A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 23

An eighteen-year-old Melody Gemcroft knelt in prayer, a book open before her on a slender bench. Towering over her, illuminated in violet light burning from torches that never flickered or dwindled, was the statue of Karak, carved when he first walked the land, waging war against his cowardly brother. It was the third night in a row she’d come to Karak’s temple, yet her fervent prayers seemed to do little to diminish the fire burning in her breast.

“You seem troubled,” said a priest, joining her at her side. Melody opened her eyes and smiled at Luther, the man leaning down over her, always quiet, always willing to listen.

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I cannot speak of why. It shames me just thinking about it.”

Luther sat down on the bench she knelt before, and he glanced at the book she’d been reading. It was a series of stories, supposedly told to Karak’s people in the earliest days of mankind.

“If a burglar has broken into your home, do you know how you flush him out? Not by hiding him but instead opening all your doors and windows and letting the world in to see. If sin has taken residence within your heart, bare it now. We’re alone here, you and I, alone before our god. The only shame you should feel is letting your pride stand in the way of the purification of your soul.”

Melody trembled. Of course, it was Luther who would know what to say. Of course, it would be to him she must confess.

“Lust,” she whispered. “I suffer lust, and for a man not my husband.”

Luther leaned over further, hands clasped together, and he stared at her with those intense eyes of his.

“Do I know who the man is?” he asked.

Melody looked away, nodded.

“You do,” she said. “You know him well.”

Her heart raced in her chest, and she felt her neck flushing red. Of course, Luther would figure it out. She was never good at keeping secrets. But Maynard was always so cold to her, and though he knew the servants told her of his midnight trysts with the quality whores a man of the Trifect could buy, he never seemed to care. Sometimes, she tried talking to him, to broach the subject of him coming with her to the temple. Perhaps if they could share in their faith, if he could see how it wounded her when he cavorted with sinful women …

But then there was Luther at her side, listening, understanding, his words firm yet kind, knowledgeable yet humble.

“The role of a wife is not an easy one,” Luther said after a lengthy pause. “There is a reason Karak calls us his bride. It carries expectations, faithfulness, and sacrifice. But Melody … there is … You’ve sworn your life to the temple, have you not? You are Karak’s bride, and let no man of this earth defile you nor burden you with shame.”

She nodded even as she struggled to understand. What was it he was telling her? What was he asking of her?

Luther offered her his hand.

“I am the temple,” he said. “And I would never defile your body.”

She took it, and together they stood.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To my chambers,” he answered. “So together we may worship and offer our blessings to the Lion in a way your husband would never understand.”

She knew what it meant, yet was scared to think it. Was it a test? Or perhaps her sinful mind perverted something meant to be simple and pure? The walk down the hallways of the temple to Luther’s private study was a nightmare. But the moment inside his room, when he slowly removed her clothes, his lips caressing the length of her neck before traveling down to her naked breasts? A blessed dream.

Years passed.

They lay together in her bed, her clothes cast off one side, his priestly robes the other. Luther had come to the Gemcroft mansion for months now, always in the guise of private lessons. In a way, Melody considered them just that. They still bowed their heads in prayer. He still imparted wisdom to her, but it wasn’t always in the ways of Karak’s strength and order. Sometimes, it was in more carnal things, and as a teacher, he was better than Maynard could ever hope to be. Usually they were more careful, more discreet, but Maynard had left earlier that day for a meeting with James Keenan to the south in Angelport.

Weeks, she thought. We shall have weeks together, just he and I. Praise Karak, I have so badly needed this.

“Are you ready for more?” she asked him, her head on his chest.

“I am always ready if you are in need, Melody.”

Her hand traveled down his body, and she cupped his manhood, which was still soft and wet.

“You don’t seem it,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t need more time?”

Luther smiled at her, a smile that showed there was wisdom he had she did not, yet instead of belittling her, it only made him eager to share it.

“I have a hand and a mouth,” he said, “and neither will tire before you do, I promise.”

Before he could show her, the door to her room opened. An angry rebuke was on her tongue for the servant foolish enough to enter before knocking, but it died without a single word spoken. Melody clutched her blanket in both hands, and she felt as if she shriveled several feet before the deadly, cold glare of her husband. Beside him stood a man in the black robes of Karak, and he seemed no more pleased than Maynard.

“Get dressed,” Maynard said. “Both of you.”

That was it. Nothing else before he shut the door. Melody sat there, naked, mouth open, and skin covered with goose bumps. It seemed all the world was crashing down, and she wanted to vomit.

“Get dressed, Melody,” Luther said, and he seemed strangely resigned. “We both knew it was only a matter of time.”

But she didn’t know. She thought it could be kept a secret, or that Maynard would not care if he learned. How many whores had he slept with? How many times had he spit in her face with his behavior? Why must she be treated differently? The unfairness lent her a spark of anger, and she used that to push her numb body from the bed so she might put her clothes back on.

When both were finished, Luther went to her, and he kissed her forehead.

“I don’t know what fate awaits us,” he said. “But know I will always come back for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she felt tears running down her face. “They won’t hurt you, will they?”

Luther smiled at her that same, wise smile.

“Do not worry for me,” he said. “You’re the one who must be strong.”

His arm around her waist, he opened the door for her, and they stepped out into the hallway. Maynard was there, along with several more priests, and together, they walked across the hall, down the stairs, and to the grand foyer, where over a dozen more in black were gathered.

“I want him punished for this,” Maynard said. Melody tried staying at Luther’s side, but he gently pushed her away and went to his brethren. Despite their glares, he kept his head high, and there was no shame in his walk.

“His punishment is ours to decide,” said their head priest, a man Melody had long admired named Pelarak. “Not yours. Leave us to punish our own, just as we will let you decide the fate of your wife’s infidelity.”

