"No." Cellica smiled, apparently at the thought of Myrin. "No, she isn't."
Beshaba, Fayne thought, what is it that makes everyone cling to such pathetic waifs?
They continued north on the Singing Dolphin thoroughfare and turned east on the Streer of Lances. Fayne grinned at onlookers, whose responding srares she chose to interpret as jealous. They turned south again on Stormstar's Ride. At the end of the street, they saw the Temple of Beauty.
"Ye gracious gods," Cellica murmured, eyes wide. She reached across for Fayne's hand.
"Shiny, eh?" Fayne took Cellica's hand automatically, and the halfling clutched her tightly.
Sune's Waterdeep temple was best approached from Stormstar, Fayne thought, and particularly at this time of evening, when the last rays of the setting sun fell upon its ruby towers and gold-inlaid windows. And from the look on Cellica's face, she was right.
The great cathedral, palace, and pleasure dome towered over the noble villas alongside, shining like a beautiful star of architectural brilliance. Soaring towers and seemingly impossible buttresses made for a facade of true grandeur, which masked an open-air ballroom from which rhe sounds of revelry could be heard even from far away.
The halfling smiled wanly all the way until the carriage let them off.
"Aye?" Fayne grinned. "Pleased?"
But Cellica said nothing—she looked at her feet nervously.
The iron-faced dwarf attendant at the door looked at their invitation—which Fayne had forged—without any suspicion, then eyed them appraisingly. It was uncommon that two women came to a revel rogether, but hardly rare. "Who're you lasses supposed to be?"
"Olive Ruskettle!" Cellica peeped, then she went back to staring at the temple.
The guard nodded—he seemed at least to have heard of the "first halfling bard"—then looked at Fayne. He handed back the scroll. "And you, lass?"
"Aye?" Fayne gestured down—black leggings tucked into swashbuckler boots, billowy white shirt and black vest, scarlet half-cape and matching dueling glove—and flipped her magic-blacked hair. She grinned through her scarlet fox mask. "I'm not.. .famous?"
The guard shook his head.
"Good," Fayne said, and she kissed the dwarf on the lips. "Tymora's kiss upon you!"
They skipped inside, arm in arm, Fayne pulling Cellica along.
"Your names?" the herald asked Kalen and Myrin inside the courtyard. Music wafted across the open space from minstrels near the central staircase.
Kalen hadn't thought about such a question. "Ah—"
"Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon," Myrin said without hesitation. Smiling beneath her gold mask and crown, she took Kalen's arm.
The herald nodded. He peered at Kalen's ragged old armor with a touch of distaste. At least Kalen had let Cellica buy him a new cloak. "Of course, your ladyship."
He stepped forward and called to the assembled, "Alustriel of the Seven, and escort."
Heads turned—apparently, dressing as such a famous lady was daring—and Kalen felt Myrin stiffen. But most of the masked or painted faces wore smiles. There was even applause.
Myrin relaxed. "Good," she said, clutching her stomach.
"Outstanding," Kalen agreed, though he wasn't sure he meant it.
She smiled at him in a way that made his chest tingle.
In the courtyard, Kalen and Myrin looked out over a sea of revelers dressed in bright colors and daring fashions. Kings and tavern wenches mingled and laughed around braziers, and foppishly dressed rapscallions flirted with regal queens and warrior women. Muscular youths in the furs and leather of northern barbarians boasted over tankards of mead, eyeing dancing lasses dressed in yellows and oranges, reds and greens, like nymphs and dryads. The dancers whirled across the floor while musicians struck up a jaunty chorus on yartings, flutes, and racing drums.
The ballroom was open to the night sky, and though the season was cool, braziers and unseen magic kept the courtyard comfortable— teasingly so, inviting revelers to disrobe and enjoy the headiness of Sune's temple. And, Kalen noted, some of the revelers were doing just that.
They had arrived in time to witness the finale of a dance between two ladies. One—their hostess, Lorien Dawnbringer—wore gold accented with bright -pinks and reds. The other, a dark-haired elf clad in sleek black, was unknown to him. They whirled gracefully, in perfect balance, arms and legs curling artfully. Most of the nobles were watching their dance, enraptured, and when the women finished and bowed to one another, the courtyard erupted in applause and cheers.
Lorien, panting delicately, bowed to the gathered folk. The elf smiled and nodded. They joined hands and bowed ro one another. Then Lorien turned up the courtyard stairs and climbed slowly, turning to wave every few steps, as the elf lady disappeared into the throng of nobles.
Myrin tensed at his side. "The dance!" she cried. "We didn't miss it, did we?"
"What?" Entirely too much dancing was still going on, Kalen thought.
"Lady Ilira Nathalan," said Myrin. "And that priestess—Lady Lorien."
Several nearby lordlings and ladies rolled their eyes at her outburst.
"Nay, nay," said a youthful man at their side. He wore the simple but stylish robes of a Sunite priesr. "You've not missed it. They dance again at midnight—Lady Lorien will return to dance with Lady Ilira, as the sun with the night. In the middle-time, enjoy yourselves."
"Oh," Myrin said. She smiled vaguely.
The acolyte took Myrin's hands and kissed rhem. "Let me know if there is aught I might do to aid in this," he whispered with a sly wink. Myrin blushed fiercely.
The priest took Kalen's hands and paid him the same obeisance, to which Kalen nodded.
When the acolyte had gone, Myrin's eyes roved the crowded nobles, as though searching for someone. She found something far more interesting. "Food, Kalen!" Myrin gasped. "Look at all the food!"
"Yes—let's . . ." Kalen swallowed. The spectacle dizzied him. "Let's go there first."
Banquet tables around the yard were stacked high with the bounty of the realm. Myrin found sweermeats and fruirs, honey and melon and tarts, breads of a score of grains carved in rhe shapes of animals, wines of a hundred lands, cheeses of dozens of creatures.
While Myrin piled her plate high, Kalen scanned the parry. Merriment filled the courtyard: the murmur of a thousand conversations, laughs, and whispers in our-of-the-way corners where inrimate encounters waited.
Damn, Kalen thought, seeing the lovers in their half-hidden alcoves. He glanced at Myrin—ar her slender posterior as she bent to inspecr some cheeses—and blushed. Amazing what a difference a proper gown made to Myrin—that and the silver hair, which went so perfectly with her skin like polished oak. The red silk forced Kalen to see her for the woman she was, and that scared him as much as pleased him.
A thought occurred, then, and Kalen shuddered. Gods—she might ask him to dance.
To distract himself, he tried to recognize the costumes. Kalen was no student of history, and he did not recognize all the masks
and manners, but he remembered a few heroes from the chapbooks he had bought and occasionally scanned. Mostly, he knew them by their salacious parodies—little about their true lives—and it made him feel even more awkward.
Kalen stood stiffly, trying to quell a wave of panic that had begun in his stomach and threatened to engulf the rest of him. Too many folk—and too much Myrin.
Were she here, Fayne would have a great laugh about this, he had no doubt.
The herald's next call perked Kalen's ears. "Ladies and lords, the Old Mage and escort, the Nightingale of Everlund," he cried. "Representatives of the Waterdhavian Guard."
Kalen froze at the words and turned slowly around.
"Kalen?" Myrin asked, her mouth half-full, but Kalen didn't acknowledge her.
Instead, he stared at the woman he least expected to see: Araezra, walking the halls on the arm of Bors Jarthay. It was the tradition of Watchmen to wear their arms and armor to costume revels—for instant use if needed—but to alter the garb with a tabard or cloak that could quickly be discarded in the event of trouble. Araezra's tabard depicted a stylized bird in purple embroidery. She carried a shield painted with the same bird, and she'd dyed her hair a lustrous auburn.
He told himself he should be keeping his distance, since she was one of only a few who could recognize Shadowbane. Kalen ducked behind a knot of nobles praying she wouldn't see him.
Fortunately, Araezra was distracted by something Jarthay had said. The commander had shirked tradition and opted to dress as a buffoonish sort of wizard in a red robe and an obviously false beard. He looked more than a little drunk; in fact, as Kalen watched, Jarthay took a swig of something from a flask crudely disguised as a pipe.
"A moment," Kalen murmured toward Myrin. Then he cut into the crowd, looking for a mercyroom or a broom closet or at least an alcove where he could lose the tell-tale helm. He could escape—he could . . .
When a hand fell on his arm, he whirled, thinking certainly it was Araezra.
"Behold, the day improves!" a woman said. "Unveil yourself, man—and don't try to lie about your name, for I'll know."
The noblewoman in question—barely more than a girl, Kalen saw—wore a tattered black gown and must have enchanted her hair, for as he watched, it writhed like a rustling nest of silver vipers. Her gown was cut cunningly and scandalously, with more gods' eye slits than dress. He knew her apparel from stories—the legendary Simbul, the Witch-Queen of Aglarond.
"Choose your words with care!" the girl said with a confident sneer beneath her half mask. "I've been taking lessons from the greatest truth-teller in Waterdeep, Lady Ilira herself! I can hear lies in a voice or read them in a face . . ." She snaked her fingers across his mask. "That is, I could read your face if you'd be so good as to unmask yourself." Her hand retracted and she grinned at him—much like a cat grins at a mouse. "For now, a name will do."
Kalen stumbled in his head for a reply. "But lady, my name—"
The girl smirked at his consternation. "I don't mean your true name, good saer," she said. She gestured to his outfit. "I mean, who are you meant to be?"
That didn't make it better. He didn't have an answer for that, either.
"Lay off him, Wildfire." The venomous lady's voice behind Kalen's back saved him, and he felt something take hold of his arm. "I saw him first!"
Wildfire. He knew that nickname. He didn't remember the girl's true name, but Lady Wildfire, heir of House Wavesilver, was infamous for one of the sharpest tongues in Waterdeep. Kalen remembered Cellica telling him considerable gossip about her, and wished he'd listened more. As it was, he'd heard enough to thank the gods someone had saved him.
Until he looked around.
Kalen gawked ar a petite woman dressed in a gown composed of black leather and webbing—not much of either—rhat barely covered her mosr precious family heirlooms. Her skin was tinted black and her hair was snowy white. Her skin marched her garments perfectly, especially her thigh-high boots with heels as long as fighting dirks,
giving her a height to match his. She fingered the handle of a whip wrapped around her waist.
It took Kalen a breath to recognize her: a drow priestess of the spider goddess, Lolth. He knew she wasn't really a drow, as she'd made no attempt to disguise her human features. This did not surprise him: lordlings and lordlasses were quite vain. The whip didn't match, either—it made her look more a priestess of Loviatar, goddess of pain.
At his side, Kalen heard breath catch and saw The Simbul's eyes light up with fire that was anything but magical.
"Perhaps you saw him first, Talantress Roaringhorn—but I claimed him first," Lady Wildfire said in a low, dangerous hiss. "I'm surprised to see you, after last month's scandal. If I recall—the Whipmaster and his ... whip?"
Kalen knew Lady Roaringhorn as well—Cellica had mentioned aught of such a scandal, though he remembered no details. He did recall that these noble girls hated each other, and competed in all ways—for the best salons, fashion, marriage, anything that could be fought over. For Waterdeep entire, if it was on the table.
"A misunderstanding," Talantress said tightly.
"Mmm. Aye, you leather-wrapped tramp," Wildfire countered.
"Kindly note my utter lack of surprise," Talantress said, "that you're so crude."
Wildfire hummed—almost purred—at Kalen. "Mmmm. Buck-toothed tease." She shot a glance at Talantress.
"Ah!" Talantress glared. "That will be quite enough, slut of a dull-eyed dwarf!"
"Gutter-battered wick-licker!" Wildfire put her fingers to her lips and licked them.
"How unwashed!" Talantress's wrath had almost broken through her calm face, but she seemed possessed of as much self-control as Araezra. Her lip curled derisively. "I wonder about those tales in the sheets about all those sweaty dockhands that loiter around Wavesilver manor. I'm sure they're very helpful with your ... boat."
"That's more than enough!" Wildfire's eyes flashed. She looked to Kalen. "We'll let Lord Nameless decide."
"What?" Kalen goggled.
Wildfire caught up his right hand and wound herself into his arm; her smile could cut diamonds and her glare was posirively deadly. If The Simbul of legend had half that sort of menace, no wonder she'd kept Thay so terrified so long. "Choose," she said coldly.
Talantress curled herself around his left side. Kalen was almost glad he couldn't feel much, or all that magic-black skin would drive him to distraction. "You'd better choose me, or you'll regret it," she whispered. "I'll make personally sure."
"Choose me? Wildfire purred in his other ear. "I'm much more fun than she is." Her tone shifted from suggestive to commanding. "And my uncles are richer—and employ more swordsmen to throttle fools who spurn me."
"Ah," Kalen said, his mind racing to match his thundering heart.
"Ninny!" Wildfire said. "You want me, aye saer?"
Talantress grasped Kalen's other arm. "He's dancing with me?
"Me!" Lady Wildfire hissed.
All the while, Kalen watched as Araezra wandered toward them. He couldn't get away, not with the ladies fighting over him. He was trapped.
"You should spare yon knight, ladies," said a gentle voice behind them.
The soft and alluring voice—strangely familiar—froze him in place like a statue.
"Ilira!" Wildfire's eyes widened, and she curtsied deeply. Her beautiful face broke into a genuine smile. "So good to see you."
"Lady Nathalan." Talantress gave her a false smile. "We did not ask your opinion." Her tone was that of a noble addressing a lesser—an upsrart merchant, whose only honor lay in coin.
"Apologies, young Lady Roaringhorn. I only meant to warn of knights who wear gray and walk lonely roads." A velvet-gloved hand touched Kalen's elbow. "Like this one."
Kalen turned. Lady Ilira—the eladrin he'd seen dancing with Lorien—stood just to his shoulder, but her presence loomed greater than her size. Perhaps it was the weight of years—like all elves, she
wore a timelessness about her that defied any attempt to place her age. Her face hid behind a velvet half-mask that revealed only her cheeks and thin lips.
