A Dance of Blades

chapter 15

When amid her grief, she had thought hearing the cries of pain and seeing the river of blood would give her closure, but instead Alyssa felt hollow as she watched the fires spread across the city. Standing at the second-story window of her private study, she touched the cold glass and wondered what it was she had done. Had she brought freedom to the city? Peace of mind?

Not this night. But perhaps this was just like cauterizing a wound. There would be heat, pain, but then the bleeding would stop and healing could commence.

Someone knocked on the door, and she had a feeling who. The rest of her help would be asleep, or perhaps laying awake in their rooms, wondering about the safety of their friends and family beyond her mansion’s walls.

“Come in, Arthur,” she said, surprised by how tired she sounded. She rubbed her face with her hand, discovering tears. Had she really reached such a low, crying without realizing it while she wasted the night away staring out a window?

The door opened, then softly shut. Moments later she felt Arthur’s hands on her shoulders. When he started massaging she leaned back, pressing her head against his neck.

“People are too scared to form bucket lines,” he said. “The fires will only spread.”

She sighed. She should have known, of course. Probably did, even, but let her hatred blind her. Let the whole city burn, she’d thought plenty of times, so long as it burned the rats with it. But this was her war now, and that meant dealing with all its ills, all its blame.

“Send someone to the castle. Tell the king I request the aid of his soldiers in putting out the fires. With the castle guard there, it should outweigh any fear.”

“Self-preservation is strong,” Arthur said, letting her go. “For so many to remain in hiding, willing to lose everything to the fire, shows how great a fear you have created.”

“I meant to scare the thieves,” she said. “Not the innocent. But are there any innocent anymore? How deep does Veldaren’s sickness run? Maybe I should let it burn, all of it. My son is nothing but ash, so why not them, why not…?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, and in them she let herself cry. She found herself crying often in his presence. There was a strength in him, and a desire to please. More than anything, she felt she could trust him. He’d been there for her when she needed him most.

“Was this wrong?” she asked. “Have I truly erred so badly?”

His response was long delayed, to the point she thought he might not answer.

“You have done what you thought was right, and what was best for the Gemcroft family. I will not fault you for that, if you will do the same for me.”

“And what is that, Arthur?”

He turned her about and kissed her. His hands were firm on her shoulders. She felt herself responding. She was so exhausted, so drained. His touch was like an awakening, a pull from a nightmare that threatened to consume her day in and day out.

“The messenger,” she breathed while her mind remained able to think.

Arthur leaned close, his hot breath against her ear.

“Let the fires burn a little longer. If the cowards cannot save their own city, the blame lies with them.”

The study lacked a bed, but the carpet was soft. They made love, him atop her. She wrapped her arms around his chest and clutched him as if her life might end if she let go. She tried to forget the death and fire, her call for revenge. Even as the pleasure tore through her, she could not help but wonder if that wicked, wicked man responsible for the death of her son lay dead somewhere in the street, or if his body were nothing but ash in a distant fire. Atop her, Arthur continued to grunt and thrust.

*

The arrival of the sun was a blessed thing to Veldaren’s citizens. The mercenaries retreated, having fought and searched long through the night. Those with cloaks and colors buried themselves inside whatever safe houses they had to recuperate and plan. Those who sided with neither filled the streets, forming bucket lines from the wells and digging ditches to combat the fires. Many others went to their families and friends, needing confirmation of their survival before beginning their daily tasks. The market’s bustle was subdued, the streets awash with murmurs.

Haern watched it all through the window of the small apartment. The fire had gotten dangerously close to Senke and Delysia’s home, reaching all the way to Prather’s Inn and burning it to the ground. People were everywhere, half-buried in the smoke that billowed from the dying fire. Soldiers of Veldaren hurried about, but their presence in the streets did nothing to ease people’s minds.

“You look troubled,” Delysia said, and he flinched as if poked with a stick. Blushing for no reason, he turned back to her and accepted the cup of warm milk she’d brought him.

