Was this the third time he would drink to excess?
"Rough eve?" Fayne asked, pointing to the empty bottles—three of them.
Hard as it was—and it was hard, indeed—Rath set the bottle back on the table and pulled his gaze away from it. He still thought about
it—craved the sweet fire on his tongue and in his belly, dulling his base impulses—but she could not see his mind.
"What do you know of it, girl?" Rath asked. "I am a master at my art—I have never been defeated, or I would be dead." He was saying too much. It was the liquor in his stomach, saturating his blood and making him weak. Making him into a dwarf, when he should be free.
"And yet," Fayne said, "you look like a man who bears a vendetta. Against a foe who left you alive, perhaps?"
Rath would dance to her steps no more. "What do you want?"
"The question," Fayne said, "is more correctly, do I know what you want?"
The dwarf waved. "I want nothing."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." Fayne took a slip of parchment from the scrip satchel she had set on the table and showed it to him. It had a single long word on it. A name.
He read the parchment and his eyes narrowed. "You know this man?" he asked. "Not just know of him, but you know him?"
"Indeed!" She nodded. "It's only a matter of time before I have his face, too—and I'm sure that would be worth something to you." She reached across rhe table and laid her fingers across his wrist. "And perhaps I can think of a few other things, aye?"
Rath looked at her hand on his arm. His face remained expressionless.
"I had thought," he said, "that your inclinations did not match mine." He nodded to the serving lass, who was delivering a heavy tray of tankards to a group of half-ores. "From your kiss with yon wench of yesterday."
"You noticed," Fayne said. "Would you like to see it again— perhaps in a more intimate setting? Waterdeep is the city of coin, after all."
"You mean—" Rath grimaced. "How disgusting."
"You'd be surprised," she said. "Call me... free of mind. I can do many things—even dwarves." She winked. "Especially dwarves."
Rath curled his lip. "Offer me coin, or begone—I'll have nothing else of you."
Fayne pouted. "What a pity."
Rath drank his brandy down and poured another. Fayne took out a second parchment, this with two words written on it, and passed it across the table. He looked at the name.
"Interesting," he said. "The first shall be my reward for this? Why?"
"This is personal," she said. "Someone I've hated for a long, long time." Her face and voice were deadly serious. "You are a professional—I do not think you could understand that."
It was Rath's turn to smile—yet it might have been the brandy. "You'd be surprised at what I would understand." He chuckled. "I am very familiar with hatred."
Fayne paused at that. "Mmm," she said. "Well. I shall deliver your payment—as noted on that parchment—upon completion. Aught else?"
As quickly as a snake might lunge, Rath reached across the table and seized the lace at her collar, wrenching her face close to his own. Fayne went pale.
"You are afraid," he whispered. "Why?"
Fayne blinked. Her face was calm, but her eyes were fearful. "Release me," she said. "Release me, or—"
"Or you will strike me?" Rath smiled. "I could kill you in a heartbeat."
To demonstrate, Rath gave her face a flick with his fingers, splitting open her upper lip. She didn'r wince, and he almost respected her for that. Almost.
He laid his other hand around her neck. "Answer my question."
The woman licked where he had broken her lip. "Dreams," she said.
Rath relaxed his grip. "Dreams?"
"A girl—a girl in blue fire." Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled. "Know one?"
The dwarf sighed and released her to flop back to the bench. He leaned back, drained.
Fayne sucked her broken lip. "So you've caught me," she said. "I suppose I dream of wenches after all—but that isn't a fault, aye?" Discomfited as she was, she winked.
Rath understood something about her then: how she used allurement to fight anxiety. He smiled wryly. So he wasn't the only one who demeaned himself in moments of weakness.
He pulled his hand away. "Within three nights," he said, and gestured for her to depart.
If Fayne had gone then, it would have been well, but instead her eyes held him fast. She reached casually across and plucked up his hand. She rubbed it against her cheek, teasing her lips along his thumb. His arm tingled, and his hand looked blasphemously dark against her skin.
Long after she left the table, her touch lingered.
Rath folded the parchment upon which she'd named his mark and slid it into his black robe. He raised the brandy to his trembling lips, but the cool liquid tasted like ash on his tongue. He threw rhe bottle aside with a hiss.
Even drink did him no good now. She had ruined it for him.
He needed a woman, he knew, but not her. Not that faceless creature.
His sharp eyes fell on the serving lass. She had smallish breasts— well enough—and a strong, rounded backside. He wouldn't enjoy it, he knew, but he had no choice. He wouldn't go so far as ro say he wanred her, but he knew that he needed her.
Needed to drive his demons away—to forget.
"Girl," he said across the tavern, and she stiffened. He raised the mostly empty bottle of brandy. "Come. Drink with me."
He laid gold on the table.
ELEVEN
Shadovar assassin hides among corrupt merchants!" cried a boy for the Daily Luck, hawking his broadsheet on the Street of Silks as evening fell. "Watch denies all rumors!"
"Shadovar spy rumors srupid!" called a rival broadcrier, a bob-haired girl crying the Merchant's Friend. She stuck out her tongue at the Luck boy. "Daily Luck prints idiocy!" "Does not!" cried the boy. "Does so!"
A disgruntled Watchman came upon the two and hissed them onto the next street. They ran from him, laughing, hand in hand, and—Kalen thought—likely fell to kissing as soon as they were out of sight. Younglings. He shook his head and smiled ruefully.
"I swear to the gods, Kalen," said Bors. "If you keep on delaying us for words with which to woo yon strumper—when hard coin will damn well do—I shall declare her the Lady Dren."
Kalen surveyed the chapbooks just inside the shop. "Leleera likes to read."
"I suppose we all have our bedchamber pleasures," Bors said. "Kindly don't share." Bors grinned.
Kalen coughed into his hand, though it was mostly feigned. The weakness had subsided since yestereve, but he could still feel numbness throughout his body. As on any other day.
They had stopped on the way up the Street of Silks at a shop called the Curious Past, at which Kalen was a frequent customer. The business—which after more than a century was growing to be an ancient treasure in its own right—sold oddities, antiques, and chapbooks about the old world. Kalen scanned the titles of the books stacked on the table as the anxious vendor looked on.
Both were off duty that day, and as he often did on such days, Bors had invited Kalen to his favorite festhall—the Smiling Siren. Mostly, Kalen knew, Bors did so to interrogate Kalen for intimate information about Araezra. Kalen had not seen his superior that day—she had not reported for duty—but he wasn't about to let his worry show more than was seemly.
Kalen tried to put her out of his mind. He srudied the wares laid out before him.
Though all the thirty-or-so-page books were romantic in nature, they ranged from rhe speculative (The Chained Man ofErlkazar, The Blood Queen ofQurth) to the historical (Return of the Shades, the First and Second of Shadows series), and from the salacious (Untold Privy Tales of Cormyr: The Laughing Sisters, The Wayward Witch Queen) to the outright naughty (Adulteries ofLadyAlustra:A Confessional, Seven Sisters for Seven Nights, Tortn's Conquests; this last not a reference ro the god of justice, but a lecherous adventurer of the last century).
He also found most of Arita's Silver Fox series, up to the eighty-page eighth volume, Fox in the Anauroch. Rumors of the upcoming ninth, Fox and the Blue Fire, had been the talk of literary circles for some months.
Kalen selected one of the books and handed the vendor five silvers. He slid the book into his satchel and adjusted the thong over his shoulder. The two wore no armor while off duty, but their black greatcoats—hallmark of the Waterdeep Guard—kept vendors from cheating them.
"Well? Which is it?" Bors winked at the vendor's giggly daughrer.
"Aye?"
"Which masterpiece shall Leleera be enjoying this night, man?" asked Bors. "Aught with pirates, nay? I've heard the lasses swoon over pirates these days."
"All due respect, sir," Kalen said. "Can you even read?"
"Ha!" Bors clapped him on the back. "Well enough, then."
As they walked to the Siren, a light rain began to fall on what had been a warm day, sending up dust from rhe cobblestones. It was that time of winter-turning-to-spring when the weather could not choose
how to behave. Dust swirled in a breeze that came from the west. "Sea fog tonight," predicted Kalen.
"Ridiculous!" said Bors. He spread his hands. "You hear this, Waterdeep? Ridiculous!"
Kalen just smiled—and coughed lightly.
With the rain and the approaching eve, business slowed. The street lighters—retired Watchmen, mostly—were about their work, lifting long hooks to hang fish-oil lamps. The streets would grow crowded near the gates, which closed at dusk.
"I don't see," Bors said, munching an apple, "why you bother with lasses of the night, when by all accounts you could tumble a nymph like Rayse for free."
Kalen ignored rhat. "How are Araezra and Talanna?" he asked quietly.
"You mean yestereve? Bah." Bors sparked a flinr and lit his tamped pipe. "Talanna fell—again, though at least this time she had the damn ring. Laid up for healing at Torm's temple a few days, but she'll be fine—that girl's tougher n bone dragons." He took a deep pull of pipe smoke. "I'm sure the damned Minstrel'will run a tale in the morn that makes us all look hrasting fools, but no mind."
Kalen nodded. Cellica would tell him about the broadsheets. He never read them himself-—he already knew how bleak the world really was. "What of Araezra?" he asked quietly.
"Rayse ..." He looked down at his hands. "She took yestereve pretty hard, as she always does. Good lass, that one, but hard on herself. Really hard. Thinks she has to be."
Kalen sighed.
"Funny you ask about her, when we're on our way to a festhall." Bors clapped him on the shoulder. "Mayhap after we're done there, you'll want to cheer Rayse up, eh?"
Kalen ignored Bors's jape.
They passed under the arms of the Siren—cunningly carved as a blushing, sea-skinned and foam-haired maiden whose gauzy skirts would occasionally billow in the right breeze off the bay. The entry room was cunningly sculpted and painted in a forest scene on one side, a beach on the other. Figures in various states of nakedness
seemed to dance off the walls—nymphs, dryads, satyrs, and the like, also knights and maidens reclining and embracing under the boughs of trees.
The images were so lifelike that a small person could blend in by standing still, as was a favorite pastime of Sanchel, the Siren's dwarf madam. Bors and Kalen knew her game, but she startled the Hells out of two young sellswords when she appeared—in thigh boots and a cloak of leaves—from among the trees.
"Sune smile on you." Then, as they almost pissed themselves: "Boy, girl, or common?"
"Cuh-common," said one of them. The other stared at her mostly exposed chest, an impressive edifice considering her stature.
"Love and beauty follow you," said Sanchel. "If you would make your offering?"
The older of the sellswords elbowed the younger, and he drew a purse out of his belt and handed it toward Sanchel. The dwarf shook her head and pointed instead toward a statue of the goddess that stood within a fountain below the stairs. At her gesture, the boy poured the coins into the water, which instantly turned brighr gold.
"The goddess is pleased. You are welcome to her hall." Then Sanchel made a bird call and two half-clad celebrants appeared— one lad and one lass. Sanchel pointed each to one of the adventurers. A pause followed, in which the festgirl and fesrboy appraised the patrons critically, then they nodded and took the young men by the arms.
Sanchel prided herself on knowing the nighttime preferences of her patrons at a glance, and she was right again. The youths looked very pleased at their escorts, and allowed themselves to be led toward the common hall, which would be full of dancing, wine, and song.
Sanchel turned to Kalen and Bors with the smile she reserved for favored regulars. "Good eve, gentles—I see the Watch is trearing you well?"
"Hasn't killed us yet." Bors eyed rhe murals speculatively. "I wonder .. ."
Kalen rolled his eyes. This was one of Bors's favorite games, playing this role.
Sanchel feigned wariness, but her eyes laughed. She knew the game as well and—unlike Kalen—liked it. "Something displeases, honored Commander?"
"I wonder if your practices fall within the scope of the law," Bors said. "Are all your celebrants here of their own will, and given adequate compensation for their arts?"
Sanchel rose to the challenge. "What are you suggesting, sir? All in this place serve Sune—and all want for naught. Or"—she smiled— "did you need to interview one yourself?"
"Mmm, mayhap," said Bors with a grin. He drew out his purse and poured a few coins into the pool. The water glowed. "Clever magic-—spares you checking rhe gold yourself, eh?"
"Just so," said Sanchel. "And yet you pause, my lord. You are uncertain?"
Bors's grin grew wider. "Better make it two," he said, adding twice as many coins to the offering. "Bren and Crin, I think."
Sanchel gave a sweet smile and whistled twice, great trilling bird songs. Kalen wondered if she could speak with birds, if given the opportunity. Two women appeared our of a hidden door in Sune's forest—two dusky-skinned lasses with midnight hair and big, deep black eyes.
Bren and Crin looked identical, though they shared no blood. One, or perhaps both, was a shapeshifter who matched the other. Requests for "the sisters" were common enough—if costly. They smiled at Bors with their full, tempting lips.
"Does this one please you?" Sanchel asked them.
The women looked at Bors Jarthay critically, weighing him with their eyes. Their choosing was the key, Kalen thought. If they did not like the man, no offering was enough, and it would be blasphemy for Bors to coerce or even so much as scowl if they chose "nay."
Oddly, Kalen found himself thinking of Cellica, the only sister he had ever known, and chuckled inwardly at the thought of her in such a situation. She'd probably box Bors Jarthay around rhe ears, or—failing that, owing to her size—offer him a punch in a more sensitive spot.
Bren and Crin did nothing of the sort. They smiled to one another,
then bowed to Bors. "This one," they said together, "half a fool and half a hero—this one always amuses us." Sanchel nodded.
"Perfect," said Bors with a low bow. Then he smiled boldly and quoted, "Beauty begs joy. The silvered glass smiles, its delight unrehearsed."
The courtesans looked at one another dubiously. Kalen looked at Sanchel, who giggled. Apparently, she understood the private jest.
"Is something wrong, my ladies?" asked the commander, his smile faltering.
"The poesy was not so bad," Crin said ro Bren. "Was ir Thann, you think?"
"Doubtless," said Bren. "And spoken Well, roo."
"But my ladies unmake me," said Bors with a small bow. "They have heard this before."
"Of course," said Crin. "It is in Couplets for Courtiers, is it not? How does it go, Sister?"
Bren smiled. "Ler me see. 'Your lips curve in swift, sweet echo, but this I swear: the mirror smiled first'.. . aye, Commander?"
"Aye, just so."
"Myself, I'd have preferred aught of Thann s 'Gray-Mist Maiden,'" Crin murmured to herself. " 'Ler years steal beauty, grace, and youth,' or the like."
"Ladies, I bow to your superior learning," Bors said, bowing low.
"But which is the lady and which the mirror?" pressed Bren—or perhaps Crin. Kalen wasn't certain any more. He wondered if he had been wrong all along.
"I should be most pleased to find out." And with that, Bors emptied the rest of his purse into the water, which glowed brightly indeed. "Might we find a place of privacy, ladies, wherein I might— ah? Ladies?"
Bren was looking at the glowing pool. She clicked her tongue and smiled at Crin. "He would impress us with gold where his poetry fails, Sister."
"How childish," agreed Crin. "Hmpf!"