Her pupil-less eyes gleamed bright and golden like those of a wolf, with all the tempestuous hunger to match. Those eyes had seen centuries of pain and joy, Kalen thought. Wisdom lurked there, and a sort of sadness that chilled his heart and shivered his knees.
Ilira wore a seamless low-cut black gown that left her shoulders and throat bare but otherwise covered every inch of her body, highlighting and enhancing her skin. Her midnight hair was bound in an elaborate bun at the back of her head. She wore what he thought was a wide black necklace that broke the smooth expanse of her breast. He realized quickly that it was not jewelry—she wore naught of that but a star sapphire pendant looped around her left wrist—but rather a series of black runes inked in her flesh, which gleamed as though alive.
She had asked him a question, Kalt n realized. He also realized he'd been staring at her chest, and his face flushed. Not for the first time, he thanked the gods for his full helm.
"Is this not so, Sir Shadow?" Ilira asked again.
Why was her cool, lovely voice so damned familiar? Where did he know it from?
"It is," Kalen said, because he could say nothing else.
Lady Wildfire laughed and clapped her hands, delighted to see Lady Ilira proven right. Talantress scowled on Kalen's other side. "Spare us your poetry, coin-pincher," she spat. "I'm taking him to dance now— unless you plan to steal him yourself?" She sneered at Lady Ilira. Her voice might have been that of a serpent. "But surely you wouldn't be interested—surely you'd not sully yourself with us mere humans."
Ilira smiled and released Kalen's arm, the better to focus on the drow-glamoured girl.
"If I were you, Talantress Roaringhorn," Ilira said, "I should not fight battles that cannot be won—particularly over those whose worth is not measured in noble blood." She winked at Kalen.
"You mean—he's not noble?" Talantress peered down her nose. "How unwashed."
"Tala." Ilira laid a gloved hand on her arm. "Is not your precious
mm sun i he mi
time better spent finding a suitable mate for resting Wixt your nethers? Aye, I believe your time grows short." The emphasis she put on the words struck Kalen, but he hadn't the least idea what she meant.
By the way her face turned white as fresh cream—despite the glamour that painted her skin black—Talantress certainly did. Her lip trembled and she gazed at Ilira in shock before she stumbled away. Several lordlings turned to gawk as she scrambled ungracefully through rhe throng—and thus did those men earn slaps or harsh words from their feminine companions.
Kalen looked back to the ladies, who shared a smug smile. "I cannor dance," he said.
"That hardly matters, saer, if the Lady Ilira partners you." Wildfire laughed. Then she turned her wicked smile on the elf. "If she beats me, of course."
"Oh?" Ilira turned to the girl and raised one eyebrow.
"What boots it?" Wildfire put her hands on her hips and set her stance. "I love common men as well as nobles." She smirked at Ilira. "I shall fight you for him! Choose the game."
"Very well." Ilira nodded serenely. "You are a brave and bold student, Alondra," she said. "But let us see how good a student you are. You will tell me whether I speak a lie or the truth, and if you are right, he is all yours." She winked at Kalen. "Gods help him."
Wildfire straightened her shoulders. "I accept!"
Ilira closed her eyes and breathed gently. Serenity fell in that moment, and the dancers and gossipers and servants around them grew hushed and seemed far away.
The elf opened her eyes again, and they seemed wet. "I wear this black in mourning," she said. "For my dearest friend, who was taken from me long ago through my own cowardice."
Wildfire looked positively stunned, as though Ilira had smitten her with a mighty blow.
"Oh, my lady," she said. "I'm so sorry—I did not know..."
Ilira looked away. "It seems you believed me," she said. "Aye?"
Wildfire nodded solemnly, and Kalen saw tears in her eyes. The rest of her face revealed nothing though, and he marveled at what must be self-discipline like iron. Like Araezra.
Ilira smiled. "What a pity." With that, she led Kalen toward the center of the dancers.
"What?" Wildfire colored red to the base of her silvered hair. "What?"
But they were safely protected from any fury she might have wrought, blocked by a living wall of nobility clad in the finest costumes and brightest colors coin or magic could buy. And on Lady Ilira's arm, Kalen could see no one else.
It completely escaped him, moreover, that a dance with her might attract exactly the sort of attention he didn't want.
"Olive Ruskettle and . . ." the herald looked at Fayne, who just smiled. "Escort."
Arm in arm, Cellica and Fayne looked out into the courtyard full of revelers and song. The dancing—the music—the colors—the gaiety! Cellica, in a word, loved a.
"I'm so glad you came by an invitation," the halfling said. "Funny you didn't dress as anyone in particular, though. I was sure—"
"Pay it naught," Fayne said, her eye drawn to the dancers in the courtyard. She stiffened, as though she saw someone familiar.
"What?" Cellica asked, straining to see, but everyone was too tall. "Who is it?"
"No one," Fayne said. "No one of any consequence."
"One moment." Fayne let go of Celiica's arm and skipped away through a mass of nobles—roaring drunk and dressed as fur-draped Uthgardt barbarians.
"What? Wait!" the halfling cried. "Fayne!"
But Fayne was gone, leaving Cellica lost in a forest of revelers.
With a harrumph, she started looking for Kalen or Myrin.
Not bothering with the servants' stairs, Fayne made her way immediately to the grand staircase that led to the balcony on the second floor. There she'd find the rooms of worship and splendor—where her mark waited, preparing for her dance at midnight.
On the way, she nestled something amongst the statues of naked dancers that flanked the stairs. The item was a small box her patron had given her—a portable spelltrap—into which she had placed an enchantment of her own, one of her most powerful. The item gave off only a faint aura when inactive, and with a courtyard full of woven spells and the temple wards, no one would notice until it was tripped. And by then, enough chaos would be caused.
Two jacks, descending the stairs hand in hand, looked at her askance, but she just nodded. "Sune smile upon you," she said.
They replied in kind and joined the throng.
Fayne, managing to keep herself from giggling like a clever child, strung the privacy rope between the statues' hands and nodded to the watchmen, who smiled indulgently and knowingly. Just a reveler off to some tryst.
Oh, yes, fools—oh, yes.
Fayne skipped up toward Lorien Dawnbringer's chamber. No guards milled about—why would they, when all were below, at the revel?
Fayne knocked gently, and a womanly voice came from within. "Who calls?"
Then Fayne remembered, and swore mutely. She had almost forgotten—dressed in these ridiculous clothes—a face to go with the attire.
She ripped off her fox mask and passed her wand over her body, head to toe. She shrank herself thinner and a little shorter, her face slimming and sharpening, and she became the elf to whom this outfit belonged—the one Fayne remembered in her nightmares.
Fayne always committed herself fully, throwing herself into danger with wild abandon.
The door opened, and Lorien peered out, blinking in genuine surprise. "Lady Ilira?"
Fayne gave her a confident wink, then she leaped into Lorien's arms. She kicked the door closed as they staggered inside.
TWENTY-ONE
It was a trick," Kalen said as Ilira led him toward the dancers. "What you told her." "Whar, saer?"
"It was borh true and false," Kalen said. "Your face is covered, and I couldn't tell from your voice or your eyes, but I saw it in your throat. You lied, in parr, and rold true in another."
"How inrriguing, good Sir Shadow." Lady Ilira looked at him with some interest. "When you become more.. .familiar with moon elves such as myself, you will note that our ears tell lies more clearly than anything else."
Kalen's heart beat a little faster at the thought of becoming familiar with this woman. "Will you solve the mystery, then?"
"I did lose my dearest friend long ago," she said. "But I do not dress in black for him."
"A half-truth, shrouded in lie." Surprisingly, he could feet her hand—very warm—in his.
"Like a paladin shrouded in night," she said. "Light hidden in twilight, aye?"
A song was ending—a gentle Tethyrian melody, with decorous dancing to match. Kalen knew styles of music—he had once romanced a traveling bard of Cormyr—but dancing was quite beyond him. He hoped he did not disappoint the graceful elf.
As though she read his thoughts, she smiled again. "Never fear, saer—I shall teach you."
Lady Ilira released his hand—he felt the loss of her touch keenly— and presented herself before him. She offered an elegant, deep bow, which Kalen returned.
They waited for the applause to die down and for the lordlings to select new partners. Most of this was according to rote, already
long established. Many envious glances fell on Kalen and Lady Ilira, who was clearly one of the most beautiful and graceful ladies in the ballroom. In particular, one sour-faced elf lord was glaring at him. That one wore a long false beard and black robes, making him look like a dark sorcerer. Gloves of deep red velvet gleamed, and Kalen could see his fingers tapping impatiently. Kalen felt unsettled.
"Ruldrin Sandhor," she said. "I imagine he does not like to see me dance with a commoner. But I dance with whom I wish—I always have."
Kalen smiled wryly. "How did you know I was not noble, lady?" he asked.
"The way I know / am not." She chuckled. "It is obvious."
"Your husband does not make you noble?" Kalen offered. "Lord Sandhor, mayhap?"
"Oh, good saer." She showed him that she wore no rings over her gloves. "No husband."
Then she took his hands and placed his right on her hip and kept his left hand in her right. "You are fortunate," she said. "As a man, the dance is easier."
The bards played the first few strains of what sounded like a vigorous refrain, then paused to give the dancers a chance to pair off in preparation.
With her left hand on Kalen's shoulder, Lady Ilira reached up for his brow, and his heart leaped at the thought that she might remove his helm and kiss him—but her hand only touched his mask. For some reason, he thought of Fayne, and wondered where she might be.
"Who are you thinking of, I wonder?" she asked as they bowed to one another.
That snapped him back to the ball. "Ah, no one . . ." Kalen floundered.
"Fear not—I am not jealous," Ilira said. "Your face is hidden, but I can see your eyes well enough." She grinned mischievously. "Keep your secrets as you will."
Her exotic eyes—pure metallic gold without iris or pupil— were unreadable, but he sensed her wisdom—and playfulness. "Indeed, lady."
They danced. The steps were foreign, as he'd feared, but not difficult. He credited his movements to the superior skill of Lady Ilira, who was without a doubt the finest dancer he could have imagined. She flowed through the movements, letting her skirts and sleeves trail like wings as though she were flying. Her shadow seemed to dance independently of her, with the same movements but in different directions, but Kalen reasoned rhat was a trick of the light.
After the first tune, there was applause and the dancers bowed. He seized the opportunity to remove his gloves and sruff them in his belt. Hands shifted and partners moved, but Lady Ilira seized Kalen's arm and held him steady, her eyes like yellow diamonds binding him in place.
With more confidence than the first time, he laid his bare fingers on her hip. Without his gloves, he tried and failed to feel the silk of her gown; all he could feel was the heat of her flesh beneath. Maybe he was touching her too hard—he had no way of knowing—or maybe she was pleased. Regardless, her whole body reacted to his touch, sending tingles up his arm. She was like an immortal creature—not at all human or even elf. A spirit.
They danced again—this time to a Sword Coast tune more forgiving of missreps.
"What was it you meant, touching Lady Roaringhorn?" Kalen asked.
"My good knight, your mind wanders Downshadow, to think of me touching Talantress."
Kalen foughr to keep the heat out of his cheeks. "I mean about her 'precious time.' "
"I happen to have heard of a tiny enchantment." She looked at him knowingly. "Secrets are coin, saer—inrerested in buying one?"
Kalen smirked. "If I'm to keep mine, you'll keep yours."
She nodded serenely.
The minstrels began another song—this one much faster—and rather rhan let him go, Lady Ilira grasped Kalen harder. It was" a Calishite rhythm, he realized—a dance of passion and heat, more akin to Ioveplay than innocent dance. Watch horns blared in his
mind, and he repeated to himself that he could not dance, but his feet didn't listen, and his hands—well.
x He'd thought her skilled before, but now—with such a tempestuous dance—Lady Ilira was wonderful. Her leg wrapped around his, bringing heat into his cheeks, and she turned around him so gracefully, so expertly, that he might have thought them destined to dance together. He saw her eyes flash; she couldn't have failed to note the steel strapped to the insides of his thighs.
Then she whirled up, pressing herself hard against him, arms around his neck, lips almost against his ear. He felt the whole of her, and he tingled.
The dance lulled, allowing for folk to stand.
"Well, good saer," she whispered in his ear. "You're full of hidden dangers."
Kalen didn't flinch. "Care to search them out?" he whispered back.
She pressed her lips to the mask of his helm: kissing the shadow, not the man. Then she said—aloud for the benefit of the dancers nearby, "Keep your dagger in your breeches, goodsir."
Kalen couldn't help but smile.
The dance built to a furious tempo that he could hardly follow. He felt more and more as though he were merely there to allow Lady Ilira to show herself, and show herself she did. All eyes in the hall fell upon her, and all but the most vigorous dancers stopped to watch.
Kalen wondered about the runes tattooed across her collarbone. What did they mean? He realized they were Dethek, the script of dwarves. Why would an elf wear dwarven runes?
Ilira whirled and met him once more, and he caught her in a fierce embrace. They spun together once, twice—then he held her bent low like a swooned woman as the song ended. Their eyes met, and she smirked at him—mysterious, alluring, dangerous.
As the hall erupted in applause, her expression became a wide grin—the first genuine smile he'd seen her wear. Kalen couldn't help but sigh, pleased.
Ilira made him think, oddly, of Fayne—how he wanted to see her smile like that.
Ilira rose and laughed, curtsying to the crowd in an elegant fashion. She smiled and waved, and blew a kiss at the sour-faced silk merchanr she'd pointed out earlier, Lord Sandhor. Kalen did little more than stand stiffly and wait for her to return. She did so, bowing to him as was proper.
"What have you lost, Lady?" Kalen asked.
Her smile instantly vanished, replaced by a dangerous cold. Unconsciously, Kalen's hand twitched toward one of those knives he'd been thinking of just breaths earlier, but he reined his impulse.