“I mixed in some herbs,” she said, sitting opposite him in a rickety chair. “You’ll sleep well, and by looks of it, you could use the rest.”

He thanked her again and sipped the milk, wisely deciding not to comment on how terrible the drink tasted. His eyes lingered on her face, and he struggled not to make his staring obvious. She’d grown so much over the past five years, filling out into womanhood. Her hair was longer, but still the same fiery red. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and in her priestess robe she looked almost regal. Her chest was also significantly larger. Out of everything, he tried to make sure his glances at that remained uncaught.

He continued to sip the drink, mostly to avoid conversation. He had no clue what to say to her. The last time they’d met, he’d come to her in desperate need for guidance. He’d needed to understand a life outside the cold retribution of his father. His tutor, Robert Haern, had spoken of the god Ashhur, and now here she was, a priestess of the same god. His thoughts had turned only to survival, yet now came back with a burning vengeance. What was it he’d told Delysia? He needed Ashhur, otherwise he’d end up like his father. He’d be a killer without mercy, a terrible creation the city feared.

Long live the Watcher, he thought. What have I become?

“I…I’m glad you’re all right,” Haern blurted, feeling lame as he said it. He saw a shadow cross over Delysia’s face, but she pushed it aside with a smile.

“I try not to think about that night,” she said. “There’s too much I don’t understand, even now. Who you were. Who you are. What Ashhur’s purpose might have been. I must confess, I almost hoped I’d die. I was so tired, so confused. But I feared I might never see my brother, and so I struggled for every breath…”

The room fell silent. The rest were asleep, exhausted from the long night, but Delysia had stayed awake, insisting she could manage for a few more hours. Haern, used to going long periods without sleep, had dully stared out the window and waited for a chance to talk. Now he had the chance, he didn’t have a clue what to do with it.

I’m better at killing. Does that prove just how far I’ve fallen? You’d be proud, father.

“The man who shot you was my father,” he said, figuring to start with what he knew for certain. “He feared what your influence might do to me. He was right to fear it, too. They dragged me to Karak’s temple and did their best to burn away my faith.”

“Did they succeed?” she asked, sipping from her own cup. Her green eyes peered over its edge. He felt like he was that same stupid kid she’d trapped in her cupboard. He remembered watching her cry moments after Thren had executed her father. What could he ever be to her but a remembrance of those painful times? He saw her watching him, and he remembered her question.

“No,” he said.

The past five years, murdering men in the streets, seemed to have done a fine job of it, though.

“What have you been doing?” she asked. “How have you survived?”

He didn’t want to answer. Why was he so afraid she’d judge him? So long ago, he’d come to her for advice. Now he feared every word she might say?

“I slept in the streets,” he said. He was the Watcher of Veldaren, damn it. He would fear no one, nothing. “Ever since, I’ve been killing members of the thief guilds, hoping to destroy them. It’s pointless, futile, but still I try. It’s the only thing that gives me meaning.”

He thought she’d berate him, or challenge his claim. Instead, she looked at him with sad eyes, and that was worse.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because you protected me?”

His mouth fell open.

“Of course not. Don’t be…Delysia, I chose everything I did. I would have stayed with you, spoken with you forever if I could. That night…that single night, I’ve cherished that memory. It was one of the few bright spots in my entire childhood. But then my father darkened it with blood. My precious memory always leads to him, his murder, his guilt. It pushes me on, consumes everything. I have become something I don’t think either that little girl or that little boy could ever have understood or accepted.”

He looked back to the window, not wanting to see her reaction. He was a damn fool, that’s what he was. Hoping she’d leave him be, he refused to react when she stood from her chair, set her cup down, and came closer. Her hand touched his face, and reluctantly he turned to her. Tears were in his eyes.

She kissed his cheek, then pressed her forehead against his.

“Go to sleep, and try to remember that while you are not that little boy, I am no longer a little girl.”

