A Dance of Shadows Page 17

  “And what if Tarlak dies out there tonight? Does that make me even more human?”

  It was a cheap blow, but the worries were valid, and what weighed most heavily on his mind. It should be him out there bleeding and dying to protect the city. He’d given his life away as an orphaned child, sworn it while watching the Connington mansion burn years ago during the Bloody Kensgold. He could have kept killing. He could have continued his attempts to wipe them all out. But instead he’d forced peace. A fool’s peace, the weight of it solely on his shoulders. And now it was breaking, and it seemed all the world had seen it coming.

  “Stop this,” Delysia said. Her voice was soft, wavering from the anger and determination behind it. “This isn’t you. I didn’t sit at your bedside praying so you could wallow in misery and doubt. I didn’t do it because you are a fool, or I feared for my brother’s safety.”

  “Then why?”

  His eyes still closed, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. In answer, she knelt down over him, her hair cascading across his face, and then pressed her lips to his. He almost resisted, almost turned away, but could not. He kissed back, gently lifting a hand so he could touch her face. His mind whirled, too sick and tired to think of anything beyond the softness of her lips. When she pulled away, he finally dared open his eyes to look. She was tired, her eyes swollen and black from exhaustion, but through it all he saw a strength greater than his, and he clutched her hand tightly as if to never let it go.

  “The world will continue without you,” she told him. “People will kill, steal, bleed, and die, whether you live or not. Stop judging yourself by what you’ve done with your swords. If you would despair, remember those who love you. Let your life be judged by that instead.”

  “Do you love me, Delysia?” he whispered.

  She met his eye, and he saw the hardness in her soften. She nodded, and he reached for her. She curled against his chest, and he let his hands surround her, let his face press against her hair as he kept his breathing controlled so he would not cough blood upon her. Together they lay there, not moving, not talking. The comfort of each other’s presence was enough.

  “I don’t know if I can,” Haern said after a time. “I’ve hurt everyone I loved. And I can’t hurt you, Delysia. I could never live with myself if I did.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll still be here. I always will be.”

  A memory came to him, from when they were just children, and he still in the care of his father. Together they’d met in secret on a rooftop, for Thren had denied him any knowledge of faith or love, all to make him the perfect killer. With Delysia, Haern had glimpsed a life with meaning, with purpose… only to have Thren shoot Delysia with an arrow, her bleeding body falling into his arms. That she’d survived at all was a miracle, a parting gift from another woman he’d loved before Thren had killed her. He thought of that moment, of how his cruel life had so vehemently rejected such a light as hers.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of it again. He couldn’t hold her in his arms and watch her die. Whatever good in him existed would break. Did she know that? Did she understand?

  “Let me sleep,” he said.

  Her fingers went to stroke his cheek, but hesitated just before. Before she could pull away, he leaned forward, forcing the touch, turning his face so she could cup him with her hand. She said nothing, only held him for a moment before leaving him alone in his room to sleep.

  But instead of sleeping, he turned to one side and through the window watched the distant flicker of flame that spread throughout his beloved city, burning away like a hundred candles lit in memorial.

  “These damn idiots have a funny way of celebrating,” Brug muttered as he kicked a corpse that lay at his feet. Tarlak had to agree.

  “Whatever they don’t want, they’re burning,” Tarlak said, rubbing his throbbing temples. “Good thing they want nearly everything.”

  The two stood near the center of town, before a home with wrecked windows and a smashed-in door. Tarlak could only begin to guess why they’d chosen that particular place. The owner lay at the entrance, dragged out and throat cut. They’d arrived too late to do much of anything other than give the dead man vengeance. Three dead Wolves—just a fraction of the guilds roaming the night.

  “It’s all meager pickings,” Brug said, wiping blood off his punch daggers. “Been out here for hours, and only small-time stuff. One of them’s got to have something bigger planned. Maybe the Conningtons’ place, or Alyssa’s.”

  “Might not have anyplace big to hit,” Tarlak said, walking aimlessly north. “Both have their places crawling with guards. It’s the rest of the city that’s vulnerable, but thankfully Victor and Antonil have their men running round like mad.”

