A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (10 page)

She brushed past him, pushed the door open all the way to reveal an empty, dark space. After a single step, the floor creaking beneath her foot, a sharp, brutal pain struck the back of her head. The world spun, she was falling, and then came only darkness.

When Zusa awoke she sat upright in a wooden chair. Her arms were bound behind her back, the rope about her wrists looping up and around her neck before trailing back down to bind her ankles as well. The moment she struggled she felt the knots tighten, choking off her breath. Gasping, she tried to relax and take in her surroundings, not that there was much to see. She was in a pitch-black room, without window or lantern for light. If there was anyone else with her, she could not hear them. The back of her head throbbed where she’d been struck. If that was the worst of it, she considered herself lucky. She was fully clothed, which was a relief, though her daggers were missing.

“Damn it,” she muttered, throat feeling raw. She’d made a mistake, but could still recover. They’d left her alive, and in darkness. With shadows being doorways for her, she could be free in moments. However, not killing her meant one of two things. They wanted either to torture her, or to question her. If she remained, and endured the questioning, her task might not yet be a failure …

“I see you’re awake,” said a man’s voice in the darkness. Zusa froze, frightened, but only temporarily.

Calm down
, she told herself.
You still have this under control. Keep your head, and play along with their game
.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” Zusa told her captor.

A lantern burst alight directly above her head, bathing her in a dull yellow glow. It took all of Zusa’s concentration not to swear, and she hid her panic in the general discomfort of the sudden brightness. With the lantern so close, the darkness was gone, the shadows she could use as doorways distant. From what she could see, her chair was in the center of a grand room, for the light did not reach a single wall. At best, she might be able to roll the chair into the darker recesses, but doing so would leave her horribly vulnerable.

Blinking away the colored spots in her vision, she looked to her captor, who stood opposite her with arms crossed. His left hand was black, his ears scarred along the tops. His face, while youthful, was sharp and angular, his blue eyes full of curiosity. There was only one man who might be before her. More correctly, one elf.

“Muzien,” Zusa said.

“Indeed,” Muzien said, eyes sparkling. “Ridley told me your name was Zusa, though I have plenty of reasons to doubt its authenticity. Would you care to tell me your real name?”

“Zusa is my real name.”

Muzien smirked.

“Is that so? Let’s find out for certain.”

He drew a blade from his belt, and with slow, almost casual ease, he put the sharpened edge to her throat, teasing her skin as it slid up and down. His face was mere inches away, eyes boring into hers.

“I’ve had many, many years to practice and learn,” he said. His breath smelled like mint leaves, Zusa realized. She didn’t know why it unnerved her, but it did. “I know how to read a man’s, or woman’s, reactions. The way the eyes dilate. The way they look to their feet, or twitch their fingers, or stress the wrong word when trying so very hard to insist they never lie. There’s many more, of course, and a definite art to picking out the lies. Informed intuition, you might say. So let me ask you again, woman … what is your name?”

She refused to look away, and she didn’t dare dwell on her own reactions. The more she tried to ensure her hands remained still, or her face expressionless, the more likely she’d come across as unnatural. Her entire body was a mask, she told herself.
Pretend you are in your wrappings. All he will see is your eyes, and you know how to control a man with them
.

“My name is Zusa,” she said.

“Did you ever carry a name before that one, Zusa?”

It was a needle to her heart, but she answered anyway.

“Before I was Zusa, my name was Katherine.”

“Katherine,” Muzien said, tilting his head from side to side. She felt like a piece of meat before him. “Katherine, what a beautiful name, far more so than Zusa. So tell me, Katherine, who are you spying for?”

Her immediate instinct was to deny it, and she forced it down. Play the game, she had to play the game.

“Just a spy?” she asked. “How do you know I’m not here to kill you?”

Muzien paused, just long enough for Zusa to know she’d won him over.

“A person of your skill does not simply appear,” he said, stepping back and pulling the blade from her throat. “Ridley assured me you could kill the finest of my men with those daggers of yours. That impresses me, Katherine. More importantly, it means I should have heard of you by now, yet I don’t believe I have. Would you care to explain why?”

The opening was there, so simple and perfect it almost made Zusa smile. Almost.

“Because no one was to know of my existence,” she said. “I was a faceless of Karak, trained to be my god’s blade in the night.”

The elf turned and walked to the edge of the lantern’s reach, not once taking his eyes off her. Beyond her sight he grabbed a wooden chair similar to hers, carried it back, and set it down in front of her.

“You
were
a servant?” Muzien asked as he took a seat. “Are you no longer?”

“Cut these ropes off of me,” Zusa said. “Only then will I give you my answer.”

“You’re still in a rather precarious position to issue demands.”

“It’s a condition, not a demand. Cut my throat if you wish, but you still won’t get my answer. That only comes when the ropes are off.”

The elf smiled at her.

“You’re a rare flower, aren’t you?”

“Those who know me would say I’m more thorns than flower.”

Muzien rose, and after two quick cuts, the ropes fell slack. Zusa pulled her arms free, rubbed a sore stretch on her neck. As the elf sat back down, she straightened in her chair and tried to settle on the right words to detail her past in the temple.

“I was once a priestess,” she said, figuring to start from the beginning. “We were under strict orders to have no physical contact with the opposite sex, especially fellow members of the temple. I broke that rule, and because of that I was forced to become a member of the faceless.”

“There are no faceless in Mordeina,” Muzien said. “Who, or what, are you?”

