Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (53 page)

“Our high priest did not bring us together to discuss dogma,” Essau said, preventing any further argument. “This matter must be settled once and for all.”

“The faceless have always been a stain upon our orders,” Pelarak said, addressing Geas in particular. “Already we have rules and punishments for those in our ranks who forfeit their shame to their sexual desires, and it is those we should abide by. I say we declare Jayda and Lesha free of the title, free of the wrappings, and introduce them back into the fold, where they may be raised as priestesses.”

“What you suggest is heresy!” said another of the elders.

“Perhaps,” Pelarak said. “But let us discover for ourselves. Let us hear the voice of the Lion decree their fates.”

“Karak will give you no answer,” Geas insisted. “Not when the answer is already known.”

“If we hear silence, then we will debate come the morning,” Pelarak said. “For now, prepare the candles and the knife. We have work to do.”

The ritual was one they’d all performed dozens of times, and they began their work in earnest. Perhaps it was out of duty, or faith, or merely wanting to go back to bed, but they arranged the candles in several concentric circles about the altar, as well as fetching the other required components, with record speed. As Pelarak watched, the ceremonial knife in hand, Essau slid over to him, back to the others as he murmured.

“You know Karak does not like to involve himself with our discussions of dogma,” said the priest. “It is beneath him.”

“Perhaps,” Pelarak said, eyeing the two girls. “But you’ve felt it, haven’t you? Karak’s presence … it’s heavier upon our city. Something approaches, some moment or crossroads … and I think tonight, he will answer.”

Essau glanced to the others, frowned.

“I pray you are right, because those two won’t stay in this temple otherwise.”

The circles made, the candle lit, the girls bowing before the great statue of Karak, all was completed as Pelarak took the knife and stepped through the ring of priests that stood with their arms raised to the ceiling. His mouth suddenly dry, he knelt and took a silver bowl from the feet of the statue and placed it before the two girls on the altar. He saw Jayda’s eyes flick open just a moment, widening at the sight of the bowl. She’d be the first, Pelarak decided.

“We seek the voice of the Lion in a world that has known only silence,” Pelarak said, reaching out and taking Jayda’s hand in his.

“
Karak, hear our prayer,
” echoed the rest of the priests.

With his free hand, Pelarak tilted Jayda’s face up with his finger, and she opened her soft blue eyes. Fear lingered in them, but she was strong, she was brave. He smiled, knowing she would make him proud.

“The pain is ephemeral,” he told her. “The blood is full of power, yet so easily replaced. Cry out to Karak. Cry out for his voice, his words, his wisdom and glory. Can you do this?”

Jayda’s lips trembled, but she bobbed her head up and down.

“I can,” she said.

“Karak, hear our prayer.”

Pelarak put the knife to the palm of her hand, edge against the dark wrappings.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She did, tight as she could. Taking in a deep breath, Pelarak offered his own plea for guidance. With a single smooth movement, he cut across the little girl’s palm, opening up a streak of red that quickly flowed across her revealed pale skin. Grabbing her wrist, he held her hand over the bowl, let the blood drip down as she screamed out in pain.

“Karak, hear our prayer.”

He held her, firm, unmoving, and despite her tears, despite the constant flow of blood, she did not fight him. Instead, she closed her eyes and prayed with an earnestness that made him all the more furious at the man who had dared defile one so young, so full of faith.

“Please, Karak,” she prayed through her sobs, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

When the bottom of the bowl was completely covered, Pelarak pulled her away, taking a cloth set beside the bowl and pressing it into her palm. Gently, he let her hold her wounded hand against her chest, and heart heavy, he turned to Lesha.

“Your hand,” he told her.

The knife cut across her dark skin, and she screamed, even louder than Jayda.

“Karak, hear our prayer.”

“We stand before you humbled and unworthy,” Pelarak said when the bowl was filled, both girls kneeling with heads bowed, cut hands bleeding into cloths pressed against their bodies. “We stand, we pray, we beg that your voice guide us. These two, what are we to do with them? Are they to remain faceless, or shall we welcome them back into the fold?”

