A Dance of Cloaks

16

O nce Gran calmed down, she seemed open enough to listening to what Haern had to say. Of course, she had tried to smack him with another pan until he disarmed her and physically knocked her into a chair.

“Please listen,” he said once she quit shouting for help. Delysia stood at her side, stroking her hand and doing her best to reassure her.

“Steal into my house, kill a man, then hide from the guards, and after all that you expect me to sit and listen?” said Gran. “Even for a young pup, you’re a fool.”

“Gran,” whined Delysia.

“Oh alright. What is it, boy?”

“His name is Haern,” Delysia said.

“Fine. Haern. ” Gran spat the word out as if it was a curse. “What do you have to say?”

“Delysia is not safe in the city,” Haern said. He leaned against the pantry door. Pieces of dry leaves stuck to his outfit from when he had brushed a hanging tomato plant in the dark. He held one of the two candles Delysia had lit; Gran held the other.

“No one’s safe in the city anymore. Why is Delysia any different?”

“Thren Felhorn of the Spider Guild ordered her father dead,” Haern said. He kept his eyes on Gran, as if ashamed to look at the other girl but too proud to stare at the floor. “I was there when it happened.”

“You mean you were to take part,” Gran said. “I’m not daft. Look at the colors you’re wearing: thief guild colors. What were you, a spotter? Were you to watch for the guards, or just loot her poor father’s corpse after everyone was gone?”

Haern slammed a fist against the pantry door. The motion knocked one of the leaves free from his sleeve, and Delysia watched it fall to the floor.

“It doesn’t matter. The man I killed was sent to finish the job. With him dead, Thren will send another, and another, until the job is finished. He doesn’t leave things undone. Delysia needs to get out, as fast and secretly as possible.”

“I think he’s right, Gran,” said Delysia.

“Of course you do,” Gran said dismissively. “You’re a young girl ready to believe any story a boy tells you. How do we know Thren had anything to do with your father’s death?”

“You know damn well the Spider Guild is responsible,” Haern said.

“You watch your tongue with me, boy, or I’ll wash it out with lye!” snapped Gran.

To both their surprise, Haern shifted from foot to foot and lowered his head.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Well, at least you have some manners,” said Gran. “Though I’m worried that you’re right. That horrible murder in the street was bad enough; having a thief break in is just as bad. I may be old, but I’ve kept enough wits to know that wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Where can we go?” asked Delysia. She looked close to tears. Given how horrible her day had been, Gran couldn’t blame her.

“There’s no we in this, child,” the old woman said. “As much as it pains me to say it, we have to put you where not even the sneakiest of thieves can get you. Your father was well respected by the priests of Ashhur. I’m sure if I asked, they would accept you into their care. Once inside their white walls, you’ll be dead to the world for as long as you’re there.”

Delysia sniffed.

“But what about Tarlak? Will I ever see him again?”

Gran pulled her close and kissed her cheek. “I’m sure you will. He’s off safe with that wizard teacher of his. Now we need to make sure you stay safe, otherwise he might find me and turn me into a mudskipper for letting something happen to his dear little sister.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said. Gran gently shook her head.

“I don’t want to leave you either, but I’ve already lost my son. I couldn’t bear to see Dezrel lose you as well. I’m old, and you’ve got no mother to watch after you. The priests and priestesses will give you a good home. I promise.”

Delysia returned the kiss, then turned. There was no one there, just a half-closed pantry door. Haern was gone.

“An odd boy,” Gran said. “I hope he keeps his mouth shut about where you’re going.”

“I trust him,” Delysia insisted.

“Trust him? Hah.” Gran laughed until she coughed. “You probably love him, too. Dashing, mysterious boy in a mask. Every damsel wants one of them to come sneaking in through their bedchamber window.”

Delysia bunched her face and poked her Gran in the side. When Gran poked back, they both broke into laughs.

“It’s good to see you smile,” Gran said. “I’ll have that one last laugh to keep with me for the end of my days. Now go pack up your things. Not much, now, just what you can carry. I dare not wait a minute longer before bringing you to the temple.”