"Your tattoo." He nodded to the runes inked along her collarbone. "Gargan vathkelke kaugathal—Dwarvish, aye? I know only vathkel— lost. What does the rest mean?"
He raised his hand toward her chest. He didn't intend to touch the tattoo, but perhaps he did—he couldn'r feel anything. His thoughts were suddenly distant—only the warmth of her body pressed against his, the sweet lavender perfume of her hair, the cool velvet of her gloves ... he wanred—he. yearned—to know how her skin felt.
But Lady Ilira broke away from him, hand reaching halfway to her chest. Her eyes like burnished gold coins were far away—distant and sad. "No," she said, and he could have sworn before the Eye of Justice that he saw tears in her eyes. "Good saer, my thanks for the dance."
"Wait, I did not mean—" he said.
"Your pardon, boy," said a velvety smooth and dagger-sharp voice behind him. The robed elf—Sandhor—slid past him and seized Ilira's gloved hands in his own. "Does this human offend, my twilight dove?" He glared back, down his impressive nose.
Ilira blinked over Sandhor s shoulder at Kalen, and for an instant, he thought her eyes were pleading. Then she assumed a brilliant smile and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Ruldrin, heart, just in time—" They swept into the dance. "I've been meaning to discuss your latest donation to the Haven."
"What donation?" Ruldrin favored Kalen with a cruel smile over Ilira's shoulder.
"Exactly," the elf woman said sweetly.
They whirled away, leaving Kalen stunned and very alone amidst the other dancers.
He saw, over the whirling gowns, a face framed by red-dyed hair: Araezra. "Gods," he murmured, and ducked away. With that display, she must have seen him and recognized the outfit. Yes, she was coming his way. Idiot.
He was making his way back to Myrin when he smelled something strange—something burning. He looked at his hand, and saw— mutely—smoke rising from his fingertips. The tips of his fore and middle finger were blistered and bleeding.
When had that happened?
"Hmm-mmm," Fayne moaned, lounging in one end of Lorien's golden bathtub. "Perfect."
The priestess, ensconced at her own end, watched Fayne with a serene smile on her face. Her cheeks were rosy in the candlelight reflected off the warm water.
"Dancing next?" Lorien asked. "Our appointed arrival at midnight cannot be far off."
"Just," Fayne said, stroking one of Lorien's long, slender legs. "Just a little longer."
The priestess smiled and closed her eyes. Fayne hadn't been certain this would be the right course—seduction, her favorite method—but it was certainly paying off thus far. And if she enjoyed it a little herself, all the better! Time enough to dispense pain after pleasure, aye?
Careful, she thought. You'll sound like that Roaringhorn girl you humiliated last month.
The memory made her giggle. The whipmaster. She had rather liked wearing such a big, muscle-bound form. It had felt stupid and thick, but oh so enjoyable—particularly after.
Lorien saw her smile. "What are you thinking of?"
"A jest—nothing." Fayne in Ilira's form giggled again. "You?"
Lorien stretched and drew herself out of the bath, gleaming and perfect. The light glittered off her soft curves. Fayne told herself to remember that effect, to use some day.
"Many things." Lorien crossed to a divan and drew a ruby red robe around her lovely body. "Things about you—and about us."
"Oh?" Fayne pressed her breasts against the edge of the gold tub and grinned. "What?"
"First—" Lorien lifted from the divan an ornate, golden rod. "Have I shown you this?"
"And what might that be for?" asked Fayne, still blissful.
Lorien smiled. "Revealing secrets," she said. "From a false face."
Fayne didn't understand immediately, and that proved her undoing. "What do you—?"
Lorien gestured languidly. "Come." Her word was powerful and inescapable. -
The hairs rose on Fayne's neck—a magical attack. Fayne's will hammered at the command, but her body was already caught. She stood, trembling, and wrenched herself our of the bath. Against her will, her body began walking toward Lorien.
"I don't understand," Fayne said. "Hearr, what are you—"
Lorien shook her head. "Whatever you are, creature," she said, "Ilira and I love each other well, but you misunderstand our relationship. A pity for you."
Fayne's mind whirled. "I felt. . ." she tried. "I felt it was time to ... My love, don't punish me for my haste! I only wanted to take us to another ledge, my darling one!"
Lorien rolled her eyes. As Fayne stood before her, Lorien gestured for her to kneel, and Fayne did so. "I can't decide," she said, "whether you are one of my enemies, or one of hers." She shifted the golden rod from hand to hand. "Which is it, child?"
"Dear hearr," Fayne gasped. "I don't understand what you mean."
"Show truth," Lorien intoned in Elvish, and tapped Fayne on the forehead with the rod.
Fayne screeched, loud and long, as magic ripped away from her, shattering her illusions and deceptions. They faded in sequence: first Ilira's face, then the conjured black hair, then the alluring features, then—as her skin prickled and stretched—her entire shape began to shift, back to—good gods—back to her true self. Something that was certainly not a half-elf.
Lorien gasped. "One of Likens creatures," she said. "Ilira warned me."
Those names. Ilira, the woman Fayne hated, but the other. How did she know... ?
i Fayne looked at herself, at her black-nailed fingers and alabaster skin. Her tail slapped her legs. Not her real body—not now! She pawed at her garish pink hair and screamed.
"Gods." Lorien put out a trembling hand, reaching toward Fayne's head by reflex. "That explains everything. I'm sorry, child. I didn't—"
There came a rush and a snickering sound, and Lorien's head snapped back. Fayne looked at her, confused.
For a heartbeat, Lorien stood there, bent backward, standing erect.
Then she fell in a geyser of blood from her opened throat. The priestess slumped to the floor, twitching and dying.
Rath stood near them. He had struck and sheathed his blade in a single movement.
"What?" Fayne's mind barely functioned. "I thought... you said you never use that."
The dwarf looked down at her as one might look at a child. "For those who are worthy," he said. "And those for whom I have been paid."
Fayne stared numbly at Lorien—at the blood spreading around her face—and could not think. The priestess's eyes blinked rapidly, and she tried to speak but only gurgled. Fayne's stomach turned over and she felt like vomiting into the golden tub.
Rath turned away from Fayne in disgust. "Clean yourself. Put your mask back on."
Fayne grasped her head, which was reeling. Magic drained the vitality from her limbs, but those limbs shifted, their deathly pallor replaced by the smooth warmth of her half-elf body. She felt her teeth—normal once more—and sighed in deep relief. It was only an illusion and would have to last until she could perform her ritual again, but it was enough.
She rose on shaky, weak legs. Rath didn't help her.
Finally, her ugly self hidden, she could think clearly again. The enormity of Rath's actions struck her, and she gasped.
"You stupid son of a mother-suckling goat!" she screamed at the dwarf as she wound a white towel around her nakedness. She pointed at Lorien, who lay dying on the floor. "She wasn't supposed to die—I didn't pay you to kill her!
Rath shrugged. "You are welcome."
"You beardless idiot!" Fayne's face felt like it would explode. " Who askedyou:'Who asked you to step in? I had everything under my hand, every—urt!"
The dwarf seized her by the throat, cutting off words and air. Choking, she could not resist as he forced her against the wall and pinned her there with his arm. Her weak fingers could only flail at his ironlike arm.
"Her, I rook coin to kill," Rath whispered in her ear. "You, I slay for free."
Fayne gasped as light entered her vision.
TWENTY-TWO
Ralen found Myrin surrounded by a crowd of admirers—young noble lads who were taking turns trying to get the silver-haired girl to dance. She kept giggling at their flattery and answering their increasingly bawdy compliments innocently. While her gold crown-mask hid her face, Kalen thought he saw understanding and bemusement in her eyes.
"Kalen!" she said as he approached, and the noble lads looked around.
Kalen flinched—she shouldn't use his name when he was trying to keep a low cloak.
The lads puffed themselves up against him, but one sweep of his icy eyes and they turned to easier sport elsewhere. At least the damned Shadowbane getup was good for something tonight.
Myrin threw herself into Kalen's arms. "Hee!" she said. "I'm having such a—heep!—marvelous time." She ran her pale fingers along his black leathers. "Dance with me."
Newly confident in that regard from his dance with Lady Ilira, Kalen thought at first to accept. Then he thought better of it, owing to the scent of flowery wine on her breath. From that and the slur in her speech, Kalen could tell Myrin was quite drunk.
"There you are!" said a familiar voice. Cellica appeared out from under a banquet table.
"How did—how did you get in here?" Kalen asked.
"Fayne brought me," Cellica said. "Haven't you seen her?"
"Fayne?" Kalen furrowed his brow inside his helm. It was hot and hard to think in there—good thing Cellica hadn't seen him dancing, or she'd start blaming that for any . ..
"Aye," the halfling said. "Little red-headed half-elf dressed as a swashbuckler . . . maybe you didn't notice her while you were
dancing with that elf hussy. Who was she, anyway?"
"Uh." Kalen flinched. He remembered Cellica speaking of Lady Ilira, usually in glowing rerms. Perhaps it was for the best that she hadn't recognized the woman.
Cellica stared up at him, tapping her foot. "Well?"
"Well what?" Kalen flinched away from Myrin teasing at his mask.
Cellica looked at the intoxicated woman in his arms. "Eep!"Myrin said, and she giggled.
"Oh." Kalen hitched Myrin up and set her down on the table with a bump that made her giggle. "I wasn't doing—"
Cellica just narrowed her eyes, and Kalen sighed.
At that moment, a scream split the night, cutting through the music of the minstrels. The murmur of conversation, jests, and laughter died a little, and nervous titters followed the scream, as though it were a jape or prank played by some noble lass with more drink in her than sense.
Myrin shivered. "Kalen, I don't think I like this ball any more."
Louder screams followed—screams of someone being tortured in the rooms above—and the revelers could ill laugh it off. "Fayne," Kalen said, recognizing the voice.
Cellica went white.
"We need to get up there," Kalen said.
Kalen saw a pair of guardsmen start up the grand staircase, only to meet a crimson flash. Black, froth-covered fangs appeared in the air, gnashing and tearing at the first guard. The others paused, horror-stricken, and disembodied mouths struck at them, too. Ladies screamed and panic broke around the stairs as the spell struck celebrants and revelers at random. The other guards employed to watch over the revel could not get through the crush of bodies.
"Not the stairs," Kalen said, and Cellica nodded.
The screams died, but chaos was in full bloom. Revelers scrambled this way and that, shouting and shoving. Kalen saw noblemen arguing, terrified, hands on their blades, and he knew a brawl was imminent.
Abruptly, another cry came—loud and wrenching—from the
midst of the dancers. Kalen looked, for he recognized the voice: Lady Ilira had backed away from Lord Sandhor, clutching at her throat. The elf merchant stepped toward her, casting the shadow of his cloak around her, but she shook her head to whatever he was saying. She vanished into him, as though she had stepped through him. She did not appear out the other side.
Wide-eyed, Kalen looked at Cellica, and the halfling nodded.
"Kalen?" Myrin asked sleepily. "Kalen, what's going on?"
"Have you your murderpiece, wee lady?" Kalen asked, drawing the daggers from their sheaths against the inside of his thighs. Where Lady Ilira's leg had wrapped, he recalled.
Cellica gave an impish smile and drew out her necklace, with its little crossbow-shaped charm. "Always." She spoke a word in an ancient language, and the medallion grew to fit her hand. She wound the crossbow with two quick twists of her wrist. "And don't call me 'wee.' "
Kalen boosted the little woman up on his shoulders and bent his knees.
"Kalen?" Myrin's face was pale. She seemed sober—and frightened. "Where—?"
"Wait." Kalen cupped her chin and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. "We'll be back."
He scooped up Cellica, hopped onto the banquet table, and ran. When he reached the end, his boots gleamed with blue fire and he leaped for the edge of the balcony. He caught it with one hand, hoisted Cellica up, and swung himself over the rail.
Myrin's hair rustled in the wind of Kalen's jump. He and Cellica flew up and away, toward the balcony where the screams had come from. Many revelers looked up, startled, and shouts renewed. Men argued, shouted, and shoved.
She wondered what magic let him jump like that—leaving a thin trail of blue flame.
Myrin only watched Kalen as he flew, and silently cursed herself.
"Of course he didn't kiss you, you ninny," she said, fighting the tears. "You get drunk and throw yourself at him? How pitiful!"
Then Myrin gasped as a lordling slammed into the banquet table beside her with enough force to crack it. The man who had shoved him—a cruel-faced man in a black cloak—turned to leer at Myrin. She gaped and fought for air, frozen at the suddenness of his appearance.
"Kalen!" she moaned.
"Coward!" the nobleman cried. He lunged from the table and punched the cloaked man in the face. The rogue staggered back, snarling, and reached for a blade.
"Are you well, my lady?" the lordling demanded of Myrin.
"Uh," Myrin said. She couldn't think. She didn't know what to do.
Shoving her under the cracked banquet table, the lordling pointed a wand at his advancing foe and fired a blast of green-white light. The spell struck the man hard like a hammer's blow, staggering him, but he only smiled and srraightened once more.
"Run, my lady!" the lordling said as he looked at his wand angrily. "Run—"
Then the word became a cry of pain as the rogue ran him through.
Myrin could only stare, horrified, as the man kicked the body off his sword. She knew that the blade would come for her next, but she could only crouch, paralyzed in terror.
The murderer squinted around, as though trying to see her. That didn't make sense to Myrin, who hadn't moved. She was sitting right before him, not a pace away, just under the table.
The sword flashed through the air, prodding this way and that as though searching for her. She cringed as far back as she could.
The murderer growled in frustration. He rose and ran back into the melee.
Myrin was puzzled. Why wasn't she dead? Hadn't the man seen her sitting before him?
