A Dance of Cloaks

chapter 20

Madelyn Keenan sat in a small room that made her wagon outside the city seem like a castle. She had a plain wooden chair with no padding, a bare desk, and a bed stuffed with straw, not feathers. She wore a clean white dress given to her after she bathed. She still smelled the blood that had covered her hands and face.

Young girls had come and gone the entire day, attending to her needs. No one had ordered her to stay, but the unspoken desire seemed obvious enough. Madelyn lay on the uncomfortable bed, accepting pillows, warm tea mixed with honey, and the occasional girl coming in to ask if there was anything else she could do.

Calan had promised to send word of her safety to her husband, but Madelyn had not seen the high priest since arriving at the temple. He’d said something about attending others, and something more about patrols, and then he’d left. She wished she’d gone with him.

The walls were bare wood. The floor was stained a dark brown. There was nothing to read, nothing to do. She felt more a prisoner than she’d ever felt in her life, and this was in a place supposedly there to aid her.

At last, when she thought she could take no more, the door opened and Calan stepped inside.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said as he closed the door. “The hour is late and I had much to do. So much, truly, that should have been done long ago.”

“And what is that?” Madelyn asked, not really caring but not ready to have the conversation turn to her. She wanted time to regain her composure.

“Protect the city,” Calan said, as if it should have been obvious. “There is much you need to hear, Lady Keenan. Things are changing, starting now. Will you listen?”

“I don’t have much choice,” Madelyn said, crossing her legs and trying to appear ladylike in the plain dress.

“You are free to go whenever you like,” Calan said. “Though I think you might have a difficult time convincing your remaining mercenaries. They quite like it here. Most appear to be sleeping well for the first time in many nights.”

“It’s the first night they won’t have to stand at their posts,” Madelyn said. “Of course they’re eager to laze about while taking my coin.”

Calan shrugged as if this were all irrelevant.

“I have been high priest for only a day, Lady Keenan, so forgive me if I say things you already know. My predecessor was a man named Calvin. Most brilliant when it came to the scriptures but most timid when it comes to your Trifect and the thieves’ guilds. He was adamant we stayed out of your war. We watched as each side killed hundreds of innocents, and then did our best to clean up the damage.”

“We have done no wrong,” Madelyn said, picking at the fabric above her knee. “The guilds are illegal, immoral, and a drain on this city.”

“As I’m sure the Trifect has done nothing illegal or immoral over the past five years,” Calan said, his round face darkening a little. “But I am not here to assign blame, Lady Keenan, only to talk.”

Madelyn made a small gesture with a hand, urging the priest to continue.

“Forgive me, milady. The days have been rough on us all. We are not used to such strife within our temple, but I’m sure that is something that you would care little about. Still, listen a little longer, if you will, for all of this will make sense by the time I am done.

“A few days ago a priest of our order, a man named Delius Eschaton, was killed in cold blood in broad daylight. We have little doubt that Thren and his guild were responsible, yet they are beyond the justice of the king. We almost convinced Calvin to act then, but Delius was going against our orders in his tirades against the guilds. To our shame, policy and rule won out over blood and loss. Then that night, we received his daughter secretly, for the guild had sent an assassin to kill her. From what we heard, he nearly succeeded.”

The old man paused for a moment. Madelyn rubbed her hands. The warm bath she’d taken had done wonders, but still she saw the faded red stain of blood deep in the cracks of her skin.

“I’m waiting for where this affects me,” she said when it seemed Calan was in no hurry to continue. She guessed he was waiting for something from her. The name Eschaton sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Such callousness,” Calan said. “Still, I should not have expected different. That little girl, sobbing in fear as she said goodbye to the only home she’d ever known, was the final catalyst. When Calvin refused to act, we forced a vote and removed him as high priest. I took his spot, and that is what you should be clearly aware of, Lady Keenan.”

Madelyn tried to summon a bit of her noble contempt, regardless of her modest dress and loose, undecorated hair.

“The doings of old men in stone temples is none of my concern,” she said as she stood and crossed her arms. “I congratulate you on taking control, but it is time I left. I want to return to my home where I can be in safety.”