Gran watched her hurry back into their bedroom. Gran’s face became a sorrowful mask, her lip quivering and her eyes wet. When Delysia returned, her arms full of dresses, Gran smiled away her tears, hid them with a laugh, and then led her granddaughter out the door and away.

B y the next afternoon, by orders of the king’s advisor, Neldaren soldiers had ransacked half the merchants in the city and carried over a hundred back to overcrowded prison cells. Some had other family members or well-paid guards to protect their merchandise; most didn’t. By the time the first major wave of mercenaries arrived the day after, foodstuffs were already dangerously low. The merchants that did pay their way out of prison doubled and tripled the costs of their goods.

Mercenaries expecting easy pay found themselves turned away. Some traveled back toward Ker and Omn, but many took to thievery and murder, preferring that to starvation. The thief guilds absorbed the willing into their organizations. Those that resisted, died.

By that night, the poor western district of Veldaren was primed for a riot.

It was three days until the Kensgold.

P elarak was furious. For two days, he had waited for Eliora and her faceless to return with Alyssa, and for two days, he had not heard a word. He hurried through his morning sermon. He never lost his place or misquoted a scripture, but his mind was elsewhere and his faithful knew it. Anger crept into his words, and his call for penance and destruction of chaos was particularly moving. Afterward he knelt before the great statue of Karak, letting the purple light bathe over him.

“Something troubles you,” said a man as he joined him on his knees.

“The world is a troublesome place,” said Pelarak. He opened his eyes, and then smiled when he realized who was with him.

“Ethric, so good to see you!” Pelarak stood and hugged the man. “I am so glad you came so quickly from the Stronghold!”

Ethric smiled. He was a tall man, and the only reason Pelarak could throw his arms around him was because Ethric had remained on his knees. He still wore his dark black platemail, having arrived so recently he had no time to remove his armor. A two-handed blade hung from a sheath on his back. He was completely shaven. Across his bald head were a myriad of tattoos dyed in a dark purple ink. They looped and curled in an ill pattern.

“Your priests make their way to Omn less and less,” said Ethric. His voice was rich and pleasant to the ear. “Carden hurried me off to see how things were going. The troubles between the Trifect and the guilds have lasted so long we’ve heard of it all the way across the rivers.”

“Come,” Pelarak said. “Are you hungry? Join me in a meal.”

Deep in the recesses of the temple was a rectangular room bare of decorations. A long table stretched along the center with wooden stools for seats. A mere look from Pelarak sent the staff running, comprised of young priests still in training in their devotion to Karak.

“It is hard remembering you were such as these boys,” Pelarak said. “I’ve seen so many grow up and take their armor or their robes. Many aspire to greatness, but so few reach it.”

“I wonder which I will be,” said Ethric as he sat opposite him at the table.

“A dark paladin every pup of Ashhur learns to fear, if Karak is kind,” Pelarak said.

Children surrounded them, carrying bowls, spoons, and a large pot of soup. Once they were served, both bowed their heads and prayed silently for near a minute. Ethric dug in afterward with a healthy appetite, while Pelarak only sipped at it occasionally.

“I must confess, I come here with ulterior motives than just your warm words and food,” Ethric said when his bowl was half finished. “Though Karak knows I needed both. Haven’t had a solid meal since the Stronghold, and that feels like a thousand miles away after so many months of travel.”

“Did you encounter any trouble on the road?”

“A foolish pup thought he could slay me to earn admittance to the Citadel.” Ethric chuckled. “I’d hardly call that trouble, though. More of a nuisance. I was almost to Kinamn, where the pathway winds through all those rocky hills. Imbecile was hiding among the rocks shooting arrows whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. I’m sure he planned a more heroic tale when he brought my head to the Citadel doors.”

“At least he had more fight in him than Ashhur’s paladins have as of late,” Pelarak said, dropping his spoon. “Though I fear we have too much of that fight in our own ranks here in Veldaren.”

“Which is why I am here,” insisted Ethric. “You told Carden you were troubled. Tell me what it is so I may scorch it with fire and cut it with blade.”

“Do you know of the faceless?” asked Pelarak.

Ethric furrowed his brow as he thought.

“No,” he said. “I’ve not heard of them.”

“Come,” Pelarak said as he stood. “Let me show you.”