The women stuck out their tongues simultaneously at Bors. They brushed past him toward the commons, seemingly disinterested.
Bors's face fell. "Wait a moment!" the commander cried, and he hurried after them.
Kalen shook his head. The commander was just another man with more coin than sense.
In truth, he did not begrudge Bors Jarrhay. Kalen was a man, too, and had the desires of any man. Only the ability . . . Kalen sighed inwardly.
"Sir Dren," Sanchel said. "Have your desires shifted, or is it Leleera again? She has asked for you, should you come around—as you well know."
Kalen turned to her. "Leleera."
"If you wish to marry her," Sanchel said, "that can be .. ."
"No, no," Kalen said. It seemed awkward to claim he and Leleera were merely friends, so he held his tongue. He dropped gold into the pool, which glowed with a radiance more subdued than Bors had wrought with his coin. "As always—an hour longer than the commander stays here. Do not let us leave together."
"As always." Sanchel nodded and gestured to the stairs. "Sune smile upon you."
"Torm bless and ward you." Kalen bowed his head. He paused. "Sanchel—know you a half-elf with red hair, gray eyes, and a quick tongue?"
"If that is your preference," the dwarf said, "we can see if Chandra or Rikkil please you—the eyes would be difficult, but the tongue . . ."
"No," Kalen said, with an embarrassed cough. "Fair eve."
Sanchel nodded and Kalen turned up the stairs, around the image of a great redwood around which dryads pranced.
When he had gone, Sanchel inclined her head to one of the tree nymphs. "Satisfied?" "Quite."
The dryad pulled away from the wall. It did a pirouette, as though
reveling in its sylvan body, and Sanchel frowned. This creature both frightened her and intrigued her with its whimsy.
The dryad plucked a wand of bone from her hair and circled it around her head. A silvery radiance crowned her, then descended to her ankles. Her green tresses turned to bright red curls and her green skin became the particular bronze a half-elf inherits from a gold-skinned elf parent. Her eyes became the perfect gray of burnished steel.
"Which room?" Fayne asked. "From the street, mind—not inside."
"Second floor, third from rhe north," the dwarf woman said. "When he spoke of rhe half-elf with gray eyes ... he meant you, didn't he?"
"Mayhap," she said. "Or mayhap I choose a form to match what he said. It matters little, as you'll say nothing to him—unless you don't care if I tell the Watch certain secrets ..."
"No," Sanchel said. "Sune smile on you, little trickster."
"Beshaba laugh in your face."
Fayne waved her wand again, and in a blink, she vanished.
Kalen kept his eyes downcast so as not to attract attention or bother other patrons. He would have seen his fair share of attractive sights, but he wasn't there to peruse.
He knocked at Leleera's door and was rewarded. "Enter!" He pushed through.
The room, like most of the pleasure cells at the Smiling Siren, was spacious—sparsely but tastefully adorned to suit the desires of its owner and his or her patrons, whom the celebrant could deny as she wished. Leleera opted for a "queen's chamber," with a stuffed divan, a tightly wound four-poster bed, and even a golden tub. As a full priestess of Sune, she could work the relatively simple magics to fill and heat the bath.
She had a full wardrobe of attire to match the chamber—rich robes, diaphanous silk gowns, and jewelry—along with a fair assortment of martial harnesses, including a thin gold breastplate, greaves, an impractical mail hauberk, and a vast assortment of boots of varying styles and lengths. Warrior queens were popular requests, she had
told Kalen—particularly a certain "Steel Princess" Alusair, of late fourteenth-century Cormyr.
The lady herself—who smiled broadly to see Kalen and rose from her divan to embrace him—looked much as a warrior queen ought, with her strong and beautiful features, confident swagger, and honey hued hair, in which she wore dyed streaks of Sune's favored scarlet.
"Kalen!" she cried. "Jusr in rime. I've almost finished Uthgardt"
Kalen put down his satchel and sat to remove his boots. "And how goes Arita's debut?"
"Epic," she said. Leleera helped Kalen unbutton his doublet. "I can see why folk love it."
The long-running series, beginning with Fox Among the Uthgardt, concerned a heroine from the old world: an eladrin woman called the Silver Fox who couldn't help but plunge into danger with every leap. No one knew the real name of the author—rhe fancyname "Arita" meant "silver fox" in Elvish—and owing to the volumes' popularity, printers didn't inquire.
"Much wit and banter go with the swordplay, though not nearly enough lovemaking. Though"—she pulled the hauberk over his head— "I did enjoy the seduction of the chief."
"Huh." Kalen started unlacing his breeches.
"I suppose there'll be more," Leleera said, slapping his hands away so she could do it. "Uthgardt ends in the 1330s, and the Silver Fox is only a young lass. Under forty—but the fey-born age slower than humans, methinks. There are more books, yes?"
Kalen let her pull off his breeches and stood in his linen clout. Leleera looked at his scarred, slightly glistening chest, and he could almost hear her thoughts.
He shook his head. " 'Ware the rules."
"Yes, yes." She pouted. "How many more are there, Kalen? I want to read more!"
"I saw Anauroch in the shop today, and I believe that's volume eight." He stretched. "Not as many as that other series you like, but each one's twice the normal fifty or so pages."
Leleera wasn't looking at his nakedness anymore, but rather at his satchel. "In the shop?" Her smile widened. "Does that mean ... ?"
Kalen opened his satchel and produced the book. "One with more bedplay, I'm told."
Leleera gasped. "Lascivities of aLoveableLothario—volume twelve!" She squealed. "Oh Kalen, you naughty, naughty knight!" Leleera kissed him on the cheek and plopped down on her divan, feet in the air, to read. She began giggling freely and often.
"I take it that will be sufficient?" Kalen laid the satchel's contents on the bed. Black leathers, a gray cloak—the clothes that fit the man.
" 'You should be flattered, lass,' " she read. " 'Many would give their lives to learn in my bed—many already have.' " She rolled on her back and clasped the book to her chest. "Perfect!"
"Good." He adjusted his sword belt, which felt light without Vindicator. He sheathed his watchsword in the scabbard instead—it was too short, but it still fit, awkwardly.
"Sure I can't tempt you ?" Leleera asked. "We could read together." She put her hand on his wrist and if he didn't know better, he'd have sworn she was trying to beguile him.
"Thank you, but no." Kalen kissed her on the forehead and crossed to the window, where he paused. "Leleera—are you... are you happy here? In this place?"
She pursed her lips. "When did you start to care about being happy?"
Kalen scowled.
"A jest, my friend," Leleera said. "I am content in this place—I serve my goddess, doing that which brings me pleasure. I share her love wirh the people of this city."
"And that is enough," he whispered. "For you, I mean."
"Kalen." She caressed his cheek, but he could not feel her fingers. He saw her hand move, but felt nothing. "Is it not the same for you?"
Kalen looked away.
"You are a good man, Kalen Dren—but sometimes..." She trailed off with a sigh. Then she smiled sadly. "If you want to save someone, why not start with yourself?"
"I don't need saving," he said.
"We'll see." Leleera embraced him and pressed her lips to his. He felt only coldness.
She left him and lay down across her divan. Setting aside the Lascivities, she opened Fox Among the Uthgardt to the last few pages and began to read silently. Aloud, she murmured, "Oh, Kalen—oh, yes—ooh!"
Among other skills, being a celebrant of Sune required subsrantial acting talent.
Kalen bowed his head to her and she winked.
"Oh, yes—right—there!"She flipped a page.
As Leleera moaned, squealed, and read, Kalen donned his helm and opened the shutters. He looked back at Leleera—who writhed in feigned passion as she flipped another page.
Then, without further hesitation, Shadowbane swung out the window into the night.
Just below, watching invisibly from an alley just across Marlar's Lane, Fayne smiled.
"I see you, Sir Dren," she murmured. She pinched her nose. "And smell you, too—do you ever wash that cloak?"
With that bit of spying managed, she turned her thoughts to the tale she was writing for the Minstrel. The life of a scandal-smith was so demanding!
She slipped away, thinking of the japes she'd use. Ooh, she'd prayed for the day she could burn Araezra Hondyl. And it had arrived, with the blessings of the sun god.
Later—perhaps three bells later—Bors Jarthay listened at Leleera's door to a long and loud chorus of her moans. "Yes!" Leleera cried from within. "Oh, Kalen!"
Bors grinned. "That's my boy."
As he made his way down the curling staircase into the garden in the entry hall, he scowled out the misty front windows at the sea fog that had rolled in. "Damn that man—is he ever wrong?"
He whistled a tune as he left, bound for home.
TWELVE
fT he city stood hidden in gray night. Selune had retreated behind deep 1 clouds that threatened rain but did not let it fall. A slight breeze came from the sea to the west and broke against the buildings.
Conditions were perfect for the sea fog that rolled through the streets.
Waterdhavians rarely braved such nights, when the fog hid deeds both noble and vile. On a night like that, the creatures of Downshadow would stay below in their holes, denied the clear sky and Sehine's tears.
Wearing the black leathers and gray cloak of Shadowbane, Kalen perched atop Gilliam's haberdashery. He had not come for battle—for such, he'd descend to Downshadow—but rather for freedom in the surface world. Every tenday or so, if clouds hid the moon, he took time from his task to remind himself of that which he defended: a city he could see but not feel.
"Why not start with myself," he murmured.
Were he a man who could feel as other men did, he mighr have enjoyed the embrace of so wise a woman as Leleera. He might have tried anyway, were it not for his consranr fear of being too rough without knowing it—without feeling it. Even had the spellplague not stolen his senses in exchange for strength, he was a man of action. Violence was no more easy to leave behind him than was the mask of Shadowbane.
Enough self-pity. It did not become a servant of justice.
"I don't need saving," he repeated.
He and Leleera were both crusaders. But while she served a gentle goddess who craved only her happiness, he obeyed the will of a dead god who demanded action.
He slid off the roof into the night and ran along the rooftops.
A hundred years ago, before the Spellplague had rebuilt the world, the god called Helm was the patron of guardians and the vigilant— an eternal watcher, who once slew a goddess he loved rather than forsake his duty. Then, because of a mad god's trickery, he had foughr with Tyr, the blind Lord of Justice, and fallen under the eyeless one's blade.
The night of Helm's death, in a city called Westgate, a boy named Gedrin dreamed of the duel. Helm perished, but his divine essence lingered. The gods' symbols merged: the eye of Helm etched itself onto Tyr's breastplate with its scales of justice. The blind god's eye glowed, and his sight returned. When Gedrin awoke, he held Vindicator, Helm's sword in the dream.
And thus had begun the heresy of the church known as the Eye of Justice.
Later, plagued by guilt and shame, Tyr fell to the demon prince Orcus, but his powers—and those of Helm—had passed to Torm, god of duty. Gedrin dreamed a second time, and watched the three gods become one. The heretical church he had built began to follow Torm, whom they took to calling the threefold god.
Many years after these dreams—almost eighty years later—in the cesspool of Luskan, a famous knight called Gedrin Shadowbane gave a beggar boy three things: a knight's sword, Vindicator; a message, never ro beg again; and a cuff on the ear, that he might remember it.
That boy had been Kalen Dren, the second Shadowbane. And his first vow had been never to beg for anything, ever again.
And how sorely rhat vow had been tested, so many times.
A cough formed in his chest, and he fought it down. His illness—though he pretended it was worse than it was, in truth— would always haunt him. He had the spellplague to thank for that. From birth, Kalen had borne the spellplague's mark: a spellscar, the priests called it—a different blessing and curse for every poor soul who earned or inherited one. For Kalen, it was toughened flesh and resistance to pain. Any warrior would wish for such a thing but for its accompanying curse: a body increasingly losing feeling, one that would eventually perish.
Justice for the sins of a poorly spent youth, he mused.
He watched as the sea fog shifted, taking on color, radiance, and form. Like much of the spellplague's legacy, this was a rare and unexplained occurrence. Soon, the glowing fog would take on shapes and tell a story, though none could say why.
Kalen eased himself away from the banner pole arop Gilliam's and half-ran, half-slid down the domed roof. Using his momentum, he bent low and sprang from the edge. The magic in his boots—one of the few items he'd managed to bring from Westgate—carried him across the alley and up to the roof of the next building, a tallhouse.
He ran along the crenellated edge, leaping over potted plants and a few squatters who sheltered in the corners of the roofs. Running the rooftops was safer than the street. A seagull, borne on the lazy breezes, matched him, and he balanced on the ledge beside it.
He remembered running the roofs of Westgate with his teacher in the church of the Eye: the half-elf Levia, old enough to have borne him, but who looked as young as he. Her skill was not martial in nature, but divine—priestly magic. Healing and the like.
Kalen knew little of such magic. Aside from his healing touch and the protection given a paladin, he asked little of his threefold god—and begged for nothing. He'd once broken a man's nose for calling Levia a spell-beggar, but he was not sure if he'd done it for her honor or his.
He wished Levia had come to Waterdeep. She was family, Kalen thought. Levia, the only mother he'd ever known—and Cellica, his sister in spirit if not in blood.
Not like the resr of their wayward faith. Kalen did not consider such fools to be his kin.
Gedrin had created the Eye, bringing crusaders from the ranks of the Night Masks—a powerful thieves' guild at the time, ruled by a vampire called the Night King. Gedrin had burst forth from the Masks like a hero digging out of the belly of a beast, and aided in ousting the dark masters of Westgate. Thereafter, they had set out to cleanse the world of evil in all its forms. Gedrin was a zealot, and his faith inspired hundreds to worship the threefold god.
But in time, the purity of the Eye faded, its quest tainted by flawed men in the church—men who used their thiefly skills for personal
gain, rather than justice. Gedrin left the Eye, after spending so much of his life in the doomed church, and Kalen, years later, had followed in his footsteps. Both had taken Vindicator, hoping ro put its power to use elsewhere.
Kalen felt lost without the sword. It had set him on Gedrin's quest ro redeem the world. And though a part of him needed it back, another large part of him approved of its loss. If he had not been worthy of it, was it not the threefold god's will that it choose another wielder?
A low sound perked up his ears. Kalen caught a spire, whirled, and pressed himself flat against the stone, closing his eyes. He heard it again: sobbing. A female voice—somewhere near.
He looked and saw a cloud of mists that glowed blue. That was odd—he had seen colors and distortions in the sea fog before, but never blue. And he recognized the hue—a sickly yet powerful azure, like the inner shade of a flame just before it turned white hot. It was spellplague blue, he realized, just like the spellplague that had changed him.
Unease crept into his fingers, but he heard the sob—more like a plea for aid—again and leaped from the roof. If the Eye would claim him this night, then so be it.
The blue fog was close, only two rooftops away. The near building was a squat noble villa with an open-air garden in the center, and he ran along the wall to stay aloft. Blue fog swirled around him, threatening, and he felt a drive to step forward, to face an unknown peril that might be the end of him. Was it not better to fall now, if Vindicator had abandoned him?
He sprang into the alley, rolling with the fall to come up on his feet, watchsword drawn. It occurred ro him only then that carrying the blade would be damning if any Watchmen were to see him, but too late.
The mists seemed empty, but he heard the sob again. The blue glow crackled, electric, deeper in the alley, and he stalked forward.