“Calvin’s removal and my ascension are the only reason you are alive, Madelyn,” Calan said. His voice had grown quieter, and though the words themselves were harsh, his tone was not. If anything, he sounded like he was talking to a foolish child. “Riots and looting have gone on long enough. We set out in an attempt to restore order, and that is how we found you surrounded by men of the Spider Guild. Tell me, do you think you’d prefer Thren’s company to the room you have now?”

“A prison is a prison,” Madelyn said, but her voice was already faltering. The old man had saved her, and here she was bickering and trying to insult him. What was wrong with her?

“I am not holding you prisoner,” Calan insisted. “I am preventing you from walking off the edge of a cliff. Already I have sent a runner to your husband to inform him of your whereabouts. Would you wait for him to send you a guard, or would you prefer to brave the night streets alone?”

“But the rest of my men…”

“They are only three,” Calan said. “And how many women would you take with you? Don’t be foolish.”

The high priest rubbed his hand against the side of her face, and for a reason she could not understand, she held back her derisive slap.

“As of tonight, we are ending the bloodshed,” Calan said. “We will wear holes in our sandals as we scour the streets. We will shine a light into every dark corner. We will sing a song of joy to drown out the ugly shouts of hatred. Our eyes are open, Lady Keenan. Sleep well on your bed, and know that you are safe here. Think on what I have said, and then when you return to your husband, tell him what you have heard. Do I truly ask so much of you?”

“I’ve long heard whispers that the thieves had bought off the priests of Ashhur,” Madelyn said. “Because of your whispers, the king has arrested hundreds of my men. Now you tell me to feel safe in your house? I will not sleep, old man. I still have my dagger, and with my back to the wall and my eyes to the door, I will wait for my husband.”

Calan smiled a sad smile.

“Such spirit,” he said. “A shame it is born not of love but mistrust and desperation.”

He turned and left. True to her word, Madelyn shut the door, sat on her bed, and stared into space.

Safe or not, desperate or not, she would tell her husband what had transpired. Any veiled threat, no matter how gently given, would earn his wrath.

Daytime was surprisingly pleasant, but it was the nights that made Alyssa cringe with every wayward glance at the setting sun. In daylight, she spent time with a charming Yoren and his favored mercenaries. She laughed as they sparred, told filthy jokes, and took turns trading verbal barbs at each other’s prowess in blade, bow, and bed. Her meals with Theo Kull, poorer quality than what she might have had at her father’s, were still plentiful.

But her bruises never faded. Every night Yoren reapplied them. It didn’t matter how willingly she gave herself to him. He liked the feel of his fingers around her neck. He liked the way her moans paused and broke by her repeated gasps for air. He even liked it when she struggled, which she did only when he demanded it of her.

“Something the matter?” Yoren asked beside her.

“Thinking of home,” she said, hoping the comment was innocent enough for the inquiry to end. The two sat before an enormous bonfire, their arms linked. The contact felt like a perverse lie to Alyssa, but she endured. With her free hand she secretly fondled the dagger hidden in her skirts. She’d thought of using it several times. Once she had even reached for her discarded dress and the dagger hidden within, right when Yoren was climaxing and his hands seemed to clutch her throat with inhuman strength. As her fingers had touched the hilt, he’d finally relented.

One of the mercenaries tossed another large log onto the bonfire, startling her from her thoughts with his shout.

“Where’s the music we was promised? I’ve got a song to sing, yet no music to sing it with. I ain’t singing without no song!”

Alyssa faked a smile. The cold of winter had come on strong with the approaching night, and the mercenaries had successfully begged permission to build a bonfire to ward away the cold. The bulk of the camp, minus some servants and patrolling men, was seated around that bonfire. Veldaren’s walls were in the far distance, but Alyssa felt certain that anyone walking along their breadth could spot their fire with ease.

“Here’s your music,” one sellsword shouted, following it up with loud a burp.

“Give me some more of Gunter’s cooking, and I’ll give you some music of my own,” another man shouted. Gunter, whose cooking was renowned, but his priggish attitude loathed, raised a forefinger and shook it at the mercenary. He got a finger right back, and it wasn’t the forefinger. The men around him howled with laughter, and soon a chorus of bodily noises sang in Gunter’s direction.

