Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (8 page)

“You’re a big man,” the gentle toucher had said. In all four years, Ghost had never learned his name. His face had been withered, his nose thin and scarred, his skin paler than the moon. “A big man, and you might be responsible for the death of our lord. So, I’m going to break you with the tiniest of things; do you hear me?”

The first pin slid into the flesh of his forefinger.

“The very … tiniest…”

Every hour, that man had come and inserted another pin. Underneath his fingernails, into his fingertips, his toes, his toenails. If the man slept, he didn’t for long, because for three weeks straight, the man had come, always cheerfully telling him the hour as well as the pin’s number.

“It’s just after midnight,” he’d say, grinning, stabbing a pin just left of Ghost’s eyelid. “And this is your seventieth. I’ll see you for seventy-one.”

At the three hundredth pin, the last sixty of which had been focused on his groin, Ghost had finally relented and begged for death. But death hadn’t come.

Only more pins.

“One day,” Ghost muttered, shivering despite himself. “One day, I’ll return as the one holding the pins.”

The hour was dark, which suited Ghost fine. He kept his hood pulled down across his face, hiding the white paint. Now was not the time for attention. The pins had done their work, and while the gentle toucher had removed them over the years, the ones in his fingertips had remained the longest. Even now they were puffy, scarred, and ached at the slightest pressure. The idea of holding a sword and wielding it in combat was preposterous. At least, without aid …

Ghost stopped before cracked white steps he recognized well. In what felt like a previous lifetime, he’d fought on those steps, keeping back a mad horde of mercenaries bent on desecrating the temple of Ashhur in their attempt to slaughter more of the thieves that infested the city. Doing so had earned him the help of a certain priest, a priest Ghost hoped would still be living within. He climbed the stairs, grunting at the pain in his feet. At least the gentle touchers considered themselves artists above the more basic forms of torture. If they’d resorted to breaking bones and hacking off limbs, he’d have been hobbling up the steps like a toothless cripple. Perhaps that was the real secret to their art as well as their longevity. They could drag the truth out of kings and lowborn alike, yet still send them back to their lives without significant damage. What person of power wouldn’t have the occasional need for such a tool?

Torches hung from the marble columns atop the steps, keeping the double doors well lit. Up to them Ghost went, rapping twice on the door. After a moment, he heard a creak followed by the door opening a crack. A young boy, twelve, maybe thirteen, peered out at him. His eyes widened at the size of him, the deep color of his skin, the paint on his face.

“The … the temple is closed,” the boy said. “If you need succor, you may sleep on the steps until…”

“I will not stay out here until dawn like a beggar,” Ghost interrupted. He put a hand out on the door, let his massive weight keep it from shutting. “Wake the priest named Calan. I demand an audience with him.”

The request certainly didn’t help the boy’s composure.

“The high priest is not to be disturbed after his evening prayers.”

Ghost chuckled.

“Either you disturb him, or I will. Which would you prefer?”

It felt good to know that despite all he’d suffered, he still could be an intimidating presence. The danger in his deep voice had not vanished amid those four torturous years.

“And who should I say is asking?”

“Tell him what I look like,” Ghost said. “Tell him it’s a ghost. He’ll remember me.”

“A moment; just give me one moment,” the boy said, looking as baffled as he sounded. “I need to ask first. Stay here, please.”

“If you insist,” Ghost said, giving him a grand smile.

When the door shut, Ghost’s humor quickly fled. He leaned against the temple, letting out a heavy breath. Simply clutching the door with his right hand had flooded it with pain, and his feet were beginning to swell from his barefoot walk to the temple. The feeling of light-headedness was helping none, either. Food had never been consistent in the dungeons, and despite his exit, he’d not had much to eat. It felt like his stomach was forever tied into a knot, and he knew it might take weeks before his normal appetite returned. It seemed almost laughable what he’d promised Melody he’d accomplish. Kill the Watcher? Ghost closed his eyes and felt the cold of the marble against his cheek. As he was now, he had a better chance of beating down the temple with his bare fists than killing someone like him. Someone whose rage had seemed endless, whose speed and skill, already brilliant, became something otherworldly upon witnessing the death of his friend, Senke. But a promise was a promise, and he’d not go back on it now.