The mist took on shapes, and Kalen fell into guard, both hands on his sword.
Ghosrs appeared out of the mist. He saw two figures—slim men
who might have been elves—standing together in a room in some distant land. They were arguing—even fighting, waving misty limbs like blades. Then one vanished into the shadows near a leaning srack of crates. The remaining figure turned to Kalen, smiling.
Another figure appeared out of the mist, this one a woman, her features blurred. The mist man turned to greet her. Without warning, he thrust his fist into her chest and she fell, hands clenched.
Kalen felt a surge of anger, but these were just visions. They meant nothing.
The mist man stared at him. "The sword," rhe mist man said with a too-wide smile.
Kalen had never heard that the visions of Waterdeep could speak. It chilled him.
Lightning crackled again, blue and vivid, and Kalen turned to search for its source.
When he looked back, both mist men were there, looking at him with hunger. They approached him, hands rising, and he realized they meant to attack. He retreated, but his back was against the wall of the alley.
"Away." As Levia had taught him, Kalen let the threefold god shine against them. He began to glow, warding off the walking dead. "Away!"
But either his power was too weak or these were not undead, for they came forward. Kalen saw the woman climbing to her feet, a bleeding hole where her hearr should be.
"The sword," the mist whispered. "The sword that was stolen— the crusader has come!"
Kalen thought, for one horrible moment, that they were talking about him. But these were images of long ago, if not entirely random manifestations.
He struck with his watchsword, but the mortal steel passed clean through them, disturbing the mist with its wind. Their hands passed through his guard and leathers as though they were not there. He felt ice inside his flesh.
"Away," he tried again, but his voice was hoarse.
Weakness was taking him, and he could not even flee. The woman
in the mist appeared over him, and he thought she was not beautiful but terrible—she was death embodied.
Then the alley was bathed in blue light. Kalen felt the hairs on his neck and arms rise and he threw himself down just as lightning crackled through the air, scorching the stone buildings. A figure stood before him, surrounded in blue electricity and fire. It was the fiery woman he had seen in Downshadow only a few nights before—whose appearance had saved him from death at a half-orgre s gnarled fingers.
He averted his eyes to keep from being blinded, and the mist creatures fell back. He could see them, just vaguely, bowing and scraping like servants, almost. . . reverent.
Then the light went out, and the woman—no longer flaming but still glowing—stood shakily in the center of the alley. Her dizzy eyes met his, and he saw they were startlingly blue.
"Szasba," she said in a tongue he did not know. "Araka azzagrazz?" Then she sagged.
Leaving his watchsword on the cobblestones in his lunge, Kalen caught her just before she hit the ground. She was so light, barely more rhan a girl, and little more than skin, bone, and . .. blood.
His gauntlets came away sticky. The girl was naked but for a slimy coating of what looked like black and green blood. He searched for wounds but could find none. Her hair, plastered in the sickly gore, was blue. Everything about her was blue: hair, lips, even her skin.
Then Kalen realized her skin was not blue, but rather covered in glowing tattoos. Runes, he thought, though he did not know them. Even as he noted them, the tattoos began to fade, shrinking into her deeply tanned flesh like ink on wet parchment. He blinked, watching as lattices of arcane symbols vanished, little by little.
Kalen didn't know what to do, but he couldn't leave her.
Her arms tightened around his neck and her face pressed into his chest. "Gisz vaz."
"Very well," he replied, not having the faintest idea what she'd said.
He took off his cloak and wrapped her in it. Then he held her tightly, looked around for misr figures—the fog had begun to disperse—and started off at a trot.
Cellica's stew—left to simmer until morningfeast—was bubbling when he returned to the tallhouse.
"You're back early," the halfling said when he came through the open window. She had risen from her cot, a towel wrapped around her little body, but she didn't look sleepy.
"Did I wake you?" Kalen took care not to hit the strange woman's head against the sill.
"I never sleep when you're—" Cellica's eyes widened. "Who's that?"
"No idea."
Kalen strode into Cellica's room and laid his burden on rhe halfling's cot.
"She's..." The halfling trailed off, touching the sleeping woman's cheek. "She's bone cold! Out! Out! I'll take care of this."
Kalen felt Cellica's will take hold of him and wandered out while she laid blanket after blanket over the sleeping woman. The stranger's uncertain frown became a blissful smile.
Gods, Kalen felt tired. His limbs ached and his armor stank of sweat. The girl was light, but he'd carried her all the way across the city. In that time, her azure tattoos had all but disappeared. Her breathing seemed normal, and she slept peacefully.
"Why lasses run around the night streets naked in this day and age, I'll never understand," Cellica said. "Younglings! Hmpf."
"Mmm," Kalen returned. He was rubbing his eyes. Gods, he was tired.
"Who is she ?" the halfling asked. Rather than being upset, she was inspecting the woman critically, fascinated; "Your hunting extends to naked ladies in addition to villains and dastards?"
Kalen murmured a reply that did not befit a paladin. He traipsed off to his cot, shedding his leathers as he went, and slumped into bed. He was asleep two breaths later.
It only briefly occurred ro him ro wonder where he'd left his watchsword.
THIRTEEN
Fayne slammed her fist on the table in the little chamber in Downshadow.
"I should have known." She spat in most unladylike fashion on the array of cards. "Useless. Utterly useless. I should have known you were a perverse little fraud, after you fed me all the drivel about the doppelganger conspiracy."
B'Zeer the Seer—the tiefling who ran this small, illicit "diviner's council" in a hidden chamber in Downshadow, of which only those of questionable honor knew—spread his many-ringed hands. "Divination is an imprecise art, my sweet Satin, and requires much patience."
"Oh, ore shit," Fayne said. "Divination hasn't worked right in Waterdeep for a hundred years." She shoved her scroll of notes in her scrip satchel. "I don't know what I was thinking, coming to a pimply faced voyeur like you."
B'Zeer ran his fingers over the cards and furrowed his brow. His milky white eyes, devoid of pupils, scanned the tabletop, and he scratched at one of his horns. "Now wait, I think I see aught, now. Something to do with your father . . . your need to please him .. . perhaps in—"
"I don't need, some peeping, pus-faced pervert to tell me about
my father, thanks," Fayne said. "I was asking about my dreams—you
know, the girl in blue fire?"
"Ah yes, B'Zeer sees and understands. I believe—"
"Wirh all due respect—and that's none—piss off and die. I have
business to attend to this night, and a tale for rhe Minstrel to deliver
to print."
Fayne exploded from her chair, but a hand clamped around her wrist. She looked down, eyes narrow. "Let go of me, or I will end you."
"This may be a touch indelicate, what I ask now," the seer said. "But what of my coin?"
Fayne glared. "No hrasting service, no hrasting coin." "Call it an entertainment fee," he said. "We all have to eat." "Piss," Fayne said, "off."
He moved faster than a shriveled little devil man should be able to, darting forward and seizing her throat to thrust her against the chamber wall. She saw steel in his other hand.
"You give me my coin," he said, "or I'll take it out of you elsewise."
She should have expected this. Most women in Downshadow were of negotiable virtue. It was simply part of living coin-shy. Particularly amusing were those monsters that took the form of women and revealed themselves only in a passionate embrace. Justice, Fayne thought.
She smiled at B'Zeer dangerously.
"Hark, Seer—it isn't bound to happen," she said. "I think, if you read your destiny, you'll see only you . .. alone but for your hand."
"So you say, birch," rhe tiefling said. "But let us see what—uuk!"
The seer choked and coughed, grasping at himself where she had driven a knife through his bowels. Blackness poured down his legs. He mumbled broken words in his fiendish language—harsh, guttural sounds—but he could summon no magic with his life spilling down his groin.
"If it gives you any comfort," she said as he sank to the floor, "I did warn you."
Then she left him in his small nook in Downshadow, which to him had become a shrinking, blurry world of heaving breaths, pain, and—quite later—wet darkness.
FOURTEEN
As dawn rose, Araezra sat alone in her private room at the barracks. She slapped the broadsheet down on the table and leaned back in her chair, fuming.
"Watch fails to apprehend vigilante in Castle Ward," noted the Mocking Minstrel, this particular tale written by the bard Satin Rutshear. "Clumsy fool Talanna Taenfeather injured in pursuit while narcissistic superior, Araezra Hondyl, parades half-naked through streets."
Araezra groaned. The emphasized words were underlined in a girlish hand.
"Open Lord Neverember calls Araezra's actions 'justified,' saying 'I'm sure she acted for the best' ... in protecting his bedmate interests in the Watch," she read. "Neverember was later seen furtively arriving at Taenfeather's bedside in the temple of Torm, protected by cloaked men."
Then: "For misuse of city taxes to support nonregulated religious bodies, see over''
Araezra rubbed her eyes. The quotations were accurate if slanted, and the additions infuriated her. Lord Neverember and Talanna's energetic flirtations were well known, but had never been put quite this way. The casual cruelty left a foul taste in Araezra's mouth. She stabbed her nails into her palms hard.
And of course, Satin quoted Lord Bladderblat, the broadsheet's ubiquitous parody noble.
"On young Hondyl's competency as a valabrar, Lord Bladderblat calls Hondyl 'too pretty for a thinking woman, but she's got assets; better she find a blade for 'twixt her rhighs than one for her belt— though she can wear the belt to my bed, if she likes.' "
That Araezra was presented as the bedmate of a fiction rankled.
And being described as "young"—true, she was just over twenty, but her rank came from her success, not her beauty.
This wasn't new to her, this ridicule. She'd often tried to track down "Satin Rutshear," but it was just a fancyname, of course. The Minstrel protected its own, and the Lords' command against punishing broadsheet writers and printers stayed Araezra's hand. Violating it would have led to her discharge—but it would have made her feel much better.
"Watch keeps silent on continued threat," Satin went on. "Hondyl has no comment."
In that private, unheard, and thus safe moment, Araezra finally let vent. "Mayhap you might ask, Lady Rutshear," she cried. "I'd give you a comment, well and good—then twist your snobby head off your shoulders, you little whore!"
She balled up the Minstrel and hurled it across the office into the spittoon.
She felt better.
Then she set to repressing her anger into a tight, simmering ball.
Burn her eyes and her waggling tongue, but this "Satin" had the right of it—there was no place for screaming, hysterical lasses in the Guard, particularly not those ranked as highly as she.
This story—and the whole situation it cat-raked with such fiendish glee—was bad enough. If she was going to be humiliated and reprimanded for abandoning her patrol, endangering her men, and landing her second in a bed at the temple of Torm, then at least she could do it with some dignity. The judgmental eyes of the rest of the Watch and Guard, the disapproving glare of Commander Jarthay—they were bad enough.
And where in the Hells was Kalen? He hadn't appeared for duty this morn, and she could really use his shoulder to—
Araezra dropped her face into her hands. She wouldn't cry—she couldn't. Crying was for weak-willed women, and she must be strong—for Talanna, if for nothing else.
Don't think about Talanna, fading in and out of life under the hands of those priests.
She looked instead at the sword on the table, and let its silvery masterwork distract her.
It was a bastard sword, well and good, but deceptively light and sharp. Magical, she knew—it had glowed fiercely silver in Shadowbane's hand, and retained this glow even after he'd left it. Now, sitting cool on her desk, it radiated power at a touch—but balanced power.
A sword is neither good nor evil, she thought, but that its wielder uses it for either.
Araezra looked in particular at the sigil carved into its black hilt: an upright gauntlet with a stylized eye in its open palm. She'd thought at first it was the gauntlet of Torm, but an hour in the room of records had shown her otherwise: it was the symbol of a long-dead church—that of Helm, God of Guardians.
That god—a deity neither inherently evil nor good—had faded since the old world, like many across Faerûn. She'd read one story of his death at the hands of the then-god of justice, Tyr—who had also perished in the last century. That hardly made sense to her: Why would two such gods make war? And why were they not left to resr?
She found this sword a mystery, a relic of an ancient past. Its symbol—in particular, the eye—stared at her wryly, as though amused by its secrets.
She thought about the gauntlets on her own breasrplate—five, for valabrar. Here was only one, for the rank of trusty. But, she noted, the gauntlet adorned both sides of the hilt, making two, for vigilant. And Helm had been called the Vigilant One.
Araezra thought of Kalen, who wore two gauntlets. Something about a ring he wore . ..
But that was ridiculous—with his worsening illness, Kalen could hardly walk fast, much less run. He trained, she knew, and kept his body in excellent condition to stave off the illness he'd told her about—but surely he couldn't outpace Talanna Taenfeather.
She was startled out of her thoughts when a loud knock came at the door. She wiped at her cheeks and was aghast that her hand came away damp. "Come," she said.
The door opened and Bors Jarthay glided into the room, his
face solemn. Standing at attention, Araezra felt a chill of terror and grief.
"Talanna," Araezra said. "How—how is she?"
Bors narrowed his eyes. "Well, Rayse—I don't know the best way to say this . .."
Tears welled up in Araezra's eyes and her lip rrembled.
"She'll be . .." Bors whispered, "perfectly well."
Araezra's heart skipped a beat. "Wait—what?"
"Healing went fine, and she'll be well," the commander said. "A little wrathful, but generally her precocious, loud, and—ow!" Araezra slapped him. "Heh. Suppose I deserved that."
Araezra slapped him again. "Gods burn you! Why do you have to do that?"
He smiled gently. "All's well, Rayse."
"You monstrous oaf!" She wound back to strike again. "Damn you to all the Hells!"
Bors caught her wrist, pulled her to him, and hugged her. "All's well," he whispered.
Stunned, she put her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. Tears came—thankful, angry tears—and she didn't stop them.
"You ever want to talk, lass," he said. "I'm here."
"Just... another moment." Then she glared up at him. "And don't think this means anything. With all due respect, you're still a boor and won't be seeing me naked any time soon."
Bors sighed. "Mores the pity."
He hugged her tighter.
FIFTEEN
Ralen woke with the kind of splitting headache that comes after one has slept only moments in the space of several hours. He felt as though he'd never bedded down at all. His nose was stuffy and he coughed and sneezed to clear it.
Worse, he was numb all over. He allowed himself one horrified breath before he tried to move his senseless hands. With some hesitation, they rose, and he pressed them to his cheeks. "Thank the gods," Kalen whispered.
Cellica srood in the room, a bucket of water in her hands. She looked a touch disappointed, and moved the water behind her back. "Well!" she said. "About time."
Kalen groaned.
"Get up, Sir Slug, and come have aught to eat. Our guest has been at the stew all morning, and if you don't make haste, it might be gone." As he started to sit up, she glanced down, then back up at his face, unashamed. "And put those on." She pointed at a pair of black hose, crumpled at the foot of his bed.
Kalen realized he was naked, which made sense. He hadn't donned aught last night.
"Try and be presentable for our guest."
"Guest?" he managed as he plucked up the hose, but the halfling was already gone.
The highsun light filtered through his shuttered window, and deep shadows undercut his eyes in the mirror. His wiry chest, with its familiar scars, gleamed back at him. Stubble gone to an early gray studded his chin and neck. Generally, he looked and felt terrible. Pushing himself too hard, he decided.