  “Still a big city,” Brug grumbled.

  Tarlak shot his friend a look. “You sound disappointed.”

  Brug shrugged. “Was hoping to gut a bunch of thieves. Only seems fair, given what they did to Haern. Instead they’d rather set fires, burn down some stalls, and then run like cowards. Pathetic.”

  “Their kind tends to not be known for their bravery.”

  They followed the road, listening for sounds of combat and keeping their eyes open for signs of fire. Much as he might mock Brug for it, Tarlak understood how he felt. They’d expected far more chaos, a true call to arms in celebration of the Watcher’s death. The night was half over, and all they’d seen had been little worse than the food riots they’d had in years prior.

  “Maybe all the patrols are actually working,” Tarlak said.

  “Haven’t seen anything by the Spider Guild,” Brug said.

  “Ash Guild tore them up pretty bad. They might be sitting this one out.”

  Brug laughed. “Yeah. I believe that.”

  Tarlak shrugged. “Can always hope, right?”

  A deep explosion roared from near the castle, hard enough to shake the ground they stood upon. Brug tapped his daggers together.

  “Nope.”

  They hurried north, passing wrecked stalls, broken windows, and dark alleys that all seemed filled with men and women lurking within the shadows. Tarlak couldn’t help but feel like they were waiting for something, just stalling for the true celebration. If anything, perhaps they were wondering if the Watcher would appear and prove the rumors untrue. Every spreading fire, every theft unpunished, only confirmed his absence.

  But then again, that explosion had been really loud…

  They rushed faster, and Tarlak saw smoke billowing near the castle.

  “Makes no sense,” he muttered. “Why attack the castle?”

  “Not the castle,” Brug said, and that’s when Tarlak realized what they’d done. Stepping out to the wide space before the castle, where Victor had held his interrogations, he found the area filled with rubble and dirt. Several guards lay about, all dead. The west side of the city’s prison had been blown open, and Tarlak recognized a magical explosion when he saw one.

  What could be more symbolic than freeing all captive members of the guilds from a prison?

  Too much time had passed between the explosion and their arrival. Whatever combat had taken place was long over. Men in tattered clothes flooded out, a few armed and dressed in the colors of the Hawk Guild amid their ranks, revealing the guild responsible.

  “With the guard scattered across the city, too few must have been here to stop them,” Brug said, clearly nervous at seeing so many.

  Tarlak nodded in agreement. He lifted his hands, let fire surround them.

  “Stop as many as possible,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  Brug charged ahead, trusting his plate mail to keep him safe. The prisoners and Hawks were fleeing west, away from Brug’s and Tarlak’s road. Knowing he needed to slow them to have a chance, Tarlak hurled a ball of fire over their heads, detonating it in the road beyond. It set fire to the street, as well as a nearby home. Tarlak winced, but figured one more blaze wouldn’t hurt the city too badly. He hoped. T
heir route cut off, the prisoners veered in various directions, many having to turn about and retrace their steps to find another road. Tarlak clapped his hands, and a bolt of lightning struck in their center, killing two. More important was the confusion the light and sound made, giving Brug his chance to reach them.

  He barreled through their numbers, head low, helmet leading. He punched and kicked with wild abandon. Tarlak knew his friend was not the best of fighters, but what he lacked in skill he made up in eagerness and stupidity. He didn’t try to block attacks, nor avoid blows, just let them hit his armor and slide off. Blood soon covered his punch daggers. The escaped prisoners fled, but the Hawks among them converged, daggers and short swords ready.

  “Keep ’em busy,” Tarlak shouted, hurling bolts of ice from his palms. They slammed into the thinning crowd, bowling over men and women and then freezing them to the ground. A glance behind showed a squad of soldiers rushing their way. Tarlak grinned, glad for the help. Brug wouldn’t last much longer. With a few well-placed spells, he flung small stones at blinding speeds, striking the Hawks who surrounded him and knocking them unconscious or dead.