Dazed, Myrin looked around, then crawled across the floor to escape her hiding place. She gasped when she looked down—her
DMA Mill 11 UD MB
hands had changed color to match the stone floor. She held them up in front of her and her skin changed tone and pattern to blend with the room. Myrin panicked and grabbed hold of a nearby crimson drapery to haul herself to her feet—and her body immediately flushed crimson to match the fabric. What was happening to her?
She rubbed at her reddened arms and saw that a trail of blue runes like ivy had crept up the inside of her forearm. She slipped back to the floor and sat, wrapped in the velvet drapery.
She didn't understand—she couldn't think. Why had she had so much wine?
Looking around the courtyard, she saw that at least twenty men and women in black cloaks—like the man who had attacked nearby— had appeared in the courtyard, attacking revelers. Chaos swept the courtyard, leaving cries of pain and terror in its wake.
A chill passed over Myrin, as though a door had opened nearby and let in a wave of cold air. She saw her skin shift again, back to its usual tan, and the blue runes faded from her arms. Whatever that chameleon magic had been, it was leaving her.
A face bent down to peer at Myrin. "Excuse me, young mistress."
Myrin turned where she sat, and a shiver of fear passed through her. "Y-yes?"
The woman was very old, but Myrin wasn't sure how she knew this. The rounded figure standing before her was rather youthful—even lush, with a heart-shaped face surrounded by vibrant gold curls. Her emerald gown, under a jet black cloak, was perfectly in fashion.
Myrin had the distinct sense the woman wasn't alive, though that couldn't be.
"I am Avaereene," said the woman. "Your jack seems to have abandoned you, and I thought you might be in some distress. May I aid you?"
"Oh, no," Myrin said. "Kalen's just gone away for a moment. He'll be—"
But the stranger was raising her hand. Myrin sensed, too late, the pulse of enchantment within the woman's arm, which beat with its
own inner heat. Its proximity tickled her senses like the aroma of a steaming platter of hot sweets.
"Sleep," the woman said, in a language Myrin understood without knowing how.
Darkness swallowed Myrin.
The woman who'd called herself Avaereene lifted the girl fluidly. The young body was light, yet she felt a little dizzy—her power diminished around this girl, somehow. She knew the blue-headed waif had power of some kind, but she didn't know what it was.
No matter. She had more than enough strength for this purpose.
She tucked the sleeping girl under her cloak and whispered a spell to shroud them. Her cloak dimmed and bent the light, hiding them from view. A fog appeared in the air, shrouding half the courtyard in mist. In a few more moments, the temple would be one great brawl, and she and her followers could slip away.
Her employer would be most pleased.
Kalen swung up onto the balcony, where Cellica hopped down and they cast about for the source of the screams. Kalen heard loud, harsh words from the half-open door to the nearest chamber. He pointed, and Cellica dashed to the door, crossbow up and scanning for a target. He padded after her, thankful she'd made him wear his learhers after all.
What they found in the chamber, neither of them could have expected.
Lorien Dawnbringer lay dying upon the floor near a great golden tub. She choked and sputtered and tried to speak, but only blood came from her throar. Bent over her, cradling her as she bled, was Lady Ilira. She seemed to blend into the shadows of the golden tub, as though she had melted from them just heartbeats before.
"No," Ilira moaned. "No, no, no!"
Her gloved fingers caressed the priestess's face. Lorien did not seem
IMII1DUUI1 HDU1D
able to see her, and could only cough, sputter, and finally go still.
Ilira, her face in shock, opened and closed her mouth several times but could not speak. Then she lowered her lips, tentatively, to Lorien's forehead. She shook as though from strain at the effort. Then, gently, she kissed the priestess's pale face.
Kalen expected something to happen, though he did not know why. Nothing came to pass but the gentle sound of her kiss.
Then, as if a wave loosed within her, Ilira threw back her head and screamed, loud and long—an elf mourning cry unknown in the lands of men. She bent and kissed Lorien's face again—kissed ir over and over, washing it with her tears. She cried out in Elvish, but Kalen could not understand. She tore off her gloves and pressed her hands on Lorien's cheeks as though she'd never touched them before, as though her skin could bring life to death.
All eyes remained on her, but Kalen became aware of someone else in the room. His gaze flicked to the side, where he saw a thick figure in the shadows. It was Rath, pinning a squirming, mostly naked Fayne under his arm. Both of them looked rapt at Ilira's display.
"Hold and down arms!" Kalen cried. "Waterdhavian Guard!"
"Ka—!" Fayne gasped.
Rath slammed her head against the wall and Fayne slumped to the floor, unmoving.
TWENTY-THREE
Ilira was the first to move. Rather, she remained still, but her shadow moved.
Kalen realized, to his horror, that her dark reflection did not match her—it was great and broad, like a hulking warrior. It moved of its own will; though Ilira knelt, still and trembling, her shadow reached toward the dwarf with clawed hands meaning to rend him apart.
Suddenly, Kalen recognized it—from Downshadow, the night he had followed Lorien. The shadow must be bound to protect both women.
Then Ilira was in motion. She screamed a war cry of fury and leaped—not toward Rath, but backward, toward the wall. Kalen watched as she melted into the shadows, then appeared next to the dwarf and tackled him to the floor. Her hands fumbled at his black robes, and the two rolled and bounced across the silk carpets.
"Fayne!" Cellica cried, and she ran to Fayne, who lay unmoving.
Her voice snapped Kalen into motion. He lunged toward Rath and Ilira, daggers wide.
Rath got two feet under Ilira and heaved, sending her flying toward Kalen. He braced himself to catch her, but she twisted in the air, landed lightly on his chest with both feet, and kicked off, turning a somersault and landing on her toes near the dwarf. She lunged at Rath, hissing like a serpent.
Driven backward by the collision, Kalen fell to the floor. He coughed and kicked his legs around, pushing himself to stand. What he saw paralyzed him for a heartbeat.
Ilira's shadow had fallen upon Rath. It stood like a living man—a giant of a man. Its features were blurry, but Kalen could see torturofis pain etched on its face. With a soundless cry, it tore at the dwarf with its black claws.
Rath eluded its blows, eyes wide. He danced backward and around the room, running around the tub and leaping over divans and dressers. The shadow pursued, relentless in its assault. Rath ran up a wall, kicked off, and dropped behind it, right hand across his belt on his sword. The creature turned—or rather, turned itself inside-out—and grimaced at Rath out of its back-turned-front. The dwarf began to draw steel.
"Elie en!" Ilira screamed, and she pounced on him like a cat. Her bare hand grasped his wrist, holding his sword in place.
Flesh sizzled and the dwarf screamed. Kalen smelled it before he saw the smoke rising from Rath's wrist. His flesh burned under Ilira's touch as though by incredible heat. Great red welts appeared and blood dripped to the floor. Bubbles of skin collapsed into blackening burns.
A spellscar, Kalen realized—Ilira's power was to unmake flesh at a touch. That explained his burned fingers, her dress and gloves, the way she recoiled from contact. Never would he have suspected it of such a lady—so fair, yet so monstrous as well.
Kalen understood, in a flash, what had happened with Lorien—why Ilira had cried out after she had touched the priestess. Lorien's flesh had not burned at her touch because the priestess was dead. Only the living suffered the burns. Like Rath.
The dwarf struggled to escape, but the hand he laid on her forearm scalded in the same fashion, and he cried out in pain. His eyes were filled with horror and his voice turned to a squeal.
"Elie en, ilythiri" Ilira said, her words soft and cold. She leaned in to kiss him.
The dwarf flinched, Kalen saw, sparing his lips. Ilira's kiss fell instead on his unprotected cheek, and the smoke of burning flesh wafted around their faces. Rath cried out and beat at Ilira, trying to break her hold, tearing her black gown. The elf hung on, clinging to him with her arms and legs like a spider as he burned under her touch and shrieked.
"What's she doing?" Cellica screamed. She cradled the unconscious Fayne and pointed her crossbow at the duel but did not fire, unable to sight a clear target.
Kalen shivered to warch Ilira's attack. Even the shadow seemed to pause in its fury, standing back to let her kiss the dwarf with her burning lips. The creature recoiled, seeming to cower as though ashamed. Rath cried out over and over, wordless.
"Hold!" Kalen cried, but to no avail. He knew the fury on Ilira's face. This was not a woman who would stop until she killed or was killed herself.
He ran at the pair, daggers held low and wide, and the shadow lunged into his path. He cut at the creature, but as he expected, his knives passed through the black stuff of its body as though through heavy mist, causing no injury. Mortal steel could hardly touch a creature from beyond their world. If only he still had his paladin's powers, he could harm it.
The beast lashed out with its claws, and Kalen knew better than to parry. He danced aside, weaving, trying to get around the creature rather than through it. It was huge and powerful, but as Kalen guessed, not fast or nimble. He could dodge its strikes as long as he stayed fast and low. Cowardly, perhaps, but it kept him alive.
Fight like a paladin, he thought. Prove to the threefold god that you are worthy. Have faith that your strikes will harm it, and they will.
But growing up in the cesspool of Luskan, Kalen had never trusted to faith. The center of his being was wrought of cold practicality, hardened by a thousand strikes and hard blows. Thanking the gods again he had worn his leathers rather than his Guard arms, he moved in the tight, efficient dance of elusion and avoidance that had marked his days as a thief.
Yet he couldn't get past the shadow. It was too strong a guardian—a perfect mate to its mistress, this elf noble with her hidden scars. He pulled back to face it levelly, and held up his daggers to ward it back. The creature ceased its attack and stared at him, and he had the distinct sense that he was gazing at a guardian just as devoted as he.
He hefted a knife to throw. He thought it might pass through the shadow and strike Ilira, distracting her from Rath. He hated the dwarf, but he needed to stop this. «
Then Ilira groaned as the dwarf punched her solidly on the ear—at the same instant, the man-shaped shadow drew back as though struck.
The elf reeled away and Rath rose, his half-blackened face dripping blood. He touched it and winced. His bare hand came away bloody and sticky.
With anger that was the stuff of nightmares written on his face, the dwarf reached down with his unburned hand and pulled his sword free. The blade glittered with its perfect, keen edge.
Kalen had seen such blades on the Dragon Coast, among tradesmen from the east. Katanas, they were often called—light, efficient, and delicate.
Rath crouched to lunge at the shuddering woman. His grimace calmed a little as he focused himself into the blade. Then he leaped.
Kalen darted in front of him, daggers crossed, and caught the sword high.
The slender sword shrieked against his crossed steel, and Kalen thought for one terrible heartbeat that it would shear through them and into his chest. But the steel held, and Rath pressed only another instant—face wrought in agony and rage—before he pulled the sword back, dropped low, and kicked Kalen's legs out from under him. Kalen fell back, colliding heavily with Ilira and falling in a tangled heap. Flesh burned—Kalen's own—but he could not stand. He looked up, saw Rath's sword, and knew he could not block.
A crossbow bolt streaked toward Rath and he swept his blade up to slap it aside.
CeUica.'Kalen saw the halfling near the door, standing protectively over Fayne, who was coughing her way back to awareness. The shot had startled them all—broken the rhythm of the battle. Cellica glared at Rath banefully and reloaded her small crossbow.
Eyes wild with horror, the dwarf touched a trembling hand to his face and moaned. Not bothering to sheathe his sword, he leaped through the open window.
Kalen grasped Ilira to pull her away, but the bare flesh through her ruined gown burned his fingers. It felt distant, that burning, but still powerful—he felt the death inside her.
Ilira moaned and struggled. "No!" she cried. "You're letting him escape!"
Kalen tried to respond but she slammed a knee into his belly and he slumped to the floor, gasping.
Ilira glared at her shadow, and the crearure nodded. Ilira said nothing, only closed her fists tightly. As though in response, rhe creature melted into the floor and swirled around her feet, joining with her. She srood, panting and heaving, half naked in her torn gown. Blood—Lorien's and Rarh's both, Kalen realized—dripped from her hands.
She glared down at Kalen with a fury and a hate that only an elf—with untold ages stretching behind her and ahead—could know. He crawled backward on the floor, inching away from a lioness that could pounce at any instant. She knelt, meeting Kalen eye to eye, considering.
Two Watchmen burst through the door, swords drawn. "Hold!" they cried. "Down arms!"
The swords pointed first to him, as the man with steel, then at Ilira. Kalen thrust a warding hand toward Cellica, and she cradled Fayne against the wall, hiding her. He opened his hands, daggers hooked between palm and thumb. He rose slowly, trying not to provoke Ilira.
"Hold and talk truth!" cried one Watchman. "What happened here?" His gaze roved to the corpse of the priestess, then to Ilira, kneeling with bloody hands and wrists. "Merciful gods!"
The elf turned baleful eyes toward rhem and they winced.
"Hold!" the armored man said. "Down arms! Down . . . hands!"
Uncaring, Ilira rose and started toward the window, but Kalen moved to block her.
"Stay, Lady," Kalen said. "None of us are certain what happened here."
"Calm yourself," Cellica said with her suggestive voice. Turning against her will, Ilira raised her hands to her ears, her face contorred. "Stay calm, Lady—calm ..."
With a roar, Ilira threw her hands out wide. "Enough!" She gave Kalen a sharp glare, and words died on his tongue as though her will had struck him a solid blow. Her eyes glowed gold-yellow from within
the shadows that enwrapped her like mist. Darkness roiled in her—a cruel, terrible darkness.
,» Her shadow did not follow her movements. While she stood calmly, it thrashed and clawed on the floor, as though in agony.
Then she laughed—half crazed, half terrified. The mocking cackle—perfect and terrible as the voice of a singer drowning in madness—chilled him to the bone. "You want to pierce me, is that it?" the elf asked, her words wry. She glared at the Watchmen and ran her bloody hands along her hips, pulling the silk gown up past her knees. Her gaze grew alluring and dangerous. "You and any of a thousand men—little boys with your swords."
Shadows lengthened—the Watchmen shivered. Kalen saw them looking at her writhing shadow, their faces white as cream.
