A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 25

Haern and Delysia avoided the roads for the first two days they traveled north, reasoning that the paladins of the Stronghold might send riders out in search. The way wasn’t difficult, the land mostly flat, the lush grass almost comforting as it brushed against their legs. All the while, they saw no sign of Thren.

“He only told me you two were separated early on,” Delysia had explained while they fled through the wheat fields, putting the Stronghold far behind them. “I knew he was lying, but he was just as upset as I was when night came and went without your return. I’m not surprised he betrayed you like he did, but he must have had his reasons, especially for him to risk his life to save you.”

“I’m sure he did,” Haern had said. “But they’ll be his own selfish reasons. I should have known better. I should have seen it coming.” She had neither argued nor berated him, instead letting the matter drop. She’d asked what he learned, and he’d told her of what he’d found in Luther’s room. None of it made sense, nor did it feel worth their trek, but she voiced no such opinion. For that, he was grateful.

On the third night, they risked building a fire. Haern kept it small, just enough for some heat and comfort. After their evening meal, the two sat side by side, Delysia leaning her head against his shoulder as they both watched the last of the slender twigs and branches burn away.

“With just the two of us, we should be able to make decent time,” he said. “Leen isn’t too far, and we can stock up on supplies once we arrive.”

“What if the paladins have people looking for us there?” she asked.

Haern nudged her in the side.

“Come, now,” he said. “Give me some credit. I can disguise myself if need be. Even if they have someone waiting, I’ll make sure they have no reason to think it’s me. And given the losses they’ve already suffered, I doubt they’ll give us chase.”

“You underestimate their thirst for revenge.”

Haern chuckled.

“Well, they’ll just have to go thirsty. It’s a long trek from the Stronghold to Veldaren, and they have no reason to know that’s where we’re headed.”

At the city’s mention, Delysia let out a long sigh.

“It’ll be good to be home,” she said, voice wistful.

“Miss your brother already?” Haern asked, gently pushing his elbow into her side.

“No more than you do. I see the look in your eye. You dream of his pointy yellow hat, don’t you? Is that what kept you going in the Stronghold’s cells?”

She’d said it with a smile, but the comment struck a nerve that he found difficult to shake off.

“No,” he said. “No, Del … that was you.”

Her own smile faltered, and she fell silent as she pressed her head once more against his side. She was so close, her arms wrapped around his, her red hair brushing the side of his cheek. Ever since his escape from the Stronghold, he’d felt painfully aware of her presence, of how long her eyes lingered on him, of how bright her smile had been at his presence.

“You scared me, you know,” she whispered. “I’ve always trusted you to return, but that place was awful, those men … Their hearts are so black, so terrible.”

She was reliving the final combat with the dark paladins, he knew. It seemed so strange to him. Here was a woman with incredible power, yet she had no desire to use it, felt no joy in its embrace. In so many ways, it seemed she was everything he was not. Daily, he had to remind himself to remain humble. Daily, he had to pretend that the familiar thrill of battle, of taking the life of a foe, was something he did not enjoy.

“I was scared, too,” he finally admitted as the fire crackled. “The idea of spending years in there, never seeing you again…”

He couldn’t continue the line of thought, but he saw the recognition in her, the awkward way she closed her eyes and shifted her face to the side. What was she thinking? He didn’t know. But damn it, he was the Watcher of Veldaren. To be this cowardly … to be this unsure …

“Delysia,” he whispered, and when she turned, he pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes flared open, and for the briefest moment, she remained still as stone. As he held her close, he felt her relax, felt her lips open the slightest bit to kiss back. Haern tried to be gentle, kissing slowly, banishing her fears and memories in the only way he knew how. His heart hammered in his chest as her fingertips gently pressed the side of his neck, a tentative touch with a trembling hand. Haern had imagined such a moment a thousand times before, but still he felt clumsy, reckless. He held her tighter against him, wishing to banish his own memories, his own confusing, torturous journey with his father.

His right hand was curled about her back, clutching the fabric of her priestly robes. Slowly, he brought it around, across her side, to cup her breast in his palm.

Immediately, he felt her body stiffen in his arms. He kissed again, but there was no response this time, no give to her lips. It was as if her fire had suddenly gone cold. He felt her hand grab his wrist, and she sucked in a gasp of air as she gently pushed him away.