  Then the soldiers were rushing past, the symbol on their tunics that of the Kane family. It seemed they were smart enough to realize who was friend and who was foe. Ignoring him and Brug, they spread out to chase down the thieves. Tarlak ended his casting, watched as the soldiers pulled two thieves off Brug, who, apart from a multitude of bruises, was no worse for wear.

  One of the men gathered a group of five and then passed by, abandoning the chase, and Tarlak recognized his face well.

  “Victor?” he asked.

  Victor turned, hand on his sword until he realized who it was.

  “The people here are in your debt,” Victor said, saluting quickly before hurrying on.

  “Wait,” Tarlak said, falling in step. “What’s going on? You need to help us find the escaped…”

  “Alyssa Gemcroft’s mansion is on fire,” Victor said over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Riot broke out, completely surrounded their estate. I went for the castle first, for the king and his guard are of more importance. Time is not on our side, wizard, and unless you have a spell to turn it backward, this night will not end well. It’s the thief war all over again. Gods damn it, I should have returned years earlier.”

  Tarlak glanced back, saw Brug hurrying to catch up. Sighing, the wizard began casting a spell.

  “If you want to get there now, then come with me,” he said as a portal ripped open before him. Without waiting for their answer, he stepped through, to see the chaos that had overtaken the Gemcroft mansion.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Zusa watched from the window of their second-story room as the crowd gathered about their gates. Alyssa stood beside her, a cold expression on her face.

  “Do they blame me for this?” she asked. “Have they not forgiven me for the chaos my mercenaries caused?”

  “People have long memories when they are suffering,” Zusa said, scanning the crowd. She could not hear their individual cries, but she spotted those who were the most vehement and shouting the loudest. A few wore guild colors, all the same.

  “The Spider Guild is behind this,” she said. “Thren is turning their fear to his own ends.”

  “It doesn’t matter who is behind it,” Melody said. She stood at the other set of windows in the room, Nathaniel at her side. “They won’t harm us, no matter what. I know it.”

  “My guards will be enough,” Alyssa said, and Zusa caught the way her eyes narrowed when she saw how Melody tightly clutched Nathaniel’s hand in hers. “They once tried to burn my home to the ground. They failed, and they will fail again.”

  “Of course they will,” Zusa said, kissing Alyssa’s cheek. “You have me.”

  She pushed open the window and leaped through it, the cold wind blowing across her hair. Landing with a roll, she sprinted until she reached a tall oak tree. Climbing its limbs with ease, she neared the top and, hidden among the leaves, scanned the crowd anew, taking in numbers and weaponry. They were in the hundreds, far outnumbering Alyssa’s house guards. They were poorly geared, though, very few wielding any sort of weaponry beyond a torch or a knife.

  More worrisome, though, was how she saw more than just the Spider Guild’s cloaks among them, lurking at the outer edges of the crowd. Hawks, Wolves, Serpents… it seemed every guild but the Ash had come to play. Many more foes might be hidden in the nearby homes and alleys, and could strike from any angle. So far the gate held, despite the throng that pressed against it. Torches could do little to the stone fence surrounding the estate. So long as they did not bring out ladders and rope, or find a way to…

  “No,” she whispered. “Daverik, no!”

  She could not move, too stunned by the betrayal. Four faceless women leaped over the crowd, their gray cloaks billowing behind them. They sailed over the fence with ease, landing among the handful of guards at the gate. Three of the four formed a perimeter, cutting and slashing with their daggers. Shadows bled from their bodies, giving them an unearthly, terrifying image. The fourth slashed the lock with both blades. Black sparks fell to the ground. The women leaped away.

  Just like that the gates were open, and the furious crowd poured in like a wave. The house guards closed the gap as quickly as they could, their shields locking together and their swords stabbing, but they would soon be overrun. Zusa knew she must help them, but there was no way she could. The four faceless had rushed the mansion, leaping at various windows and smashing through. She thought of them running through the halls, searching, their daggers eager to take away the life of those she loved.