“I think the king should be treated to such skillful musicians,” Alyssa said, laughing in spite of her quiet mood. This earned her a chorus of cheerful agreements.

“A sign of a good leader,” Theo said, sitting on the other side of Yoren. “You inspire love in men, Alyssa. Good things surely await your rule of the Gemcroft estate.”

“A rule I may never have,” Alyssa said, the naming of her father’s house souring her smile. “But while the sun is setting and the moon rising, let us speak of more certain and happier things, such as the opening of another cask of cider!”

The mercenaries roared, and when Theo nodded in approval, they cheered.

“They wouldn’t be so boisterous if they knew what I had planned for them on the morrow,” Theo said, lowering his voice for just the three of them.

“They would,” Yoren said, “but only after an extra round of drink or two. Keeping them in the dark is cheaper.”

Theo laughed, and Alyssa laughed along, her mind racing. So far she knew little of what the two men planned. When one of their servant boys returned from the city with news that Keenan had moved the Kensgold to outside the walls, neither had been upset. In fact, they had seemed almost overjoyed.

A young woman slipped through the men, doing her best to ignore the few comments she received and the occasional grab at her body.

“Milord,” she said, bowing to Theo. “The two women are here.”

Theo sighed.

“Send them on over.”

The woman bowed and then hurried away. A minute later two of the faceless stepped into the light of the great bonfire. Neither bowed to Theo Kull upon arrival.

“Welcome back to my camp,” Theo said. “Next time, please introduce yourself to my guards, not the serving women. Shadow-walkers or not, I’d prefer you to follow protocol like every normal human being.”

“Your women argue less,” said the one on the left. Alyssa recognized her sharp voice as Zusa’s. “They also hold their tongues. Safer for all involved.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Theo said, his voice hardening. Neither faceless woman reacted.

“Why are you here?” Alyssa asked, hoping to move the conversation along. She liked having the women nearby. Even though they took pay from the Kulls, they didn’t feel like a part of them. Perhaps she just enjoyed the company of someone not owned by Yoren and his father.

“We fear for Alyssa’s safety,” said Nava. “We must take her into hiding. Pelarak wants her imprisoned in the temple.”

“We’ve paid you properly,” Theo said. “Alyssa stays here with us, regardless of what your little priest says.”

“Not wise to tempt Pelarak,” Zusa said. “You are a mouse dancing before a lion.”

“Only the skull of a lion,” Yoren corrected. “And dead things don’t dance.”

Zusa laughed.

“Pelarak will make you dance,” she said. “Your bones are his toys. Your blood is his drink. Either flee or hide. Here is not safe. Give us Alyssa.”

Alyssa dared hope she could go with them. She’d forfeit her entire wealth for just one night away from Yoren and his fists. How she wished to sleep without fear of him rousing in the middle of the night, hungry for what only she could provide. With the faceless women, she would have safety.

“This is not a discussion,” Theo interrupted. Alyssa felt her hopes dash to pieces. “I will not hand over…”

A horn sounded from the north, followed by shouts. Armed intruders were at the edge of camp. Alyssa looked toward the noise. When she turned back, the faceless women were gone.

Yoren stood, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Theo grabbed his son’s wrist to stop him. All around them, mercenaries put down their cups and drew their blades.

A moment later, a man in leather armor came running from the north, sword in hand.

“Milord,” the man shouted. “He refused to wait, or give us his name. He killed Geoffrey, and he wears the armor of…”

He stopped when he realized the man had already arrived. The other mercenaries formed a ring around the intruder. The great bonfire burned between him and Theo.

“Greetings, tax collector,” the intruder said. Alyssa might have thought him handsome if not for the cold look in his eyes and the looping tattoos across his naked face and head. Just looking at them made her stomach queasy. He wore dark platemail, the skull of a lion emblazoned in white across his chestpiece. Fresh wounds marked his body.

“Greetings,” Theo said. “Though I’d prefer you call me by my name. Do the paladins of Karak know nothing of respect?”