She trudged up the sharply curved stairs to the second floor. Haern watched her go, and when she was gone, almost fled to the streets. But he remembered that feeling in the Pensfield’s home, of having a home. He felt that same thing here, though the company was on the odder side. He downed the rest of his drink, grimaced, and then set the cup aside. His chair was comfortable enough, far more than the cold street he was used to, so he crossed his arms and tried to sleep.

Footsteps coming back down the stairs opened his eyes. He didn’t think he’d slept, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t Delysia that had come down, though. Instead it was the wizard, her brother. He’d shed his pointy hat, though he still wore those strange yellow robes. He rubbed his goatee as he plopped down in a chair opposite Haern.

“Had some words with Senke,” he said.

“That so?”

“Well, most involved variations of ‘get out of my room so I can sleep you idiot’, but there were some more intriguing bits I dragged out of him. Most interesting was that of your father. Thren Felhorn, really? You look more like something two vagabonds might bump out on a cold, drunk night.”

“Flattered.”

Tarlak tapped his fingers together, and his mouth shifted about as if he were chewing on his words before saying them.

“Not much for talking. I get that. I like to talk, so perhaps I can make up for the both of us. Senke says you’re good, really good. What I saw out there tonight certainly confirms it. Can’t expect much less from Thren’s son, of course. You’ve established quite a reputation, too. I’ve heard plenty talk of the Watcher, usually poor thieves grumbling into their cups about how much gold you cost them. A few even thought you were Ashhur’s vengeance come down upon them for their lifestyle, though they usually had to be incredibly drunk to admit it.”

“You have a point?”

“Several, one on my nose, one on my hat, and one where the ladies love me. But that’s beside the, uh, point. It seems like, other than revenge, you don’t have much going for you. Ashhur knows those streets out there aren’t comfortable living. So how about you join my mercenaries instead? Pay isn’t the best, but with half the city employed in killing thieves, I think we could make a few coins. Besides,” his eyes lit up, “can you imagine the rates I could charge if people knew the Watcher was in my pay?”

“I’m not for sale,” Haern grumbled.

Tarlak frowned.

“Well that’s disappointing. You sure?”

“Very.”

The wizard scratched at his chin. “This a pride thing?”

“I have no use for money.”

Tarlak grinned. “I’m not sure I believe that, but I’m more thinking you feel you don’t need money. Considering all the stories of you tossing gold coins in the middle of high market, I can believe that. But there are some things you can buy with gold that you might be more interested in. Our introductions were a little haphazard, but you met Brug, right?”

“Short guy, cussed a lot, can’t fight worth shit?”

“That’s him. I didn’t hire him because of his skill with those ludicrous whatever-they-are he fights with. Obviously. You want to know why I did?”

Haern stared at him with an expression showing he didn’t think himself having a choice in whether he found out or not. Tarlak blinked.

“Right. Anyway, he’s a blacksmith, and with my help, he can create items that many would sell their souls to own. Would you like to run faster? Jump higher? Or perhaps a fancy sword or three…”

“I’m not much for bribery, either.”

“Don’t see why you shouldn’t be. You spend your nights crawling around the rooftops killing thieves. Might as well get paid for it.”

Haern turned his chair so his back was to Tarlak, and he stared out the window.

“Very well.” Tarlak stood. “I’ll leave you be. Take a nap, or vanish in the afternoon. You aren’t held prisoner here. Think about my offer, though. We may not be much now, but I think we’ve got potential.”

Haern snorted. Whether Tarlak heard or not, he didn’t react, only went up the stairs. Staring at the men and women still fighting the fire, he wondered what in the world had gotten a hold of him. That wizard was no better than anyone else, not even his father. He killed for money, except he used fire and words instead of a blade. What could have possibly possessed Senke to join them?

