Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (38 page)

“Zusa?” he said as the woman lurked by the door, watching.

“Don’t worry,” she said, glancing his direction. “I will be there, leading the way.”

“You won’t let them hurt her, will you?” Nathaniel asked, unable to shake the dread building in his heart.

Zusa shook her head, blood on her clothes and drying in her hair.

“Alyssa is not the woman who must fear this morning,” she said, and there was death in her smile.

A
n eighteen-year-old Melody Gemcroft knelt in prayer, a book open before her on a slender bench. Towering over her, illuminated in violet light burning from torches that never flickered or dwindled, was the statue of Karak, carved when he first walked the land, waging war against his cowardly brother. It was the third night in a row she’d come to Karak’s temple, yet her fervent prayers seemed to do little to diminish the fire burning in her breast.

“You seem troubled,” said a priest, joining her at her side. Melody opened her eyes and smiled at Luther, the man leaning down over her, always quiet, always willing to listen.

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I cannot speak of why. It shames me just thinking about it.”

Luther sat down on the bench she knelt before, and he glanced at the book she’d been reading. It was a series of stories, supposedly told to Karak’s people in the earliest days of mankind.

“If a burglar has broken into your home, do you know how you flush him out? Not by hiding him but instead opening all your doors and windows and letting the world in to see. If sin has taken residence within your heart, bare it now. We’re alone here, you and I, alone before our god. The only shame you should feel is letting your pride stand in the way of the purification of your soul.”

Melody trembled. Of course, it was Luther who would know what to say. Of course, it would be to him she must confess.

“Lust,” she whispered. “I suffer lust, and for a man not my husband.”

Luther leaned over further, hands clasped together, and he stared at her with those intense eyes of his.

“Do I know who the man is?” he asked.

Melody looked away, nodded.

“You do,” she said. “You know him well.”

Her heart raced in her chest, and she felt her neck flushing red. Of course, Luther would figure it out. She was never good at keeping secrets. But Maynard was always so cold to her, and though he knew the servants told her of his midnight trysts with the quality whores a man of the Trifect could buy, he never seemed to care. Sometimes, she tried talking to him, to broach the subject of him coming with her to the temple. Perhaps if they could share in their faith, if he could see how it wounded her when he cavorted with sinful women …

But then there was Luther at her side, listening, understanding, his words firm yet kind, knowledgeable yet humble.

“The role of a wife is not an easy one,” Luther said after a lengthy pause. “There is a reason Karak calls us his bride. It carries expectations, faithfulness, and sacrifice. But Melody … there is … You’ve sworn your life to the temple, have you not? You are Karak’s bride, and let no man of this earth defile you nor burden you with shame.”

She nodded even as she struggled to understand. What was it he was telling her? What was he asking of her?

Luther offered her his hand.

“I am the temple,” he said. “And I would never defile your body.”

She took it, and together they stood.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To my chambers,” he answered. “So together we may worship and offer our blessings to the Lion in a way your husband would never understand.”

She knew what it meant, yet was scared to think it. Was it a test? Or perhaps her sinful mind perverted something meant to be simple and pure? The walk down the hallways of the temple to Luther’s private study was a nightmare. But the moment inside his room, when he slowly removed her clothes, his lips caressing the length of her neck before traveling down to her naked breasts? A blessed dream.

Years passed.

They lay together in her bed, her clothes cast off one side, his priestly robes the other. Luther had come to the Gemcroft mansion for months now, always in the guise of private lessons. In a way, Melody considered them just that. They still bowed their heads in prayer. He still imparted wisdom to her, but it wasn’t always in the ways of Karak’s strength and order. Sometimes, it was in more carnal things, and as a teacher, he was better than Maynard could ever hope to be. Usually they were more careful, more discreet, but Maynard had left earlier that day for a meeting with James Keenan to the south in Angelport.

Weeks,
she thought.
We shall have weeks together, just he and
I. Praise Karak, I have so badly needed this.

“Are you ready for more?” she asked him, her head on his chest.