“No less than the men of Riverrun,” said the paladin. “I am Ethric, and you are Theo Kull. Consider our pleasantries exchanged.” He pointed his giant sword at Alyssa. “I’ve come for Lady Gemcroft. Is this her?”

Yoren drew his sword and stepped in front of her. Before returning to Veldaren, Alyssa might have felt humbled by his chivalrous nature, but now she felt like a beautiful gem being squabbled over in the marketplace. Again she wished for the faceless women. Their offer of safety and hiding seemed all the more desirable.

“You will not touch her,” Yoren said. “Alyssa is in our safekeeping. Karak has no claim on her.”

“And you do?” Ethric asked. “Only a fool would believe himself above the desires of a god.”

“She is my betrothed,” Yoren said. Alyssa felt like vomiting.

Ethric looked to his left, then to his right, pointedly dismissing the men.

“Cover your steel, boy, or I’ll put your blood on it,” Ethric said.

“Be gone from my camp,” Theo said. “I dismiss you. You are not welcome here.”

Ethric laughed.

“I am never welcome. Last chance. Hand her over.”

“Kill him,” Yoren said.

Alyssa let out a sharp cry at the sudden eruption of blood. The two nearest mercenaries fell back, deep gashes in their chests. Their armor did nothing to slow the blade. Ethric pivoted to the side and cut down another man, his finely-crafted and god-blessed sword shattering the mercenary’s cheap iron weapon. Two more died attempting an attack, their swords clanging uselessly off Ethric’s platemail or sailing wide from an impossibly fast parry.

“Cease this!” shouted a feminine voice, with such volume and authority that both sides obeyed. Nava walked into the light of the fire, her daggers drawn and dripping shadows.

“I wondered if you would show,” Ethric said, taking a step closer and holding his sword before him. “Pelarak has ordered the disbandment of your order. You must return to the temple immediately.”

“Alyssa is under our protection,” Nava said. “Be gone, and tell Pelarak we no longer follow his command, only Karak’s.”

Hands grabbed Alyssa’s wrist. Startled, she turned to shout, but a wrapped palm covered her mouth.

“Quiet,” Zusa whispered. “Like a mouse, now follow.”

Nava crossed her daggers before her chest as Ethric took a step closer.

“I hoped you would say no,” he said. “I cherish the honor of killing another heretic. Eliora is dead, you whore. Your kind dies tonight.”

If Nava was upset, she did not show it. Slowly she swayed her body side to side. While Ethric watched, she cut just above her elbow and let the blood drip down onto her cloak. Like a drop of dye into clear water, the red swirled and spread across the black cloth.

“Blood for blood,” Nava said. “I’ll bury you in my cloak.”

She lunged across the fire. Her cloak whipping around her like a funnel, its length suddenly twice that of her body. When Ethric swung, his sword clanged off as if he’d struck stone.

Nava’s foot snapped out, striking his head. He rolled with the blow, ending on his knees. He swung behind him, but Nava leapt over the blade and stabbed her daggers for his neck. Ethric turned just in time, one dagger striking his chestplate, the other slashing his cheek. He rammed his fist into Nava’s gut, grinning in satisfaction at the gasping cry of pain she made.

The faceless woman somersaulted backward, her cloak twirling before him. He tried to push it aside, but he might as well have tried to push down a tree with his bare hands. Blood ran down his face, a trickle curling in at the corner of his mouth. He licked it and then spat.

“Fight me,” he shouted as the cloak slowly drifted downward. He weaved his sword side to side, smoothly shifting between stances. Then she was there, ducking and spinning beyond his sword’s edge. Normally he’d feel confident having such reach over his opponent’s daggers. The length of his blade meant nothing, however, if she could weave about it as if in a dance.

She spun full circle about him, her cloak stretching longer and longer. Laughing, Nava jumped into the air, her cloak snapping behind her. Realizing he was surrounded, and soon to be crushed, Ethric poured every bit of his power into an overhand chop. A horrific screech sounded as his blade hit the cloak. The blood-red cloth shook, cracked, and then broke like shattered steel. All around him, the red material crumpled to the dirt.

