A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 13

Ghost didn’t know where he was going or even where he wanted to go, but he knew he had to keep moving. The pain was unbearable, his skin feeling as if it were constantly aflame. Not that he could see it, his eyes always watering from the pain. He tried brushing at his arms once, but that had only made the pain worse, so much worse. With each step he took, he cursed the damned wizard in yellow and the fire he’d bathed him in.

He was walking down a street; that was the one thing Ghost knew for sure. His eyes were locked on the ground, watching himself as he took step after step. With each one, it felt harder to move, his feet growing in weight. His stomach was tight, and even the slightest movement of his legs sent waves of pain bouncing throughout his body, overwhelming him, preventing him from even knowing the source exactly. Was it his arms, his legs, his face? Did it even matter?

At last, he could go no farther. He dropped to the ground, and at the impact, he screamed. It must have been loud, for the scream made him feel better, if only momentarily. He rolled onto his back, and that helped a little. Lying there, he stared up at the night sky and wondered what the point of escaping the gentle touchers had been. They’d never hurt him, not like this. Perhaps because they couldn’t. Perhaps because this much pain, this much fire, meant he would soon die.

Ghost closed his eyes. At that moment, death sounded like a fine alternative.

“Mister, are you … oh gods, mister, who did this to you?”

Despite the pain, Ghost cracked a smile and laughed.

“That bastard in yellow,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes. He was dying, he was certain of it now. Better to fade away, to pass in his sleep, the waves of pain carrying him off to an ocean of fire or pearl or whatever it was eternity had waiting for him.

“Yellow?” asked another voice.

“I don’t know, he looks…”

And then the voices faded, and he knew darkness, but not for long. Movement, something lifting him, multiple hands on his arms and legs. He opened his eyes once, and he realized he was screaming again. It was odd, for he could not hear it, but he knew he was. He had to be. His lungs burned, his throat tense, his mouth open, and in the distance, he heard a sound that just maybe might be him …

When he awoke, he lay on a bed and was dressed in a simple robe that felt like little more than a white sheet sewn together with three holes left at the top. His tongue felt swollen, his throat parched. Something was missing, he knew, and he felt afraid to move as he looked around, as if movement might awaken whatever was missing. And then he realized what it was. The pain was gone. Somehow, it was gone.

“Gods damn it all,” Ghost said, and he sat up, taking in more of his surroundings. He was in a small room lacking any decorations, and the only furnishing beyond his bed was a chamber pot in the opposite corner. The walls appeared to be made of a pale stone, and above him was a small window with light streaming in. The place felt familiar, but it was still taking him time to figure out where. There were cobwebs in his mind, and a distorted feeling, like a reminder that a great amount of time had passed since he fell in the road. The daylight in the window alone helped confirm that.

There were no signs of his clothes, and Ghost felt panic when he saw his weapons were missing as well. The panic ebbed when he realized how foolish it was to think whoever had kept him alive would suddenly wish to do him harm. Ebbed but never vanished. So many times, the gentle touchers had come with their bandages, sewing kits, and alcohol, fixing him up, allowing him to heal, all so they could start anew in a week’s time, eager to try something different on his chained body. The window was tall and thin, and for all he knew, the door was barred from the outside.

Ghost lay back onto the bed, and he took a deep breath. He’d delayed long enough, but now he had to look. He had to know. Pulling back the blankets, he looked to his exposed arms, and he winced at the river of scars, pale white veins that swirled into one another to mark the fire’s damage. Casting aside the rest of the sheet, he saw his legs were no better. Forcing his dry mouth to swallow, he closed his eyes and touched his face with his fingers, feeling along the skin of his cheeks and forehead. Even there, he felt the subtle change, the mark of deep scars.

“All over,” he whispered, and he tried to decide how he felt. Truth be told, he didn’t even know. His physical appearance was not something he cared much for beyond what he could convey to others, to manipulate or frighten with the size of his muscles or the contrast of the white paint across his face. But for the burns to have healed already, the pain gone and replaced by scars, gave him a clue as to where he might be. Who else could possibly have such skill?

Gingerly, he swung his feet off the bed, stood, and then made his way to the door. Deep in his chest, he felt shame and embarrassment. Gods help him, how many times had he come there in desperate need of aid?

“Calan,” he said, banging on the door. “Calan, I’m awake.”