The door opened fully, and an older man with a waist-long beard stepped out.

“Follow me,” he said. There was no hiding his distaste at the white paint across Ghost’s face. “Calan said he’d meet with you, though only Ashhur knows why.”

The man led him through the entryway, and the crimson carpet beneath Ghost’s feet felt divine. Once within the grand worship hall, they veered right, up to a single door that was partially ajar. Without waiting for permission, Ghost yanked it open and stepped inside.

An older man waited for him, in a room sparsely furnished but for a large bookshelf, a desk, and the simple bed he sat upon. His round head was bald, his face cleanly shaven. His beady green eyes seemed to light up at Ghost’s entrance, though there was no doubt plenty of hesitance as well.

“Most sick and feeble have the decency to wait until morning for me to pray at their sides,” Calan said, slowly rising from his bed.

“I am not most sick and feeble,” Ghost said.

“You’re exactly like them, just with more pride. Have a seat, if you’d prefer. At my desk is fine.”

Ghost settled into the wooden chair, and he pulled the hood from his face. In the candlelight, he knew he must look quite a sight, and hoping to blunt away any questions, he extended his hands.

“I am in need of healing,” he said. “And I do not know of any other who might be better at the art.”

“I think it safe to say I’m the only one of my ilk you know,” Calan said, staring at Ghost’s hands. “Which makes your praise rather … unimpressive.”

The priest took a step closer, and slowly he took Ghost’s hands. Finger by finger he scanned them, the lines on his brow deepening.

“I’ve seen marks like this before,” he whispered. “But only twice in all my years. You’ve been at the mercy of a gentle toucher, haven’t you?”

Ghost was impressed at how fast he discerned it, and he felt a glimmer of hope that he still might be made well.

“I have,” he said.

“How long?”

He swallowed.

“Four years.”

Calan looked up from his hands, his eyes wide.

“Four years? By Ashhur, you poor soul. Consider yourself blessed you’re even alive and of sound mind.”

“How do you know I’m of sound mind?” Ghost asked as Calan sat down before him.

“You have a charisma about you,” Calan said, inspecting Ghost’s feet as he had his hands. “If you’d come in here shouting and ranting, or perhaps groveling, then I might be more uncertain.”

“I’ve never been one to grovel,” Ghost said, and immediately his memories reminded him of the lie it was, the way he’d begged for the gentle touchers to put an end to his suffering. It’d only been once, just that once, but still he felt the shame of it haunting him. Calan seemed to notice his unease, but he said nothing of it, only stood and tapped his lips with his fingers.

“They were careful with you,” he said. “That, plus Ashhur’s power, gives you hope. Close your eyes, Ghost, and give me your hands.”

Ghost swallowed, and he felt a tightening in his chest. He did as he was told, and he reached out, felt the older man’s thinner, wrinkled hands press upon his. The contact sent a brief spike of pain up his arm, and he gritted his teeth against it.

“This won’t be easy,” Calan said. “And forgive me, but this will hurt.”

Bony fingers clamped down tight, and Ghost clenched his teeth harder. Despite his self-control, he let out a gasp of pain. The whisperings of a prayer reached his ears, but the words were soft, and he could not focus on them. He felt a tearing, the pressure tightening, the fluid in his fingers dripping down his arms as Calan lifted all four of their hands to the ceiling. The words of the prayer quickened, its intensity growing. A sound, like that of a distant ringing, flooded his mind. Ghost had been healed before of a sickness in his knee, but something about this time differed. Was it the age of the injuries, or the sheer amount across his fingers? He didn’t know, and he felt strangely uncomfortable in asking.

He looked only once, and the blinding white light shining from Calan’s hands as it enveloped his own was enough to make him close his eyes and leave them shut until the prayer ended and Calan let him go.

“Was it enough?” he heard Calan ask, and so he opened his eyes.

Where once his fingers had been swollen, they were now back to their original size. The many scars remained, white fleshy dots across his obsidian skin, but they no longer caused him pain. His fingertips, always the worst, were now slick with blood and pus, and he asked for a rag so he might clean them off.