He took the bowl as all around him, the priests echoed his prayer, begging Karak to answer. The candles flickered, shimmered a rainbow of colors before becoming deep violet. The room bathed in its glow, the statue of Karak towering above, Pelarak took the bowl and lifted it high.

“Let us hear the roar of the Lion!” he cried, and he flung the blood across the statue. The red splashed upon the stone breastplate, the armored greaves, the feet, the hands. Pelarak held the bowl in one hand, the blood dripping down beside him to the floor, as he stared into the eyes of his god. In the sudden silence, they heard only the sniffles of the two girls. Pelarak waited, tense, yearning for Karak to answer. He’d staked his reputation on this, as well as the fates of Jayda and Lesha.

Nothing but sniffles.

“The Lion is not with us,” Geas said.

The eyes of the statue flared red, the violet flames surged, and Geas had but a moment to gasp before the fire of the candles leaped from the wicks and poured down his throat. They robbed him of sound, of breath, and as Pelarak watched in stunned silence, the old priest collapsed and died. Pelarak’s mouth hung open, his mind reeling, unsure how to react.

From all four corners of the room came a chilling wind, and in its howl, the two girls’ sobs grew louder, more terrified. As the other priests fell to their knees, begging Karak for mercy, Pelarak flung himself between Jayda and Lesha, and he pulled them about to face him. Their eyes were open but rolled back into their heads as they shook. It seemed to be a seizure, but still they cried, and then those cries became something different, something more.

“This city trembles,” Jayda said, her voice firm and controlled despite the shaking of her body. “It aches, it pleads, but it will not know peace.”

Pelarak clutched her to him, trying to keep her still. Her head lolled back, and when she spoke again, Lesha echoed her words.

“All will burn,” they said. “This city, this land, this nation, this world. All will burn.”

Suddenly, their arguments over the faceless felt so petty, so simple, and mired in worthless dogma and pointless tradition. The very temple seemed to shake with the violence of their vision, the statue above shimmering with a horrible power.

Fear the power of the gods,
Pelarak thought, a line from a sermon he’d once delivered.
We are but dust to the divine, and we will never be enough to withstand their presence.

“Karak, my god,” Pelarak whispered as the other priests wailed, fearing the temple would collapse upon them. “Tell us your wisdom; tell us what we are to do.”

The girls spoke in unison, but as they did, the priest realized the words were not for him, nor intended for any of them. They’d dared thrust themselves into a world beyond understanding, one of visions and power eternal, and now they must pay the price.

“Nathaniel,” the girls whispered, softer now, gentler. “You must understand. The only hope is in my prophet’s return…”

On the floor of the hallway, Nathaniel writhed, but he could see it no longer nor feel the carpet against his skin nor hear the cries of servants gathering about him. Instead, his vision was dominated by fire and destruction overwhelming the city of Veldaren. Nathaniel stood just outside the wall, naked and pale, as he watched fire spread as if guided by invisible hands.

Nathaniel,
spoke a voice, one Nathaniel recognized as clearly as he recognized the voice of his own mother. It was deep, frightening, carrying authority no mere human could ever possess.

“You must understand,” Nathaniel heard himself whisper, echoing Karak’s voice. There was no thought to this, no ability to resist. “The only hope is in my prophet’s return…”

Someone cried for a priest, but the words came as if from a thousand miles away. His feet lifted off the ground, the world shifting away from him, and then Nathaniel was soaring over the tops of buildings, watching them all shake and crumble. Roar after roar shook his bones, as if enormous lions had taken up residence within the city. Desperately, Nathaniel prayed for it to end, yet he was denied such a blessing. The city was ash. A pair of red eyes watched it from afar, and he felt their cold pleasure in witnessing the destruction.

While immersed in the fire, he’d felt intense heat on his skin, yet now he felt a chill as wind blew in from the west. With its arrival, the night sky covered with clouds, and thorough darkness overcame the land. Standing amid it, Nathaniel felt intense loneliness and despair. The city was gone. Everything was dust, and within the wreckage, he knew he was but one of a thousand charred corpses. The vision was so hopeless, the darkness so complete, he didn’t understand the point in showing it to him.

And then Karak spoke.

You can save them, Nathaniel,
said the cold voice of an imprisoned god.
You can save them all.