They put hands on Luther’s shoulders, guiding him toward the door.

“Luther!” Melody cried. “I’ll be strong, I promise. I’ll be strong!”

Maynard struck her with his fist to silence her. The blow knocked her to the floor, and as she looked up at him, blood trickling down her chin, she swore not to cry. No matter what he did to her, she would not cry. All her tears would be reserved for Luther, and Luther alone.

“Apologize,” Maynard said when the priests were gone, and they were alone.

“No,” she said, holding a hand to her mouth. She felt the beginnings of panic crawling up and down her chest, but she fought it down.

“You’ve humiliated me,” her husband said, and he reached down to grab her by the hair and yank back so she might meet his eye. “Now beg for forgiveness, and maybe I will have mercy.”

She laughed at him.

“There is only one to whom I would beg for forgiveness,” she said, “and it is not you.”

He raised a hand to strike her, but it did not come. Instead, he let her go, and he shook his head. To her shock, there were tears running down his face as well.

“You make me do this, then,” he said. “Remember that. Everything that happens, it’s your fault, and that damn god of yours.”

He called for soldiers, and they took her to a carriage. She didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her daughter. Maynard joined not much later, and in the deep of night, they rode through the streets of Veldaren. Melody sat quietly, watching out the window with a mercenary at either side of her. At first, she did not know where they went, but as they neared their destination, a creeping certainty came over her.

When the carriage rolled to a stop before Leon Connington’s mansion, she knew it to be true.

They took her in, and Leon was waiting for her at the door.

“Make it quick,” Maynard said. She watched as her husband pulled out four coins, two gold and two silver, and dropped them into the fat man’s eager hand.

“It’ll be masterfully done,” Leon said. “I promise.”

They took her deep into the mansion, down the stone steps and into the black dungeons. Maynard never said a word to her, neither in anger nor love. The moment those coins changed hands, she was gone, and she knew it. Into a cell they took her, casting her onto the hard floor and leaving her in total darkness. There she remained, and for how long until Leon came to her, she could only guess.

“Are you in here, my little doll?” he asked, light of torches flickering across his face. On either side of him, holding the torches, were men in strange clothes. The gentle touchers, Melody realized, and she felt her creeping horror growing in strength.

“You promised it’d be quick,” Melody said as the men with the torches lifted her from the ground, each holding a wrist with a frighteningly strong grip.

“I promised it’d be masterful,” Leon said. “Not that it’d ever be quick.”

They chained her to the wall, her struggles not even an inconvenience. She cried as the fat man loomed closer, his breathing heavy.

“I always thought you were beautiful,” he said. “So much better than that uptight prick Maynard deserved.”

He leaned in, she screamed, and then his lips were on her body. Thrashing, kicking, it all was hopeless. Chained to a wall, chained and helpless as his trousers dropped to the floor, and in the torchlight, Leon smiled the sickest of smiles.

“But now you’re mine,” he said. “All mine.”

And there was nothing she could scream or do to deny it.

Years passed.

The darkness had closed in on her, and she much preferred it to the alternative. People meant the rare gentle toucher, come to experiment with a few of his needles and knives should Leon take too much time between his visits for the torturer’s liking. Or worse, it meant Leon himself. His touch was everything Luther’s was not: sick, greedy, hateful. Not once had they moved her to a different cell, and as she lay on the cold stone, she could trace her fingers along the dried spots of her own blood.

In the distance, she heard a door opening, and she tensed. That was the door from upstairs, the groan of its hinges much deeper and louder than those of the one leading to the rooms the gentle touchers slept and ate in. Upstairs meant either new prisoners … or Leon. As much as she felt guilty for it, she prayed it was someone new coming down to suffer as she did. Anything was better than Leon’s touch. Anything.

A man came to the entrance of her cell, but it was not Leon as she feared. Instead, it was one of the gentle touchers, but the way he stood there was off. He had no desire to perform his art upon her, she could tell. Then, what?

“I have a gift,” said the elderly man. “One we’ve been paid a handsome sum to bring to you, so I pray you appreciate it.”

The cell door opened, he stepped inside, and then he placed an object on the floor, one which left her bewildered. It was a slender bowl, and in its center, held by thin silver string, were gems of a rainbow of colors. She took it onto her lap, cradling it as if it were a child.

“What am I to do with this?” she asked.

“Pray,” said the gentle toucher. “That’s all we were told.”

With that, he left her holding the strange object.

Pray? she wondered. Pray what? And why?

It’d taken weeks before she discovered it. Many times she’d closed her eyes and prayed, clutching the strange shallow bowl in her hands, yet nothing ever happened. It was only after one of Leon’s visits, as she lay on her side staring into its center, that she decided to try again. This time she would watch it, she decided, determined to see if her prayers did anything to the device. Never before or after did she notice a change, but just perhaps during …

And then as she prayed with her eyes open, focused on the bowl, she saw the colors begin to swirl within the gems. Hope blossomed in her breast, the emotion strange and foreign after her time in the cells. Her prayers faltered for a moment, the colors dimmed, and with frantic strength, she begged Karak for mercy and guidance. Back came the colors, and they were the greatest gift she could have ever imagined. The gems lifted into the air, straining the lengths of their silver chains.

And yet it was not done. As she stared into its center, yearning for freedom, she found herself sinking into a vision. She saw mountains, forests, the waters of the Rigon flowing beneath her as she soared with the wings of a falcon. Her prayers spilled from her lips as if they were those of another, or perhaps from some more primal part of her mind. She saw flowing fields of grain, the walls of the city of Veldaren, and then the barren wastelands of the Vile Wedge. It seemed nothing could contain her, her mind able to go wherever she desired.

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 without 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.