“They feel better,” Ghost said as he accepted a square of white cloth from the priest. He gingerly applied it to his fingertips and was surprised at how he felt no pain at all at its touch. It was strange, like stepping backward to a time before the gentle touchers, the needles, and the permanent care he’d had to take in handling even the smallest of objects.

“Not done yet,” Calan said, sounding out of breath. “Your feet now.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, heels resting on the soft carpet, and then closed his eyes when the priest wrapped his fingers around the tips of his toes. Again came the pressure, this time broader, more evenly spread out across the entirety of his foot. Again, he felt liquid running down to his heel and then dripping to the floor, and it was shockingly cold. The words of the prayer came and went, the light faded, the ethereal hum died, and at last Ghost opened his eyes.

“Amazing,” Ghost said as he wiped the blood and pus from his feet. Calan took the rag from him, cleaned off what he could not see, then wiped it across the carpet, even though it clearly would not remove the stain.

“What is amazing is that I did not make you wait until morning,” said the priest, rising to a stand. “Falling asleep has slowly gotten more difficult over the years, and interrupted rest does not tend to improve matters.”

Ghost ignored him, instead flexing his hands and taking several careful steps back and forth. The priest watched him, his mood turning somber.

“What is it you plan on doing with those hands?” Calan asked. “Will you hurt and kill, as you once did?”

Everyone knew priests of Ashhur could sense a lie as easily as a normal man could feel the wind blowing on his skin. So instead, Ghost avoided it altogether.

“If I say yes, would you have still healed me?” he asked.

The priest chuckled, and he lay back down on his bed and groaned in pleasure as he settled underneath the covers.

“I would have healed you anyway, yes,” he said.

“Then why ask, if it changes nothing?”

The priest shrugged.

“Was hoping you’d put my mind at ease, is all. But I would rather help all I can instead of helping no one for fear of aiding a man with evil in his heart.”

“Seems naïve,” said Ghost. “There are some men that should receive no blessings, for there is nothing good left within them.”

Calan looked over at him, let a smile crack his face.

“I remember you, Ghost. You’re not one people tend to forget, and more than anything, I remember feeling there was a speck of hope buried down deep, perhaps lost along with your original name. Naïve or not, I will be here if you need me. You endured a long time in darkness in our cruel, cold world, and if there is anything this cruel, cold world hates most, it is letting go.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Is it all right if I see myself out?”

“Shut the door behind you,” Calan said, rolling over and putting his back to him. “And snuff out the candles, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The temple was only the first of Ghost’s many stops he had planned for that night. Gaining the strength back in his hands and feet was an important one, and relied solely on the mystical arts Ashhur’s priests were known for. His next step, however, was one far more firmly rooted in the material realm. He hurried to the main road running north to south through the heart of Veldaren, then turned south. Not far into the district, he took a left, stopping before a squat little cube of a building. It bore no written sign, just a large board above the doorway, marked by an image of an x formed by the crossing of a sword and an ink quill.

Ghost checked the door, found it barred on the other side. He frowned, considered trying to break it down, decided otherwise. He had a feeling such measures would be unnecessary.

“Bill!” he cried, banging on the door with his fists. “Bill Trett, get your ass out of bed and to this door!”

Making such a ruckus at night might normally have unnerved him, but four years under torture had removed much of his caution. What enemies did he have that might come for him? Only one, the Watcher, and if he had not already spotted his white face hurrying through the streets, then hollering at the mercenary guild’s headquarters would hurt matters none.

“Bill!” His fist thumped against the wood, and he took considerable pleasure in its rough feel, and more importantly, how it caused no pain to his hand. “I know you’re there, Bill; now open the door!”

When he paused to listen, he heard a scuffling, coupled with a veritable barrage of curses, at last followed by a lifting of the bar.

The door flung open, and an old man with a badly scarred face and bushy white unibrow stepped forward, a dagger in hand.

“What the bloody Abyss do you want?” Bill asked. “Answer now, before I stab you in the…”