Twice more he had to knock before he heard movement from the other side. The door swung open, and a young priest stood in a hallway before him. Despite his best attempts to hide it, the boy was clearly disturbed by the sight of him.

“I will fetch the High Priest shortly,” said the boy. “I was told to tell you to stay here when you awoke, while I go get him.”

“Then go fetch him.”

Ghost flung the door shut, then sat back down on his bed. He ran his hands along his arms, feeling the scars. More and more, it felt like his body was awakening, and with it his scars were beginning to itch. He desperately hoped it would stay that way, just an itch, and not the searing pain he dimly remembered.

Several minutes later, the door opened, and Calan stepped inside.

“I must say, this is hardly how I wished to meet you again,” said the priest.

“I agree,” Ghost said. He’d stood upon the old man’s entrance, and now he felt unsure of what to do. By the Abyss, he didn’t even have real clothes, just the thin sheet. So he sat back down, looked to his hands.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“Two nights ago, some men found you in the middle of the road on their way home from a night of drinking,” Calan said, sitting on his knees in front of Ghost and reaching out to take his left arm and examine it. Slowly, the priest ran his fingers along the scars, and a faint glow shimmered across the fingertips. With their passing, the growing itch faded away.

“They carried you here,” he continued, switching to the right arm. “Well, carried might be generous. You’re a large man, after all, so they more dragged than carried. They dumped you at the doors to our temple, waited until someone came for you, and then left.”

“I suppose I should be grateful.”

“Given the condition you were in, you should be glad they didn’t leave you for dead,” Calan said. “It wouldn’t have taken much longer, I assure you.”

Ghost let out a sigh.

“Forgive me … and did you say two nights ago?”

Calan nodded.

“You’ve been in my care all the while. Ashhur’s blessing has allowed me to keep you asleep through the pain and recovery.” He turned Ghost’s arm over, and he ran a finger over one of the deeper scars. “I’m sorry, Ghost; I did my best, but the burns were so terrible and covered so much of you. I could do nothing about the scars.”

“A mirror,” Ghost said. “Do you have a mirror?”

Calan met his gaze.

“I’d suggest you wait a bit longer before that,” he said.

The answer did little to ease Ghost’s mind.

“If you insist,” he said.

“I do,” Calan said, now moving to the legs. More blue-white light swelled on his fingers, barely perceptible. “Do you know who did this to you?”

“Whoever they are,” Ghost said, “it is of no business of yours.”

Calan stopped what he was doing, and he stood.

“If you do not trust me, then so be it,” he said. “You are healthy enough to leave this place. Go and do so with my blessing, but I have others who need my attention, and should go to them instead.”

“Wait,” Ghost said, before he could go. “Please, forgive me. Just, having you help me makes me feel … ashamed. I will better control my tongue, I promise.”

Calan hesitated, then returned, standing before Ghost, and he put both his hands on Ghost’s face.

“I can do little to help the scars,” he said. “But I will do what I can, at least for your face. This will hurt, but I trust you can handle a bit of pain.”

Ghost closed his eyes and waited for it to begin. Calan began whispering words of a prayer, and then he felt it, a sharp tingling as if spiders were crawling across his face, each one with little hooks at the ends of their feet. The sensation increased, and he heard a ringing in his ears so loud, it overwhelmed Calan’s prayers. Sudden as it began, it ceased. Ghost opened his eyes, and the priest took a step back to observe his handiwork.

“Better,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ghost; this is the best that I can do.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a small circular looking glass. Ghost accepted it and, refusing to show any reluctance, held it up before his eyes.

The scars ran over every inch of his face, starting from the top of his head down to the base of his neck. The work of Calan’s magic was evident, for the skin, while raised, was not discolored like the rest of his body. It still gave his entire face a sickly, distorted look, and he put away the glass, unwilling to look at it more.

“My things,” he said. “Where are my things?”

“Just outside your door,” Calan said. “Your clothes were burned beyond repair, but we purchased you replacements that should fit well enough. As for your swords, though, you will have to wait until you are ready to leave.”

“I’m ready now.”

“Are you sure you would not prefer something to eat first?”

The rock in Ghost’s stomach shifted, reminding him of just how long it’d been since he ate or drank. But staying inside the temple was something Ghost just could not handle right now.

“I’ll swing by the market,” he said. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Of course,” Calan said, though he did not step aside, instead leaning his weight against the door so that he blocked the way. He stayed there, arms crossed, examining Ghost.