"Lady." Kalen lowered his daggers. "Lady, no one will harm you."
Ilira shook her head dazedly, and some of her darkness fell away as though the shadows that surrounded her were tangible.
"I am Waterdeep Guard," Kalen said. "Calm yourself, and we shall—"
"Shut up!" she snapped, startling him. Angry tears burst forth to stream down her face. "Stay away from me. Away!"
Kalen raised his steel once more. "Lady Ilira, please—"
She loosed a strangled cry of rage and pain, then ran toward the window. Lunging forward, Kalen shouted at her to stop, but she ran straight into the wall—or would have, had not the shadows swallowed her. He staggered to a halt, startled and disbelieving. She had cast no spell—used no magic that he knew of.
"A shade," said one of the Watchmen. "Did you see her eyes? Lady Ilira's a shade!"
"Gods above," said the other. "No other explanation—hold!"
When Kalen moved, they perked up and leveled their war steel at him.
Kalen put his hands out wide—peaceful. He looked to Cellica and to Fayne, whom the halfling clutched near the wall. An ugly bruise was seeping across Fayne's face where the dwarf had struck her.
He realized Fayne was looking hard at where Ilira had vanished, and her eyes twinkled.
You and any of a thousand men...
Kalen shivered. If Kalen didn't get Fayne out soon ...
The Watchmen were pointing steel at them.
He had no choice.
He raised his hands to the sides of his helm.
TWENTY-MR
Boots sounded on the steps without, and Cellica saw Kalen shake himself from his stupor. She heard shouts from outside and a great clamor, but her eyes locked on Kalen.
"Hold!" said the Watchman, but Kalen ripped off his helm. Fayne inhaled sharply.
"Vigilant Dren!" They scrambled ro salute. "Care for this mess," he said. "I'm sure she won't be back, but 'ware Ilira's hands—they burn." He started to don his helm, then stopped. He added, "Her kiss, too."
"Sir!" a Watchman cried. "What passed here? Who killed—" Kalen shook his head, and Fayne realized that he didn't know. When he arrived, Lorien was already dying, and Ilira had been closest to her.
Fayne's heart raced. What did he think had happened? Kalen gestured to Fayne and Cellica. "These two are wirh me." One Watchman stiffened and nodded. "Sir," he said. The other was openly weeping over the slain priestess. "We'll ward this place, as you command."
Kalen returned their salute then pushed past them, out the door onto the balcony. He carried his helm. Fayne opened her mouth to speak, but Kalen's cold eyes froze her tongue. She snatched up her clothes, which lay next to the bathtub, now wet from all the commotion.
Cellica followed Kalen to the balcony, and Fayne held her hand tightly. With the other hand, Fayne tucked the towel around her body wirh some degree of modesty.
"You showed them your face!" Cellica hissed.
"No choice," Kalen said. "We needed to get out of there before Rayse arrived." He looked pointedly at Fayne.
Fayne goggled. Revealing himself seemed so stupid, yet Kalen had done it for her? Why would he do something like that? Had the world gone mad, or just her?
You're losing your mind, her inner voice noted. Again.
Chaos boiled up in the courtyard of the Temple of Beauty. Brigands had appeared as if from the air and began a brawl that had since turned the place into a mess of shouts and steel. As they watched, noble ladies screamed and ran from hot-headed duelists. The room was half filled with mist, confusing the fighters into hacking at everything that moved.
"Myrin," Kalen and Cellica said at once.
The name was like a knife in Fayne's belly. What use had they for the doe-eyed stripling? Hadn't Kalen compromised himself to protect Fayne, just now? Didn't he fancy Fayne?
Oh, gods, didhe? Fayne wasn't sure if she was pleased or terrified.
Fayne's head hurt and she grew fearful, as she always did in confusing situations. Kalen was acting on instinct and passion, not cold rationality, and that was unpredictable.
"Where is she?" Cellica asked.
Kalen shook his head. His rumpled hair swayed in front of his eyes.
"Wait—" Fayne started. "Wait a breath—tell me..."
But Kalen whisked her up in his arms, naked and all, and shoved her against the wall in an alcove, pressing himself firmly against her. She coughed, sputtering, but then he kissed her to still her lips and she ceased struggling. Then she was certain she'd gone mad.
He broke the kiss, finally, parting them by a thumb's breadth.
"Well met to you as well," she managed.
"I did that to shut you up." Kalen's eyes were cold. "What were you doing there?"
"I—" she said. "You don't understand . .."
Kalen scowled. "Never mind," he said. "You'd only lie anyway. Just... just shut up."
"You could kiss me again," she thought of saying, but stopped with a shiver. Kalen's face was hard and his eyes were those of a warrior. Those of a killer.
No use being ingratiating or alluring. She would just keep her mouth shut for now.
s, A woman in armor ran past, and when they heard rhe muffled voices inside Lorien's chamber, rhey recognized Araezra Hondyl.
"Gods," the valabrar said. "What happened?"
"Murder—gods above!" a man said. "Lady Nathalan... oh, gods, her closest friend!"
"Did you see it? You saw the murder?"
"Nay, but... Vigilant Dren. He was here, you could ..."
"Dren?" The valabrar sounded shocked. "Kalen Dren, my aide?"
"Time to go," Cellica murmured. She'd wedged herself inro the alcove near Kalen's leg, and she darted out.
Kalen, shoving Fayne roughly along, followed her around the balcony to look down into the chaotic courtyard. Cellica was looking for Myrin, Fayne realized. Kalen was just glowering.
"Are those yours?" Kalen demanded, waving at the intruders.
Fayne could only shake her head, complerely at a loss. Whoever had sent these men to the temple, it hadn't been her.
Near the entrance, Kalen saw a knot of guardsmen and Watchmen rallying around Bors Jarthay. The commander—whose drunkenness had been mostly an act—knocked one man out with his handflask pipe and drew a surprisingly long blade out of his billowing shirt. Commander Kleeandur was there too, barking orders to cut off exits and trap the chaos inside.
"I don't see her!" Cellica cried.
The more Watch that arrived, the fewer rogues remained. But the nobles began dueling, and that perpetuated the brawl. Lady Wildfire, surrounded by a dozen noblemen fighting over the right to prorect her, tired of the commotion, brained one of the lordlings with her jeweled purse, and fled of her own power. Talantress Roaringhorn was conspicuously absent, and dozens of nobles cried out in search of one another amidst the din.
Kalen saw black-garbed figures slipping out of the courtyard, hooded ladies in their grasp. They moved south into the temple plaza.
Cellica followed his gaze and pointed at the kidnappers. "What are you going to do?"
Kalen pushed Fayne roughly at the halfling and took his helmet in his hands. He slid it over his head.
"Kalen, you have no sword," the halfling said. "You can't—"
He pulled the daggers from his belt. He looked across the courtyard as though judging the distance to one of the high windows.
"Wait, Kalen!" Fayne caught his hand, and he glared at her. His eyes burned. She swallowed a sudden rush of fear. "You . . . saved my life," she said.
"You stupid girl!" Kalen slammed his fist, dagger and all, into the wall beside her head. The blade rang against the stone, deafening her. "What the Hells did you think you were doing?"
Fayne was stunned. "Kalen, I—"
"Shut up. I'm tired of it," he said. "You're a spoiled child playing games. Just a stupid fool who thinks there aren't consequences to your pranks—that people don't die."
"Kalen," Cellica said, casting her eyes down, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment.
Fayne trembled. "Please don't," she said. "Please, Kalen—I'm sorry!
But Kalen's eyes were cold. "Begone," he said. "I want nothing to do with you. Now, pardon," he said as he locked his helm in place, "but I have someone worthwhile to save."
He ran for the opposite end of the courtyard, leaping from table to table around battles, his enchanted boots guiding him. Screams went up in the courtyatd from startled nobles, and a few wary Watchmen fired crossbows in his direction. The bolts cut through his cloak and one cut open his left arm, but he did not falter. When he gained the far window, he paused and looked back—his colorless gaze cut into Fayne. Then he turned, cloak swirling, and was gone.
Fayne, shocked, pulled herself away from Cellica. She drew out her wand—the wand she could use to hide herself from the world, as she had always done—and glared.
"I'm sorry," Cellica said. The halfling rubbed her hands together. "Kalen ... he—wait!"
The halfling staggered as Fayne turned her gaze on her and whispered a word of dark magic. Cellica pawed blearily at her face and seemed unable to see Fayne, who had pulled away and hurried down the stairs toward the brawl. Her longer legs meant Cellica could not catch her.
As she went, she growled. "Didn't warn me about this, Father."
Avaereene paused when they had run two blocks, to see how many of her men followed. It didn't matter—she held the wealthiest prize in her own arms—but every noble lass taken prisoner was more coin for the Sightless.
She was pleased to see that a dozen had escaped, carrying half that many girls among them. Not all of her men had made it, but desperate men were plentiful in Downshadow she could always hire more.
The lead man stopped at her side. He carried an unconscious Hawkwinter in his arms, head hooded, moaning up a squall through her gag. Though the face was hidden, Avaereene knew all the nobles in Waterdeep by figure as well as face. She had an excellent memory.
"Where, mistress?" asked her lieutenant.
They were panting from exertion. Avaereene wasn't breathing hard—she wasn't breathing at all, as she hadn't had to for almost a century.
"The sewers—keep a low cloak," she said. "I shall follow with haste."
The man nodded and directed the other stealthy kidnappers to follow him. Downshadow men, all of them, and useful enough, even if scarred and ugly.
"Hasn't the spellplague warped us all?" she murmured. She thought of the horror lurking inside her and grinned. "Some more than others."
Avaereene stepped into an alley, where she found her employer
stepping out of a bank of shadows. His cowl hid most of his face, but she knew he was a half-elf. And while he was not dead, neither was he alive. He was something like her.
"Well accomplished," he said, indicating the girl in her arms. "Give her to me."
"The gold, first." The blue-headed girl started to moan in her arms as Avaereene began to draw the life from her like a sponge from a pool of water. "Or she dies."
His face held no emotion. "Very well." He gestured, and a pouch appeared from his sleeve, heavy with coin. His black eyes never left the girl's face.
Instinct told Avaereene to grasp the reward while it was there, but pragmatism stayed her.
"Such a curious thing," Avaereene said. "To pay so much for a girl with no family or connections. I do not even know who she is, and I've spent more than a century in Waterdeep."
Her employer reached out silently and stroked the girl's temple with his gloved hand.
Then he looked up, over A^aereene's shoulder, and she swore she saw his face for half an instant. His lips had drawn back in a hideous grimace, and his teeth seemed very long.
"Shadowbane," he hissed, more like a serpent than a man. "Damn that sword!"
"What?" Avaereene asked, but he was gone as though he'd turned to dust.
He had not taken the sleeping girl, but he had snatched the coins back from her. Avaereene snarled in anger and resolved to slay the first thing she saw.
A pair of her thieves came upon her. "Mistress?" one asked. "Mistress, what—"
Avaereene tossed the first one aside with a flicker of her will—he shattered against the alley wall. That made her feel better, and appeased the hungry magic within.
She thrust the sleeping girl inro the arms of the other one, wh« looked frozen in terror, and peered down the street. Sure enough, a man ran toward them, glittering steel in his hands, gray cloak trailing
behind him. He followed on the heels of four more thieves carrying three noble girls.
r "Kalen," the girl murmured as she stirred in the thief s arms.
TWENTY-FIVE
ell met," Kalen said as he caught the nearest thief by the arm. The man turned and Kalen drove both daggers into his chest.
The thief stiffened, blinked rapidly several times, then fell with a choked gasp as Kalen—hands free from the blades he left in the scoundrel—caught the woman he carried.
No time. He set her aside, ripped the curved sword from the thief s belt, and ran forward.
Ten paces farther, two men carried a bulky noble lass in a green gown between them. They cursed and fumbled, pushing her back and forth. Finally, the smaller of the men—an ugly, warty dwarf—took her, and the freed thief—a half-ore—turned to face Kalen.
The brute bristled with metalnails that stood out from his skin like ghastly pierced rings or jewels. The half-ore hefted a stout buckler on his left arm and a length of barbed chain in his other hand, and opened his mouth to challenge.
Kalen didn't slow—he leaped to twice the half-ore's height in the air, driven by his boots. The brute looked up as Kalen hissed down toward him, sword plunging, deadly as a hawk.
The half-ore interposed his buckler between himself and the airborne knight. Kalen's thrust, backed by all his weight, shattered the stout wood—but snapped in two as well. The half-ore howled in pain as shards of wood flew into his face, putting more shrapnel in his flesh than before. The broken scimitar blade tumbled away.
The half-ore, infuriated, swung his chain at Kalen, who interposed his left arm. The chain enwrapped it greedily, barbs barely short of striking his helm. The slashing razors would have split his face open like a boiled egg. The barbs sank instead into his flesh, deep enough* that he could feel them prickle. The chain-wielder grinned and Kalen realized his misfortune.
MllllEHWll HD DIB
"Tymora—" Kalen managed, before the half-ore jerked the chain and slammed him against a building. Pain swept through his stunned Consciousness, and he sank down.
The half-ore wrenched him over and he flopped like a limp doll to the cobblestones. The impact ripped through him, but he was still alive and still conscious.
"Stlarning Watchman." He also growled a few Orcish words Kalen knew to be curses.
"Come!" shouted the dwarf, pausing near the half-ore and struggling to hold the kidnapped girl. "No time!"
"Wait," said the bruiser, and he reached down to seize Kalen's neck.
The noble girl, by chance, kicked the half-ore in the shoulder and his attention wavered.
It was just a heartbeat, but it was enough.
With a roar, Kalen rammed the jagged, shorn-off hilt of the thief's scimitar into one half-ore ankle. The creature howled in pain and faltered on his feet. As the brute teetered, Kalen wrenched the hilt upward and jammed it into the half-ore's groin. Black blood spurted forth and the creature gave a high-pitched squeal like a stuck pig.