He closed his eyes and felt the light of the sun warm his face. Come that afternoon, he’d sneak his way out. Oh, he had no delusions of abandoning Delysia and Senke completely. He knew himself better than that. It’d be easy enough to keep an eye on them, though, keep his eyes open for a wizard in yellow, accompanied by a beautiful girl with hair like fire…

When he opened his eyes, many hours had passed. He shook his head, fighting the grogginess. His back ached, and it popped several times as he shifted his upper body side to side. Senke stood at a small counter, eating cold bread leftover from that morning. His fingers drummed the counter, the sound no doubt what had awakened Haern.

“You chew like a cow,” Haern said, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes.

“And you look like one, only worse. When was the last time you had a bath?”

“Consider that a luxury my life cannot afford.”

Senke shoved the rest into his mouth and wiped crumbs from his shirt.

“Here” he said, his mouth full. He pointed at Haern’s swords. “Been a long time since we sparred. Thought it’d be a nice way to catch up.”

“Where?” The room was cramped as is. Senke nodded toward a back exit.

“There. Come on.”

There was a small space of flat dirt out back, part of an alleyway that ran behind their group of apartments. The faint outline of a circle remained dug into it, and Senke refreshed it with his heel.

“Only person to train with has been Brug, and trust me, that’s not much of a workout. You’ll do me fine.”

Haern stretched away the rest of his drowsiness. Senke had been the better fighter when they last met, but the years had hardened Haern, granted him strength and height while his nightly excursions had honed his reflexes and skill. He touched the tips of his swords together and bowed. Senke had carried two shortswords with him, and he wielded those instead of his maces.

“Maces will be too slow for you,” he said. “So let’s try the blade.”

Eager to show how much he’d learned, Haern initiated their combat with a quick lunge. Expecting the ensuing parry, he followed up with a slash with his other weapon, using it as a distraction to allow his first thrust to pull back and thrust again. Senke, however, hadn’t been Thren’s enforcer without good reason. He shoved both attacks high, stepped closer, and feinted an elbow to Haern’s face. When Haern stepped back, trying to fall into position, Senke pressed the attack, keeping his swords out wide. The second elbow that came flying in was no feint, and it smacked into his chest with a heavy thud. Again he stepped back, but instead of chasing, Senke pointed to where he’d stepped beyond the bounds of the circle.

“Out,” he said.

Feeling his cheeks flush, Haern stepped back into the practice ring. He wasn’t focused, wasn’t analyzing Senke’s reaction like he might other opponents. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm. A nod, and they resumed.

This time he remained patient, and he swallowed down his pride to acknowledge Senke was just as fast as him. Most opponents he could overwhelm with simple brute speed, the massive gaps in their skill overriding any of his carelessness. Not now. Senke stepped closer, swinging both his blades in a downward arc. Haern parried them aside, then looped both swords around as he advanced. Senke blocked the barrage, then planted his back foot to halt his steady retreat to the circle’s edge.

Seeing this, Haern pressed the attack, relying on his opponent’s lack of mobility. But the planted foot had been a kind of a feint, for when Haern swung with all his might, ready for the clash of steel and challenge of strength, instead Senke twirled out of the way. Overextended, he could do nothing but accept the stings of Senke’s shortswords slapping against his arm.

“Come on now,” Senke said, pausing to catch his breath. “I expected far better than that. King’s sake, I saw you handle yourself better last night against those thieves.”

Again he felt his neck flush. Was he holding back? He didn’t mean to be.

“Treat me like any other opponent,” Senke said, clanging his swords together. “F*ck. Treat me like your father. Everything, Haern, show me everything you got.”

Everything, he thought. Everything. It seemed like a red light bathed over him, flashing from a ring on Senke’s finger. He forgot they only sparred, forgot they fought in a dirt circle instead of a real battlefield. He forgot his opponent’s name was Senke, and imagined instead the glaring figure of Thren Felhorn, furious, deadly, a bow in his hands and Delysia dying at his feet. His father grinned, as if the corpse there suddenly didn’t matter.

“Hello, son,” said Thren.

