A Dance of Cloaks (31 page)

Mercenaries expecting easy pay found themselves turned away. Some traveled back toward Ker and Omn, but many took to thievery and murder, preferring that to starvation. The thief guilds absorbed the willing into their organizations. Those that resisted, died.

By that night, the poor western district of Veldaren was primed for a riot.

It was three days until the Kensgold.

P
elarak was furious. For two days, he had waited for Eliora and her faceless to return with Alyssa, and for two days, he had not heard a word. He hurried through his morning sermon. He never lost his place or misquoted a scripture, but his mind was elsewhere and his faithful knew it. Anger crept into his words, and his call for penance and destruction of chaos was particularly moving. Afterward he knelt before the great statue of Karak, letting the purple light bathe over him.

“Something troubles you,” said a man as he joined him on his knees.

“The world is a troublesome place,” said Pelarak. He opened his eyes, and then smiled when he realized who was with him.

“Ethric, so good to see you!” Pelarak stood and hugged the man. “I am so glad you came so quickly from the Stronghold!”

Ethric smiled. He was a tall man, and the only reason Pelarak could throw his arms around him was because Ethric had remained on his knees. He still wore his dark black platemail, having arrived so recently he had no time to remove his armor. A two-handed blade hung from a sheath on his back. He was completely shaven. Across his bald head were a myriad of tattoos dyed in a dark purple ink. They looped and curled in an ill pattern.

“Your priests make their way to Omn less and less,” said Ethric. His voice was rich and pleasant to the ear. “Carden hurried me off to see how things were going. The troubles between the Trifect and the guilds have lasted so long we’ve heard of it all the way across the rivers.”

“Come,” Pelarak said. “Are you hungry? Join me in a meal.”

Deep in the recesses of the temple was a rectangular room bare of decorations. A long table stretched along the center with wooden stools for seats. A mere look from Pelarak sent the staff running, comprised of young priests still in training in their devotion to Karak.

“It is hard remembering you were such as these boys,” Pelarak said. “I’ve seen so many grow up and take their armor or their robes. Many aspire to greatness, but so few reach it.”

“I wonder which I will be,” said Ethric as he sat opposite him at the table.

“A dark paladin every pup of Ashhur learns to fear, if Karak is kind,” Pelarak said.

Children surrounded them, carrying bowls, spoons, and a large pot of soup. Once they were served, both bowed their heads and prayed silently for near a minute. Ethric dug in afterward with a healthy appetite, while Pelarak only sipped at it occasionally.

“I must confess, I come here with ulterior motives than just your warm words and food,” Ethric said when his bowl was half finished. “Though Karak knows I needed both. Haven’t had a solid meal since the Stronghold, and that feels like a thousand miles away after so many months of travel.”

“Did you encounter any trouble on the road?”

“A foolish pup thought he could slay me to earn admittance to the Citadel.” Ethric chuckled. “I’d hardly call that trouble, though. More of a nuisance. I was almost to Kinamn, where the pathway winds through all those rocky hills. Imbecile was hiding among the rocks shooting arrows whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. I’m sure he planned a more heroic tale when he brought my head to the Citadel doors.”

“At least he had more fight in him than Ashhur’s paladins have as of late,” Pelarak said, dropping his spoon. “Though I fear we have too much of that fight in our own ranks here in Veldaren.”

“Which is why I am here,” insisted Ethric. “You told Carden you were troubled. Tell me what it is so I may scorch it with fire and cut it with blade.”

“Do you know of the faceless?” asked Pelarak.

Ethric furrowed his brow as he thought.

“No,” he said. “I’ve not heard of them.”

“Come,” Pelarak said as he stood. “Let me show you.”

He led him into the deep recesses of the temple, down a flight of stairs, and into a large but cramped storage. Crates piled this way and that, huddled against the walls or the many pillars that supported the ceiling. Pelarak lifted his hand. Purple fire surrounded his fingers, giving them light.

“About two hundred years ago, the priests of Ashhur succeeded in a massive conversion of our brethren. It was then that our presence in Veldaren weakened, and our kind were banished from the city. We fought them bitterly, as you can imagine, and with heavy hearts. A score of priests repented, sneaking away from Ashhur’s temple and throwing themselves at our temple door in Kinamn.”

The whole time he talked, Pelarak led them through the maze of old armor, racks of swords, crates of cloth, and jars upon jars of food. He stopped, scratched his chin as he thought, then turned toward a stack of paintings propped against each other. Each of them was rectangular, the length of a man laying on his side.

“We tested their faith,” Pelarak said as he looked through the paintings. Even though his hand swirled with purple fire, it did not burn the material. “Those that lived were admitted into the priesthood, but not entirely. The high priest at the time was a brilliant man named Theron Gemcroft.”

“I know of him,” Ethric said, watching the elaborately framed paintings flip forward one after another. He saw mostly portraits of former high priests, though among them were scenes of warfare, battles between angels of Karak and Ashhur, and even serene depictions of nature. “Forfeited his fortune to devote his life to Karak? Carden was particularly fond of his sayings, and used them often in his sermons.”

“How is that old goat?” Pelarak asked.