“The man who burned you,” he said. “Were you trying to kill him?”

This was it, of course, what the priest wanted. Ghost swallowed down an exasperated sigh.

“Yes,” he said. “I was.”

“Did you want to?”

The question was so odd, and not what he expected. He opened his mouth to answer, then paused so he might think it over and answer truthfully. The priests had clearly done much for him. Was it really so much to ask in return to tell him the truth?

“No,” he said.

“Then why? For money?”

Ghost shook his head.

“I do this because I must, priest. I owe someone my life, my life and beyond. She saved me from the darkness, pulled me out. Killing is what I’m good at. It’s what I’m best at, and if I must kill a few more times before I am free, then I will do so to repay my debt.”

Calan continued staring at him with his soft blue eyes, and then abruptly stepped aside.

“If you feel you must, then so be it,” he said. “Though if I were you, I’d ask myself if this woman has truly saved you from darkness, or merely pulled you from one and thrown you into another.”

“Stop it,” Ghost said. “Stop judging me; stop staring at me like you can see everything I am. You’d condemn me for killing … then why save me, Calan? Why, if you knew the reason for my injuries? No one held a sword to your neck. No one forced you to heal these wounds.”

The songs Melody had sung when she was down there, her cries of faith, he remembered the few which spoke of Ashhur, of the anger and abandonment. Calan seemed nothing like the cowardly god Melody had decried, yet at the same time, he acted hypocritical, condemning him for his deeds yet still healing him to do them once again. It left Ghost baffled and furious.

“Listen well,” Calan said. “If you wish to see the measure of a man, do not judge him by how he reacts to your successes. Judge him by how he reacts to your failures. Ashhur teaches us that if we see a man fall, we reach down our hand so they may take it and stand again.”

He gestured to the door.

“Your clothes and swords await you,” he said. “Go, return to the lady who saved you. See the truth of whom you’ve sworn your life to, and how great your debt truly is.”

Calan left him, and he offered nothing else at his departure. Ghost stepped out the door, took his clothes and dressed. They were simple enough, brown pants and a white shirt that was surprisingly too large. His boots had survived, though, and as he strapped them on last, he let out a deep breath.

Ghost had always considered himself wise, never stubborn, never one to close his eyes to the brutal truth of the world. The priest’s words left him disturbed, and there would be only one way to solve it. Out the door he went, into the hallway. He found the same boy from earlier keeping watch, and when he asked, the boy pointed him toward the entrance. Ghost walked across the red carpet, his weight causing his boots to sink into it, leaving deep imprints after his passing. When he stepped into the main worship hall, he hooked to his left, and at the grand doors surrounded by pillars, a young priest waited, two swords in his arms.

“Take them, though I pray you have no need of them,” said the priest.

“You’ll be praying for a long time, then,” Ghost said, and he strode out of the temple, down the steps, and then hurried north, to the Gemcroft family mansion.

With his clothes new, and his face lacking any paint, he strode unworried up to the mansion’s front gates and demanded the guards there deliver a message for him.

“Don’t see much reason why we should,” said one of the guards, sniffing.

“The choice is yours,” said Ghost, “but I will come again, and again, until Melody knows. When she discovers a message she has waited for was delayed because of your laziness, tell me, how do you think she will react?”

The two guards glanced at one another, and the one on the right shrugged.

“Fine,” he said. “What’s your message?”

“Tell her a ghost waits for her in the market.”

The left guard lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. She’ll understand.”

With that, he walked away, toward the nearby market to wait. He searched his pockets, and sure enough, the coin Bill Trett had given him was still there. Pulling out the bag to scan within, he saw that they’d not even taken a single piece to cover the cost of the healing, or to replace his clothes. Shaking his head, he drew out a handful of coins, bought a meat pie from a portly man at a stall, and then found himself a vacant spot against a wall to eat. He wolfed the food down, each bite seemingly making him hungrier. His appetite was like a dormant beast, suddenly awakened. When finished, he returned to the stall, bought another, and finished it as fast as the first.