“In time,” she whispered, and he could tell she was still short of breath, her heart aflutter. “I’m sorry, Haern. Just … in time.”

Haern’s mind was a racing mixture of anger, embarrassment, and shame. He kissed her one more time, trying to pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. Hand free of her grasp, he pulled her close, this time into a hug that she could not object to. As she pressed against him, he felt her grip him tightly, clutching him as she might a piece of driftwood in a storm.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “And I’m sorry.”

She pulled back, kissed him once more on the lips, and then lay down on her bedroll, back to him. Haern stared at her, at her beauty in the red glow of the firelight, and then shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it. Dejected, he lay down in his own bedroll, wondering if she were mad at him. That was quickly answered by her turning to him, arm draping over his chest, face pressed into the side of his neck. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Haern slid his arm beneath her, holding her against him, and did his best to relax.

The night wore on, and it took her awhile, but at last she slipped into a deep sleep. Sky clear, cicadas singing, Haern did his best to drift off as well. The grass was a soft blanket, the stars above his ceiling. He stared at them as Delysia began to softly snore beside him.

She’s worse than Brug, Haern thought, and the remembrance of home made him smile. It’d be good to return to Veldaren, he decided. The streets were a burden, but at least he had family there, a clear purpose. As always, it seemed venturing outside those walls only reminded him how little he knew, how little he could change. Come their return home, tonight would just be something to forget, a mistake to pretend never happened. Closing his eyes, he let his mind begin its drift into sleep, only to be halted by something hard and small striking his cheek. Haern’s eyes snapped open, and his heart leaped. There was only one person it could be, and as a second stone bounced against his chest, he looked to see his father standing at the edge of the dying fire’s light. He said nothing, only met his gaze before turning and walking away.

Damn it, thought Haern. Just when the night seemed it could get no worse …

Careful not to wake Delysia, he slipped out from his bedroll, buckled his swords to his waist, and then followed.

Several hundred yards to their east was a slender hill, which Haern had positioned between them and the road in hopes of hiding the light of their fire. At the top of it, wind blowing through his hair, stood Thren. His swords remained sheathed, his eyes locked upon the pale moon.

“So, why did you betray me?” Haern asked, stopping at the foot of the hill.

“I had no choice but to go alone,” Thren said, not turning to face him. “A man with your abilities, I trusted you to endure whatever might be below. Despite your temporary imprisonment, I was not wrong.”

“If you needed to go alone, you might have just asked.”

“And what would have been your answer?” Thren asked, cold blue eyes suddenly glaring at him. “Do not pretend you’d have let me visit with Luther without you. I am no fool.”

Haern quietly accepted the rebuke. His father was right, of course. Under no circumstances would he have allowed Thren to go alone into the Stronghold. Together, they’d come to visit with Luther, to learn the man’s secrets. And now they were solely in Thren’s hands, and he would receive only what his father offered.

“What did he tell you?” Haern asked, hoping he might at least glean something. “Did he say why he did what he did?”

Thren’s gaze returned to the moon.

“Religious nonsense,” he said. “Fate and prophecy and other such things. He thought he was on the side of righteousness, of course. Men like him always do.”

There was more his father was hiding; that much was obvious. Haern shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to think of a way to drag it out of him. The night, which had been pleasant as he lay down beside Delysia, now carried an icy bite upon the steadily growing wind.

“I’ve traveled with you this far,” he argued. “And it was at your suggestion, Thren. Don’t betray me like this, not after all your pompous speeches about how I could trust you. What did Luther want? Why send the Sun Guild after us in Veldaren?”

Thren scratched at his face, thinking.

“The Sun Guild was smuggling something into Veldaren for him,” he said.

“Smuggling what?”

His father chuckled.

“Remember that wagon full of tiles marked with the symbol of the Sun? Those.”

It was the last thing Haern expected. It made no sense. For what reason would a priest desire the heavy stone slabs distributed throughout the city? Was there a trick to them? A trap, perhaps, or a spell he wished to perform in Karak’s name?

“So, what he did,” Haern said, trying to scrape the slightest bit more of information out of him, for he felt certain his father was still keeping secrets, “he did for Karak?”

A smirk tugged at the side of Thren’s face.

