A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (4 page)

Haern hammered at the lone sword, three times in such rapid succession it sounded like a single hit, then used his right hand to attempt pushing the blade aside, his left thrusting toward what he hoped to be Muzien’s exposed heart. Muzien’s sword dipped beneath the push, swooped about, and then parried the thrust, all with such speed his blade was a blur. Haern tried cutting back in before Muzien could reset his position, but then the elf’s leg snapped out, foot connecting with his abdomen. Letting out a cry, Haern fought through the pain to swing sabers lacking the strength they should have. Muzien batted them aside with ease, and too late Haern realized the elf had positioned himself close enough that his leg could loop behind Haern’s left ankle. A step, a push, and Haern fell to his back.

Down came Muzien’s blade, the tip halting an inch from Haern’s exposed neck.

Haern remained perfectly still, knowing any movement could spell the end. Above him hovered Muzien, and staring into his eyes, Haern saw no malice, no anger … just disappointment.

“I’ve cut only your pride,” he said. “Don’t make me cut deeper.”

To be beaten, and so easily, certainly wounded his pride, but the far more powerful emotion was the fear he felt growing in his stomach, squirrely and unwelcome. The elf held his life in his hands, yet the only thing that mattered to Muzien was how Haern had not lived up to his expectations. This was who now ruled Veldaren? This was whom he needed to defeat? True to his words, Muzien was not afraid of him in the slightest. No, just disappointed.

“Despite everything, you still believed you were better,” Muzien said. The tip of the sword lowered, the cold steel gently touching Haern’s neck. “Every maneuver, every thrust and parry, carried that arrogance. Deep down, you felt your skill would overwhelm mine. Do you understand your error, Watcher? You will never defeat me. You will never even challenge me. There is so much you can learn at my hands, but only if you submit. Only if you humble yourself to one who is greater. Otherwise…”

The tip drew a single drop of blood.

“Otherwise you will die at these hands, having learned nothing at all.”

Muzien withdrew the blade, sheathing it while walking away. He showed no fear at putting his back to Haern.

“Reconsider my offer,” the elf said as he dismissed the rest of his guild with a single hand gesture. “Despite this poor performance, I still feel you are the most qualified to inherit my legacy.”

“I won’t,” Haern said as he slowly rose to one knee. Blood trickled down his neck, and he had to grit his teeth against the continued pain where Muzien had kicked him. “I will never swear allegiance to someone like you.”

Muzien cast a glance over his shoulder.

“Then get out of my city,” he said. “You are unwelcome here.”

With that he sprinted down the street, black coat flapping behind him. Haern watched him vanish, and the fear in his gut continued to grow.

My city
, Muzien had said. They were familiar words, an oft-made claim in the city of Veldaren. But for the first time, Haern believed them. As he stood and sheathed his sabers, he wondered if there was any real chance for him to challenge such a claim. His father had thought the city his, and in a night of blood and killing, Haern had wrested it away from him. But Muzien was not his father. Muzien was something greater. Something worse.

“My city,” Haern whispered, words he himself had once believed. Glancing to his left, his eyes settled upon one of many stone tiles bearing the mark of the Sun Guild, placed just before the entrance to a home. He felt the threat they presented on his shoulders, unshakable, undeniable. The shame of his defeat burned in his heart, and he knew he had to be better. Knew he had to become stronger, fiercer.

Perhaps, he dared consider, to save the city, he needed to believe it his again.

Pulling his hood lower over his face, he ran back to the Eschaton Tower, hoping in vain that come daylight, Tarlak would have a better plan in mind.

   2   

W
ith her heart in her throat, Zusa returned home as the sun rose over the city wall. The soldiers at the mansion gate offered her strange looks, but they recognized her and did not dare comment.

“Welcome back,” one said, and even that earned him a glare from the guard beside him.

Zusa crossed the yard at a clip, for despite her best attempts, she felt her nerves already fraying. Not since her argument with Alyssa the night before had she come back to the estate, or spoken with her beloved friend. She still wore the ill-fitting clothes stolen from Daverik after his death, and the bloodstains earned her another strange look from the armored man guarding the front door. A man whose tabard, she realized, signified him as loyal to Victor Kane, not Alyssa. Given their future marriage, perhaps that was a pointless distinction to make, but she made it nonetheless.

“Would you mind?” Zusa asked when the man refused to move from the door.

“Lord Victor needs to approve all guests before they enter,” the guard said. “Your name, please?”

Zusa swallowed down a rock in her throat, and for a split second she debated cutting the man’s throat and entering anyway.

“Zusa,” she said instead. “And if you do not move, I will ensure Alyssa banishes you from these grounds forever.”

The man grunted.

“No need for that,” he said. “I’ve been warned of you.”

Warned? The phrasing insulted her, but she rolled her eyes and did her best to ignore it. The man stepped aside and banged twice on the front door. It opened from within, and Zusa pushed on through into the mansion. Ignoring an offered escort, she hurried down the hall. She felt eyes on her from every soldier, every servant, and she tried telling herself it was just her imagination. It was her lack of wrappings. She felt strangely naked without them, even though she’d dressed in regular clothing during her time in Angelport with Haern. As ridiculous as it might sound, she felt as if everyone who looked upon her knew of her vow to never wear the wrappings again.

Turning a corner, she had to stop herself from running into a very tired, very pale boy.

