorable role.”