“We were Karak’s shameful, forced to wear dark strips of cloth across our entire bodies, hiding even our eyes with thin white silk. Every day was a penance, our bodies a thing of sin, our killings our atonement. We were trained to move through darkness, and to remain unseen when we wished it so. The wealthy in good standing with the temple could pay for our services, bringing death to their enemies. The only difference between us and you was that the coin we earned for our killings went to our god instead of our pockets.”

Muzien chuckled.

“There are more differences between you and me than just that,” he said. “But this imprisonment to your god … how long ago did you escape it?”

This was tougher to answer, and she almost lied. Still, pretending she had just left Karak’s temple would involve too many potential chances to be found out.

“Nine years,” she said. “I escaped them nine years ago. As far as I know, they believe I’m dead.”

It was strange how excited the elf seemed to become. His eyes were wider, his smile brighter. Eager, she realized. Learning of her loathing of her god made him eager to hear more, and to join in himself.

“To repress your sexuality is unnatural,” he said, rising to his feet and beginning to pace. “What sin is there in your fornication? Your pitifully short-lived race would have already died out long ago without it. But Karak wants control, doesn’t he? He wants defeated men, twisted, bent, heads down, eyes to the ground. What the gods call humility, I call slavery. What the gods call worship, I call indulging vanity. They’re no different from each other, none of them, no matter what their followers insist. In the end the gods want puppets who will willingly hand over their strings, begging to be made to dance. So tell me, Katherine, deep down in your heart, are you still one of their dancers?”

Zusa rose to her feet, and she pulled her shoulders back wide and stood tall.

“I will never bow to Karak again,” she said. “And my name is Zusa. Katherine died years ago when those priests lashed her naked and bleeding body.”

Muzien’s darkened hand flexed, unflexed.

“You are a stunning beauty,” he said. “I cannot wait to witness your blades in action.”

Just when Zusa was finally ready to relax, to let out the breath it seemed she’d been holding since she awoke in that room, Muzien suddenly exploded in motion. An elbow slammed into her stomach, a fist into her cheek. A kick dropped to her to one knee, and she let out a pained cry as she heard the ringing of metal. Muzien’s hand was on her throat, his sword pressed against her gut. His speed, his fluidity of movement … it was incredible. In a mere heartbeat he’d shown her how easily he could defeat her. Despite the sudden violence, when he spoke there was no anger in his voice, just simple truth.

“You’re skilled in many things, and lies may be one of them,” he said. “I don’t believe you have come to me for work. Perhaps Karak sent you to investigate me, or a lord of the Trifect to spy upon me, or a former thief guild to assassinate me. Whatever the reason, I do not care. Cast it off, Zusa. Free yourself of your old life, and embrace the light that has come to Veldaren. If you remain loyal, I can make you a queen. Imagine wielding power unmatched, and possessing wealth beyond anything you were ever promised. Your new life began the moment you awoke in this room. All else before is shadow and smoke, so let it fade into nothing, let yourself embrace my call. Loyalty, Zusa. That’s all I ask, and I shall reward it in return, freeing you from the chains Karak placed upon your life the moment he deemed you faceless.”

Zusa’s jaw clenched tight, and she could not hold back her glare.

“If I must bow to you, how am I any freer than when I bowed to Karak?” she asked.

The hand left her throat, the sword her belly. Muzien’s words were ice in her veins, his voice strong as iron, terrifying as fire, seductive as wine.

“I’ll never want you broken. I’ll never want you as a fool, or with your true self hidden behind white cloth and black lies. The world is a joke, and so we laugh in the face of its delusions. Freedom comes from truth, truth I would have you see with your eyes, profess with your lips, and embrace with the edge of your blades. Forget Karak, my dear Zusa. I am your god now.”

A chill swept over her, shockingly powerful. Zusa bowed her head and closed her eyes, and as she felt Muzien place his hand lovingly upon her, she found herself wishing for the comparative safety and sanity of Karak’s vile temple.

   6   

M
orning was an hour away when Ridley finally came home. They’d waited for what felt like the entire night, and several times Haern had questioned the accuracy of Thren’s information.

“It’s a trustworthy source,” Thren had said as the two of them crouched atop the roof, waiting for Ridley to return home. They’d already broken inside through the upper floor’s window, verifying the house’s emptiness.

“And who is that source?” Haern had asked.

Thren shrugged.

“I’m not sure telling you would help.”

Hardly what Haern had wanted to hear.

“If we’re waiting, I’d like to know whose word is keeping me here.”

“Fine. It’s Deathmask.”

Haern didn’t bother hiding his surprise.

“You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

“Just remember, you’re not the only one who wants Muzien gone,” Thren had said, and he’d left it at that. Now, as Ridley approached, his marked face matching the given description, Haern crouched lower as they peered off the rooftop. Beside him, Thren tapped his shoulder, then motioned for him to remain still. Haern nodded in response. They’d wait until Ridley was inside, then sneak in after him. There’d be no chance of witnesses, plus they could more easily limit his avenues of escape.

Ridley himself seemed in a jovial mood as he stepped off the road toward his door. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key, put it to the keyhole, and then paused. Haern felt his heart skip a beat, and he frowned. Had they been spotted? Surely not. The two were practically legends at remaining unseen. Hands drifting down to the handle of his swords, Haern wondered if there was some defense mechanism they’d failed to account for. They’d come through the window of the second floor, so no thin string or hair on the door could be broken, no prints left in the dirt. Yet as Ridley stepped back, looked straight up to the rooftop, and then smiled, Haern knew their ambush was blown.