“I am always ready if you are in need, Melody.”

Her hand traveled down his body, and she cupped his manhood, which was still soft and wet.

“You don’t seem it,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t need more time?”

Luther smiled at her, a smile that showed there was wisdom he had she did not, yet instead of belittling her, it only made him eager to share it.

“I have a hand and a mouth,” he said, “and neither will tire before you do, I promise.”

Before he could show her, the door to her room opened. An angry rebuke was on her tongue for the servant foolish enough to enter before knocking, but it died without a single word spoken. Melody clutched her blanket in both hands, and she felt as if she shriveled several feet before the deadly, cold glare of her husband. Beside him stood a man in the black robes of Karak, and he seemed no more pleased than Maynard.

“Get dressed,” Maynard said. “Both of you.”

That was it. Nothing else before he shut the door. Melody sat there, naked, mouth open, and skin covered with goose bumps. It seemed all the world was crashing down, and she wanted to vomit.

“Get dressed, Melody,” Luther said, and he seemed strangely resigned. “We both knew it was only a matter of time.”

But she didn’t know. She thought it could be kept a secret, or that Maynard would not care if he learned. How many whores had he slept with? How many times had he spit in her face with his behavior? Why must she be treated differently? The unfairness lent her a spark of anger, and she used that to push her numb body from the bed so she might put her clothes back on.

When both were finished, Luther went to her, and he kissed her forehead.

“I don’t know what fate awaits us,” he said. “But know I will always come back for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she felt tears running down her face. “They won’t hurt you, will they?”

Luther smiled at her that same, wise smile.

“Do not worry for me,” he said. “You’re the one who must be strong.”

His arm around her waist, he opened the door for her, and they stepped out into the hallway. Maynard was there, along with several more priests, and together, they walked across the hall, down the stairs, and to the grand foyer, where over a dozen more in black were gathered.

“I want him punished for this,” Maynard said. Melody tried staying at Luther’s side, but he gently pushed her away and went to his brethren. Despite their glares, he kept his head high, and there was no shame in his walk.

“His punishment is ours to decide,” said their head priest, a man Melody had long admired named Pelarak. “Not yours. Leave us to punish our own, just as we will let you decide the fate of your wife’s infidelity.”

They put hands on Luther’s shoulders, guiding him toward the door.

“Luther!” Melody cried. “I’ll be strong, I promise. I’ll be strong!”

Maynard struck her with his fist to silence her. The blow knocked her to the floor, and as she looked up at him, blood trickling down her chin, she swore not to cry. No matter what he did to her, she would not cry. All her tears would be reserved for Luther, and Luther alone.

“Apologize,” Maynard said when the priests were gone, and they were alone.

“No,” she said, holding a hand to her mouth. She felt the beginnings of panic crawling up and down her chest, but she fought it down.

“You’ve humiliated me,” her husband said, and he reached down to grab her by the hair and yank back so she might meet his eye. “Now beg for forgiveness, and maybe I will have mercy.”

She laughed at him.

“There is only one to whom I would beg for forgiveness,” she said, “and it is not you.”

He raised a hand to strike her, but it did not come. Instead, he let her go, and he shook his head. To her shock, there were tears running down his face as well.

“You make me do this, then,” he said. “Remember that. Everything that happens, it’s your fault, and that damn god of yours.”

He called for soldiers, and they took her to a carriage. She didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her daughter. Maynard joined not much later, and in the deep of night, they rode through the streets of Veldaren. Melody sat quietly, watching out the window with a mercenary at either side of her. At first, she did not know where they went, but as they neared their destination, a creeping certainty came over her.

When the carriage rolled to a stop before Leon Connington’s mansion, she knew it to be true.

They took her in, and Leon was waiting for her at the door.

“Make it quick,” Maynard said. She watched as her husband pulled out four coins, two gold and two silver, and dropped them into the fat man’s eager hand.

“It’ll be masterfully done,” Leon said. “I promise.”