Finally sated, he crossed his arms, leaned his head back against the wall, and watched the men and women as they passed. Envy built in his chest as the time dragged on, childish as it was. A woman browsed a nearby stand, bickering over the cost of apples while her son tugged on her hand, crying against some surely horrible slight. Two skinny men passed by in front of him, each with the four-pointed star on their sleeves. They were laughing, one of them telling a story to the other. Young and old, those browsing, those hoping to steal, all able to live within the day. All in their own world, focused on primal needs like food and a warm place to sleep. Who of them could understand what it meant to be in darkness for years, stuck with needles and knives, bleeding, always bleeding …

And then he saw the one woman who could understand. Melody Gemcroft casually drifted through the market, browsing with a slender bag on her left arm and a wide violet hat atop her head. She looked like any other well-to-do woman, and she smiled just as easily. For a moment, Ghost looked once more to the market, to those he had dismissed so quickly, and wondered how many others hid their pain and past as well as Melody hid hers.

“It’s a fine day to take in the sights, isn’t it?” Ghost asked her as she walked past. She glanced his way, and he could tell she had something pleasant yet dismissive to say to him. The comment died when her eyes met his and she realized who he was.

“No paint,” he said. “I’m sure that made it more difficult.”

“Nor the hair on your face when I last saw you,” she said, crossing her hands before her and smiling as if she’d just met a long lost friend. “What you did was dangerous. Zusa suspects me already, and if she can use you to … my god, Ghost, what happened to your arms?”

Ghost grinned at her, hardly surprised it took her so long to notice.

“You sent me after a wizard who likes to play with fire,” he said. “Did you not think I might get burned?”

He’d thought she’d be gruff, uncaring of his wounds. So many men and women he’d done jobs for had been like that, viewing him as an expendable tool, a walking killing machine they fed with coins and forgot about when the job was done. Melody, however, grimaced with pain and took his hands in his.

“Your face, too,” she said, looking up at him. “Forgive me, Ghost, I thought you could kill them with ease. Your reputation spoke so highly of you.”

“Consider me still working to remove the rust.”

He swallowed, and strangely enough, he realized he was nervous. This was something he had little experience about. As a mercenary, he’d never before failed to kill a target once they’d been found. In truth, the Watcher had been the first. Now that he was to tell Melody, he felt anxious, but why?

Judge him by how he reacts to your failures.

“Melody,” he said, glancing about to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do this. The wizard is too powerful, and by all rights, I should be dead. Even with surprise, he defeated me, and now he will be prepared. I will help you with the others, but in this, I have failed you.”

Ghost did not know how she might react. Having others around in the market made it even harder to predict. But out of all his guesses, pity was the farthest from his mind, yet she took a step closer and put a hand on his scarred face.

“You poor thing,” she said. “Your time in the pit has left your soul broken, hasn’t it? But I can look in your eyes and see buried in you a man who would never admit defeat. We must free him once again.”

Ghost frowned, confused.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You will. Follow me.”

She took his hand, and it surprised him further. She was a pale thing of white next to him, her hand dwarfed in the black of his own, and the looks they received were far from flattering. Melody leading the way, they left the market and traveled east, heading deep into the wealthiest parts of Veldaren. The traffic thinned out more and more until they were alone on the road, approaching a secluded area built close to the eastern section of the stone wall surrounding the city. Before what appeared to be nothing more than a dark mansion encircled by tall iron gates, Melody stopped, and she looked to either side to ensure no one watched.

“I see through your illusions,” she whispered, putting her hands on the gate. She beckoned he do the same, and still confused, Ghost obeyed.

“I see through your illusions,” he repeated.

Immediately, the house before him changed, and he let out a gasp. It was a towering building, just as large as the temple to Ashhur, yet it was built with black marble, and leading toward it across the grass was a walkway of obsidian. Rows of pillars lined the exterior. Carved lions roared from either side of the entrance, mouths open, teeth bared. The light of the day seemed denied to it, a shadow cast across the entirety of the building with no discernible source.

“Welcome home,” Melody said as the gate opened, and she stepped inside.

Ghost had never considered himself afraid of anything, and only that stubborn pride allowed him to follow without hesitation. Even through his boots, it felt as if the obsidian beneath his feet were warm, uncomfortably so. At the temple, the doors opened before their arrival, and an elderly man with gray hair and deep black robes stepped out, nodding his head in respect.

“Lady Melody, you are most welcome as always,” said the man. “May we know the name of your guest before we permit him entrance?”

“I have none,” Ghost said, before Melody could answer for him. “Mine was lost long ago.”

The priest looked him over carefully, then nodded.