Kalen rose, the half-ore's discarded chain hanging from his arm, and faced the dwarf thug who held the struggling girl. Kalen looked down at the chain, the barbs cutting into his arm. Without wincing, with barbs ripping out his flesh, Kalen unwrapped the chain.
This second thief looked somehow familiar.
"Wait!" he said, putting up his hands as though to surrender. "It's you! Shadowbane!"
Kalen hesitated. He recognized this one from Downshadow—this was the dwarf he'd let flee. Apparently, he hadn't learned aught.
The dwarf thrust his forearm forward, and a tiny arrow concealed in a handbow in his sleeve streaked through the air. Kalen batted it aside with the barbed chain.
Kalen leaped forward and split the dwarf's chin with a rising right hook. The thief slammed into the wall and Kalen caught him. With an expert twist of his wrist, he wrapped the blood-soaked chain
around the dwarf s neck and pulled. The ugly man's eyes bugged, making his face even more hideous.
The noble girl had managed to free her hands and doff her hood and gag. "Thank—" She saw the strangling thief, saw the way Kalen spat and growled like a murderous wolf, and she froze, horror-stricken. "What—whar are you doing?"
Kalen ignored her. The dwarf fought for breath and Kalen pulled tighter on the chain.
The noble lass put her hands to her throat, found a scream, and split the night with her terror. Then she fled, shouting for aid.
Not all saviors are angels, Kalen thought. And not all killings are pretty—or quick.
The thief sputtered and slapped ar him impotently.
"Kalen," came Myrin's voice, whispering seemingly on the night's mists. She spoke softly, yet he could hear her as plainly as if she stood next to him.
Was this truly her voice, or his imagination? Did that matter?
Kalen released rhe chain, let the dwarf collapse retching to the ground, and ran.
The night had grown misty of a sudden, and Kalen knew magic was at work. The thieves were hiding their escape, trying to throw him off, but Myrin's voice led him.
He saw another kidnapper who carried a barefoot girl over his shoulder. Kalen outran him and dived, slamming into the man's back. Kalen rolled so the thief did not fall on him and hoped he had picked the right direction to catch the captive. Sure enough, she landed atop him, and wild silver-whire hair tumbled down.
He pulled off the girl's hood, and the shocked eyes of Talantress Roaringhorn stared into his. The magic that changed her skin black had failed, leaving her flesh very pale, but her hair was still long and whire. She managed to spit out her gag, and she blinked at him, confused.
Then a smile spread across her face. "My. . . my hero!"
Kalen growled in frustration and thrust her aside. Her captor had" risen and was plunging a rapier down at his chest. Kalen rolled away, then back against the blade, wrenching it out of the thief's hand.
He kicked the man's legs out from under him, toppling him to the ground. Kalen rose and put the man out with a kick to the jaw. ,i "Kalen!" came Myrin's cry—louder this time. Talantress hadn't seemed to hear it. Kalen turned toward the source of the sound and saw a greenish glow: magic.
Kalen seized the thief s fallen rapier. He coughed, opened his helm halfway to spit blood, then sealed his mask. He strode on.
"Wait!" Kneeling, Talantress caught his hand and held him back.
Calmly, Kalen snaked his hand around and unbuckled his gauntlet. It came free, and Talantress hit herself in the chest with it and fell on her overprivileged rump.
"Wait!" Talantress cried from the ground. "Come back right this breath!"
He continued his run, hobbling a bit more slowly after the punishment he'd sndured. Young Lady Roaringhorn got up and gave chase, but he paid her no mind. He plunged into the mists, following Myrin's voice and the green glow.
The fog swelled thicker than before, but Kalen pressed on. He was nearing the source, he realized, but he quickly lost his bearing and swam, blind. His body was aching, his lungs heaving, and his heart raced to put him down. He clutched his left arm, which was in agony. He felt as if the half-ore were sitting on his chest.
"Not yet, Eye of Justice," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Not yet."
He channeled healing into himself, praying that he had proven himself once more worthy, but no power came. He gritted his teeth and pressed on.
Kalen stumbled through an empty, gray-black world. Mist swirled around him.
"Myrin!" he choked. He felt that he would fall at any breath. "Kalen," came her voice, leading him forward. "Kalen . . ." He staggered ahead, stolen rapier ready for any attack, but found only mist.
"Show yourself!" he challenged. "Cowards!" As though in response, the mist parted, and Kalen saw a woman from whose cupped hands the mist flowed. A green glow suffused her
fingers—magic. Beside her stood a thief who looked more terrified than anything else, and in his arms was a limp girl in a red dress.
"Something's countering my casting," the woman murmured in a deep, rasping voice that didn't match her slim body. She seemed an ordinary human woman, but the voice was that of a beast. "It's the girl. Somehow, even dazed, she's—"
"Then we stop her!" The thief drew a hooked dagger and raised it over Myrin.
"No, you fool!" the woman roared.
Kalen ran forward and stabbed the thief through the chest. Stunned, the man looked down at the blade, then at a panting, heaving Kalen. He toppled, loosing Myrin as he went.
Kalen dived to catch her. She weighed little in his arms and he cradled her tightly.
An arcane word, in a voice like a grinding gravestone, stole his attention. He looked up at the woman to see her gloved, clawlike hand reaching for his face. A finger touched his brow.
Power seized him—cruel power that sucked the life out of his limbs. Lightning arced through Kalen, lashing every strerch of bone and sinew, stealing the strength from his muscles. He fell ro his knees.
"Well," rhe woman said in her corpselike voice. "This is what happens, Sir Fool, when you cross wills with the most powerful wizard in Waterdeep."
She raised her hands and began to chant a spell that Kalen could only imagine would be his doom. Flames and shadow flickered around her hands, like the fires of the Nine Hells.
And so it ends, he thought.
His eyes blurred and he sank toward peaceful sleep. Myrin's eyes opened and blue lighr flooded the alley.
TWENTY-SIX
In the strange flash of light, Myrin saw Kalen first, kneeling and helpless, and then the woman—the dead woman wearing the false face—looming over him.
"No," she said in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. She lunged forward and grasped Avaereene by the arm, trying anything she could to stop the slaying magic. She wanted to steal the magic away, rip it from Avaereene so it could not touch Kalen. And she did exactly that.
The fires darting around Avaereene's fingers faded, flowing instead into Myrin's hands, which lit with fierce blue light. The wizard opened her mouth and stammered.
Oblivious to what she was doing, lashing blindly, Myrin struck Avaereene with her will. A flash of brilliant red and black flame erupted, and the woman slammed backward against the wall with a chorus of crackles and snaps. Bricks cracked and turned inward.
Myrin stared down at her hands, horrified and awed. Blue runes spread down her forearms, almost covering her skin. Power electric filled Myrin's body, making her shiver and shake. The fog boiled away around her, evaporating in the heat coming off her body.
"Damn you!" Avaereene hissed in a voice from beyond the grave. "You do not know what you do, child. This is my own power! How are you—?"
"Shut up!" Myrin shrieked. The stolen magic punched Avaereene in the chest, shaking the building behind her. Holes burst in the wall, and Myrin saw into the common room of a tavern through the cracks.
Avaereene hardly seemed hurt by the blow, but her eyes went wide. Then they turned blood red and began to leak sanguine tears.
"How are you doing this?" she roared in frustration. "You're just a child!"
Myrin merely pointed her hands, loosing bright, hungry flames like nothing she had ever seen or imagined to tear at Avaereene. The wizard screamed in agony and fear. Her skin shivered, then began to bubble and boil. Around her, the bricks glowed red, sizzled, and shook as though caught between an anvil and a smith's hammer. Her black cloak and gown started to smolder and unravel, and soon she was naked. Her entire body quaked and rotted before Myrin's eyes, but the wizard could not scream against the pressure of Myrin's spell. Her eyes were livid and terror filled.
A smile spread across Myrin's face and a thought came unbidden— a thought in her voice but not hers: this will teach her.
Then Myrin heard a new sound: a gagging, rasping sound from the ground at her side. She looked down and saw Kalen coughing and retching. He tore open his helm, and she saw him vomit blood onto the cobblestones. "Muh-Myrin . . . stuh-stop ..."
He looked up at her and she gasped. His skin shivered like Avaereene's, and his eyes were shot through with red. Tears of blood leaked onto his face.
Myrin looked around and saw others gagging and retching—folk inside the tavern, and some who had come forth to watch or help. Gods—what was she doing?
The force holding Avaereene against the wall lessened, and the old woman sucked air into her lungs. She looked down at her withered hands, then touched her face. She screamed.
Myrin turned and clapped a hand to her mouth, shocked. Gone were the beautiful face and body—they had rotted into a withered corpse. Worse, her form had been crushed against the tavern with such force that she had somehow melded with the building's skin. Bricks grew out of her like massive, chunky warts. The red eyes that glared out were not dead, nor were they alive. Myrin recognized the woman's true body, that she was—Myrin didn't know where the word came from—a lich. An undead horror.
"My face! My body!" Avaereene shrieked. "You will die for this, girl!" #
The wizard's form had been a magic-wrought falsehood—the corpse embedded in the wall revealed the truth. Myrin's magic
had undone years, perhaps decades of delicate spellwork that had achieved the beauty the lich wanted for herself. Complex castings, suid probably painful.
Avaereene barked a sharp word. Myrin recoiled, but it was no attack. Hissing in pain and anger, the lich vanished, taking part of the wall with her—and leaving aught of herself too.
With a sick cry, Myrin closed her eyes and fists. She willed the magic to vanish.
It didn't.
Dark fire rolled out of her, uncontrolled. Myrin screamed for ir to stop, but it was alive in its own righr. It danced around her, gleefully consuming whatever it touched.
She could not stop it.
"Myrin," came a voice, cutting through the chaos.
It was Kalen, his form blurring as though it fought to maintain consistency. His gauntleted hand grasped her tightly—strange, that the right hand had a gauntlet and the left hand was bare, she reached for his bared hand, but she remembered what her touch had done to the lich. She drew back, horrified.
"Myrin, you have to stop." Kalen's voice was calm, his eyes filled with blood.
"I can't!" she cried, and barely jerked her face away from his in time to send her words into the air and away. The force of her voice struck a spire on a nearby building, which tore free of its mounting and fell—horribly—toward them.
Kalen seized Myrin in his arms and threw them both aside. Sharp stone shattered into the cobbled street where they had been standing. Kalen held Myrin with fingers hard and cold as coffin nails.
"Stop!" he cried. "Stop this now!"
Myrin moaned and the ground began to shake. Buildings trembled around rhem and began ro wrench themselves aparr. Blue-white flames burst out of loose stones and bricks, which started rolling as though to put themselves out—or to delight in destruction. Folk screamed around them, gagging on what Myrin prayed were meals and not blood or worse.
"Calm," Kalen whispered. "All's well. You must calm yourself."
"I can't!" Myrin sobbed. Her body was shaking, far beyond her control.
His eyes bored into hers, shrinking her world to the size of two orbs. She saw her face reflected in his eyes, saw that almost every finger-length of her skin was scripted with blue runes. They told her a story, and she could almost read them.
"Calm," Kalen whispered again. His face was close to hers, but not touching. His lips hovered over hers, not kissing. "Please."
Slowly—so slowly—Myrin's heart slackened its race. Her screams and sobs subsided and her breathing slowed. The buildings ceased their shaking and the blue flames flickered out and died.
Finally, finally, the blue haze faded, and they were alone in the street, Kalen lying atop her, holding her, protecting her from the night—and from herself.
He wasn't moving, she realized.
"Kalen?" she asked. "Kalen!"
"Uhh," he groaned and rolled off, coughing. "Not so . . . not so loud."
Myrin could have kissed him, but men loomed over her, and she looked up. Thieves and kidnappers had come to harm them. Many were wounded or bruised, attacked by Kalen in his pursuit or wasted by the spell chaos. Kalen's eyes glittered and he closed his helm's faceplate, preparing to fight again.
No. Myrin would stop this. Words came unbidden to her lips.
Kalen knelt on the ground, coughing and trying to rise. "No," he said. "No—don't do it."
"All's well." She touched his helmed face with a loving hand, which yet glowed blue. "This is mine," she said. "It's only magic."
"Only..." Kalen coughed and retched. "Only magic?"
Myrin spread her hands and began the chant. This time, no blue runes crawled onto her tanned skin. This was a spell, whose words were written on her hean, though she had not known them until now. The power felt pure—untainted by the horrid darkness she had channeled from the lich woman. Somehow, she had drawn Avaereene's poweg, but it was too much—she couldn't control something so strong.
Never again would she draw powers like that. Never again.
"Begone," she said, magic crackling about her fingers. The men hesitated.
f,"Begone!" she cried, and conjured fire arced up and burst from her hands.
The thieves didn't have to be told a third time. They turned and fled.
Myrin let the power subside and die, then breathed out in a rush. She felt so tired—so very drained. She sat down next to Kalen. His breath came raggedly and his face was bloody, but his eyes were bright and sharp as diamonds.
She wanted so much to kiss him, but a part of her feared to do so. Instead, she pressed her forehead against his. "I.. . Kalen, I..."
His eyes widened and he thrust her away. She saw, as her backside hit the cobbles, his reason.
The thief who'd held her—the one Kalen had stabbed—was crawling toward them, a hooked blade in his hands. The edge dripped with a purple smear that Myrin knew was poison. Kalen's rapier— still inside him—scraped along the stones with a sickly hiss. Blood ran from his mouth. Pain and hatred filled his eyes, from which dripped red tears.
"Bitch," the thief rasped as he limped toward Myrin. "Stick you good, I will—"
His dagger fell. It would have struck Myrin's chest, but Kalen lunged in front of her and grappled with the thief. Myrin watched, stunned, as they wrestled, the knife pressing ever closer to Kalen's unprotected face. Then the knife cut across his cheek and she screamed.