“Hard as nails and brutal as a mailed fist,” Ethric said with a small smile. “What are we looking for here, my priest?”

“This,” Pelarak said as he lifted up one of the paintings. Ethric grabbed a corner to help. Together they held the picture and stared. It showed seven men and women, their bodies wrapped in black cloth. Only their eyes were visible through cuts in the wrapping. They held daggers, staves, and swords in hands hidden by waves of shadow that rolled off their bodies like smoke from a fire. At their feet lay over twenty dead paladins of Ashhur.

“Well painted, if a bit dramatic,” Ethric said.

“They are the faceless,” Pelarak said, his eyes going distant. “Theron knew that to welcome the traitors back without penalty could weaken us. He also knew that their devotion could be of great use, but only if the traitor-priests were forever reminded of their failure. So he wrapped them in cloth and ordered them to never reveal the flesh of their skin until the end of their days. They slept separate from the rest, dined away from the rest, and eventually attended their own sermons.”

“This is fascinating, Pelarak, but I’d swear you had a point. I’d love to be patient, but it is too damn cold down here, and the warmth of your soup is wearing thin.”

Pelarak laughed, but his voice lacked any mirth.

“My point is that we do not actively recruit faceless. They are a punishment, not an honor. We have only three now, women who let their sex control their actions. Their dissatisfaction with the separation was…most deplorable. Their faith in Karak, however, remained strong, so we left them alone.”

“They’ve done something,” Ethric said, figuring where the story was going. He looked at the seven in the painting, their bodies bathed in blood and darkness. “They’ve gone feral, haven’t they?”

“Putting our entire temple in danger,” Pelarak said as he clutched the painting with his burning hand. “They have told me lies and half-truths. They seek to increase their number with recruits, as if it were a privilege to be a faceless. Too many times I have given them orders and watched them disregarded entirely.”

“You want them killed,” Ethric said. It was not a question.

“I do,” Pelarak said. The fire on his hand changed from purple to red. The painting began to burn. “I want their bodies nailed from the city gates. They have a captive by the name of Alyssa Gemcroft. She is to be under our watch, but instead Eliora and her sisters have kept her hidden. Find the faceless women and kill them. Alyssa
must
remain alive. All our plans are naught otherwise.”

Ethric watched as the fire spread across the painting, not at all bothered by the smoke that washed over his face. When the flame reached his bare hand, he flexed his arm. Black fire swarmed over his fingers. The frame broke, crumpling into ash in his fingers. In one giant whoosh, the painting and its frame were consumed. As the ash rained down to the floor, Ethric drew his sword and made his vow.

“Until my death, I will hunt them,” he whispered. “No child of Karak is greater than his master.”

17

T
hren hadn’t felt this good in ages. So far two riots had broken out in southern Veldaren. It wouldn’t be long before the poor and hungry made their way north into the rest of the city. If his spies outside the walls were correct, Laurie Keenan and his family would be making their grand return to the city sometime that afternoon. Hunger riots, jobless sellswords, and overeager castle soldiers demanding taxes was one fantastic greeting.

Laurie would get the message immediately; Thren controlled the city, not him. If everything went according to plan, their Kensgold would send an even stronger message.

“Sir,” shouted Kayla hurrying after him. He was on his way to his son’s room, wanting the boy to accompany him on a routine collection of protection money from the merchants still active amid the riots. Given the circumstances, he was certain they’d be eager for all the protection they could get.

“I am no sir,” Thren said as he turned. “I am no knight, and no noble.”

“Sorry,” Kayla said as she slowed to a quick walk. “I’m not sure what to say that would be seen as respectful.”

Thren gave her a look of honest confusion.

“What could be more respectful than my own name?” he asked.

“Right,” Kayla said. “Anyway, we still have no word from Will.”

“He’s been gone far too long,” Thren said as he resumed his walk down the hall. “Taking Gerand’s wife shouldn’t have been difficult. I doubt any mercenaries could capture him, not alive anyway. If he’s in hiding, he has a reason, and I’m sure he’ll…”

He opened the door to his son’s room and took a step inside. Aaron was on his knees, his hands clasped together underneath his chin. His elbows rested on the side of his bed. His eyes were closed, though they snapped open at Thren’s sudden entrance.

Thren’s jaw dropped. Hanging from a silver chain looped around Aaron’s fingers was a golden pendant of Ashhur.

Before anyone could react, Thren slammed the door shut, spun, and knocked Kayla out with his fist. As she slumped to the ground, he shouted for his men. The mansion was large, but even so, gray cloaks rushed toward him in seconds.

“Where’s Senke?” he shouted as the men stared with a mixture of confusion and curiosity at Kayla slumped on the floor.

“Here,” Senke said, pushing his way to the front of the men.

“Find Cregon,” Thren said. “I’ll need his spells. And you two,” he said, pointing, “find Robert Haern and bring him to my room. Kayla too. I want them bound tight.”

Thren reopened the door to Aaron’s room. Aaron sat on the bed. The amulet lay beside him, as if he knew hiding it was a pointless gesture. Thren stepped inside, grabbed the amulet, and then beckoned his son to follow.