“Even the nameless may find comfort within our walls, if their hearts are true,” he said. “Come. Do you wish to speak with Pelarak?”

“With Daverik, actually,” Melody said as they stepped through the doors. “Tell him I must meet with him in the room of purity.”

Ghost followed, and they passed through a cramped entranceway and into a grand worship hall. So much of it felt like a mirrored image of the temple to Ashhur, yet when he entered the hall, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Towering over everyone was a statue lit by violet flames that put off no smoke. It was of Karak, he had no doubt, for who else could it be? The god was carved of stone, the likeness frightening in its lifelike pose, in the raw power conveyed by that raised fist defying the heavens. What looked like fresh blood stained the statue’s greaves, and more dripped from the serrated sword Karak held. He looked beautiful yet dangerous, powerful and unrelenting. The very thought of standing in Karak’s presence in the ancient times, when he supposedly walked the land, filled him with both wonder and terror.

Melody slowly approached the statue, and the guide allowed it. On either side were many pews, and several younger men sat in them, lost in prayer. The sound was like nails scraping against his spine. How he wished they might sing a song like Melody sang instead. Bringing his attention back to her, he saw her kneeling before the statue, head bowed, a single hand lifted above her, timid as a child as she touched the very foot of the statue. It lingered there but a moment before she stood, and when she turned back to him tears were in her eyes.

“I am ready,” she said.

Several corridors led out from the grand hall, and through one of them they exited, the path slowly slanting downward. Ghost felt as if he were descending into the pit of the world, with their only light that of the purple torches that burned on either side, letting off no heat, no smoke, just a glow whose very presence filled him with unease. Deeper and deeper they went, until they reached an abrupt stop at a door. Their guide opened it, revealing within a simple square room, its brick walls barren, its floor empty. Inside was an even deeper darkness, lit by two torches that burned at the center of the ceiling.

Ghost nearly turned away and left. Entering that room was a bad idea, he knew it, but Melody was so peaceful and seemed so earnest to help him. Calan’s challenge remained in his mind, and deep down, he wanted to know how this woman who had sung him to sleep for hundreds of nights would react to his failure.

Melody stepped into the room as if oblivious to his hesitation, walking to the center before sitting on the bare floor.

“Daverik will join you soon enough,” said their guide. With that, he left. Berating himself for his cowardice, Ghost stepped into the room, sitting opposite Melody. The floor was cold, and he kept his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm.

“Where are we?” he asked her.

“The room of purity,” she said. “It is a special place within the temple. It’s said Karak himself meditated here for days as he prepared for his holy war against his brother, and his tears have blessed the very stone with his power. Be careful what you say and do here, Ghost. We’ve left the realm of man. Veldaren’s king has no power here, only the true King.”

The door opened, and in stepped a bald man, his features sharp, his large lips pulling back into a smile as he offered Melody his hand so she might kiss it. Following him into the room was a startling sight, a woman dressed similar to Zusa, only her face was fully covered but for an open slit across her eyes, and even that had a thin strip of white cloth to hide her features. She was taller than Zusa, too, and moved with an easy grace, her hands always close by the hilts of her daggers belted to her waist. Ghost figured the man to be Daverik, though he could only guess as to the strangely dressed woman.

“Welcome to this sacred place,” Daverik said, turning to Ghost. “Melody has told me of your purpose. You are Luther’s executioner.”

“I suppose,” said Ghost, hiding his confusion. Luther? Who was this Luther? And Zusa, the Eschaton, the Watcher … were these people Luther wanted dead, and not Melody?

“But he has failed,” Melody said, rising to her feet. “He tells me the wizard’s power is greater than his own.”

“Is this true?” Daverik asked.

Ghost almost denied it. He could try again, find new ways to surprise Tarlak Eschaton and his oafish friend. But Calan’s wisdom kept echoing in his mind, and despite his fear, despite the chill of the floor beneath him and the cold wind that somehow blew softly from the corners of the sealed room, he vowed to continue to the bitter end.

“It is true,” he said.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Daverik said. “And the Watcher defeated you years ago as well, did he not?”

“He did,” Ghost said, and the words were ash on his tongue.

Daverik paced before him, hands behind his back. He looked lost in thought, puzzling over something.

“What will you do, now that you have abandoned your task?” he asked him.