The thief's eyes flicked to her, and the distraction was all Kalen needed. He slammed.his open helm against his attacker's face, sending him reeling. He punched out with his gauntleted fist, hitting the man in the same place and shattering his nose. Before the thief could flee, Kalen caught hold of his wrist. He wrenched, and the man screamed as his arm snapped.
"Kalen, stop!" Myrin wept.
At her cry, Kalen looked up, and the thief punched him in the jaw, knocking him down. The man limped away, coughing. Kalen stumbled after him, his hands curled into claws.
"Stop! Please!" Myrin cried, weeping big tears that ran down her cheeks. The man had attacked her, yes, but she had to stop Kalen. He was not a beast but a man—she wanted a man, not a monster.
At her words, Kalen turned and caught Myrin in his arms. And though she knew they were both falling down beaten, she felt perfectly safe.
"Shush," Kalen murmured. "It's well—all's well."
"Gods..." Then Myrin's heart leaped. "All's Kalen—you've been poisoned."
She lifted her fingers to touch the slash across his cheek, where rhe venomed knife had cut him. Greenish black veins had appeared there and spread beneath his skin, the poison Working through his blood. They already covered half his face. Myrin had no idea how she could see it—she knew she shouldn't be able to.
Then, as she watched, the poison began to recede. The veins became pink once again, little by little, and the blackness shrank until it vanished entirely from beneath his skin.
He looked as surprised as she felt. "My blessing," he said.
Myrin felt power unlike her own—divine, rather than arcane—fill him. His bare fingers joined hers against his cheek, and she watched as they shimmered white with heat, so bright she could see his bones. The light spread from his fingers into his skin, and the cut turned into a sharp scar. He gasped in relief and surprise.
"I don't understand," Myrin whispered, yet somehow she did understand. A god had saved him.
He shook his head. "Helm—nay. The threefold god," he explained. "He... he isn't finished with me yet." He hugged her tighter and his head dipped against her shoulder.
Myrin let loose a deep, terrified breath. She feared Kalen had succumbed, but she could feel him breathing. Tears welled in her eyes.
She and Kalen held each other in the empty street. They would have to move along soon, she knew—before the Watch came—but for now, they could just rest together.
Above them, far above them, a light rain began to fall. ¦«
At the top of the cracked tavern, a half-elf woman moved out of the moonlight, trailing a mane of scarlet hair.
TWENTY-SEVEN
hat's the matter, child?" asked her patron over ale at the Knight 'n Shadow.
Fayne couldn't tell him the truth—didn't know the truth. She didn't understand the source of the discontented hollow in her chest. She thought she'd feel better with it done. But now. ..
They sat in the shadowy lower level, in the last hour before dawn. It would be darkest out now, or so the saying went, but the darkest time in Waterdeep occurred not in the city at all but below it, when the hunters of Downshadow returned from a night spent above, pillaging and raiding and doing what they loved best.
Fayne used to love this time, but now . . . she felt nothing but sadness. And anger.
"That damned dwarf stlarned it up." Her ale tasted sour—like goblin piss—and she pushed it aside. She gestured at a serving girl to bring wine. "I had Lady Dawnbringer—I had the situation fully in control and he just... damn!"
She slammed the heel of her palm down on the table. The loud bang attracted the notice of a few fellow drinkers, but her patron's magic made them look away. As for the man himself, he merely listened to her without speaking.
"No one was supposed to die," she said. "And she wasn't supposed to get any kind of vengeance. Her lover was supposed to leave her, not die." She scowled. "I'm glad that hrasting pisshole Rath got scarred—served him well for taking matters into his own hands."
Her patron watched her levelly, his easy smile betraying nothing. If he agreed or disagreed, she had no idea. She hated that about him, at times. With that face, he could bluff a dragon out of its hoard, or a god out of her powers. The bastard.
She hated feeling so weak when she sat across from him—hated the way he stared at her, weighing her, like both a prized horse and a petulant child.
That was the way Kalen had looked at her—as a child.
"My sweet?" her patron asked. Fayne looked up, startled. "What are you thinking about?"
"Only how I'm better than her? Fayne said, as much to herself as to her patron.
Though Fayne hadn't named her, her patron must have known who she meant: the bitch who styled herself Lady Nathalan. After what Fayne had done this night. . . well. At least Ilira Nathalan's anguished face should chase away Fayne's nightmares about that night eighty years gone.
"Ah." Her patron gazed at her closely. "And yet, something is amiss. What is it?"
"Naught." Fayne downed her bowl of wine and waved for another. "Tell me this, though—it was a brilliant plan, aye? If Rath hadn't come, I'd have ruined Lorien for her, right?"
She saw her patron's wry smile—saw his eyes glowing dimly in the light, as though he enjoyed some private jest. Now it was his turn to grow quiet. "What?" Fayne asked.
"Just reflecting," he said, "how like your mother you are."
Any other day, she'd have taken that for a grear compliment.
Fayne sniffed. "What do you mean?" she asked, false bravado in her voice. "That I am proud? Regal? Competitive? Perhaps"—she flipped her hair back—"beauriful?"
He waved a gloved hand and laughed once. "Why not?"
She glared across the table. "Speak plain, fate-spinner."
"As you wish," he said. "She was all those things and more, but she was also flawed. You have shown a similar weakness, but rather than frustrating, I find it endearing."
Fayne bristled. "My mother," she said, "had no weaknesses."
He shrugged, and she saw a quiet twinkle in his eye. "As you say."
Those three little words cut her legs out from under her. Thfey reminded her that she was just a foolish child who had never really known her mother—not as her patron had.
Sometimes, she truly and utterly hated this man. Loved him, of course, but hated him too.
P "If you're going to mock me, at least be plain," Fayne said. Her lip trembled.
"Very well," he said. "Your mother ... if all did not go exactly as she had planned, victory was dust to her. I see the same drive in you, my sweet child."
"That's ridiculous," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm pleased. See how I—"
He reached across the table and laid a hand on hers, cutting off her words. She felt a fearsome heat in his fingers, as though fire coursed in his blood. She stared at him.
"In the end," he said, "did you not succeed at destroying her— this Lady Nathalan?"
The name struck her like a blow, but Fayne felt only a deep, irresistible sadness. "I—I suppose, yes, but—" Fayne wiped her cheeks. "Damn you, I'm pleased!"
"Then why are you crying?" he asked. She looked down, and there was a white kerchief in his dainty, perfect hand, the runes for L.V.T. stitched into the corner in red thread.
She ignored his handkerchief and wiped her nose with her hand. "It's not relevant," she said.
Illusions could hide tears, anyway.
"As you say." Her patron smiled patiently, his eyes unreadable. "Don't worry—folk do not change. Killer or hero, angel or whore, no one ever changes. We only wear different faces."
Fayne shivered. She fixed her patron with a cold glare. "You must really hate her."
"Who?" he asked, tucking his kerchief into his colorful doublet.
"Her." Fayne ground her teeth. Who else could she mean? The yellow-eyed whore—the woman who had destroyed her life—she who had taken the only thing she held dear in the world.
He was going to make her say it, she realized. Might as well accept it.
"Ilira," Fayne said, the name like bile in her mouth. "You must hate her as much as I do."
"Ah."
Fayne swore under her breath, remembering. She'd seen such pain on that damned face—and yet, it hadn't soothed her. Now she was not sure what to feel.
Her patron reached across the distance between them and laid a lithe hand against her cheek. She felt his awful heat over her scar—felt again the cutting bolt across her face.
"Do I hate her? No." His eyes were burning pits of molten gold. "Quite the opposite."
Fayne opened and closed her mouth several times. "I don't understand," she said.
"No." His eyes seemed very sad for a moment. "No, I don't expect that you do."
He drew away. She felt as if something had been cut from her—as though an axe had taken her arm, leaving a stump that tingled impotently.
"You wouldn't," he said. "Not yet. Not for several centuries, I don't think."
Anger rose from where it guttered in her belly—the rage let her ignore her doubts. She had always used it to protect herself from herself—that and guile.
Her words were cool and sharp as steel. "Treating me like a youngling?"
"No," he said. "Just someone who is missing the relevant experience."
"That being?" Fayne stretched sinuously. "You'd be hard pressed to find something I haven't... experienced." She wet her lips in one long stroke.
The casual flirtation made her feel better. She was no child to be dealt a chiding.
He smiled. "Where were we?"
"The next mark." Fayne leaned across the table, putting her nose alongside his.
"No holiday?" her patron asked. "No rest for the misery-makers' "Never." Fayne shook her head and kissed him on the tip of his nose.
"Careful," he said. "You've a place, young one. Remember it." Wirh a sigh, she leaned back and crossed her arms, pouring. "Tell me* one thing."
"Yes, dear one?" he asked.
"Who hired the dwarf to kill Lorien?" she asked. "It wasn't me—so who was it?"
He grinned and did not answer.
Fayne scowled. "Well—who sent Avaereene and the Sightless? You must know that?
"Ah yes, lovely Avaereene. Heavens save us from spoiled, sharp-tongued girls!" He winked ar her. "Present company excluded."
Fayne smirked. Present company excluded, her curvy backside.
"It seems an old friend of mine," her patron said, "one with whom I used to play a game oP—he waved as though thinking of the proper word—"wit, say, has decided this city holds an interest for him. Something suitably intriguing—and dangerous, for what it can do."
He yawned and waved. The serving lass brought two more bowls of wine. Her patron winked in thanks, and Fayne saw a shiver pass through the poor girl.
"You were saying, old one?" she teased.
He rolled his eyes. "Naturally, I determined what it was—this plaything my friend has discovered."
"And I'm to obtain it first," she guessed.
"Indeed—tonight, if possible." He raised his hand. "You'll need this."
Seemingly out of the air, he conjured a small pale gray stick, about the length of his smallest finger. He squeezed it once and it lengthened to about twice the length of his hand.
It was a wand, Fayne realized. It didn't feel any more powerful than her mother's wand—the one she carried now—and she had no idea what it was for.
"It isn't my fashion," she said. "So this must belong to someone else."
Her patron smiled. He pulled a pink quill and ink bottle from somewhere and was wrote a single word on a scrap of parchmenr. He
contemplated his writing plume for a moment, then released it into the air, where it vanished. "Though I must tell you the sum total of this one's powers."
"Yes, yes, give it here," Fayne said. When her patron frowned, Fayne batted her lashes. "Please?"
He slid the parchment over and took up his wine as Fayne read the name. She stared.
"You—you must be hrastingjtsting me." Fayne read it again and blinked at her patron.
He chuckled. "I see the irony is not lost upon that clever mind of yours."
"Oh." A sharp-toothed grin spread across Fayne's face. "Oh, no. Not . . . not at all." She peered at him, eyes glittering. "Why the interest—I mean, for your friend?"
"For that, I must tell you a story, dear child, of long ago—of this very city."
Fayne leaned forward, chin on her hands. Her whole body was tingling, her mind racing. This would be fun.
"The story of a great mage who wanted to stop the spellplague driving the world mad—only he had one impossible barrier." Her patron took up his wine.
"He was already mad."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dnexplained magical disaster strikes Sea Ward!" called a broadcrier for the Vigilant Citizen. He was the loudest in the main streets. "Dozens wounded, priests at work."
"Watchful Order baffled as to cause!" shouted another. "Quoth the Blackstaff, 'It could have been worse—much worse.' "
"Watch seeks rogue spellcaster! For his protection, and for ours!" Kalen and Myrin walked south past the criers on Snail Street. She clutched him tighter as they passed the ones who spoke of the spell chaos in Sea Ward yestereve, which seemed to be most of them. Kalen could feel her fingernails even through his glove, which spoke to what a ruin the previous night had left him. He would never tell Myrin that, though—she carried enough guilr already. "You didn't mean it," Kalen murmured. Myrin kept her silence, but Kalen saw tears in her eyes. "Noble daughters kidnapped, ransom demanded!" shouted the broadcrier for the Daily Luck. "Watch following all leads—a dozen knaves in custody." Then, because it was a gambling sheet, the crier added: "Place your bets on the search, win fifty dragons!"
"Roaringhorn heir seeks mystery knight," called the crier for the North Wind. "Avows true love—offers hand in marriage! Lordlings line the streets."
Horns sounded in the dawn, bidding the gates to open and the day's business to begin. Kalen had come to Dock Ward ro search for Fayne. He had treated her unfairly, he knew, and wanted to make amends.
He told himself it was only that—only a matter of honor.
Despite protests for her safery, Myrin had insisted on aiding. Privately, Kalen suspected the girl worried Fayne had been a casualty of yestereve.
"Imposter noble murders Sune priestess!" the broadcrier for the Mocking Minstrel called, startling Kalen. The voice was strangled. "Menagerie Salon ruined! Watch declines comment."
"Boy," Kalen beckoned him over. "Speak."
Tears filled the boy's eyes. "Oh, goodsir and lady," he said, pulling off his hat. "No one was a finer friend of us common-born than the poor lady."
"Lady Lorien, you mean?" Myrin asked.
The boy shook his head. "Lady Ilira," he corrected. "She gave coin to folks like me pa, who's hurt by magic and can't work. It's come out"—he pointed to his wares, to a tale halfway down the page—r "come out that Lady Ilira was the one founded the Scarred Haven, a body of kindly ones who ..." He shook his head and pointed to the lead article of the Minstrel. "Don't read this tale, m'lord—'tis cruel to one who did so much for us all."
"We all do what we must." Kalen handed the boy a gold dragon and took the broadsheet.
"As you will, m'lord." The boy smiled at the gold—far more than the broadsheet cost—then wandered down the street, crying his wares.
"What is it?" Myrin asked. "You saw how upset the boy was—why read—?"
"That's Fayne," Kalen said, pointing to the name on the broadsheet.