  “Damn it all,” she swore as she leaped from the tree. Arms wide, she sailed across the yard, propelled forward with strength born of magic. Karak’s magic, which she would turn against his blind, foolish servants. Alyssa had closed the window, but Zusa crossed her arms at the last moment and crashed right on through. Glass cut her skin, tore at her wrappings, but she ignored the pain. Rolling to a stop on one knee, she looked to Alyssa, saw the growing fear in her eyes.

  “It’s not lost,” Zusa said, rising. “Not yet.”

  The door opened, but it was not a faceless, only Lord Gandrem in his polished armor. In his left hand he held a sharpened sword.

  “Milady,” he said, tilting his head toward Melody Gemcroft. “Might I have the honor of standing at your side and protecting you with my life?”

  “It’s only an honor if you keep her alive,” Zusa said. “By the window, now.”

  “Window?”

  “Do as she says,” Alyssa said. Zusa was glad to see that Nathaniel was back at her side. John glanced between them, still clearly confused, but he accepted the order of his hostess. He stood before the window Zusa had smashed, his weapon drawn, and overlooked the fight below.

  Putting her back to them, Zusa closed the door to the room and leaned her side against it. Closing her eyes, she focused her senses, listened for the slightest sound that might reveal the presence of the faceless. She heard screams from all about the mansion, servants and guards fighting, fleeing, dying. Getting closer.

  From the other side, she heard a soft exhalation of air.

  Zusa somersaulted as the door was kicked open. She was curling in midair when the faceless woman rushed in, searching. Melody screamed. Nathaniel cried out. Before the woman could attack, Zusa landed between her and Alyssa.

  “Stay back!” she screamed at John, who had turned to help. “Stay at the window!”

  The faceless lowered her body, tensed for a lunge. Zusa recognized those hazel eyes, that small wiry frame.

  There’s Ezra, thought Zusa. Where are the others?

  Ezra leaped at Melody, but it was a feint, and she curled back in. Zusa met her charge, having fully expected it. She knew Ezra’s hatred of her, knew that she would attack no one else while in her presence. Their daggers collided, engaged in a dance Zusa knew she would win as she had befo
re. But if the previous defeat weighed on Ezra’s mind, it didn’t show, for she pressed her attack with an unexpected ferocity. Zusa parried twice, tried to knee her foe, but Ezra shifted aside. Zusa continued on, rolling until she hit the wall, then used it to kick off. They met again, their bodies contorted and twisted in ways only they, unarmored and limber, could accomplish. Steel rang against steel. They collided, elbowing, striking, each twisting to absorb the hits of the other as their daggers continued to dance, seeking an opening.

  Zusa found it first. Her dagger slashed across Ezra’s thigh. As the injured woman tried to retreat, Zusa somersaulted, foot catching the underside of her chin. Ezra’s head snapped back and she fell, rolling on instinct to avoid any follow-up attacks. When she came to her feet, blood spread across the wrappings of her face. She hesitated, and her eyes flicked once to the window. That was all Zusa needed.

  She was halfway there when another faceless came leaping feet first through the shattered window. Lord Gandrem was unprepared for the attack, which caught him full in the chest. He stumbled back, but to his credit he kept swinging, his long blade forcing the new attacker to keep her distance. Zusa didn’t slow her approach in the slightest, and when close enough she leaped, slamming into the other woman with her shoulder. Together they tumbled out the window, falling.

  Still holding the other tight, Zusa closed her eyes. They were falling at night, toward a ground littered with a hundred shadows cast by the few torches of the mob. She’d done this before, but never at such a great distance, never with another…

  Demanding the power, whether from Karak or herself, she focused on a corner of the room she’d just leaped from, where the shadows were deepest. Shadows were but doorways to her if she was strong enough, and instead of hitting the ground, she and her opponent fell right through. They reappeared in the room, falling from the corner. Zusa twisted so she landed on top, her daggers piercing the faceless woman through the breast and throat. Abandoning the blades so she could continue moving without slowing, she swept the feet out from Ezra, who had turned on John following her departure.