He led him into the deep recesses of the temple, down a flight of stairs, and into a large but cramped storage. Crates piled this way and that, huddled against the walls or the many pillars that supported the ceiling. Pelarak lifted his hand. Purple fire surrounded his fingers, giving them light.

“About two hundred years ago, the priests of Ashhur succeeded in a massive conversion of our brethren. It was then that our presence in Veldaren weakened, and our kind were banished from the city. We fought them bitterly, as you can imagine, and with heavy hearts. A score of priests repented, sneaking away from Ashhur’s temple and throwing themselves at our temple door in Kinamn.”

The whole time he talked, Pelarak led them through the maze of old armor, racks of swords, crates of cloth, and jars upon jars of food. He stopped, scratched his chin as he thought, then turned toward a stack of paintings propped against each other. Each of them was rectangular, the length of a man laying on his side.

“We tested their faith,” Pelarak said as he looked through the paintings. Even though his hand swirled with purple fire, it did not burn the material. “Those that lived were admitted into the priesthood, but not entirely. The high priest at the time was a brilliant man named Theron Gemcroft.”

“I know of him,” Ethric said, watching the elaborately framed paintings flip forward one after another. He saw mostly portraits of former high priests, though among them were scenes of warfare, battles between angels of Karak and Ashhur, and even serene depictions of nature. “Forfeited his fortune to devote his life to Karak? Carden was particularly fond of his sayings, and used them often in his sermons.”

“How is that old goat?” Pelarak asked.

“Hard as nails and brutal as a mailed fist,” Ethric said with a small smile. “What are we looking for here, my priest?”

“This,” Pelarak said as he lifted up one of the paintings. Ethric grabbed a corner to help. Together they held the picture and stared. It showed seven men and women, their bodies wrapped in black cloth. Only their eyes were visible through cuts in the wrapping. They held daggers, staves, and swords in hands hidden by waves of shadow that rolled off their bodies like smoke from a fire. At their feet lay over twenty dead paladins of Ashhur.

“Well painted, if a bit dramatic,” Ethric said.

“They are the faceless,” Pelarak said, his eyes going distant. “Theron knew that to welcome the traitors back without penalty could weaken us. He also knew that their devotion could be of great use, but only if the traitor-priests were forever reminded of their failure. So he wrapped them in cloth and ordered them to never reveal the flesh of their skin until the end of their days. They slept separate from the rest, dined away from the rest, and eventually attended their own sermons.”

“This is fascinating, Pelarak, but I’d swear you had a point. I’d love to be patient, but it is too damn cold down here, and the warmth of your soup is wearing thin.”

Pelarak laughed, but his voice lacked any mirth.

“My point is that we do not actively recruit faceless. They are a punishment, not an honor. We have only three now, women who let their sex control their actions. Their dissatisfaction with the separation was…most deplorable. Their faith in Karak, however, remained strong, so we left them alone.”

“They’ve done something,” Ethric said, figuring where the story was going. He looked at the seven in the painting, their bodies bathed in blood and darkness. “They’ve gone feral, haven’t they?”

“Putting our entire temple in danger,” Pelarak said as he clutched the painting with his burning hand. “They have told me lies and half-truths. They seek to increase their number with recruits, as if it were a privilege to be a faceless. Too many times I have given them orders and watched them disregarded entirely.”

“You want them killed,” Ethric said. It was not a question.

“I do,” Pelarak said. The fire on his hand changed from purple to red. The painting began to burn. “I want their bodies nailed from the city gates. They have a captive by the name of Alyssa Gemcroft. She is to be under our watch, but instead Eliora and her sisters have kept her hidden. Find the faceless women and kill them. Alyssa must remain alive. All our plans are naught otherwise.”

Ethric watched as the fire spread across the painting, not at all bothered by the smoke that washed over his face. When the flame reached his bare hand, he flexed his arm. Black fire swarmed over his fingers. The frame broke, crumpling into ash in his fingers. In one giant whoosh, the painting and its frame were consumed. As the ash rained down to the floor, Ethric drew his sword and made his vow.

“Until my death, I will hunt them,” he whispered. “No child of Karak is greater than his master.”