"Gods," he murmured.
He paused at the door to his bedchamber and fought down a wave
of dizziness. His legs felt beyond exhausted. He still hadn't recovered from his flight from Talanna and Araezra.
"Fair morn, Risen Sun," said Cellica when Kalen staggered out to morningfeast—or highsunfeast. She turned to the table with a brilliant smile. "Myrin? This is Kalen."
Kalen realized someone else was in the room—a tawny-skinned young woman who couldn't have seen more than twenty winters, with shoulder-length hair of a hue like cut sapphire, who seemed more bone than flesh. He remembered her now—the woman in the alley from the night before.
"Oh!" She blushed, casting her eyes away from his bare chest.
Kalen grunted something like "well met"—which sounded more like "wuhlmt."
Myrin wore a ratty, sweat-stained tunic and a pair of loose breeches—his, Kalen realized. Being far too big, they made her look even more frail than when he had carried her home.
"I hope you don't mind," Cellica said to Kalen. "None of my things would fit her."
"Huh." Words didn't come easily to Kalen in the morning.
The halfling, however, was at her most garrulous just after sleep. "Nothing fashionable, but at least they're clothes." Cellica winked. "Not like you provided any lasr night."
Kalen grunted and looked to the cook pot, in which the remainder of the morning simmer stew bubbled warmly. He fished a roundloaf out of the box by the hearth, hollowed it out, and spooned in a healthy dollop. The stew had a sharp, pungent aroma from the many spices Cellica had added—she knew his illness stole his sense of taste as well as touch, so she took pride in making food that he could taste. He limped back to the table, sat on the stool Cellica had vacated, and stared across at Myrin.
Heedless of the tears rolling down her cheeks at the heat of the spices, Myrin was eating like she hadn't eaten in years, and seeing how skinny she was, maybe she hadn't. She licked up Cellica's stew with wild abandon, and Cellica brought her another roundloaf while Kalen sat there, picking at his stew. The halfling was smiling grandly, and Kalen imagined she was thrilled to practice her adoptive mother's
recipes on someone who appreciated their full taste.
Kalen nodded at Myrin. "So ... who is she?" he asked Cellica.
Myrin paused in her eating and looked to Kalen. Cellica sniffed.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Cellica's manner was sweet, so her suggestion didn't strike him as a command.
Kalen looked at Myrin sidelong. "You can talk?" He winced at Cellica's glare.
"I. . ." she said. "I can talk."
Cellica beamed. "Go on, peach," the halfling said. "Tell him what you told me!"
Myrin looked shyly at the table.
Cellica clapped her hands. "She's a mys-ter-y!" she exclaimed, pronouncing the word in excited syllables, like this was a great adventure. "She doesn't know who she is or where she came from—only her name and a few things from her childhood."
Kalen looked at Myrin, who was staring at her bread. "Aye?"
Myrin nodded.
"Naught else?" Like how I found you naked in an alley, he thought, speaking gibberish?
"Kalen!" Cellica snapped at his tone. "Manners!"
Myrin only shook her head. "I remember a little ... a little about when I was small." Her voice was thin, and her words were oddly accented—old, like something out of a bardic tale.
"My mother—her name was Shalis—she raised me alone. I never knew my father. I was apprenticed to a wizard—his name was ... I don't remember." She sniffed. "I can see these things, but they seem far away—like dreams. Like I slept years and never woke."
Kalen eyed her tanned coloration. Her complexion was exotic— Calishite, perhaps, though mixed with something else entirely. A whisper of elf heritage was about her as well—not a parent, but perhaps a grandparent. It was clear she would be quite beautiful when she grew to womanhood, but she was yet on the verge.
"Aught else?" he asked. "Homeland?"
Myrin shrugged.
"Was it city or countryside?" Cellica glared and Kalen added: "If you remember."
"City," Myrin said slowly. Her eyes glazed. "It was always cold... cold off the sea. Gray stone buildings, sand on the streets. Nights spent locked inside while terrors waited without. They waited, you see—the crearures in the night. Masks of shadows."
Cellica looked anxiously at Kalen, who only shook his head. "What city?" he asked.
"West, it was called," she said. "West. . . aught else, but I don't remember."
"Westgate?" Cellica suggested.
Myrin shook her head. "Mayhap."
Kalen shrugged. "Could be," he said. "I don't know what 'terrors'. you would mean—there haven't been anything but men in the shadows of that city for a century, almost. Not since Gedrin and his knights drove the vampires out..."
He trailed off as Myrin looked down, her shoulders shaking as though she would cry. Cellica cast Kalen a sharp look, and he sighed.
They sat in silence for many breaths—perhaps a hundred count— saying nothing. Kalen ate a few spoonfuls of his stew, but it was tasteless to him. He drank his mulled cider and tried not to feel so awful.
As he did so, he gazed at Myrin, exploring the contours of her exotic face, trying to figure out where she had come from. She wasn't exactly beautiful without that crown of flames she'd been wearing in the alley, Kalen thought, but there remained a certain girlish appeal to her delicate features. Wearing Kalen's old shirt made her look like a child, too—in a dress or even a real gown . ..
Cellica caught him staring. "You've another question, Sir Longing-Gaze?"
Myrin's head shot up and her eyes went wide in expectation. "Mind your stew," Kalen said to Cellica, harsher than he intended.
Myrin looked back down, blushing. Cellica's wry smile became a chiding frown.
Kalen ignored them both and turned back to his mostly untouched roundloaf, only to find nothing but his spoon on the table. He looked across to where Myrin was contentedly eating his morningfeast with her hands. Curious—he hadn't thought her reach so long.
"Do you need a spoon, peach?" asked Cellica.
"Sorry," rhe girl said. "I don't mean to be rude—I'm just so hungry." She looked at Kalen's spoon and murmured something under her breath that Kalen didn't understand.
Cellica reached for the spoon as though to give it to Myrin, but it skittered away, rose into the air, and floated to Myrin's hand. She caught it and set immediately to spooning stew to her mouth. Kalen and Cellica looked at one another, then at her.
Myrin, looking nervous in the silence, blinked at them. "What?"
"Lass," the halfling said. "Was that a spell?" "Of course," Myrin said. "Can't—" She blushed. "Can't everyone do that?"
Kalen and Cellica exchanged another glance. Myrin went back to eating.
Before anyone could say more, there came a loud knock at the door, and Cellica fell off her stool with a startled gasp. Myrin didn't seem to notice and went right on eating. Kalen reached for Vindicator by instinct, and only then remembered he didn't have the blade any more—or his watchsword, for that matter. Bane's breath, where had he left that?
"Hark," he said. "Who calls?"
No answer came.
He seized a long knife from the table and reversed it, the better to conceal the blade against his forearm. Cellica grasped the crossbow amulet around her throat and Kalen nodded. He rose, a finger to his lips, and crossed to the door.
He put his left hand on the latch and lifted it as silently as he could, keeping his body shielded by rhe wall. Then he threw open the door and raised the knife . . .
A familiar red-haired half-elf, clad in a plain leather skirt and vest over a white shirt, leaped over the threshold into his arms. "Shadow, dearest!" she exclaimed.
Her lips found his and he could see only the stunned expressions on Cellica's and Myrin's faces.
SIXTEEN
Wheeling around for balance, Kalen managed to break the kiss and breathe.
Fayne seemed undaunted. "Shadow! It's been so long!" She hugged him tightly and squealed.
He blinked over her shoulder ro rhe table, where Cellica was staring at him in shock. Myrin looked at him, then the newcomer, then down at her stew—she seemed to shrink on her stool. Cellica looked halfway between angry and wonderstruck.
"Oh, Shadow, we'll have such a glorious time at the revel," she said, emphasizing her words breathlessly. "I can't believe you have an invitation—I can't wait to wear my dress! Oh!"
Kalen could hardly breathe, she held him so hard.
"Kalen," Cellica asked slowly, "Kalen, who is this? What revel?"
"I—urph," Kalen said as the woman kissed him again, cutting off any words. This kiss was harder than the first, more insistent, and he tasted her tongue in his mouth.
A little hand tugged the hem of the half-elf s vest. "Pardon, lass," Cellica asked, hands on her hips. "Who . . . who are you?"
"I'm Fayne," the half-elf said, lacing her fingers through Kalen's. "A.. .friendof Shadow, here—I mean, Sir Kalen Dren." She winked conspiratorially.
Kalen could only stare when Cellica looked at him. "I don't know her," he said.
"She knows you" the halfling quipped. Then, eyes widening: "She knows? About—"
"Of course I know," Fayne said with a laugh. Then she looked between them and put her hand over her mouth in mock fear. "What, is it a secret?"
Cellica's face turned bright red, and Kalen shivered. "It's not how it looks—"
Kalen saw Fayne glance at Myrin, and she hesitated half a breath. Then she let loose a squeal. "Who's this, Kalen? She's adorable!"
Myrin's eyes widened as Fayne rushed to her and hugged her around the neck, then proceeded to fuss over her like a child with a kitten. Myrin stared at Kalen, stunned.
A tiny blue rune appeared on Myrin's cheek, Kalen saw, where Fayne had touched. But before he could comment, a halfling finger poked him insistently and he looked down.
"What's going on?" Cellica looked furious. "Kalen, who is this woman?"
"I don't—" Kalen's head hurt even worse than when he had risen. "I can explain."
"Oh." Cellica climbed up on her stool and crossed her arms. "This should be grand."
Myrin looked positively mouselike at the table under Fayne's attentions.
"Better make it fast," Fayne noted, drawing out the word. "Someone else is coming up." Kalen's heart skipped. "Who?"
"A woman," Fayne said. "Very pretty—gorgeous, even. Long dark hair, deep blue eyes. Armed and armored. Five gauntlets on her..." Fayne made a gesture across her collarbone and giggled. "Why—" She smiled. "Do you know her?"
"Tymora guard us," Cellica said. "That's Rayse."
"Who's Rayse?" Fayne looked at Kalen jealously. "Another lass friend?"
"His superior, Araezra Hondyl!" Cellica said. "You were supposed to report this morn, Sir Snores-a-bed!" Cellica stared, wide-eyed, at Kalen. "What do we—?"
Kalen was in motion, crossing to the table.
Fayne purred at him. "You're quite the man, to have so many—hey!"
Kalen seized her by the arm and hauled her toward a closet, in
which hung their spare clothes. He pushed her in, despite muffled protests, and stepped in himself.
"Kalen!" Cellica hissed. "What am I supposed to tell her?"
Kalen shrugged—he couldn't think, except that he knew he couldn't let Araezra catch them.
He shut the door behind them.
Myrin took very close care to stare at her stew the whole time.
She didn't know what was going on—where she was, who rhese people were, or anything—but just because she remembered nothing didn't mean she was an idiot. She'd seen that red-haired girl—Fayne— and the way she touched Kalen.
Of course he's got a lass friend, you fool, she thought. What did you expect?
She fancied she could still feel Fayne's fingers on her cheeks—the way the half-elf had prodded at her, grinning all the while. The touch lingered and Myrin felt oddly full, though it was not just from all the stew she had eaten. She felt full in spirit.
Maybe it was just Kalen looking at you, she thought. You're such a girl!
Cellica looked at her, and her mouth drooped in a sympathetic frown. She threw up her hands. "He's not always so," she said. "Just. . . hold a moment."
Myrin opened her mouth to speak, but she felt a gentle pressure in her ears—a voice rhat itched at her mind, telling her to remain in her seat. Magic. She stayed sitting, wondering.
Cellica got up and started toward the door, which Fayne had left open. In the corridor, Myrin saw with a stabbing curdle in her stomach, stood a very lovely and very angry lady. She had sleek, glossy black hair and liquid eyes bound in a face like that of a wrathful nymph. The woman wore a uniform, but Myrin did not know what sort. Little about this world seemed familiar to her thus far.
"Rayse!" Cellica said. "What a surprise! Won't you come"—the dark-haired woman swept into the chamber past the halfling—"in?"
"Well—" Araezra pulled up short and stared. "Well met?"
After an awkward breath, Myrin realized she was talking to her. "Oh . .. well met."
Araezra looked confused. "I'm sorry—have we met? I don't know you."
"Uh—I'm . . . I'm Myrin." Her fingers curled and her heart thudded. Why did they all have to be so perfect''. "I'm . .. uh ..."
Her brow furrowing, Araezra looked to Cellica.
"You probably want Kalen," the halfling said. "He's . . . ah—"
"It's very important," Araezra said. "He was supposed to report for duty this morn, and I haven't seen him." She glared toward Myrin, whose cheeks felt like they might burst into flame. She picked at her blue hair and wished it weren'r so straggly.
Myrin wondered if Kalen wasn't some kind of nobleman, or rich merchant, or perhaps the lord of a harem, to have this many lasses flocking to his door. She wasn't cerrain where she'd heard that word "harem" before—it was floating somewhere in the back of her mind. Elusive, like a shard of a dream that danced just on the edge of her awareness.
Like her mother's face. Like all her memories.
"I'll tell him when I see him," Cellica said. "He's ... he might be with Commander Jarthay. They were bound for the Siren yestereve. Perhaps they're still there?"
Araezra glanced at Myrin, who tried to shrink smaller. She looked back at Cellica. "You didn't . . ." she said awkwardly. "You didn't happen to read the Minstrel this morn?"
Cellica folded her hands behind her back. "No, absolutely not."
"Cellica."
"Well, yes—" The halfling winced. She waved her hands. "But it's horribly unfair! You aren't like that at all. That's just bloody Satin Rutshear."
Araezra smiled and sighed. "My thanks. I—I just have to find Kalen. We need to talk."
Cellica nodded. "I'll tell him when I see him."
The halfling looked at Myrin as though expecting her to say aught, but Myrin had no idea what to say. She couldn't stop staring at Araezra, who was the most beautiful woman she had ever
seen—that she could remember, anyway.
Araezra didn't leave. She bit her prerty lip, and Myrin saw her eyes were damp.
Cellica shrugged. "Berter have a seat, dear. Would you like cider?"
The armored woman nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Kalen stood inside the closet, hands pressed flat against the sides.
Crushed against the inside wall, every inch of her body just a hair's breadth from his bare chest and loose hose, Fayne blinked at him with her gray eyes. She was about the width of a hand shorter, and he could feel her brearh against his bare chest. His lips were level with the bridge of her nose, arid he had the unsettling urge to plant a kiss on her forehead. Something about her made him want to kiss her.
She wore a wry little grin.
"Do not," he said.
Fayne smiled and edged a little closer to him, pressing her breasts to his chest and her mouth near his ear. "I wouldn't dream of it." Her tone wasn't girlish at all, but sharp. He felt, uncomfortably, as though all of this was according ro her plan.
Kalen bit his lip. "Be still."
"You think your valabrar will hear?" That word confirmed his suspicions—she'd tricked him and knew full well what Araezra was doing there. All of this was her scheme, including hiding with him. "Oh, I promise—no one will hear anything we do in here."
A little tingle ran through Kalen. "Why would you fear Araezra finding you here ?"
"I've made enough women jealous to know the look."
"Is this a trick?" Kalen asked. "Who are you?"