He gave that image everything. His swords weaved in tight circles as he slipped from stance to stance, always shifting, always attacking. The sound of steel on steel became a song in his ears. Their blades looped and twisted, parrying away sure hits and blocking cuts that should have hit before either could counter. Thren’s grin faded, just a cold image that watched him without any sign of exertion or worry. Haern found himself wondering where he was, what was going on. Around him the alley had become an old safe house they’d lived in for a year, the hardwood floor polished and prepared for practice.

“You’ve learned nothing!” Thren shouted, bearing down on him with his shortswords. Haern’s arms ached with each block, and that ache slowed his response when one of the attacks slipped to the side, curling back for a thrust. Haern twirled, his sword parrying moments too late. His chest burned, and blood ran down. As he grunted in pain, Thren rammed his heel into his stomach, knocking him back.

“What are you to me now? What could you hope for? Come at me, son! Kill me! Your skill is nothing, nothing!”

Haern felt his mind change, becoming something whole, focused, and dangerous. The entire world ceased to exist, and even time struggled to keep him under its rule. He let out a cry and attacked. This time his father’s attacks were no longer so frightening. Despite his feints, his parries, Haern saw through them all and refused to be controlled by them. Faster and faster he whirled, his body lost in a dance, their blades intertwined, their motions in constant reaction to each other. He managed a snap-kick into Thren’s face, dropped to the ground, and then swept his feet out from under him. As he fell, Haern lunged, one sword shoving his father’s defenses out of the way, the other stabbing for his throat.

Instead of piercing flesh, he stabbed dirt. Thren scattered as if his body were made of dust, and then he was back in the alley. The wound on his chest vanished, his pain along with it. Senke leaned against the complex, his arms crossed. Haern felt naked before him, his heart exposed and bleeding.

“Your hatred for him is so great,” Senke said softly. “It’s all that keeps you alive, isn’t it? You can’t live like that, Haern. You have every reason to escape his shadow, yet you still let it lord over you. What have you become? How many have you murdered in his name?”

“They were all guilty,” Haern shouted. “Thieves and murderers!”

“Were they always? I just saw what lurked behind your eyes, Haern, more frightening than anything your father might have done to me.”

Haern thought of all the men and women he’d hunted in the night. They’d worn guild colors, yes, but how many had been innkeepers, farmers, smiths and butchers? How many had he killed for doing business with them, smuggling and trading and selling? Night after night, he felt the waves of his dead. For Ashhur’s sake, he’d written his name with their blood!

“It’s not hopeless,” Senke continued. “I thought I’d lost you, but now finding you, I wonder what is left of that small boy who loved to read. The one who asked me about jewelry for a girl he liked. I’d always hoped that, if you’d survived, you’d have gone and experienced everything Thren denied you. Now I see you denying yourself…love, faith, friendship…and you do so out of revenge?”

Senke walked over and sat down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry about the illusion,” he added. “Just a trick of this ring Tarlak gave me. I had to see. I had to know who you are, how good you can be.”

“Now you do,” Haern said, feeling his insides tighten and twist behind his ribs. “Is it truly so bad?”

Senke squeezed, then smacked his back.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a wink. “I’m still here for you, as is that pretty red-head Tarlak has for a sister. He’s a good man, Tarlak. A bit strange, but he’s a wizard, so that’s to be expected. Stay with us. Put these streets behind you. If you’re to have a legacy, it shouldn’t be this. You’ve become the feared reaper of the guilds. Should Thren ever find out you still live, I cannot help but wonder if he’d be furious…or proud.”

He stood and moved for the door.

“Go back to your streets,” he said. “Think on everything I’ve said. There’s so much good in you, I can see it still. It’s never too late to change who you are, so long as you’re willing to bear the consequences. You’ve carried heavy burdens your whole life, Haern. Maybe it’s time you let some of them go.”

Not waiting to see if he stayed or not, Senke stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. As its lock shut, Haern felt thrust back into the world he’d called his home for the past five years, but for once, the streets seemed foreign, their alleyways and rooftops offering no safety, only a winding path deeper and deeper into confusion.

He took them anyway, getting farther with every step.