“If I am of no more use, I would travel west,” Ghost said. “Find a life for myself somewhere, in a place where I no longer must wear paint on my face.”

Daverik ceased his pacing.

“Your life was sworn to Karak,” he said. “And such vows can never be escaped.”

He opened his hand, and suddenly it felt like every bone in Ghost’s body weighed a thousand stone. Trying to draw his swords was like lifting a boulder with a lone finger. He collapsed onto his back, gasping for air. The very act of lifting his chest was a burden. The muscles in his neck and arms bulged as he tried to stand, to fight against whatever foul magic was upon him, but he could not pull his body from the stone.

Above him, Daverik resumed his pacing.

“There are too many like you in this world,” he said. “Willing to abandon everything at the first struggle. Willing to sacrifice vows, beliefs, anything and everything sacred and blessed to avoid risks, to shed no blood, to give up nothing of meaning. But you are too powerful to be so weak, Ghost. There is a brilliant soul within you, aching for meaning, for purpose. And I will free it for you.”

Daverik leaned down so they might stare eye to eye. Ghost struggled, wanting to do nothing more than strike the man across the face, but he was helpless.

“I will make you serve,” the priest whispered. “I will grant you power untold and a responsibility to use it that matches such power. And when you taste victory, when you hear the Lion whisper to you, ‘Well done, my son,’ then you will thank me for what I am about to do.”

He stepped away, and Ghost stared up at the ceiling. Above him were the two torches, and he realized now that there was more to the ceiling. Faint white lines were drawn across it, forming a powerful feline shape. The torches were the eyes of the Lion, and they burned down at him, and it was at them he stared until Daverik’s hand settled upon his face. Even through the fingers, he still saw the eyes burning.

“Karak, my god, hear me,” said the priest. “Here in your presence, I present to you my offering.”

The fire grew, and in the far distance, Ghost heard the roar of a lion. The sound sent a chill throughout his body, and more than ever, he wished he could move, wished he could scream. Beside him, he heard Melody praying, her beautiful voice no longer a comfort, her song just as terrifying as the low growl that came from behind his head. All sense of time left him, and it seemed Melody’s prayers became an unending chorus, punctuated only by Daverik’s demands for order, for retribution. Brighter and brighter the fire burned, the lion above him closer, angrier. Many times he heard it roar, and within its mouth he saw the reaches of eternity.

Say your name.

He didn’t know who asked him, didn’t know from where the sound came. The voice was deep and cold. Its rumblings pulled him from his dream-sleep, reawakening an awareness of the floor beneath him, the torches above, the touch of Daverik’s hand against his face, and how hoarse Melody’s voice had grown from her singing.

“I don’t know it,” he answered, his own voice a whisper.

Then what are you?

What was he? What else could he be? After years in the dungeons, after a lifetime knowing only murder and payment?

“Ghost.”

As you are called, then so shall you be.

The darkness swallowed him. The roar of the Lion overwhelmed him. Only the twin torches remained, furious eyes burning violet. From Daverik’s touch at his forehead he felt electricity piercing him, traveling down his spine, and into his arms and legs. He flailed, unable to fight the motions. Everything burned with pain, and when he opened his mouth to scream, he swore he saw smoke exhaling from his lungs. If his cry made a sound, it was pitiful and insignificant, the Lion’s roar easily drowning it out so it went unheard, at least by him. He wanted to pass out, begged for unconsciousness to take him, yet it felt as if the pain would find him even there, overwhelming his dreams, piercing the unconscious veil.

“Your life is Karak’s,” he heard Daverik say. “And no matter the cost, you will repay your debt.”

The hand vanished, and with it went the pain. Ghost let out a gasp, the sudden calm just as startling. His body felt his own now, and he stood with ease. Gradually, his sight returned to him, and he saw Daverik beside him in the center of the room, with Melody and the faceless woman safely by the door. All three appeared exhausted, Daverik in particular.

“What did you do to me?” Ghost asked the priest.

“I gave you the strength to complete your task,” he said, and he sounded out of breath. “As well as motivation to ensure you do not try to abandon your obligations.”

“Obligations?” said Ghost. “I suffered through that, and you think I’ll keep up my obligations?”