"Does that really matter?"
"How do you know . . ." He bit his lip. "How do you know who I am?"
"Again, is it meant to be a secret?" Fayne stretched just the tiniest
bit, rippling across Kalen's body. Whoever she was, Kalen thought, she knew how to move.
"How did you find me?"
She grinned. "Did you think yourself hidden?"
"Do you answer every question with a question?"
"Don't you?"
Kalen's voice almost broke. "Damn it, lass, I—" "Hold a moment."
Fayne slid down his chest and belly, startling him. If Kalen hadn't been concentrating on staying quiet, he would have gasped and fallen backward our of the closet.
He heard the rustle of cloth and felt Fayne's head brush his thigh.
"What the Hells?" he snapped. "Pardon . .. almost... ah."
She stretched back up, slowly and languidly, and presented to him a ring of silver, etched with an eye sigil. "Dropped this. So clumsy." "That's mine," Kalen said.
"Was," she corrected. "Or were you going to take it back?" She pressed her hip against his. "I would love to see you try."
Kalen tried to ignore the threat—and implicit offer. "What could be staying them?"
"Lass talk, I imagine." Fayne shrugged, which made him tingle. "It lets us be alone."
Kalen turned his full attention on her. "Who are you?"
"I told you," she said. "Fayne is my name."
"No, it isn't."
She put her hands on her hips. "And why not?" "Feign ? You think me a simpleton ?"
"Ha!" she said. "Very well. My true name," she said grandly, "is Feit."
"Really? Counter-^/r?"
"Damn!" She giggled, a touch of her assumed girlishness coming back.
"Enough." Kalen glared at her. "Unveil yourself, girl, or gods help me, I will burst out of this closet and get us both caught."
Fayne's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't dare" she said.
"I have only embarrassment in front of my superior to fear," Kalen said. "You, on the other hand—I believe you are a thief and a scoundrel and have considerably more to lose."
"Well, then." Fayne dared him with her eyes.
Kalen started to move.
"Wait," she said, throwing her arms around him and holding him back. "Mercy. Gods! Don't get so excited." She held up the ring in the flat of her palm, near her face.
Kalen took it, and while he was distracted, she kissed him again.
He pulled away, thumping his head on the ceiling. Thankfully, Fayne did not follow, just stood there smiling wryly at him.
"Very well, my captor—what would you have of me?" She winked. 'Ware you don't ask too much—this is naught but our second meeting. I usually wait until the third, at least."
Kalen ignored her and perked his ears—Araezra was still talking, but her voice sounded no nearer than before.
"You call yourself Fayne—very well," he said. "Why are you here? What is your game?"
"My game, dearest Vigilant Dren," Fayne said, "is a mysrery by its nature. The hints are in the playing." Still holding him, she pressed her cheek against his chest and purred. "You must be an active man. Not only does it look passing well, but it feels like a rock."
"Uh . . ." The numbness in his body wouldn't let him sense her hands.
"Hard as stone." She nuzzled his chest, and he felt a tingle. "I like the scars, as well."
Your chest, idiot, Kalen thought. Keep the thinking in your head!
"Answer my other questions," he said. "You are here for some purpose. Is it coin you want? I have little enough, but it's yours."
"Nothing of rhe sort!" Fayne looked insulted. "I'm in no such business except"—she shook her hair back grandly—"the business of misery and scandal." Her voice was sweet.
"You must be a writer," he murmured.
"Pique!" Fayne smiled brilliantly. "I don't often tell folk this, but I am, in fact, a writer for a little rag you might know: the Mocking Minstrel."
Kalen narrowed his eyes. "Satin Rutshear," he murmured.
"What a guess!" Fayne narrowed her eyes and licked her lips. "Can you read my mind?"
"No," Kalen said. "She's just the only one wicked enough."
"What charm," Fayne purred. "I like you more and more every breath, Shadowbane."
Kalen gritted his teeth behind a hard smile. What was taking Araezra so long? Why didn't she leave? Fayne was looking at him so directly, so boldly with those deep gray eyes ... he wondered how long he had before his words—or his body—betrayed him.
"I was hoping ro persuade you," Fayne said, "to take me to the revel on the morrow."
Kalen frowned. "Revel?"
"So that's..." Araezra said. She'd stopped crying halfway through her story, in no small part due to the aid of a steaming mug of cider from the fire. "That's what happened. It was an accident. Tal . . . Talanna jumped too far and couldn't make it."
"Mmm," Cellica said, nodding.
Myrin, taking the cue, nodded as well, though she had no idea what they were talking about. Shadowbane, though—that was Kalen. She kept her mouth shut.
"I can't understand it," Araezra said. "This Shadowbane seemed—I don't know. He didn't want to be caught, but he helped me out of the pit when he could have run. And when Tal was hurt, he helped her. Do those sound like the acts of a criminal to you?"
Cellica shrugged. "Not at all."
"Then why the mask?" Araezra asked.
"I'm sure he has his reasons," Cellica said. "It's all very romantic, isn't it? Like something you'd find in a chapbook. But I'm sure"— Myrin noted her glance at the closet—"I'm sure that whoever rhis Shadowbane is, he feels just as badly about Talanna."
Araezra shrugged.
"Talanna . . ." Cellica sipped her cider and asked, cautiously, "She'll be well, aye?"
Araezra nodded. She seemed to catch Myrin looking at her, and her deep blue eyes flicked to meet her gaze. Myrin hid behind her big cider mug as best she could.
"And you—Myrin, aye? What say you?"
"It... it all sounds so exciting," she said. "I can't imagine. Um." Myrin took a mouthful of cider, burned her tongue, and choked.
Araezra shifted uncomfortably. "And how do you know Kalen, Myrin?"
"She doesn't," Cellica said. "She's a . . . friend, from Westgate. My friend. Not his."
Araezra pursed her lips. "But you've met Kalen, aye?"
"Oh, aye!" Myrin said, and immediarely wished she'd restrained herself.
"And what do you think of him?" Araezra asked, looking at Myrin closely.
"He's so—" Myrin looked at Cellica, who was frantically shaking her head. "Kuh-kind," she said. She looked down at the spoon she was fiddling with nervously. "So very kind. Yes."
"Kind?" Araezra frowned at Cellica, who grinned helplessly. "Perhaps you know a different Kalen than I do."
Myrin's mouth moved but she couldn't find words.
"Look—gods above, I'm sure I don't want to know," Araezra said. "Vigilant Dren's life is his own, and he clearly intends to keep it that way." She stood, leaned over ro kiss Cellica on the cheek, and nodded to Myrin. "Coins bright." She crossed to the rack by the window where she'd left her grearcoat.
Myrin leaned toward Cellica. "What does that mean?" she asked. "Coins bright?"
"Traditional Waterdhavian saying. 'May fortune smile,' or the sort."
"Oh." Myrin cradled her mug. "She's so sweet." The halfling whispered back. "I believe she thinks you're a doxy or some such."
"A what?"
The halfling blushed and shook her head. "Never you mind." "Cellica," said Araezra from near the window. "Are these blood stains?"
Myrin and the halfling both looked toward Araezra, where she knelt investigating a pair of red marks on the sill and floor.
"Oh, just me," Cellica said. "I mean—I made a pie and set it there to cool, and it spilled a bit. You know how treacherous balancing at the window can be. You know."
Again, Myrin felt that tickle in her ears that indicated magic was afoot. Cellica's voice had an enchantment of some sort about it, that took hold when she was either angry or concentrating on making her words strike. It was working on Araezra, who shrugged.
"Well, rhen," she said. "Coins brighr. Tell Kalen I came to call." She headed out the door.
Cellica breathed a great sigh of relief. After a moment, she crossed to the closet, grasped the latch, and flicked it open.
Kalen tumbled out, the red-haired half-elf on top of him. The halfling put her hands on her hips and looked down ar them both.
One breath, Kalen was standing in the closet, practically hugging Fayne, and the next he was on the floor, straddled by Fayne. He blinked up at Cellica, whose face was stormy, and over at Myrin, who looked away.
"Is she gone?" Fayne asked. "Excellent!" She bounded up and straightened her skirt. "Well, I should be off. I'll see you at highsun before the revel on the morrow? Outstanding."
"Revel?" asked Cellica. "Tomorrow?"
"Ah." Kalen got to his feet, mumbling. "That scroll I gave you. The one I told you to—"
"You mean . . ." The halfling plucked a small, crumpled scroll out of a pocket and held it up in both hands. "You don't mean our revel?"
"Our revel?" Fayne asked, mouth wide. She glared at Kalen. "Please?" Cellica turned her eyes up at Kalen. "The yearly costume
revel at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass—I've been saving coin for just such a windfall. Please—please?"
"Ah—" Kalen said. He looked at Myrin, who shrugged.
Fayne put her hands on her hips. "Sweet wee one," she said. "But Kalen's my escort."
"Is that so?" the halfling said. Though she reached only to Fayne's belly, she stood just as strong, arms crossed over her breast. "And don't you ever call me 'wee.' "
Fayne smirked and crossed her arms. "Well, if you weren't such a little thing—"
Kalen was suddenly immersed in rhe midst of a firestorm that flowed from the women's lips. Their argument was just as loud, just as fast, and just as deadly as any duel he had ever survived—and many he'd run from. The one and only time he tried to step in, they upbraided him so sharply and fiercely that he reeled as though struck.
The situation was a mess. He'd been planning to give the invitation to Fayne just to get rid of her, but Cellica wanted to go as well. If he gave it away, he would never hear the end of it, and if he didn't please Fayne, then gods only knew what would happen.
"Choose one of us," Cellica said, and Kalen felt compelled by that voice of hers. "Choose one of us ladies, right here, right now."
"Aye." Fayne tossed her hair over her shoulders. "Thar choice should be obvious."
"Only if he dreams of maids half elf, half giant," added Cellica.
Fayne smirked. "Unless he prefers lighrer fare—girl-children, perhaps?"
Cellica's face went brighr red.
The ladies went back to bickering sharply, throwing turns of phrase that would have made the best broadsheet satirists applaud.
Kalen turned his eyes on Myrin at the table, who blushed down at her hands in her lap. She was a buoy of genrle calm in a sea of dueling, querulous words. She saw Kalen looking at her and blinked. Then she smiled gently—demurely—and went back to looking embarrassed.
Finally, head spinning and aching, Kalen closed his eyes and pointed. "I'll go with her."
Cellica and Fayne looked at him, then at his finger.
"You're taking her?" Fayne asked, eyes dangerous. "The blue-haired waif?"
Kalen pointed at Myrin. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Cellica grinned widely.
"How sweet! Myrin could use a gown—gods know she can't go on wearing Kalen's things all her days." She sneered at Fayne. "I'm sure we can dress her better than this ogre."
Ignoring that, Fayne rounded on Kalen. "Why is she wearing your clothes?"
"Better than, you wearing them," said Cellica. "Though they might fit you, she-whale."
Fayne blushed so fiercely that her face matched her hair. "Whar?" She investigated her backside. "There's not a drop of blubber there. Unlike certain halflings—"
As they fell to bickering again, Kalen looked at Myrin. Her mouth drooped in a lonely frown and her eyes were cast toward her hands, which were bunched into fists on the table. Kalen watched as she clenched her fists harder and harder.
A splotch of blue appeared on her wrist, then branched into lines of tiny runes—like a sprouting vine of ivy—that spread up her arm.
"Just because I'm not the perfect height for—cub!" Fayne's words ended in a cough.
Grasping her throat, Fayne burbled a cry and slumped, hands clutching her head. She would have fallen, but Kalen caught her. Her hands tightened into claws on Kalen's bare chest.
"What's happening?" Cellica cried, terrified.
Fayne was looking around wildly, a look of sheer rage on her face. She murmured words in a language Kalen did not know and clutched at her forehead as though to smother a fire inside.
Kalen looked to Myrin, who sat at the table staring vacantly at the reeling Fayne. Her skin had sprouted an entire lattice of blue runes growing across her shoulder and down her arm. Her eyes glowed like stars.
Flames leaked from Fayne's hand—dark magic. Her eyes scanned the room as though searching for a foe. Kalen realized she was staring righr at Myrin but didn't seem able to see her.
Yet.
"Stop!" Kalen snapped.
Myrin jumped, fell out of her chair, and scrambled against the wall. "Uh?"
Fayne moaned and slumped against Kalen, panting. The agony slipped away from her face, but her anger burned all the brighter. She glared, still seemingly unable to see Myrin.
The hate in her eyes shivered Kalen to his core.
Cellica's eyes darted back and forth between Kalen and Myrin. She seemed not to notice Myrin's eyes or runes—rhe girl's eyes had been locked on the half-elf. "What was that?"
"Damn," Fayne murmured, touching her head as rhough it were tender. "Damn me for good and all." She shook her head and looked to the table, where she finally was able to see Myrin. Her lips curled like those of an angry canine, and Kalen half expected to see fangs. But no, her teeth were quite normal.
"Wait," Kalen whispered to Fayne.
She looked up at him, gray eyes slowly draining of rage—and replaced by wariness. "Aye?"
Kalen fell into communion with his threefold god, fingers curling around his gauntlet-etched ring. His hands glowed, attracting Myrin's and Cellica's awed gazes. Healing power flowed inro Fayne, easing her breathing.
She closed her eyes and nuzzled her cheek against his hand. "Oh, Shadow," she said.
"Kalen," he corrected.
"Hrmm." Fayne moved away—a little wobbly, but that might have been feigned. "If you're taking blue-hair girl, then I'll just have to wait until next time, won't I?"
She winked at Kalen in a way that assured him there would indeed be a next time.
"You don't—you don't have to," Cellica said. "Let me look at you. I've a healer's—"
"No need!" Fayne gave Cellica a winning smile and bent to kiss her on the forehead. "I'll be just fine." She tossed a glare at Myrin. "Just fine."
The half-elf left.
Kalen glanced at Cellica and Myrin. The halfling stood, pale faced, near the door, staring after Fayne. At the table, Myrin looked terrified. Blue runes adorned the left side of her face.
Kalen sighed. "I'll see her home," he said. "Wherever home is."
He grabbed his spare uniform, the black coat of leather and plate with its two gauntlets of rank. Heedless of whether they watched, he pulled off his hose and dressed.
With an eep! Myrin blushed and looked away.
Cellica looked hard at Kalen. "Do you know where?" she asked.
Kalen shrugged.
"So you really don't know her, eh?" the halfling said brightly. Kalen laced up his breeches and shrugged on the harness straps. "You ... you're still taking Myrin to the revel on the morrow?" Kalen shrugged. It hardly seemed relevant. "Well, then," Cellica said. She smiled.
Myrin pressed her back against the wall and slid down, trembling and hot in the face. What had she done?
She stared at her hands and her heart leaped. Little blue marks showed vividly against her left palm. She rubbed at them, as one might dirt smudges, but they didn't come off. She pulled up the sleeve of the old tunic, breathing hard. She found more marks traveling up her arm. She scratched hard at her skin, trying desperately to get rid of them, but she drew blood.