The vision shifted, and the shadowy form with the red eyes was before him, arms crossed, body hidden by a black robe. The man said nothing, but as Nathaniel’s sight widened, he saw that the city of Veldaren stood once more.

This is my prophet, whom I love,
Karak whispered.
You are not meant to fear him, my child. You are to
embrace
him. Melody’s heart was true, but she was fooled by the traitor priest, Luther, who would tear down my beloved city, destroying it with fire and destruction. But there is still hope. There is a way to spare this land, save its people, and bring about true order. It is you, Nathaniel. You will be the boy who opened the way, if you would only listen and obey.

People’s hands were on his body, but again, he felt them like one feels a waking limb. At that moment, he was lost in the presence of another, grand and powerful, overwhelming him, suffocating him. But within it he sensed the hope Karak spoke of. Within it, he knew he could make a difference. So, he whispered the words that ended the vision, sent it crashing down with only the promise of a future answer.

“Tell me what to do.”

A
re you all right?” Tarlak asked his sister, who was yet to leave her spot by the fire on the lowest floor of their tower.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, sipping from a clay cup filled with steaming broth from a boiled beef bone. Her eyes remained locked on the dwindling flames. Seeing this, Tarlak snapped his fingers, surging the fire back to life. There’d be no cold chill for his little sister, not on her first night back from Ker.

“Sure, eventually we’ll all be fine,” he said, crouching opposite her on the rug. He took her hands, squeezed them until she finally looked his way. “But perhaps it’d help to talk about it anyway.”

Delysia pulled his hands up so she could kiss the tops of them, then pushed him away.

“You’re a jester in a world of serious men. Having you around is enough to help, Tar.”

“Just as long as I keep dancing, eh?”

She smiled.

“If that’s how you see it, then yes.”

He stood, bowed low before her.

“Then dance I will. But first, I have business in Veldaren. Care to come with?”

“Take Brug,” she said, settling back down into her chair. “I haven’t finished my broth yet.”

“A fine excuse. Since you’ve just come home from a lengthy, arduous journey, I will let it slide for now.” He walked over to the stairs, cupped his hands in front of his face. “Come on down, Brug; we have work to do.”

It took a few more yells, but finally, Tarlak had the man ready to go. The stars twinkling above them, Tarlak led the way as they walked back to the city.

“Not sure why this couldn’t wait until morning,” Brug grumbled.

“Bit of fresh night air will do you good, Brug.” He gestured to the silver moon above, the swaying grass that seemed almost blue in the midnight glow. “Take in the beauty of nature, and then tell me, where else would you rather be?”

“In my bed, asleep.”

Tarlak chuckled.

“Me, too,” he said. He pointed ahead, to where the great walls of Veldaren loomed. “But something Haern said finally gave me an idea about those damn tiles of Muzien’s.”

“And what’s that?”

“I had the right idea, but the wrong source. It’s the gods, Brug. Things are never as simple as they seem once the gods get involved, especially that psychotic undead-worshipping Lionhumper we lovingly call ‘Karak.’”

“Fascinating. Would still rather be sleeping.”

“The sun went down barely thirty minutes ago. Quit your whining.”

The road flattened out, the grass dead and the dirt faded and smooth from the daily wear of wagons and horses. Higher and higher the walls seemed as they approached the city, and Tarlak stared at them, wondering about those within.

“Think Haern’s doing all right in there?” Brug asked, as if reading his mind.

“I hope so,” he said.

“It’s just … you know, him and Del, they ain’t seemed the same since.”

“Whatever it is, it’s between them. For now, let’s keep our minds on the task at hand and let the scum of Veldaren worry about Haern’s return home.”

They passed through the gates of the city, and once inside, Tarlak steered them directly south, keeping close to the wall. The streets were quiet, but they were often quiet at night since Muzien’s takeover. All squabbles over territory, all back deals and smuggling of goods … it took place during the day now. What need did the Darkhand have for the cover of night? He feared no one, no guards, no kings, no other guilds. The city was his, and Tarlak felt himself hoping Haern’s return would give him a nasty dose of humility. Despite his warnings earlier, he’d never bet against his friend. The Watcher had his reputation for a reason, after all.