A Dance of Ghosts

EPILOGUE

Are you all right?” Tarlak asked his sister, who was yet to leave her spot by the fire on the lowest floor of their tower.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, sipping from a clay cup filled with steaming broth from a boiled beef bone. Her eyes remained locked on the dwindling flames. Seeing this, Tarlak snapped his fingers, surging the fire back to life. There’d be no cold chill for his little sister, not on her first night back from Ker.

“Sure, eventually we’ll all be fine,” he said, crouching opposite her on the rug. He took her hands, squeezed them until she finally looked his way. “But perhaps it’d help to talk about it anyway.”

Delysia pulled his hands up so she could kiss the tops of them, then pushed him away.

“You’re a jester in a world of serious men. Having you around is enough to help, Tar.”

“Just as long as I keep dancing, eh?”

She smiled.

“If that’s how you see it, then yes.”

He stood, bowed low before her.

“Then dance I will. But first, I have business in Veldaren. Care to come with?”

“Take Brug,” she said, settling back down into her chair. “I haven’t finished my broth yet.”

“A fine excuse. Since you’ve just come home from a lengthy, arduous journey, I will let it slide for now.” He walked over to the stairs, cupped his hands in front of his face. “Come on down, Brug; we have work to do.”

It took a few more yells, but finally, Tarlak had the man ready to go. The stars twinkling above them, Tarlak led the way as they walked back to the city.

“Not sure why this couldn’t wait until morning,” Brug grumbled.

“Bit of fresh night air will do you good, Brug.” He gestured to the silver moon above, the swaying grass that seemed almost blue in the midnight glow. “Take in the beauty of nature, and then tell me, where else would you rather be?”

“In my bed, asleep.”

Tarlak chuckled.

“Me, too,” he said. He pointed ahead, to where the great walls of Veldaren loomed. “But something Haern said finally gave me an idea about those damn tiles of Muzien’s.”

“And what’s that?”

“I had the right idea, but the wrong source. It’s the gods, Brug. Things are never as simple as they seem once the gods get involved, especially that psychotic undead-worshipping Lionhumper we lovingly call ‘Karak.’”

“Fascinating. Would still rather be sleeping.”

“The sun went down barely thirty minutes ago. Quit your whining.”

The road flattened out, the grass dead and the dirt faded and smooth from the daily wear of wagons and horses. Higher and higher the walls seemed as they approached the city, and Tarlak stared at them, wondering about those within.

“Think Haern’s doing all right in there?” Brug asked, as if reading his mind.

“I hope so,” he said.

“It’s just … you know, him and Del, they ain’t seemed the same since.”

“Whatever it is, it’s between them. For now, let’s keep our minds on the task at hand and let the scum of Veldaren worry about Haern’s return home.”

They passed through the gates of the city, and once inside, Tarlak steered them directly south, keeping close to the wall. The streets were quiet, but they were often quiet at night since Muzien’s takeover. All squabbles over territory, all back deals and smuggling of goods … it took place during the day now. What need did the Darkhand have for the cover of night? He feared no one, no guards, no kings, no other guilds. The city was his, and Tarlak felt himself hoping Haern’s return would give him a nasty dose of humility. Despite his warnings earlier, he’d never bet against his friend. The Watcher had his reputation for a reason, after all.

“So, where is it we’re going?” asked Brug.

“Somewhere quiet and isolated,” Tarlak said. “Just in case things go horribly wrong, of course.”

Brug gave him a rather rude, displeased look, but Tarlak just grinned at it and continued on. Over the past weeks, they’d drawn up an extensive map of the location of all of Muzien’s tiles. Brug had called it both pointless and wasteful, but Tarlak’s gut kept insisting it’d pay off eventually, even if he had no clue how. But then Haern had mentioned Luther’s supposed connection to the tiles, and suddenly, Tarlak had a feeling he knew what he’d been missing all those times before. So, now they went to one of the many tiles he’d marked, in a quiet little street that dead-ended at the western wall.

“Here we are,” Tarlak said, stopping in the center of the street, where the tile was buried mere feet away from the wall. It looked like all the others, with no special markings or engravings, just the same symbol of the sun. Brug stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Tarlak kneel.