“To be honest … I have no idea. Such are the ways of gods and servants. The moment you start letting right and wrong be decided by imaginary whispers in the heads of men, the world becomes a confused, twisted place. The weak think they are strong, the dead in their graves yearn to rise, the strong put chains on their wrists and bow their heads to idols and ideals.”

Thren looked to him, half his face in shadow, the other seeming to glow in the moonlight.

“You’re one such fool, aren’t you?” he asked.

Haern’s first instinct was to deny it, to declare his own strength to his father, and the realization nearly made him sick.

“You know nothing of me,” he whispered.

“I know you better than you would like to admit. That’s what frightens you.”

Haern crossed his arms, and he felt his patience wearing thin.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you even here?”

Thren sighed and put his back to the moon, framing his outline in silver, his face in darkness.

“I have no more time for games, Watcher. No more patience for it. You stand at a crossroads, and just this once, I’d like you to open your eyes and see the correct path. Fire and death are coming to Veldaren, but we can stop it if we’re strong. If you’re with me. Luther’s future does not have to come to pass.”

“If I’m with you?” asked Haern. “Tell me you jest, Thren. Tell me it’s all a joke.”

“Our lives are the joke. Don’t you get it? Humorous playthings in the hands of gods. I know the symbol you wear around your neck, and it isn’t the salvation you think it is. It’s a prison, a shackle weighing you down.”

He took a step closer, reached out his hand.

“You are the finest killer I have ever seen,” he said, his voice softening, almost pleading. “You are a thing of beauty, and I will not deny your sense of nobility and honor. But you’ve crafted yourself into something that cannot be maintained. There is a natural order to things, and it is not what you desire. The strong rule the weak, Haern. So it is in the wilds, so it is in our cities. Stop flailing. Stop struggling against the current of the river, the winds of the grasslands, the pull of the earth itself. You don’t need gods. You don’t need creeds and rules, and you don’t need forgiveness to remove the guilt you’ve been taught to feel. Stand at my side. Cast off the burden on your shoulders, and let go in your heart of those who would drag you into the grave.”

The words were razors cutting into him, but Haern tried to stand strong. He looked into the eyes of his father even as his jaw trembled. From the chill, he told himself. From the icy wind.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “You have to know it. No matter how hard you pretend, I know you’re human. I know you grieve for loved ones lost. I know you’ve watched friend after friend die, and some by your own hand. You’ve sacrificed everything, Thren, and for what? A legacy of fear and bloodshed? A remembrance that will fade in time, fade like all other kings and conquerors? You’ve clawed and killed and set fire to everything your hands may touch. What has it given you? What worth have you found?”

Haern gestured to grasslands, felt a fire growing in his chest.

“Look around you. You have nothing left. It’s just you and I on this little hill. You claim I’m at a crossroads, yet you face the same one. You don’t have to go back. You don’t have to return to Veldaren and walk down that same road. Our lives, we’ll both find them cut short, and we’ll both die amid blood and metal, but my hopes are not for this world. My hope is that I will have loved ones to bury me, loved ones I’ll wait for, come their own time after. That is my hope, Thren. What is yours?”

Thren descended the hill. His lower jaw trembled, and his eyes were wide. There were tears in them.

“My hope?” asked Thren, standing before Haern so that he towered over him. “My hope? My hope is to carve a scar into this damned world that’s given me nothing, carve one so deep and so bloody that it never heals. And I’ll do it on my own, with my own two hands. No gods, no kings, no priests or prophets. Mine. Of my own body. My own blood. No matter who betrays me, no matter who abandons me. And do you know the difference between your hope and mine? I’ll never need to beg, nor surrender, to achieve it.”

“I’ll stop you,” Haern whispered. “You know I must. Don’t do this. There’s another life waiting for you, if you’d take it, and I promise you it would not be so alone.”

Thren reached out and grabbed the front of Haern’s tunic, yanking him close. Haern stood firm, matching his father’s powerful gaze.

“Alone?” he asked. “That’s all we are. Is that how deep the lies are buried in you, that you think otherwise? I know you believe Ashhur is where I’ll find some measure of comfort, but you’re wrong. When those you love are dead, when you hold one of them bleeding in your arms, console yourself with your prayers. Tell yourself whatever lies you need to put an end to your tears. Truth hurts, Haern. It never heals. Fuck the gods.”