She touched her cheek, which tingled. In the small mirror across the room, she saw a vine of blue runes running along her throat and up her face. She sat, rigid in horror, and tried vainly to stay calm. The marks were moving—shrinking.
Soon, they faded entirely, and she could breathe again.
Fayne had gone, she realized, and Kalen—fully dressed and about to follow—was sraring at her. His icy eyes glittered balefully. When Myrin opened her mouth, nothing came out. Wordlessly, Kalen srrode into the corridor and banged the door shut.
Myrin looked down at her hands. Tears welled in her eyes. "Don't mind him." Cellica appeared at her side, smiling. "He's just a glowering bastard." "Really?" Myrin sniffed.
"Yes," she said. "I know what will make you feel better." Her eyes twinkled. "Dresses!"
SEVENTEEN
flThen she realized Kalen wasn't in the Room of Records either, If Araezra slammed her fist on the table. Pain flared and she kissed her wrist to lessen it.
Damn that Kalen—where the Hells was he? He wasn't at home, and he wasn't anywhere at the barracks. This, the Room of Records, was his favorite place—it was peaceful and quiet, and he could read. Where could he be?
And who the Hells was that girl? Wearing his tunic, with hair like that? Had he brought a ^irl home from the Smiling Siren?
She felt sick. Everything was going wrong that day—everything. Except for Jarthay being so kind, she'd have sworn this was still a nightmare. The commander being sensitive made it seem more a fever dream.
Who was that girl? Gods, had Kalen fallen in love with someone else? Gods!
In her anger, Araezra hadn't noticed the door quierly opening or anyone entering. Only as she sat there, willing herself not to cry, did gooseflesh rise on her arms. She realized she was no longer alone. "Who's there?" she asked. "Kalen?"
Light vanished from the room and she gasped. The Room of Records had no windows, and with the door shut, it was utterly lightless. Pushing her uneasy shivers aside, she pur her fingers to the amulet she and those of her rank wore and whispered a word in Elvish. The medallion glowed with a gentle green light, softly illumining the room around her.
She made out the desk nearby and anchored herself. The candle on the edge of the desk gave off a little plume of smoke from its too-short wick.
"Fool girl," she said. "Scared by a burned-out candle."
She saw another source of light, then, coming from her belt. She froze and reached down, very slowly, to the hilt of Shadowbane's sword. She remembered that it had scalded her hand before, but the hilt was no longer warm to the touch. Instead, it felt cool and comfortable. Right. Light leaked around the edges of the scabbard and she drew it forth, gasping in awe at the silver shimmer that fell from it.
"Gods," she murmured. She cut the blade twice through the air, marveling at the way the light trailed. It felt so efficient—a killing weapon, beautiful and deadly.
Then she thought she saw movement against the wall. "What was—?"
She crepr forward, Shadowbane's sword held before her like a talisman. She approached, letting the circle of light creep closer and closer to the wall, until—
Nothing.
Nothing had moved—it was just a Watch greatcoat hung on a peg by the disused hearth.
Araezra loosed a nervous breath.
Then a man was there, leaping inside her guard. She gasped and tried to slash, but he was too fast, batting the sword out of her hands. The weapon spun end over end toward the door and clattered to the floor. Her attacker seized her by the throat and hip and crushed her against the wall. She could see, by the dim, flickering light of the sword, that it was a smooth-faced dwarf. His features were flawless, making him look all the more monstrous to her eyes. She knew his name—remembered Kalen menrioning a beardless dwarf.
"Arrath Vir," she squeaked.
"I am pleased that you know me," the dwarf said. "It means you might be useful." He fixed her eyes with his own. "Tell me—who is seeking me? A name."
"Piss—urk!" He pressed his arm tighter against her throat, cutting off air.
"Know rhat you are mine to slay on a whim." His eyes bored into hers. "You are powerless. The Warchmen in the barracks—all those swords and shields sworn to serve this city. All those men who hunger for your beauty. All of them mean nothing to you now."
Her face felt as though it would burst from the pressure within. As though he sensed this, Rath eased his arm enough that she could breathe.
"All the years spent cultivating your life—everything you learned as a child, all the pointless loves and hates that have defined who you are. All of it ends, here and now, at my whim." He smiled gently. "You will die at my hands, no matter what you do now."
Araezra gasped but could not speak. She could barely breathe.
"Aye," he said. "But you've a choice. Aid me, and I shall make your death a painless one. Do not, and I shall not."
Araezra looked over Rath's shoulder.
"What say you?" The dwarf eased his grasp so she could just choke out words.
"Pick... it... up," Araezra said.
Rath looked back, and there stood Kalen Dren.
Kalen had trailed Fayne through the streets as best he could, but she was like a devil to follow. She would vanish around a corner and appear elsewhere, a dozen paces to one side or another. Eventually he lost her entirely.
Perhaps it was good riddance—to be free of whatever scheme she'd concocted for the revel—bur in truth, no small part of him wanted to see her again. To finish whar they'd started.
But duty came before beguiling lasses who showed up at his door unannounced, and so he made his way to the barracks. Araezra was hot in any of her usual haunts—her office, the commons, the training yard—and Kalen was a little relieved. He didn't feel like facing her, and if duty had called her away before he got the chance, then so be it. After Talanna had been hurt, he didn't feel like he could lie to Araezra anymore.
He reached the unlatched door of the Room of Records—just a little ajar, so he could see inside—and froze. Rath was inside, holding Araezra captive.
At first, neither of them noticed his appearance, so he kept to the shadows and stood, unmoving, in the doorway. He was not
wearing Shadowbane's leathers and cloak, but the Guard uniform was black and he could use that to his advantage. He called upon the lessons he'd learned firsr in Luskan—-how to stand still and silent—and thought hard.
Kalen's instinct was to strike, but he suppressed it. Rath held Araezra at such an angle that if Kalen stepped forward, the surprise could prove fatal for her. With his training as a thief, Kalen could kill the dwarf in one, fast blow, but he could not cross the room without one or the other noting him. The silver glow of Vindicator illumined the room enough for that.
Neither could he cry out for guards—as Araezra would surely die in the confusion. And if he went to get aid quietly, he would be abandoning his friend to death.
He had to do something, though. He had—
He had no sword. The scabbard at his belt was empty.
How had he forgotten that? He had dropped the blade when he brought Myrin back, and never retrieved it. He'd even walked past the barracks armory on his way, coughing and feigning weakness as always. He could reclaim Vindicator, but surely moving rhe light source would alert Rarh.
Think, he told himself. Think.
But nothing came. He was the weakling Kalen Dren who could barely hold a sword, much less fight with it. There was so little he could do. The dwarf had been too much for him at his prime as Shadowbane, armed and on even ground. If he attacked now, in any way, Rath would kill them both. If it were just himself, he might take Tymora's chance, but it was Rayse.
He felt helpless. He could not attack, could not flee, and if he revealed himself.. .
That was it.
Making sure to hunch as usual, Kalen stepped forward, out of the shadows, and coughed—softly, but distinctly.
Araezra's eyes danced with stars, but she clearly saw a figure step out of the shadows and into the silvery light: Kalen! His hand was
not a dagger's length from Shadowbane's sword. "Pick .. . it. .. up," she said.
Rath looked, and a smile spread across his face, particularly at the stooped way Kalen stood, and his empty belt. He only smirked as Kalen stood over the silver blade.
"Touch that steel," Rath said, "and I snap your commander's neck."
"Valabrar," Kalen corrected, in his damnably precise manner.
What are you doing? Araezra thought at him.
"Speak thus, again," Rath said. "I do not understand."
"She is a valabrar. To explain"—Kalen gestured to the two gauntlets on his breastplate—"two, for vigilant. Araezra wears five for a valabrar. One would be a rrusty, three a shieldlar—"
"Silence," the dwarf said. "If you wish this Araezra to live, down any weapons you carry, shut the door, and do only as I say."
Kalen inclined his head, the way he did whenever an instruction was given. Not taking his eyes from Rath, he slid the door quietly shut. He spread his hands to show them empty.
"Kneel," Rath said. "There—where you will block the door."
Kalen did so without argument, sinking to his knees.
Araezra wanted to scream at him. Burn him, what was Kalen doing?
The dwarf smiled at Araezra, and she could smell the brandy on his breath. "What a finely trained mastiff you have," he murmured.
"Let him go," Araezra said. "Don't hurt him. I'll do whatever you want."
"Such as?" A bemused fire lit in the dwarf s eye, as though she had reminded him of a private jest. "What could you possibly offer me?"
"Me." The word tasted like wormwood in her mouth. "I'm beautiful, did you not say it?"
Rath smirked.
Then he hauled Araezra away from the wall and threw het to the floor near the desk as though she were an empty tunic. Her head knocked againsr the stout darkwood and her vision blurred. She reached to pull herself up, but the dwarf caught her hand—her sword hand— and twisted it. A crackle of bones sounded and her wrist exploded in
pain. She uttered a screech that did not reach any volume, because he kicked her in the belly and blew any air from her body. The scream became a wet sob.
Kalen was saying something.
The dwarf looked at Kalen then. "I did not hear you, trained dog," he said.
"You should flee this place," Kalen observed in his indifferent manner. "You can accomplish nothing here."
The dwarf lunged across the distance between them and stood over Kalen, one hand grasping him by the brown-black hair that hung messily in his eyes. "Why, dog?" he asked. "Do you offer me a threat?"
Kalen's eyes did not leave Rath's, and he shook his head. "Only a fact," he said. "You are in the heart of our barracks, and a cry will call more Watchmen than you can defeat alone."
Araezra realized Kalen was distracting Rath. She flexed her wrist— broken, but she'd trained left-handed as well. She could still wield a sword, albeit poorly. She looked to the silvery blade on the floor. But it was nearer Kalen than herself, and he could not fight, could he?
Would he? She wondered.
"You can slay both of us, but you cannot silence both of us at the same moment." Kalen continued. "Thus, if you kill either of us, the other can cry out and you will die."
The dwarf did not blink, but the look on his face told Araezra he had counted the guards he had bypassed. "Why not call for them now?" he asked.
"Our bargain," Kalen said. "You leave this place and do not harm either of us, and we will not cry out. No one need die."
Araezra gasped and coughed, as her breathing once again became normal. "Kalen ..."
He ignored her and stared at Rath, who seemed to be considering.
Then the dwarfs fingers touched the edge of Kalen's jaw, caressing it softly and gently—like a lover, and like death. "Very well, dog," said Rath. "But I want to hear you beg."
Kalen cast his eyes down.
"Beg for mercy," Rarh said with a cruel smile.
When Kalen spoke, his voice hardly rose above a whisper. "Please," he said. "Please."
"Kalen . .." Araezra couldn't believe it. The Kalen she loved did not beg.
Rath sniffed. "You call yourself a man, and yet you take the coward's path," he said. He looked at Araezra. "Your mastiff is not a hound, my lady, but a mongrel bitch."
Kalen's eyes, gleaming pale at Araezra, seemed very, very cold in that silvery light.
Araezra rubbed her bruised rhroat. "Choose, dwarf," she said. "I have a good scream in me yet, and weak as he is, I've no doubt Vigilant Dren can muster such a cry."
Rath looked from her ro Kalen and back. Then he snorted.
"Very well." He hauled Kalen up, and to his credit, the man barely coughed. "Know that your cowardice falls beneath the weakest pup, for even such a cur can fight when cornered."
Kalen did not answer.
"Have you nothing to say?" asked the dwarf. Kalen only stared at Rath. Araezra felt a trembling anger build within her.
Then Rath was gone, nearly flying down the hall. Kalen slumped ro the floor, but he caught himself before his face struck the stone. Araezra saw his eyes, bright and furious and icy, gleam at her. Then he started to cough.
In an instant, as though that sound had given her strength, Araezra pushed herself to her feet. "Guard!" she cried, loud as she could. "Watch, Guard—to arms! Intruder!"
A great clamor of feet and steel arose in the rooms around them. Folk were coming, summoned by Araezra's cry. Araezra looked at Kalen, so weak and sad, lying there. She reached down. "Up, Vigilant."
He took her hand and climbed up shakily. "Are you hurt?" he asked.
She shook her head, furious words building in her throat. Kalen coughed. "Gods, Rayse, I didn't want you to get hurt. You know that."
"Spare me." Araezra shook her head, too angry and hurt to spend soft words on him. "I don't need anyone to protect me—especially not a coward."
Kalen cast his eyes down.
Araezra took Shadowbane's sword—it felt warm to the touch but did not burn her—then ran into the hall to muster the Watch.
Kalen stood shaking, wounded deeper than any sword could have cut.
He'd given everything to save Araezra. He had broken his greatest vow to himself, never to beg. And still, she had turned away from him. He had seen the contempt in her eyes.
He was less than a man to her, and he had pulled her low as well.
A coughing fit came upon him then, bubbling up like a cruel reminder of his failure, and he fought it down—in vain. He coughed and retched and spat blood into his hand.
That blood and spit could easily have been Rath's blood on his hands. The temptation had been so strong—to trick the dwarf into vulnerability and plunge a blade into his liver, kidney, or heart. Like a backstabbing thief, or like an assassin. The way he would have done in Luskan. But that would have sullied his vows, and the paladin in him would not allow it.
He lifted his hands to heal himself at a touch, but his powers did not come forth.
He realized why, and the understanding struck him like a slap across the face.
All this time, he had protected Waterdeep—this city of faceless citizens—and protected those he loved and cherished. But he could not do it at the cost of his own principles. He could not compromise the deepest commitment of all: to himself.
So that he might continue in his duty, he hadn't revealed himself after Lorien, or after Talanna had been hurt. The threefold god had not punished him for that. But when he hadn't revealed himself today, he'd chased away his only friend other than Cellica.
Although Araezra was alive, he knew he had acted wrongly. The
Threefold God had taken his powers for sacrificing his duty to himself for his duty to others.
He saw that he must do both—fight for rhe ciry, and fight for himself and those he loved. He would prove himself worthy.
He swore it.
EIGHTEEN
To prepare for the revel, Cellica took Myrin to a dress salon called Nathalan's Menagerie—named, Cellica explained; for the elf noble who was the owner.
Lady Ilira Nathalan owned a number of such shops across Faeriin, which did their part in supplying—and in many cases crearing—the fashions of the day. Patrons tried on styles amid cages filled with exotic birds and flowers. The gowns, sashes, and shoes were rich in quality but low in cost, which, Cellica explained, was the reason behind the Menagerie's success.
"I don't know how she does it," Cellica said as she gestured to gown after gown for the attendant to take for her, "but some lucky goddess must watch over her supplies. Her prices always undercut her comperitors. Nobles usually have their own seamstresses as a matter of pride, but Ilira caters to merchants and other wealthy folk who don't have signets stuck up their—heh." Cellica smiled wryly. "Better dresses, too, though don't let the nobility hear that."
Myrin watched as a pair of lovely middle-aged human women draped a series of gowns over their chests, admiring the colors in the mirror. An attendant—whom Myrin realized must be a half-ore, owing to her small tusks and gray skin—watched impassively. Her hair was a brilliant pink that could not be natural. It reminded Myrin of her own blue hair, which she pawed at idly.