Sensing opportunity, one of Theo’s mercenaries swung at Ethric’s back. The paladin heard his approach and swung about. Fury raged in his eyes. He blocked the blow, then looped his sword underneath and upward. The mercenary crumpled to the ground, his intestines spilling from his belly like freed snakes.

Feet slammed into Ethric’s back. The remnants of the cloak wrapped around his head. The blow jerked his body forward, but his head could not move. Pain flooded his mind as his neck wrenched awkwardly. Knowing her daggers would soon follow, Ethric fell limp, his sword swinging above his shoulder. The cloak vanished as Nava retreated away.

Ethric spun on his knees, his weight resting on one hand as he gasped for air. His fight with Eliora had already drained him, and Nava was proving no easier.

“A shame,” he said, hoping to buy some time. “You could do great things for Karak with such skill.”

Nava began swaying side to side, her tattered cloak only hanging down to her waist.

“But Karak wants us dead,” Nava said. “Who is it we should pray to now?”

Ethric stood and gripped his sword. The black flame roared higher, his faith unshaken by the difficulty of the fight. He would kill the heretic. Of that, he had no doubt.

“Ask Karak when you see him,” Ethric said. He stepped toward the bonfire and suddenly punched his free hand into the flame. He was not burned. The fire turned from yellow to purple, its smoke from a deep gray to clear.

“Can you stand the heat of the abyss?” he asked as he stepped back, his left arm completely wreathed with purple flame. Nava lunged, trusting her speed. Ethric parried her first two thrusts and countered a third. When she spun about trying to get closer, he opened the palm of his burning hand. Fire exploded out as if from the mouth of a dragon. The fire swarmed over Nava’s cloak, setting it aflame.

Nava wasted no time, jumping backward and slicing off her cloak where it attached to the clasps atop her shoulders. But Ethric did not chase like she expected. Instead he stabbed his sword into the flame, turned it once, and then swung. A massive arc of fire lashed outward, catching her across the chest. All about, wagons burned and men died as the fire consumed them with frightening speed.

Faring little better, Nava dropped to a roll. Her chest throbbed in pain, and even the dirt did little to stop the burn. Ethric rushed after, and when she rolled underneath a wagon, he punched it with his fist. The fire left his arm and set the cover aflame. An upward swipe of his sword cut the rest of it in half. Nava was underneath, gasping for air and clutching her horribly burned chest. The wrappings were gone, revealing blistered skin blackened by the heat.

“Shouldn’t…have burned me,” she said with labored breaths.

“Karak has abandoned you for your heresy,” he said, his sword held in both hands, the tip touching her breast.

Nava laughed even though the movement obviously pained her.

“Alyssa is gone, you fool,” she said. “Zusa has her. You’ll never see her again.”

Ethric stabbed his sword down and twisted. When he yanked it free, he spat on her corpse. He strapped his sword to his back and returned to the bonfire. All around men were desperately tossing dirt with shovels to put out what fires they could. The rest of the mercenaries crowded before Theo and Yoren, who both stood with their swords drawn.

“Where is she?” Ethric asked as he approached. “Where is Alyssa Gemcroft?”

“Taken by the faceless,” Yoren said. “What now, paladin? Will you give chase?”

Ethric glared at them, then to the hills beyond. The last faceless woman must have fled with Alyssa while he fought. He knew he could never track her, but the royal girl was a different matter. If he hurried, he might catch up to them…

“I go for the girl,” he said. “If you want her back, then seek out Pelarak and the priests of Karak.”

“We just need her alive,” Theo said. “Will you harm her?”

He raised his sword, as if the paladin’s answer would affect his decision. Ethric laughed at their foolishness.

“We want her safe, you damn simpletons,” Ethric said. “She is our own protection against Maynard Gemcroft. We have a common enemy, yet you cower and feebly strike against me. Pray I never see you again.”

He left their camp, circling around Theo’s guards. The footprints were chaotic, but seeing a set leading directly south from the camp, Ethric gave chase. Two of the faceless women were dead, with the third fleeing with his prey. His task was almost finished, and the night was young. Offering a prayer of thanks to Karak, Ethric ran on.