Thren pushed him away, and as Haern stepped back, a question came to his lips, one meant only to hurt, and he was unable to stop it.

“Who died in your arms?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. “Whose death left you with so little hope?”

It was Marion, his mother, whose face he had clouded memories of, snippets of stories and half-remembered songs. But clear was the day his father had come home to their safe house, hands bloodied, a prisoner with him bound by rope. His older brother, Randith, had asked for their mother, where she might be.

“Dead” had been his father’s only reply, and it was more than Haern would receive now. Thren looked betrayed by the very question, and instead of answering, he drew his swords and held them at his sides.

“Put those away,” Haern said. “I won’t do this.”

“You will,” Thren said. “You said you’ll stop me, so here I am. Stop me. Put an end to this part of the game. I swear to kill, to murder. I promise you a thousand souls will suffer before I reach my grave. Aren’t you Veldaren’s Watcher? Aren’t you their protector? Prove it. Draw your damn swords and cut off my head.”

“No,” said Haern. “I won’t. Not here and now. Not while there’s still a chance.”

“A chance of what?” shouted Thren. When Haern did not answer, he swung a blade. Haern flinched, but he remained still, even as the edge cut into the side of his jaw and remained pressed there. Staring down Thren’s glare, he refused to give in to the fury growing in his chest, the despair at seeing just how twisted and hurt his father truly was.

“We’re all murderers,” Thren said, voice cold and quiet. “Some are just better at hiding it than others. Ashhur kills as well as Karak, or did you not see what your priestess did back there?” He pulled away the blade. “I don’t want your mercy. One day, neither will you. Mercy cuts deep and will only harm those you love. This cruel world will make sure of it.”

Thren sheathed the sword and walked past Haern down the hill. Haern turned to watch him go, the maelstrom of emotions in his heart rooting him firmly to the ground.

“Why’d you come back?” he asked. “Why not leave me in that dungeon if you resent me so?”

Thren continued without pause, ignoring the question. As if it were beneath him. As if it were obvious.

“Father…” Haern whispered.

Thren hesitated the slightest step at the bottom of the hill, then trudged on. Haern pulled the hood low over his face, felt tears swelling in his eyes, and he let them fall. For a long while, he stood there, watched until his father faded into shadow, became nothing. His chest hurt, and he wished more than anything he’d never come west.

Back at their camp, he removed his belt and placed the swords beside his bedroll. When he sat down, pulling his cloak and hood off his face, Delysia stirred.

“Haern?” she asked. He said nothing, only stared into the ashes of their fire. The priestess sat up, tossed the blanket aside. “Haern, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She put a hand on his face anyway, and he heard her pray. A gentle ringing sounded in his ears. He closed his eyes against a soft glow of light, and then the skin on his cheek tightened. The pain dulled, then faded away completely when she pulled back her hand. Kneeling, she looked at him, a dozen questions unasked on her lips. Haern wanted to answer them, couldn’t. But she knew what had happened, at least in some fundamental way. Her fingers brushed hair away from his face, and she kissed where she’d healed him. That single kiss felt far more loving than any other she’d given him that night.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I should have known better.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he said, looking away and feeling embarrassed. “I was a fool and apparently the only one who didn’t know it.”

Delysia put a hand on his cheek, her warm fingers gently pulling him back to look at her.

“You saw hope in your father where even I saw none,” she said. “I could never fault you for that.”

“It just means I was naïve, Del.”

She wrapped an arm around his waist and put her head against his shoulder. Normally, such closeness would have comforted him, but this time he only felt awkward, exposed.

“Better that than the man your father would have you be,” she said.

Haern’s retort died on his tongue. Kissing the top of her head, he finally returned her embrace.

“You’re better than I deserve,” he told her.

“And don’t you forget it.”

He broke from her grasp and lay back down on his bedroll. Delysia joined him, lying on her side with her hand on his chest. Haern put his hand atop hers, clutched her fingers, and closed his eyes tight. The bed of grass beneath him didn’t feel quite so comfortable, the ceiling of stars so vast and empty, he dared not look upon it.

He’s wrong, he told himself, thinking of all the vile words his father had spoken. He’s wrong; he has to be wrong. We’re meant for more than this, for more than living and dying and suffering at the hands of others. We are not alone. We’re not.

Easy words to tell himself.

Hard words to believe.