Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

awoke on a simple bed stuffed with straw. A blanket covered him. Bandages wrapped the cuts across his body, every one of them stinging like a freshly opened wound. The room was dark and without windows, but light from the hallway crept in through the crack of the door, allowing him to see.
    Tears filled his eyes as Haern fought down a wild laugh. He’d lived. He’d come face-to-face with the Lion and lived. His father would be furious … if he ever found out. Haern had no intention of letting him. His days as Thren’s heir were done. He’d tear himself free or die trying. No matter what his fate, he’d make sure Delysia’s death meant something.
    “Please,” he prayed. “I am in the den of lions. Keep me safe.”
    He slid off the bed. His gray clothes were shredded, but the cuts were thin and the cloth mostly intact. He wished he had his mask, though. Without it he still had the face of Aaron. His smile grew as he realized he wore the face of a dead man. How many would truly know that was the case?
    His pillow had a covering, so he removed it and then quickly searched the room. His footsteps made no sound, and his fingers were like feather-strokes upon his surroundings. He found no weapon in the lone drawer, nor stashed under his bed or beside the door. Disappointed, he tied the covering across his mouth as if he were a lowborn bandit. It’d have to do for now.
    Haern crept to the door and lay flat upon the floor. From what he could see through the crack, the hallway was empty. A lone torch flickered opposite, the source of his light. Now the real test. He stood and gently checked the door. It wasn’t locked.
    “Thank you,” he whispered. “Now keep it up, all right?”
    He heard no footsteps, no shuffling of a bored guard or soft breathing of a slumbering man. Taking in a deep breath, Haern pushed the door open a crack and slid out into the hallway.
    It was empty. Haern gently shut the door behind him just in case. The carpet was thick and soft. He couldn’t have asked for better. Small torches were lit every twenty feet, hanging from iron loops embedded in the walls. Bits of purple flickered in their centers. They released no smoke.
    Faced with yet another choice, Haern glanced left, then right. The hallway ended in a sharp turn either way. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead farther in. He decided to go right, and if it didn’t look promising, to hurry the other way.
    It turned out the way was correct, but still far from promising. Looming before him was the great open chamber of worship. The statue of Karak towered before him, still intimidating even in profile. The purple fires burned at his feet, the only light visible. Shadows danced across the pews. Two men knelt in prayer before their altar. A third slowly circled the room, softly singing something more akin to a funeral dirge than a worship hymn. His hands were lifted to the ceiling and his eyes half closed.
    The two praying he might sneak past, but the circling priest was another matter. Haern leaned back into the hallway, knowing his time to escape was fleeting. He couldn’t let three men stop him. He was the former son of Thren Felhorn. He wouldn’t let three thousand men stop him.
    “Keep circling,” Haern whispered. When the priest was on the opposite side of the room, Haern ran as fast as he could, his upper body crouched down. The motion made his legs ache and his back twinge, but he recited a mental litany against pain taught him by one of his tutors. When he was halfway to the first row of pews, one of the praying men leaned back and shouted in a twisted cry of pain and triumph.
    Haern’s instinct was to freeze but he didn’t obey it. That was something else he’d long ago been trained to ignore. He rolled behind the first row, then spun about to look. One priest stood before the statue, a knife in hand. Blood spilled from his other arm, his severed hand lying on the smooth obsidian altar. Haern’s eyes locked upon the knife. It was a bit ornate, no doubt intended for sacrifice instead of battle, but it would have to do. He tried not to think on the horror of seeing a man mutilate himself in the name of his god.
    The other praying priest stood and wrapped his arms around the bleeding man. The third continued his circling and singing as if nothing unusual were happening.
    “Do not fight the pain,” the unwounded one said. “In darkness we