He drew one of his swords and took a step forward, but Daverik lifted his hand. It was a simple motion, like one might use to dismiss a child, yet to Ghost, it was the hand of a god blasting him backward. He flew, his sword falling from his grip. As he fell back, he braced for hitting the wall … but then he was through the wall, and all he saw was darkness. Panic struck him in his chest, and he struggled to move, crawling forward as if he were in freezing water. With a gasp, he emerged back into the room, stepping out with clothes perfectly clean and free of the dirt and stone he knew he’d just been struggling through. He fell to his knees, relieved to be where his vision made sense, where his senses of touch and smell weren’t overwhelmed with strange sensations.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, staring at the floor.

As you are called, then so shall you be.

Ghost. It was no longer a name. No longer a disguise.

Melody walked over, and slowly she knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. The touch was strangely loving, and he looked to her, torn between asking for forgiveness and trying to rip out her throat before Daverik could react. She said nothing, only reached into his pocket and pulled out the container of paint she’d given him before. With a pop she opened it, then held it out for him to take.

“Put it on,” she said. “This is what you are, what you were always meant to be.”

He took it from her, dipped a hand into the white. As he smeared it across his face, he swore it burned far worse than it ever had before. That done, he stood, retrieved his sword, and glared at Daverik.

“You tread dangerous ground,” he told him.

“In this age, we all walk in danger,” Daverik said. “You no less than others.” He turned to Melody. “Alyssa’s stubbornness will be our undoing. We have no more time to wait, Melody. Ghost, Deborah, the two of you will go and kill her protector. Once Zusa is dead, overthrowing Alyssa will be a sure thing.”

“I don’t need his help,” Deborah said, glaring at Ghost.

“She defeated all of you together,” Daverik said. “Keep your pride to yourself. You’ll need Ghost’s help with this.”

Ghost looked to his hands, covered with paint. His feeling in them was already fading. It was like a limb falling asleep, only across his entire body. Panic pounded in his heart, but he did his best to hide it.

“No,” he said.

Daverik crossed his arms, and despite Ghost’s defiance, he seemed only amused.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” Ghost repeated. “I won’t do this. I am not your slave.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Daverik said, taking a step closer. “But this will help. Speak it again. Tell me you refuse to kill those Melody instructed you to kill.”

“I will not kill Zusa, nor the Watcher, nor the Eschaton,” he said.

The moment the words were gone from his lips, he felt a pain stabbing him in the forehead. It was incredible, like a metal spike jamming through his skull and into his mind. Emotions flooded forth, panic, terror, anger, and helplessness. Again, he dropped to his knees, and he let out a scream that this time echoed on and on in the cramped space.

“There is now a curse upon your body, Ghost,” said the priest. “Should you fail at your task, it will take your life. You have no choice in this. If I were you, I’d control my thoughts. Even the temptation to disobey will prove … uncomfortable.”

That was it, then. His choice was made for him, all because he followed Melody down into the pit. He glared at her, wishing her could make her suffer for betraying his trust, but she only smiled back at him.

“Soon, you’ll know,” she said. “Offer up yourself as sacrifice. There is such beauty in the surrender.”

Ghost rose back to his feet, swearing a vow that made his head ache just by the thinking of it.

I will never surrender. Not to you. Not to anyone.

“Go,” Daverik said. “Both of you. Kill Zusa so we may prepare the way.”

Deborah cast him a foul look, then turned to leave. Ghost thought of making his way back through the tunnel, past the great statue of Karak, and decided anything would be better than that. Taking a deep breath, he leaped, his hands reaching for the sky. As he thought, the stone ceiling was nothing to him, and he rose and rose, dirt and rock passing across his eyes, and somehow he could see it, though he knew there was no light for him to see. At last, he tore up through the very street, not far from the iron gates. It was dark now, and he wondered just how long he had lain on the cold stone floor. Upon reaching the night air, he felt his ascension cease, and he hit the ground with a satisfying thud. Glancing east, he saw the telltale signs of the rising sun. All night? he wondered. What had felt like mere moments of agony, of having the spells branded upon him, had taken all day and night.

Slowly he stood, staring at the temple, which was once more just a plain, well-crafted mansion. A plan forming in his mind, he waited until Deborah emerged from the mansion’s door. She quickly saw him, and still frowning, she went to his side.

“I’ll have no need of you,” she said, “but Daverik insists. Are you ready to kill for our god?”

She didn’t even wait for his answer, just turned and ran down the street. Ghost smiled, feeling the paint cracking on his face.

“Yes,” he lied, following her into the morning light.