“I thought you already tried this,” Brug said.

“Not quite,” said Tarlak. Closing his eyes, he began repeating a spell he’d memorized over the past hour. While before he’d used a simple spell all young magic-users learned, this one was far more demanding. It wasn’t the world of magic he wanted to see, that shadowy place of the arcane. Instead, it was a different type of magic, that of priests and paladins and necromancers. He sought power tied to the deities themselves and to view its markings. A wave of dizziness came over him as he finished the last phrase of the spell, and he felt a bit of power leave his chest. Taking in a deep breath, he opened his eyes to view the tile.

It shimmered red in the darkness, and swirling about it were three long chains composed of intricate runes he couldn’t begin to decipher. They dipped into the very earth, then came back out, always in constant motion, while the red glow pulsed as if tied to a distant heartbeat. The very sight of it filled Tarlak’s throat with bile, and he had to force himself to remain calm.

“Brug,” he said. “I want you to get away from me, all right?”

“What’s going on?” asked his friend.

Tarlak looked to either side of him, saw the dilapidated homes.

“Check both of them,” he said. “If there’s anyone inside, make them leave.”

Brug nodded, and he kept whatever questions he wanted to ask silent. Tarlak turned his attention back to the tile. Despite the ache to his head, he focused harder, and within the pulsing he saw what could only be described as thin pieces of string intertwined with the runes, each a slightly different hue of red. That was how he could decipher the magic’s purpose, he knew, what all it could do if activated. Because that was the one thing he was certain of, that the magic contained within the tile was being held back.

“Both empty,” Brug said a few moments later.

“Good,” Tarlak said.

He swallowed, then clapped his hands together.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

He could undo the strings, he knew, slowly untangling them as well as breaking the spinning runes, but it was no different from undoing a particularly insidious knot. If he didn’t know how, or didn’t know the exact details of the spell, then he would accomplish nothing at best, or harm himself at worst. Removing any curse was a tricky matter-same with any skillful enchantment (which the tile clearly had).

But activating the magic …

“Here goes,” he whispered. Safely undoing a knot was one thing. Chopping it in half with a sword was another. With but a thought, he pulsed magic into the tile, putting whatever spell was buried in its center into motion.

The runes vanished, and for a moment, all was silent. Tarlak’s skin tingled with anticipation. This was it, the true purpose of the tiles, the reason for their very existence. In its center he watched a tiny black spot appear, crackling with white lightning. It shimmered, then vanished. The tile cracked, its center rimmed with fire, and then Tarlak had the briefest moment to react before the shock wave hit him. As a great roar shook his being, he crossed his arms, enacting a protection spell out of pure instinct. The ground trembled beneath him, and then suddenly, he was flying through the air. When he landed, he rolled, and all the while, he heard nothing but a constant ringing. When he came to a stop, Brug was hovering over him, his mouth moving but producing no words. It was only when the ringing faded that Brug’s voice finally returned.

“…all right, Tar?”

Instead of answering, Tarlak pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with his mouth hanging open, he stared at where the tile had once been. In its place was a gaping crater, and fire burned within it, the flames a deep violet. On either side, the homes were shattered, the roofs collapsed in and the wood already aflame. Even the great stone wall, which had surrounded the city since the day Karak himself built it, was cracked, with large portions having collapsed and layering the surrounding area beneath with debris.

“My god, Tar,” Brug said, staring with his mouth hanging open. “What did you do?”

“What it was meant to do,” Tarlak said, viewing the wreckage while feeling dazed and lost. Another large chunk of the wall collapsed, the rumble deafening, as was the sound of the stone breaking upon the road, sending pieces rolling in all directions.

“One tile,” Brug said, and he sounded as horrified as Tarlak felt. “How many throughout the city are there?”

“As of last count?” asked Tarlak as all around people flooded out of their homes to see what was the matter. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he thought of all their planning, their little map detailing the tiles’ locations. Not a single street unmarked. Not a man or woman safe. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder and slowly stood as dust and stone fell.

“Over three hundred and twenty-seven.”

For once, Brug was speechless. Tarlak watched the strange purple flames dwindle down to nothing in the crater, and he let out a sigh.

“Brug,” he said. “We’re fucked.”