“But he has failed,” Melody said, rising to her feet. “He tells me the wizard’s power is greater than his own.”
“Is this true?” Daverik asked.
Ghost almost denied it. He could try again, find new ways to surprise Tarlak Eschaton and his oafish friend. But Calan’s wisdom kept echoing in his mind, and despite his fear, despite the chill of the floor beneath him and the cold wind that somehow blew softly from the corners of the sealed room, he vowed to continue to the bitter end.
“It is true,” he said.
“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Daverik said. “And the Watcher defeated you years ago as well, did he not?”
“He did,” Ghost said, and the words were ash on his tongue.
Daverik paced before him, hands behind his back. He looked lost in thought, puzzling over something.
“What will you do, now that you have abandoned your task?” he asked him.
“If I am of no more use, I would travel west,” Ghost said. “Find a life for myself somewhere, in a place where I no longer must wear paint on my face.”
Daverik ceased his pacing.
“Your life was sworn to Karak,” he said. “And such vows can never be escaped.”
He opened his hand, and suddenly it felt like every bone in Ghost’s body weighed a thousand stone. Trying to draw his swords was like lifting a boulder with a lone finger. He collapsed onto his back, gasping for air. The very act of lifting his chest was a burden. The muscles in his neck and arms bulged as he tried to stand, to fight against whatever foul magic was upon him, but he could not pull his body from the stone.
Above him, Daverik resumed his pacing.
“There are too many like you in this world,” he said. “Willing to abandon everything at the first struggle. Willing to sacrifice vows, beliefs, anything and everything sacred and blessed to avoid risks, to shed no blood, to give up nothing of meaning. But you are too powerful to be so weak, Ghost. There is a brilliant soul within you, aching for meaning, for purpose. And I will free it for you.”
Daverik leaned down so they might stare eye to eye. Ghost struggled, wanting to do nothing more than strike the man across the face, but he was helpless.
“I will make you serve,” the priest whispered. “I will grant you power untold and a responsibility to use it that matches such power. And when you taste victory, when you hear the Lion whisper to you, ‘Well done, my son,’ then you will thank me for what I am about to do.”
He stepped away, and Ghost stared up at the ceiling. Above him were the two torches, and he realized now that there was more to the ceiling. Faint white lines were drawn across it, forming a powerful feline shape. The torches were the eyes of the Lion, and they burned down at him, and it was at them he stared until Daverik’s hand settled upon his face. Even through the fingers, he still saw the eyes burning.
“Karak, my god, hear me,” said the priest. “Here in your presence, I present to you my offering.”
The fire grew, and in the far distance, Ghost heard the roar of a lion. The sound sent a chill throughout his body, and more than ever, he wished he could move, wished he could scream. Beside him, he heard Melody praying, her beautiful voice no longer a comfort, her song just as terrifying as the low growl that came from behind his head. All sense of time left him, and it seemed Melody’s prayers became an unending chorus, punctuated only by Daverik’s demands for order, for retribution. Brighter and brighter the fire burned, the lion above him closer, angrier. Many times he heard it roar, and within its mouth he saw the reaches of eternity.
Say your name.
He didn’t know who asked him, didn’t know from where the sound came. The voice was deep and cold. Its rumblings pulled him from his dream-sleep, reawakening an awareness of the floor beneath him, the torches above, the touch of Daverik’s hand against his face, and how hoarse Melody’s voice had grown from her singing.
“I don’t know it,” he answered, his own voice a whisper.
Then what are you?
What was he? What else could he be? After years in the dungeons, after a lifetime knowing only murder and payment?
“Ghost.”
As you are called, then so shall you be.
The darkness swallowed him. The roar of the Lion overwhelmed him. Only the twin torches remained, furious eyes burning violet. From Daverik’s touch at his forehead he felt electricity piercing him, traveling down his spine, and into his arms and legs. He flailed, unable to fight the motions. Everything burned with pain, and when he opened his mouth to scream, he swore he saw smoke exhaling from his lungs. If his cry made a sound, it was pitiful and insignificant, the Lion’s roar easily drowning it out so it went unheard, at least by him. He wanted to pass out, begged for unconsciousness to take him, yet it felt as if the pain would find him even there, overwhelming his dreams, piercing the unconscious veil.
“Your life is Karak’s,” he heard Daverik say. “And no matter the cost, you will repay your debt.”
The hand vanished, and with it went the pain. Ghost let out a gasp, the sudden calm just as startling. His body felt his own now, and he stood with ease. Gradually, his sight returned to him, and he saw Daverik beside him in the center of the room, with Melody and the faceless woman safely by the door. All three appeared exhausted, Daverik in particular.
“What did you do to me?” Ghost asked the priest.
“I gave you the strength to complete your task,” he said, and he sounded out of breath. “As well as motivation to ensure you do not try to abandon your obligations.”
“Obligations?” said Ghost. “I suffered through that, and you think I’ll keep up my obligations?”
He drew one of his swords and took a step forward, but Daverik lifted his hand. It was a simple motion, like one might use to dismiss a child, yet to Ghost, it was the hand of a god blasting him backward. He flew, his sword falling from his grip. As he fell back, he braced for hitting the wall … but then he was through the wall, and all he saw was darkness. Panic struck him in his chest, and he struggled to move, crawling forward as if he were in freezing water. With a gasp, he emerged back into the room, stepping out with clothes perfectly clean and free of the dirt and stone he knew he’d just been struggling through. He fell to his knees, relieved to be where his vision made sense, where his senses of touch and smell weren’t overwhelmed with strange sensations.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, staring at the floor.
As you are called, then so shall you be.
Ghost. It was no longer a name. No longer a disguise.
Melody walked over, and slowly she knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. The touch was strangely loving, and he looked to her, torn between asking for forgiveness and trying to rip out her throat before Daverik could react. She said nothing, only reached into his pocket and pulled out the container of paint she’d given him before. With a pop she opened it, then held it out for him to take.
“Put it on,” she said. “This is what you are, what you were always meant to be.”
He took it from her, dipped a hand into the white. As he smeared it across his face, he swore it burned far worse than it ever had before. That done, he stood, retrieved his sword, and glared at Daverik.
“You tread dangerous ground,” he told him.
“In this age, we all walk in danger,” Daverik said. “You no less than others.” He turned to Melody. “Alyssa’s stubbornness will be our undoing. We have no more time to wait, Melody. Ghost, Deborah, the two of you will go and kill her protector. Once Zusa is dead, overthrowing Alyssa will be a sure thing.”
“I don’t need his help,” Deborah said, glaring at Ghost.
“She defeated all of you together,” Daverik said. “Keep your pride to yourself. You’ll need Ghost’s help with this.”