They took her deep into the mansion, down the stone steps and into the black dungeons. Maynard never said a word to her, neither in anger nor love. The moment those coins changed hands, she was gone, and she knew it. Into a cell they took her, casting her onto the hard floor and leaving her in total darkness. There she remained, and for how long until Leon came to her, she could only guess.

“Are you in here, my little doll?” he asked, light of torches flickering across his face. On either side of him, holding the torches, were men in strange clothes. The gentle touchers, Melody realized, and she felt her creeping horror growing in strength.

“You promised it’d be quick,” Melody said as the men with the torches lifted her from the ground, each holding a wrist with a frighteningly strong grip.

“I promised it’d be masterful,” Leon said. “Not that it’d ever be quick.”

They chained her to the wall, her struggles not even an inconvenience. She cried as the fat man loomed closer, his breathing heavy.

“I always thought you were beautiful,” he said. “So much better than that uptight prick Maynard deserved.”

He leaned in, she screamed, and then his lips were on her body. Thrashing, kicking, it all was hopeless. Chained to a wall, chained and helpless as his trousers dropped to the floor, and in the torchlight, Leon smiled the sickest of smiles.

“But now you’re mine,” he said. “All mine.”

And there was nothing she could scream or do to deny it.

Years passed.

The darkness had closed in on her, and she much preferred it to the alternative. People meant the rare gentle toucher, come to experiment with a few of his needles and knives should Leon take too much time between his visits for the torturer’s liking. Or worse, it meant Leon himself. His touch was everything Luther’s was not: sick, greedy, hateful. Not once had they moved her to a different cell, and as she lay on the cold stone, she could trace her fingers along the dried spots of her own blood.

In the distance, she heard a door opening, and she tensed. That was the door from upstairs, the groan of its hinges much deeper and louder than those of the one leading to the rooms the gentle touchers slept and ate in. Upstairs meant either new prisoners … or Leon. As much as she felt guilty for it, she prayed it was someone new coming down to suffer as she did. Anything was better than Leon’s touch. Anything.

A man came to the entrance of her cell, but it was not Leon as she feared. Instead, it was one of the gentle touchers, but the way he stood there was off. He had no desire to perform his art upon her, she could tell. Then, what?

“I have a gift,” said the elderly man. “One we’ve been paid a handsome sum to bring to you, so I pray you appreciate it.”

The cell door opened, he stepped inside, and then he placed an object on the floor, one which left her bewildered. It was a slender bowl, and in its center, held by thin silver string, were gems of a rainbow of colors. She took it onto her lap, cradling it as if it were a child.

“What am I to do with this?” she asked.

“Pray,” said the gentle toucher. “That’s all we were told.”

With that, he left her holding the strange object.

Pray?
she wondered.
Pray what? And why?

It’d taken weeks before she discovered it. Many times she’d closed her eyes and prayed, clutching the strange shallow bowl in her hands, yet nothing ever happened. It was only after one of Leon’s visits, as she lay on her side staring into its center, that she decided to try again. This time she would watch it, she decided, determined to see if her prayers did anything to the device. Never before or after did she notice a change, but just perhaps during …

And then as she prayed with her eyes open, focused on the bowl, she saw the colors begin to swirl within the gems. Hope blossomed in her breast, the emotion strange and foreign after her time in the cells. Her prayers faltered for a moment, the colors dimmed, and with frantic strength, she begged Karak for mercy and guidance. Back came the colors, and they were the greatest gift she could have ever imagined. The gems lifted into the air, straining the lengths of their silver chains.

And yet it was not done. As she stared into its center, yearning for freedom, she found herself sinking into a vision. She saw mountains, forests, the waters of the Rigon flowing beneath her as she soared with the wings of a falcon. Her prayers spilled from her lips as if they were those of another, or perhaps from some more primal part of her mind. She saw flowing fields of grain, the walls of the city of Veldaren, and then the barren wastelands of the Vile Wedge. It seemed nothing could contain her, her mind able to go wherever she desired.