"Ninea," said Cellica, tugging at Myrin's arm and pointing to the half-ore. "Just watch."
One of the customers framed a request to Ninea the half-ore, who touched the woman's shoulder briefly. The effect was as sudden as it was impressive: the woman's skin took on a brilliant golden sheen, astonishing her companion, who gasped and broke into tittering.
"Gods!" Myrin said. "That's amazing!"
"Simple magic," Cellica said. "Ninea has a spellscar that lets her alter colors to match her whims. Temporarily, of course." She continued breezing through gowns. "Certainly you could find cheaper attire elsewhere, but the quality is hard to defeat." She selected her tenth and eleventh. "Perhaps it's goodness rewarding the same."
"Aye?" Myrin hadn't selected a gown—she was remembering Kalen's glare.
"Aye," Cellica affirmed, taking down her twelfth. "Lady Ilira's a patron of the Haven of the Scarred, for those run afoul of spellplague or other magical maladies—a consortium of priests and healers. I'm a member."
The halfling frowned at a conservative brown gown Myrin was looking at and led her away. "It'll be a costume revel," she said. "Most of rhese are a particular lady from history—that one must be a Candlekeep ascetic. Boring as old rat tails!"
"What?" Myrin was standing shyly to the side, grasping her right elbow behind her back and burrowing her left foot into the floorboards.
"Pay it no mind, dear," said Cellica. "Let's find another that suits you better."
"Oh?" Myrin behaved around the finery the way a mouse must in a hall full of cat statues. She was terrified she would perish under the assault of silk. "Can . . . can we afford this?"
"Of course! We halflings have a way with coin. Just none of the priciest, eh? Ooh!" Her eye fell on a rich cloth-of-silver gown. She spoke with a halfling attendant in a language Myrin didn't understand, winced, then nodded. The gown went into the attendant's already full arms.
The half-ore woman with the bright pink hair brushed past Myrin. While the attendant was dexterous enough, Myrin's inherent clumsiness almost knocked her over. The half-ore had to catch her by the hand and ward her off. Ninea's hand sparked against hers. "Ooh, sorry!" Myrin said.
The woman started to respond, then shook her head, seeming faint.
"Ninea?" asked the halfling attending Cellica and Myrin. "Be ye well, lass?"
"Aye," said rhe half-ore. Her hair, Myrin saw, was fading from its sharp pink to a dirty brown. "Just weary, methinks."
"Well, ask Ilira if you can go early, aye?" Cellica's voice carried a touch of compulsion.
"Aye." Ninea gave Myrin a curious look. "Aye, I'll do that."
The half-ore wandered to the back of the salon, looking ill.
Hesitantly, Myrin selected three gowns—a gentle, deep blue affair with gold trim, a conservative green with silver chasing at the bodice, and a sleek black garment. She didn't particularly want any of them. She pulled Kalen's worn runic tighter about her body. She liked how it smelled—it felt like Kalen was embracing her. Why did he have to be so handsome?
Stop it, girl, she thought. You don't even know who you are. You shouldn't worry about men—particularly ones who hate you!
She hoped Kalen didn't hate her, after what she'd done— accidentally—to Fayne.
But what had she done?
As they made their way to the mirror-walled fitting room, Myrin spotted Ninea near the back of the Menagerie. The woman she spoke ro was slim and elegant and beautiful, with long midnight hair and delicate pointed ears. An elf, Myrin thought, but there was something . . . otherworldly about her. Looking at her made it hard to breathe.
"Lady Ilira herself," Cellica said, poking her head around Myrin's waist. "Aye—you're thinking she can't be mortal. She's an eladrin, lass—they're all like that."
"Eladrin?" Myrin frowned. She'd never heard this word before.
Cellica shrugged. "High elves, eladrin, all the same to me." She took Myrin's arm. "Come—you'll see her again at the ball, of course."
"She's coming?" Myrin hadn't thought there might be nobles rhere, but of course there would be. Good thing she would be in costume, otherwise she'd be too afraid to show her common face. Around such a creature as Lady Ilira, she would feel even worse.
"Every year!" Cellica said. "It's a tradition."
Myrin blinked then hurried to follow. She felt self-conscious trying on the gowns with the aid of an attendant, but the way Cellica casually flung clothes around made her relax. The attendants measured them, then waited for a decision. The dresses would be altered later, to be picked up in time for the revel.
"The dance between Ilira and Lorien is traditional," Cellica said. "Every year, she and Lady Lorien dance at the height of the ball. No two ladies are closer friends than that pair, and—so the gossip says-—it's more than that." She tossed a slinky green gown over her shoulder, and the attendant barely caught it. "But never we lesser mortals mind."
Myrin blushed, though she couldn't say why.
"And who . . . who will Lady Ilira dress as?" Myrin asked. If she stood on her toes, she could just see the elf woman over the mirrors, surveying her salon.
"Probably no one." Cellica shook her head. "She always wears black, and lots of it," she said. "Dull, I know, but she's so elegant." She leaned in close to Myrin. "Some say she does it in mourning for a lost love, but I rather think it's to hide something. Unsightly tattoos or scars or the like. Some say she has one on her back—and that's why she never wears her own backless gowns—though I think there's a reason she always wears long gloves, let me tell you."
"How do you know all this?" Myrin asked.
"One of us has to keep up with the news in the city, and gods-know Sir Shadow isn't going to do it." Cellica shrugged into a silver gown and admired herself. "And I like gossip."
Myrin smiled and looked at her feet—thinking of Kalen.
The attendant returned with a woven basket in which lay two gowns. "If you would be pleased," she said, "the lady suggests you try these."
Cellica frowned at the gowns. "Who—?"
"Lady Ilira," said the attendant. "She saw you in the Menagerie and thought these colors and styles might serve. Fitted per your measurements. Perhaps ... a happy coincidence?"
Curious, Myrin looked across rhe room. Lady Ilira was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the shadows. It gave her a chill.
"Ye gods." Cellica held up a scarlet gown, human-sized. She eyed Myrin devilishly.
"I don'r think—" Myrin started, but Cellica wouldn't accept such an answer. She disrobed timidly while Cellica drew on a gold gown.
Myrin had to admit the red dress looked fine. It was sleek, it was daring, and ir was bright without being gaudy. And the cut was perfect—it hugged her waiflike curves in a way that was not at all waiflike, but neither was it loose. She almost thought she looked pretty.
"Perfect for your skin!" Cellica nodded.
Myrin looked at her shimmering skin in rhe mirrors. In the soft lighting of the salon, it glowed a deep tan like polished betel wood. She blushed.
"The blue doesn't really serve," said Cellica. She srood on a stool, straining up to finger Myrin's shoulder-lengrh hair. Myrin flushed and tried to look away from the mirror, only to remember she was surrounded by mirrors. "It's a lovely blue, and all, but it's . . . blue."
Myrin's insides tingled. "What. .. what would serve?"
"Well," Cellica said, "this one's an evening gown worn by the legendary Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, who—as one of the Seven Sisters—had silver hair to her waist. If we could just get Ninea over here. Shame, as she charges such hard coin for—"
And just like that—as Myrin watched in the mirror—the scraggly blue hair spun and swam like the currents in a whirlpool. In a breath, it turned to rich, burnished silver and fell ro her waist.
Cellica's eyes widened. "Now that... that's impressive." She looked for Ninea, who had disappeared out of the store, then leaned toward Myrin to whisper. "Can you do aught for me? I'd love ... I'd love a good crimson, if you wouldn't—"
"I don't even know how I did it for me." Myrin blushed. "I could
try-"
"No, no!" Cellica said, turning white. "It looks too glim for such a risk. Keep it that way."
Myrin frowned. Then she realized something. "You wanted crimson? Like Fayne's hair?"
"Ha! Hark—-how the day wanes!" Cellica picked nervously at the gold dress. The color flattered her well and the gown was cut with gods' eyes to show flashes of sunbrowned flesh on her slim belly. "This one, then."
She whistled, and their attendant glided over. The halfling didn't seem surprised to see Myrin's silver hair.
"I think we've decided," Cellica said, and Myrin realized she wanted to be away from the salon as soon as possible. Was it something she had said?
"Please, my lady, to have these as well," said the halfling girl, presenting two parcels bound in waxed string. "Less elegant—more practical, but fine. A gift, for gracing the Menagerie."
Cellica blushed furiously. "We can't accept these," she said.
But the attendant shook her head. "Lady Ilira mentioned aught of a debt," she said. "She spoke of a 'shadow that wards' ?" She shrugged. "She said you would understand."
Cellica and Myrin shared a long, curious glance. Then the halfling smiled. "Very well, but we pay for these in full." She gesrured to her gold gown and Myrin's scarlet.
The attendant shrugged. She looked at Kalen's borrowed tunic and breeches and tried to hide her disdain behind her kerchief.
Cellica murmured a laugh. "Better just toss those out, I think."
The attendant nodded and took up the old clothes, averting her nose. Myrin watched the clothes in her arms and felt Cellica's eyes. The halfling smiled at her mysteriously.
"Cheers, peach," Cellica said, squeezing her hand. "No reason to fret—he did promise to take you to the revel, not that other stripling."
"But—"
"Kalen, for all his faults, is a man of his word." Cellica winked. "Don't you forget that!"
When Cellica turned away, Myrin wiped at her cheek and noted in the mirror a tiny blue rune on her wrist, glowing softly. It hadn't been there when she'd entered the salon, but it was there now—a bright little spot that filled her with nervous dread. It felt warm ro the touch and didn't fade no matter how long she looked at it.
Myrin looked where Lady Ilira had stood, at the back of the Menagerie, but no one was there. She saw only a shadow on the wall, which flickered away as though someone—unseen—had moved.
"Come, lass!" Cellica called. "Delay too long, and I'll just have to buy another!"
Fayne rose late the following morn, in her rooms above the rowdy Skewered Dragon in Dock Ward. She was alone, and every bit of her ached.
Awakening from reverie alone in her own bed was in itself cause for concern. She hadn't spent more than a dozen nights alone in all the years since her mother's death. She normally required only a few hours of the trancelike rest—only half what she had just spent. She must have felt truly awful, to fall into bed by herself and rest the night through.
Perhaps she had even spent some of the time in real sleep—ye gods. Maybe she was wearing a half-elPs face too much.
She recalled that the owner of the Dragon had quesrioned her gruffly when the carriage had dropped her off, but she'd waved him aside, along with the catcalls of patrons. She'd ignored the sneers of the serving girls—saucy wenches who sold their charms as openly as drinks—and managed to climb up to her chamber before collapsing into bed.
She examined the damage in the mirror. That blue-headed snip had muddled her mind, adding worry lines around her eyes and lips. She'd often wondered what it would feel like, being struck by dark magic—gods knew she'd done it often enough herself.
"Hit me with my own power, eh?" she murmured. "Children."
All in all, totally unacceptable, she thought. She set to work. She would just touch up a few details of her appearance.
She caressed the invisible pendant that hung at her throat. It faded into sight and gleamed as she harnessed the magic—complex, powerful things for which her wand was not quite suited. It wasn't that she couldn't cast the shaping rirual with the wand—it just didn't feel right to her. It was better for quick castings, particularly illusions and
7752
dark, fey-touched art. It had come from her mother, who had been a talented witch of the fey path. The amulet, on the other hand—her patron had built it precisely for this sort of ritual, which was more wizardly than warlock.
She thought she should see Kalen today. Fayne hoped the man was suitably in agony over the wounds she had sustained in his tallhouse. She might suggest that he could make it up by taking her to the revel instead of Myrin, thus furthering her plan.
She left shadows under her eyes, so as to make herself appear a little more vulnerable. She knew Kalen liked rhe gray eyes, so she made them shine. She slimmed her image slightly, and made her face jusr a bit more darling—her nose, in particular, seemed a bit too long, so she made it small and delicate.
More like Myrin's nose, she realized, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust.
Her amulet had been a gift from her patron on her fortieth name day (gods, how long ago that seemed!), and coincided with her learning how to change her face. First, she had used the wand's illusory powers, but her patron had taught her how to perform a ritual that would make the changes deeper, harder to dispel.
Finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. This was the face she would wear this day—Greengrass, the festival of spring. It wasn't what she'd call beautiful, exactly, but a proper seduction was accomplished according to the desires of the man or woman seduced. She winked at the mirror, glad of her false face. A blessing no one could see the real one—she didn't spend so much effort hiding it in vain.
Her face and body made up, Fayne selected suitable attire for the Watch barracks: mid-calf gray dress with open front, laced black bustier cut with slits on the flanks to reveal slashes of lacy red underslip, matching scarlet scarf for the cold, wide leather hat for any rain, and her favorite knee-high boots with dagger-length heels.
None of them cheap, but none of them rich—quite what she thought Kalen liked.
As she dressed, she smiled at the revel-ready garments hanging in the wardrobe, carefully selected for the occasion. She would have
quite the laugh at that private jest—most of her best pranks were personal.
She threw on a weathercloak to hide her outfit, whisked her way out the Dragon around a few highsun brawlers and patrons waving for her charms, and hailed a carriage.
Vainly, Kalen had hoped that by the next day, Araezra would have calmed herself about the Room of Records and they could talk. But he hadn't seen her all morn, and when he'd asked, a gruff Commander Jarthay had told him she was out on duty. Kalen didn't need the subtle, tight pitch of the commander's words to know things would be tense with Araezra.
He hadn't wanted to go home, so he'd spent the night at the barracks and eaten among the Guard. Thankfully, no one bothered him. His notorious indifference was good for that, at least. That morn, he had tried to work in the Room of Records, but every time he looked up from the ledgers, he would see Rath holding Araezra helpless or hear her choked whispers. Eventually, he moved outside to work in the warm, sun-filled courtyard.
Greengrass was the first day of spring, and the weather treated Waterdeep to warm days, cold nights, and frequent rain. Kalen disliked autumn and spring, with their long shadows and false warmth: he preferred the commitment of summer hear or winrer chill.
In the yard, he left the ledger untouched and began a letter to Araezra, trying to explain what he had done. He paused now and then, to listen to the sounds of training in the court.
A cluster of Watchmen had gathered to watch a practice match between two of the youngest and most handsome members of rhe Guard: Aumun Bront and Rhagaster Stareyes. The latter was the more handsome thanks to his elf heritage (the legacy of a scandalous, hypocritical indiscretion on the part of his elf supremacist father, Onstal Stareyes, with a serving lass in Dock Ward). The men circled each other, stripped to the waist and sweaty, padded swords swishing.
They sparred under the unimpressed eye of Vigilant Bleys Treth, whom Kalen had done his best to avoid these last days. He didn't much
like the man (the feeling was mutual), and Treth had seen Shadowbane on the night Talanna had been hurt. He mighr recognize Kalen.
The other guard who might have known him—Gordil Turnstone—was there, too, sitting on a bench. Though he was ostensibly watching the sparring, Turnstone was dozing.
Bront cut over and high and Stareyes replied with a plunging block. It could have become a counter to the belly, but the half-elf held the parry too long. Finally, Stareyes broke the parry and cut in from the opposite line, then reversed again, striking from both directions in sequence. He feinted right and attacked left. In rhythm, Bront tried ro parry right, and the half-elf dealt him a sharp rap on the left side with his blunted blade.