“Nathaniel?” Zusa asked, kneeling before him and running a hand across his face. The boy blushed and turned away at her touch. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, his words a mumble. “Not sleeping well is all. Bad dreams.”

“I’ve not slept well, either,” she said, forcing a smile. “Perhaps it is something in the air?”

That something was Victor, of course, and they both knew it. Nathaniel smiled at her, offering a glimpse of the carefree boy he used to be. When she stood, he suddenly lurched forward, wrapping his arm around her leg in a hug.

“You’re not leaving us, are you?” he asked.

She put a hand atop his head.

“That’s not up to me.”

Hardly the answer he was looking for, and Zusa chastised herself for such carelessness. Nathaniel had done nothing to earn her ire, and he was clearly handling the changes no better than she. The boy deserved far better. They both did.

“Hey, listen,” she said, kneeling back down and putting her hands on his shoulders. “No matter what, I will never leave you. I’ll never abandon you, Nathaniel. No matter what happens between me and your mother, you’ll never be alone. Do you understand?”

He nodded and sniffled a bit.

“I do,” he said, and he squirmed as if embarrassed.

“Good.”

She kissed his forehead, then stood.

“Have you had anything to eat yet?” he asked. “I’m on my way to get something from the kitchen. You could … you could come with me.”

Zusa smiled at him as she gestured to her clothes.

“Perhaps soon,” she said. “But I must change first. Do you know where your mother is?”

“In her room.” Nathaniel shuffled his feet. “She doesn’t come out much. I don’t think she’s very happy.”

Zusa let Nathaniel go before continuing down the hall.

“It seems no one is,” she said, whispering so the boy would not hear.

At the grand doors to Alyssa’s bedroom, Zusa paused. There were no guards, nor any servants waiting for orders. Had they been dismissed? And if so … by whom? Shaking her head, Zusa knocked twice, then leaned against the door, her forehead touching the sturdy oak.

“Yes?” she heard Alyssa say from within.

For a moment Zusa almost left. She remembered their fight, the painful dismissal, the implication she was nothing more than a servant …

“It’s me,” she said, memories be damned. Even if Alyssa refused, she was coming in.

“It’s not locked.”

That was enough for Zusa. She slipped inside, then shut the door behind her. Alyssa lay in the center of her bed, the curtains to her windows both raised, flooding the room with light. In one of those beams she lay, her red hair shining vibrant, her pale skin beautiful. Tainting the image were her missing eyes, the glass fakes still in a jar on a bedside table. Light spilled into those open cavities, the sight of veins and tissue enough to spoil whatever radiance Alyssa emitted. Zusa felt an ache in her heart, and she forced herself to move, ignoring Alyssa and instead going to the enormous closet and flinging it open.

“What are you looking for?” Alyssa asked, sitting up on the bed.

“Clothes.”

Zusa pushed deeper into the closet, pulling open drawers, scanning the various shirts. She needed something practical, and of sturdier fabric than the silky things Alyssa had collected or inherited over time.

“What of your wrappings?” she heard Alyssa ask from behind her. Glancing back, she saw that Alyssa had left the bed and was coming to join her.

“I’ll wear them no more.”

Alyssa hesitated.

“Is there a particular reason?” she asked.

Zusa found a gray shirt and pulled it from the drawer. She told herself to stop caring about their last meeting. She told herself not to bother with Alyssa’s affairs, whom she married, whom she trusted. She told herself not to be upset.

It didn’t help.

“Yes,” she said. “But I’d rather not speak of it.”

Even in the best of circumstances, discussing Daverik’s death would have been difficult. Worse would have been trying to explain why she’d continued wearing her wrappings after turning her back on Karak and his faceless, to explain it was her way of keeping the memory of her sisters alive, by flaunting her body in the clothing once meant to hide and shame it.

“Zusa,” Alyssa said, taking another step closer. “We must talk. Last night…”

“Where do you keep your servants’ clothes?” Zusa interrupted.

“Servants?” Alyssa asked. “Why?”

“Because you have only dresses to wear, and I need breeches that will not tear and rip after a single night upon the rooftops.” And then, because she could not help it: “And if I’m merely a servant to you, it seems appropriate I dress like one, even if it is like the men instead of the women.”

“Stop it, you know that isn’t fair.”

Zusa spun to find Alyssa blocking her way out of the closet. The woman faced her with those empty eye sockets, and it seemed they conveyed her anger and frustration far better than any glass ones possibly could.

“Fair?” asked Zusa. “I didn’t know
fair
meant anything in this world, particularly yours. Now please, let me through.”

“You’re upset, I understand,” Alyssa said. “Please, let me help.”

“If you want to help,” Zusa said, slipping past her and heading toward the bedroom door, “then procure me a handful of silver coins.”

“Silver? For what?”

Zusa paused at the door.

“For my nine years of loyal service,” she said. “I’d think myself at least worth that much.”

She left, but it seemed Alyssa would not be so easily brushed aside. She followed her into the hall, her left hand touching the wall with each step.

“Zusa, stop,” she said. “Stop, or I will have my guards make you.”

Zusa did, turning and glaring at a servant who stood in the doorway of a nearby guest room with her mouth open.

“Give your mistress privacy,” Zusa said, slamming the door shut. Before her fingers left the door handle, Alyssa’s hand closed around hers, clutching her with intense strength.

“Zusa, enough of this,” Alyssa said. “If you’re angry, then tell me. If you’re hurt, then tell me. Don’t do this. Don’t lash out like a child.”