The watchers clapped and Stareyes flashed his winning smile. Bront cradled his bruised side and gave Stareyes a rueful grin.
Kalen watched them surreptitiously over his spectacles. A part of him wished he could lord his prowess before an audience, but the needs of his disguise prevented it. He'd learned that lesson in a harsh manner during his time as an armar, before Araezra.
He thought about the flaws in Bront's style, and it must have shown on his face. Treth was watching him with a sneer. Kalen averted his eyes.
"Dren," Treth called. "Care to teach us aught?"
The congratulatory chatter in the courtyard fell silent, replaced by whispers.
Kalen said nothing, only looked at his parchment and quill. He had paused before telling Araezra the truth. He could see the unwritten sentence: "I lied to you, Rayse."
Did he dare? Would she understand? Or would she continue to hate him, not only for humiliating her but for lying to her as well? Not to mention that Araezra would be honor-bound to arrest him as a dangerous vigilante—or would she keep his secret?
He shook his head. He hadn't given her any reason to trust him.
A gloved hand seized his book of notes—with it the letter—and tore it from his hands. He looked up, calmly, to see Bleys Treth gazing down at him with that same cocky smile.
"Come, Dren," he said. "You've not graced the yard in some time.
Spar with Stareyes, and show us your style." He winked lewdly. "Now that Rayse's attentions are elsewhere, you've the chance, aye?"
Though Treth was older, almost twenty winters over Kalen, they were the same rank in the Guard: vigilant. But Treth had been a master swordsman for hire, a sellsword for nobles, and he bore an aura around him that had made him quite popular. "The Dashing Jack," the older Watchmen called him—a name he hated. His looks had faded little with the years, but his smile still melted hearts.
He took pride in his charms, and in his skill. And like many warriors past their prime, Treth saw the need to assert his dominance among the "young pups," as it were.
Kalen saw no reason to stand in his way.
"I've work to attend." He refused to meet Treth's eye. "Perhaps when I am at leisure—"
"I'm sure"—Treth dropped the ledger in the dirt—"this can wait."
Kalen looked up at him and around at the silent training yard. The folk—Guard and Watch alike—watched the confrontation intently.
"Vigilant Treth," Kalen said. He coughed. "You know I can't—"
"Fleeing behind your weakness of the flesh, eh?" Kalen looked around once more, seeing uncertain, expectant faces.
The Watch and Guard knew of his illness only in part. Certainly none knew he pretended it had grown worse than it truly had. Ir had been months since he had wielded a sword while wearing a uniform. But when he had . . . Those who had served with him knew of his ferocity, and he saw in the eyes of those gathered that tales had spread.
"I must decline," Kalen said.
"Then Rayse told true," Treth whispered in his ear. "And you are a coward."
That stabbed into Kalen's chest like a searing knife. It struck not because of his own ego—though he confessed there was some—but because of the truth in Treth's words.
He shouldn't do anything to risk revealing himself, but everything was going so very wrong. And Kalen was angry.
"Very well, Dashing Jack," said Kalen, invoking the man's hated moniker.
Treth sneered.
Kalen rose, stiffly, and stepped to the center of the yard. He heard gasps at first, then applause. Rhagaster Stareyes saluted and took a high guard with his padded blade.
Kalen took the weapon handed him by Bront, who smiled. Kalen shrugged.
"Tymora's luck on you," said Treth—mostly to Kalen. "Begin!"
They circled each other slowly, the ring of Watchmen backing away to give them room. The half-elf skipped from foot to foot, keeping himself loose. Kalen flexed his legs. The front of his thighs felt as if they bore heavy pads, but the sensation was merely his numb flesh.
Stareyes came at him with a plunging cut that Kalen knocked aside easily. He coughed and sidestepped, not holding the parry or countering.
Stareyes turned back toward him. "To you, sir," he said. Kalen shrugged—and attacked high. He didn't move fast—he didn't have to.
From his hanging guard, Stareyes parried high. He could have countered, but as Kalen had expected, he didn't. Rather than pull back, Kalen ran a hand along the length of his own sword, caught the end of his blade, and twisted to set the edge near the hilt at the half-elps throat.
A gasp passed through the yard.
"You hesitated to reply," Kalen said. "You don't need speed—just readiness." He pulled back a step and set his sword against Stareyes's raised blade. "You just parried. Now stab."
Stareyes, blinking, pushed forward, and the padded blade punched into Kalen's belly.
"A counter in every parry," he said. "Do not hesitate, but commit yourself."
The half-elf shook his head. "But my parry needs to be—"
"Firm, I know," Kalen said. "Trusr yourself to set a strong position, and rhere is no way the other blade can hit you."
He demonstrated, slapping his blade against Stareyes's parry. With the guard wide enough, his blade could nor reach Stareyes's arm.
The gathered watchers—who had grown in number, Kalen saw— murmured agreement.
Treth laughed. "Try a master, Sir Dren." He tossed his hat and black watchcoat to a junior Watchman, then unbuttoned his uniform and unlaced his white undertunic to the belly.
"The winner goes with Rayse to the ball tonight at the Temple of Beauty," said Treth.
Coughing, Kalen nodded grimly. He'd known it would come to this.
Treth sneered. Gray-black hairs bristled along his chin and neck. Kalen shrugged. He handed the sword ro Stareyes with a nod, then brought his fingers up to the buttons of his uniform.
Apparently, an attractive form—such as the one she had donned in the Skewered Dragon—was more a hindrance than a help in a barracks filled with wandering eyes.
Fayne had arrived at the barracks earlier, and now wore the illusory form of a junior Watchman whose name she hadn't asked. She could have done so, but why bother? The boy, who had been only too eager ro follow her into the stuffy Room of Records, now slumped senselessly under a desk, trapped by magic that bound his mind into a relentless nightmare. Fayne had invoked the power in her wand, taken his face, and gone out into the warm sunshine. She found Kalen in the courtyard, just in time to see him handily defeat a rather handsome half-elf with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes.
Fayne made a mental note to visit the barracks more often.
Then a good-looking man of middling years—Vigilant Treth, she heard a Watchman whisper—challenged Kalen, and they proceeded to disrobe in the middle of the yard.
Fayne had to restrain herself not to squeal. She wasn't a gambler, but she /of^cockfighrs.
She shared in the collective intake of breath when Kalen stripped offhis shirt. His body was covered in scars—knife cuts, arrow holes, burns. Some of them, Fayne recognized: the finger-shaped lines on his forearm were the spellscar burns he had suffered in Downshadow the night they had met. His tightly woven muscles carried not a drop of fat.
Treth was a whip-wire of a man, like a curled snake, ready to lunge. Kalen, on the other hand, was a wolf. Fayne saw it in his movements and the way he stood—and the way he glared.
Her cheeks grew warm, and she cursed herself for a brainless child.
The men faced each other across the courtyard. Sneering, Treth held his steel low. Kalen held his high, and coughed. Part of his disguise, Fayne realized.
Then Treth lunged toward Kalen, fast as a striking viper, and Kalen caught his spinning, shifting cut with a solid, low-hanging parry. The padded swords thumped.
Treth pulled back and struck again, reversing, and Kalen parried easily. Where Treth attacked wildly, with great sweeping slashes and flurries, Kalen's movements were quick and precise—conservative. It was obvious to Fayne—who knew as little about swordplay as a stray kitten—that Kalen was better. But could he win, and still maintain his mask?
That held Fayne's interesr—that, and Kalen's glimmering skin. Mmm.
They came together again, and again. Every time, Treth attacked, lunging fast, and every time, Kalen warded him off. He didn't press— he was holding back.
They broke apart for the eighth time, and Treth, hopping from foot to foot, grinned madly. "Don't say you grow weary yet, youngling," he said. "I'm enjoying this."
Kalen dropped a hand to his heaving chest. It curled into a fist.
Treth came again, his lightning strike harder—more brutal. He hammered into Kalen's high guard, both hands on his sword, and Kalen compressed toward the ground.
Then the older man dropped a hand unexpectedly from his sword
and punched at Kalen's face. Fayne bristled at the injustice, but Kalen seemed to have expected it. He grappled his left arm around Treth's and threw their flailing swords wide. They wrestled, each trying to push the other away, and finally half a dozen Watchmen rushed forward to pull them apart.
Fayne saw that the watching horde had grown—sixty or more folk were in the yard. Some commotion arose at the gates, but she couldn't see what it was.
Treth thrust, but Kalen moved so suddenly and quickly that the crowd gasped. He attacked high into Treth's attack, locking blades. The clash of steel rang blasphemously loud.
Kalen punched forward to shift his blade under Treth's and inside his guard. Treth's arm was hopelessly twisted and wide. Kalen grasped the older man's throat.
"Low guard," Kalen said. "Surely you know better than that."
A cry came from the gates and both of them looked, startled.
Fayne saw a girl—she realized, after a hearrbeat, that it was Myrin—with a shimmering red gown and a wild, perfect sweep of silver hair that fell to her waisr. She was as a magical apparition—so unexpected that the courtyard gaped at her.
Kalen hissed as Treth broke the hold and wrenched away. Kalen rried to follow, but Treth lashed out hard across his unprotected face with his padded blade, making a sound like a hammer on wet wood. Kalen's head snapped back and he fell, like a cut puppet, to the dirt.
"Kalen!" Myrin shrieked. She shoved past black-coated forms as she ran to him.
Treth stood over Kalen. He blew his nose on his hand then spat in the dust. "Well struck, Dren." He jerked his head at Myrin. "Now I see your weakness, Rayse's hound."
Kalen only glared at him, blood running from his nose. As he sat on the ground, coughing and retching, Fayne reflected that he must be as fine a mummer as she.
"What the Hells is this?" shouted a voice. Fayne recognized it from a past misunderstanding as that of Commander Kleeandur. Kleeandur was much like Bors Jarthay—whose tastes in women Fayne knew
quite well—but older, harder, and less amusing. She'd crossed him
before and come out the worse for it. She retreated behind a pillar as
the commander strode into the yard.
Kleeandur grasped Treth by the arm. "What the Hells are you
about, Vigilant?"
"Commander," Treth winced. "I can explain—"
"Caravan patrol for rwo tendays!" Jarthay shouted. "At half
pay."
Fayne stuck out her tongue. What kind of vengeance was that? She would get Treth much worse than that for daring to hurt Kalen.
Since when do you care? she asked herself. You're just using him, anyway. Aye?
Kleeandur turned on Kalen, who lay coughing in the dirt. "And you, Dren," he said. "Brawling in the yard—goading him like that. Suspension without pay for a tenday."
Fayne almost screamed at the injustice of it, but Kalen only coughed and nodded. Kleeandur strode away, beckoning Treth to follow him. The man sneered at Kalen and went.
Myrin arrived at Kalen's side and fell to her knees beside his sweaty, dirty form. "I'm sorry!" she cried, patting dust away from Kalen's head and shoulders. "I didn't mean—"
"Not your fault," Kalen murmured. He smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled.
Fayne shivered. Those . .. that.. . gods!
She realized then that her illusion had slipped away. No one had yet noticed, all eyes intent on the duel. Fayne didn't even care, until a small voice beside her asked, "Fayne?"She looked, and there was Cellica, peering up at her curiously. The halfling had entered with Myrin and picked her way through the crowd to Fayne's side. "What are you about?" Cellica's frown was suspicious.
Mind racing, Fayne grinned broadly. "I . . . ah . . ." Then her plans shifted in a heartbeat. "Cellica! Just the lass I was searching for. I have a small proposal for you—a favor that you might pay me, if you're interested."
Cellica's eyes widened. "Aye?"
TWENTY
As they climbed down from the carriage before the Temple of Beauty and joined the fancifully dressed revelers waiting outside, Kalen admitted to himself that he was not pleased.
But when he looked at it honestly, he had no one to blame but himself. He'd known this was a mistake. How had he let Cellica talk him into this?
"Give me one good reason why you shouldn't go as Shadowbane," she said.
When Kalen had given her seven, Cellica frowned. "Well . . . give me one more."
In rhe end, Kalen privately suspected she'd used the voice on him.
"Kalen?" Myrin asked at his side, calling him from his thoughts. "Is aught wrong?"
"No," he said, taking the opportunity once again to admire how the red gown and silver hair suited her. She looked uncomfortably womanly, rather rhan girlish. He hadn't said anything, of course, but that didn't stop him thinking it.
Mayhap that was why he hadn't argued against Cellica more effectively.
Don't let yourself be distracted, he thought. You can survive the night. It's just a ball.
He hoped there wouldn't be dancing. Graceful as he might be, he was a soldier. He knew nothing of the world of courtly balls or dancing.
They entered rhrough the foyer, decorated with images of the Lady Firehair and her worshipers—beautiful and graceful creatures, all. Fountains shaped like embracing lovers trickled wine. Windows of stained glass depicting scenes from Sunite history let in the radiance
of the rising moon. Guests were gathered, laughing and flirting with rose-robed priests and priestesses. This, Kalen could handle. Only a ball, he thought.
"Sorry again," Myrin said. "About yestereve—I didn't mean to hurt anyone."
Kalen shrugged.
"I thought for sure you'd bring Fayne," said Myrin. "She's your . . . ah?"
"No." Kalen looked at her blankly. "I know her about as well as I know you."
"Oh." Myrin held his arm a little tighter. He could have sworn she added, "Good."
"Saer and Lady—if you'll enter the grand courtyard?" A pretty acolyte gestured to a set of open golden doors carved with the visage of the goddess.
"Courtyard?" Kalen murmured, but he couldn't argue with Myrin's brilliant smile. She took his arm and pulled him along. At least Myrin was happy.
Fayne was fuming. Kalen had taken that little chiding—not a real woman like herself.
The carriage started to turn onto the most direct thoroughfare, Aureenar Street, but Fayne wasn't about to lose a single moment of style. Ostentation made her feel better.
"Keep around!" Fayne snapped to the driver. "Up to the Street of Lances!"
The man in his pressed overcoat tipped his feathered hat. "Your coin, milady."
Since she had the carriage already, she might as well prolong her rich procession.
The carriage broke away from the loose train of vehicles and swerved northeast. Fayne smirked out the window, surveying rhe streets, the jovial taverns, and the folk walking.
Cellica, sitting across from Fayne, fidgeted her thumbs and chewed her lip. Their ride had included a visit to Nurneene's for masks, and
the halfling wore a plain white eye mask with her gold gown. She'd added a lute to represent a bard Fayne had never heard of, but apparently halflings knew their own history quire well.
"How long will this be?" She looked at Fayne anxiously.
Fayne laughed. "Enjoy it, little one! Not every day working lasses like us ride in style."
"I appreciate you inviting me along, Fayne." The halfling smiled halfway. "I'm just worried about—" She peered out the window.
"Oh, don't fret!" Fayne insisted with a girlish smile. "I'm sure your jack can handle himself. Thar little wild-haired girl didn't look so vile." A touch dangerous, mayhap—but that was intriguing, rather than off-setting. If only the little scamp weren't interfering!