"Satin Rutshear?" Mytin giggled at the name, but Kalen grimaced. She blushed. "Sorry."
"At least we know she's alive," Kalen said. Myrin smiled hopefully.
"Or at least," Kalen murmured, "she was when she gave this to the Minstrel to print." Myrin's smile faded.
Kalen began to read. The boy had told him true—the gossip-ridden tale was sharp and biting, witty and entirely unfair. Exactly like Fayne. *
Lady Ilira Nathalan, it reported, was a creature of cruel, murderous depravity. A search of her villa by the Watch had revealed—much as
Satin had long suspected it would—evidence that Lady Ilira had been stealing from her competitors and, indeed, was an assassin. Private papers showed she had been in the employ of the Shadovar, under the name Shadowfox, one of their most effective assassins. She'd killed dozens of folk before the rurn of the century—and, possibly, more recently as well—and used the bloody coin to build and support her Menagerie and the dummy organization, the Haven for the Scarred, which masqueraded as a charity. The Watch and mercantile bodies were now working to dismantle those bodies.
"That... that can't be Fayne's writing," said Myrin. "That's horrible! Lies! That can't. . . that can't be, Kalen."
But Kalen remembered Lady Ilira's hands covered in Lorien's blood—remembered the way she'd lunged at Rath and burned away half his face with her kiss, and the cruel passion in her eyes when she'd dared the Watch to pierce her.
He shivered, and Myrin put her arm in his as though to warm him. He smiled at her, but he didn't feel the slightest comfort.
They spent the day looking for Fayne—to no avail. Aside from the broadsheet that proved she was alive—or at least had been that morn—they found no trace of her.
As dusk fell, Waterdhavians returned home for evenfast—and though Myrin kept silent, Kalen heard her stomach gurgle. They had eaten little: only a simmerstew at dawn and handpies at highsun. They should go to a hearth-house, Kalen decided.
Likely Cellica was cooking even now, but Kalen couldn't yet return ro the tallhouse and face her reproving stare—not after he had been so harsh with Fayne.
He felt every bit as guilty as Myrin did, he realized, but for a different reason—she had simply lost control. What Kalen had said... he'd meant every word, and regretted each one.
Kalen took Myrin to the Bright Bell, just south of Bazaar Streer on Warrior's Way in Castle Ward. He didn't often eat at hearth-houses, but this one he liked. While not elegant or exotic, the food was good and plentiful and the place was frequenred by plain folk—those
people of Waterdeep whom he fought every night to defend from shadows they could not see.
Being around these folk let him think and relax, though he did not know any of them. That struck him as odd for the first time: for a defender of the folk of the city, he rarely spent any time with them. Most of his talk and time were spent with the Guard, the Watch, or Cellica, who, like Kalen, was not from the city. Though his looks and speech marked him as blood of the Sword Coast, he was yet a foreigner. Waterdeep, with all its adventures and splendors, was no more home than Westgate had been—or even Luskan, before that. He no longer had a home.
Myrin, for her part, loved the Bell. She stared about its tight labyrinth, crowded nooks, and choked dining alcoves with the innocent wonder of an explorer. She hearkened close to the* loud buzz of chatter and jest that vibrated through the walls, and though the thick, smoky air made her cough, she was smiling as she did it. She seemed to have forgotten her worries with the proximity of folk and the promise of food. She seized Kalen's gloved hand and held it tighter and tighter as a servant led them to a table, deeper in the hearth-house.
Several times, Myrin stumbled and almost fell on one of the many trip steps between chambers that changed level slightly from room to room. Kalen caught her each time, as he knew the perils, and each time she lingered a little longer in his embrace before pulling away with a laugh.
They sat in a curtained alcove on the second floor of the Bell. A tall, thin servant wiped the table clean with an ale-stained rag as they sat. Then he stood waiting, and Myrin looked at Kalen awkwardly, out of her depth.
"You have the courses written?" Kalen asked.
The servant smiled and handed them printed menus—grand, elegantly scripted affairs on thick parchment. Myrin's eyes widened at the lists and she began reading immediately, fascinated.
In addition to a thick warming stew and fresh bread, Kalen ordered a pie of fowl while Myrin opted for boiled tahllap noodles with fresh vegetables and goat cheese. She tried a weak mulled wine, and Kalen
requested a small glass of zzar for himself. The night was cold, and he felt like strong drink. The taste of almonds was intense enough tp touch his numb tongue.
Myrin particularly liked the first-spring strawberries that came before the meal, and Kalen was glad to let her have all of them. He rather liked her little smile and the way she closed her eyes as she set each one against her lips to savor the taste. Once, she caught him looking and blushed.
He looked away and sipped his zzar. It had a bite that warmed his insidcs.
"You should tell me about yourself," she said. She blushed again. "A little, if you like—I just remember so litde about myself, and I'd rather we spoke than sat in silence, aye?"
Kalen shrugged. "For instance?"
Myrin looked at her food. "That woman—Raysc. She's . . ." "My superior in the Guard," Kalen said. Myrin colored. "She's . .. she's very pretty." "Yes." Kalen fell silent.
Myrin was flustered. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean ..."
Kalen shrugged. "Nothing else binds Rayse and me," he said. "There was once, but that was some time ago."
Myrin shook her head. "I didn't mean to ask—that was improper."
"All's well." Kalen reached across the table to touch her chin. Myrin looked up, startled, then smiled.
Kalen realized what he had done and retracted his arm. "Never you mind."
She started to speak but the words became half hiccup, half belch, and she covered her mouth, giggling. Kalen looked back at his food. He wished she'd stop doing that—he knew what Fayne meant, now, when she'd called Myrin "adorable."
"Kalen," Myrin said. "About today. About Fayne."
Kalen stiffened and wondered if she could read his thoughts.
Myrin looked down at her empty soup bowl. "I know why I'm seeking her, because she might be hurt, but why are you doing it?"
Kalen sipped his zzar. "Personal business," he said.
"Oh." Myrin bit her lip. She radiated disappointment like light and heat from the sun.
"Not that personal," Kalen said. "I... last night, I said something to her that was cruel and unfair. I need to beg her pardon." That was at least part of the trurh.
"Oh." Myrin didn't ask anything more, but her eyes lingered. Kalen ordered another zzar.
"Will you tell me?" Myrin asked. "Cellica told me only a little. What passed, last night?"
He shrugged. "It's not important."
Myrin's eyes fell and she said nothing. Kalen's reply seemed to have displeased her. He might have spoken again, but their food arrived, steaming and delicious. As always, Myrin fell to her plare with relish, as though to make up for years of fasting. Kalen ate only half-hearredly.
"Speak," Myrin said. "Tell me something—anything about you!" She smiled sweetly.
Kalen wanted to speak, but there were too many things he did not want to say—either to her, or to himself. About Fayne. About Lorien and Lady Ilira. It left him uncertain.
As she ate, he started speaking. Not of Fayne, or Ilira, or Lorien, or anything about Waterdeep at all. He spoke about Shadowbane.
He told her, in quiet tones that would not be overheard, of his quest. He spoke of his training in Westgate and of Levia, his teacher. He told her of the Luskan of his youth, when he and Cellica had stolen and begged for their meals, or used her voice when she could. How in his eighth winter he had met Gedrin Shadowbane—the Night Mask turned paladin, founder and leader of the Eye of Justice—who had changed his life.
Kalen told Myrin of the oath Gedrin had exacted from him— never to beg again—and he spoke tightly of Vindicator, bequeathed to him and now in the hands of Araezra.
"Perhaps she is more worthy of it," Kalen murmured.
Myrin looked up, wiped her eyes, and laid her hand on his wris$> "You protected me," she said. "You have your powers back. Should you not have your god's sword back, roo?"
Kalen smiled. "As the Eye judges," he said. "If I am worthy, it will come back to me. If I am not. . . then may it bring Araezra victory ill her aims. I hope she honors it as I tried to."
Myrin drew her hand away. "It must be well," she said. "Having a god to serve. I don't know what god I served—if I even had one."
They sat in awkward silence, and Kalen was aware that Myrin was looking at him from the corner of her eye. She had stopped eating, and without knowing why, Kalen could sense she was upset. Was it something about her memory?
"Kalen," Myrin asked finally, "why do you do this?"
He looked down at his drink.
"If I don't," he said, "then who will?"
Myrin kept her eyes on him. "Who was that man I sawyestereve?" she asked, barely whispering. "When the villain was running and you hurt him anyway—just to hurt him?"
Kalen understood why she was upset. "That man attacked you," he said.
"But he was fleeing," Myrin said. "He would have run away, but you gave chase. You hurt him, when you didn't need to. Why?"
Kalen shrugged. "You wouldn't understand."
"Stop it!" Myrin touched his hand. Kalen felt a little tingle, electric, beneath his skin. Her eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "This isn't you—you aren't so cold."
Kalen opened his mouth, but a delicate cough arose near their table. The servant had returned. He hovered, looking awkward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
Kalen loosed Myrin's hand, and the girl looked embarrassed.
"Not at all," Kalen said. He reached in his scrip for coin. "We're finished, I think."
Other diners called for the servant, who nodded to Kalen and Myrin and left.
Kalen turned back to Myrin. He wished he could tell her everything—all the awful things he had done as a younger man—but he knew that would erase her smile. And that... he couldn't bear to do that.
"Mayhap we should buy me a weapon," Myrin said on rheir way back to Kalen's tallhouse. Her arm was linked in his, and any tension from the evenfeast had passed.
"Why?" Kalen examined her critically. Despite having eaten like a ravenous dog for two days, the girl was thin and light, almost frail. She didn't have the muscle or constitution for a duel at arms. "You have me."
She blushed. "But when you aren't there—like at the ball," she said. "A weapon for me to defend myself with, rather than with—you know." She waved her fingers.
"Like whar?" Kalen asked. "A sword?"
"A dagger," Myrin said. "Small, light, eminently fashionable." She mimed patting the hilt of a blade sheathed at her hip and grinned. "Easy."
"Daggers are more difficult than swords." Kalen shook his head, which was clouded with zzar. He wasn't accustomed to strong drink. "Most of knife fighting is grappling," he said in response to her disbelieving look. "You don't have that sort of build."
Myrin crossed her arms. "I still want one."
Kalen paused in the street and shrugged. He drew the steel he usually kept in a wrist sheath. Myrin's eyes widened when she saw the knife emerge seemingly out of the air, and he passed it to her. As she marveled ar it, he unbuckled his wrist sheath and secured it on her belt.
"Take care wirh that," Kalen said. "I'll be having it back." "For true?" Myrin sheathed the blade reverently. "You'll show me how, someday?" Kalen shrugged.
Myrin smiled and held his arm tighter as they walked on.
A cool drizzle began to fall when they reached Kalen's neighborhood, and he covered Myrin with his grearcoat. She wore a canvas shirt and skirt of leather, warm and practical, but no cloak. They reached the tallhouse and Kalen nodded to the night porrer, theq waved Myrin inside first. She blushed and giggled and picked up her skirt to cross the threshold.
They climbed two flights of stairs to his rooms and found the door unlocked. Cellica sat at the table, working on Shadowbane's bjack leather hauberk, stitching the rents. She looked up from her work and smiled. No matter what disaster befell, the halfling always smiled.
"About time," she said. "You two love whisperers had a pleasant day? I can tell you mine's been a crate of laughs." She threaded the needle through the leather and pulled it closed.
Kalen colored and Myrin giggled.
"I'm weary," the girl said. "Is it well if I sleep in your chamber again, Cele?"
"Kalen's bed's bigger," Cellica said.
Myrin flushed bright red. "I... I, ah .. ."
"Don't get giggly, lass," Cellica said. "I meant that he'd take the floor again." She batted her eyes at Kalen. "Won't you, Sir Shadow?"
Kalen shrugged. The ladies had shared a bed the first two nights, but after the ball—the third night—he'd given Myrin his bed. "Of course."
Myrin hesitated. "I think Kalen needs his bed. He hasn't fully recovered, you know." She bit her lip and looked at the floor.
Kalen didn't understand this at all. He just needed sleep—it mattered little where.
Cellica stared at her a long time, then smiled, as though picking up some subtle jest. "As you will—you're quite warm." The halfling shrugged. "I'll join you in about an hour. Soon as I finish." She clipped the thread with her teeth and rubbed the stitched breastplate with her delicate fingers. "Merciful gods! One would think you'd learn to dodge more blades and arrows."
"I'll remember that," Kalen said, his voice dry. His head ached and he rubbed his temple.
Myrin grinned and winked at the halfling, who winked in kind. Whatever conspiracy they had hatched, it was cemented. Myrin walked toward Cellica's room but did not let go of Kalen's hand, pulling him along. She opened the door but did not go in, nor did she release Kalen.
They lingered for a moment. Kalen looked over his shoulder, but the halfling seemed not to notice them. Myrin was digging the ball of one foot into the floor.
"We'll find her, Kalen," she said. "I know it."
He shrugged. Then, because it wasn't enough, he spoke: "Yes."
Myrin clasped one arm behind her back and looked at the floor shyly, then up at Kalen. Something unspoken passed between them— something that neither could say.
"Good e'en," Myrin said at length, awkwardly. She went inside and closed the door.
Kalen stood blinking for a breath, then he turned to find Cellica's eyes on him. "What?"
"For a man who reads faces and listens for lies every day..." The halfling trailed off.
Kalen rubbed his temples and limped toward his room. "Good e'en," he said.
He stepped inside, shut the door, and pulled offhis doublet, which he tossed to the floor. He crossed to the basin and mirror and splashed water on his face. Vicious bruises and stitched cuts rose on his muscled frame. The deepest ached, despite his numbness.
Tough as he was, he had to admit the accumulated hurts of the last few days were taking their toll. All he wanted was to sleep until he no longer hurt.
He saw something move in the mirror and turned.
She lay in his bed, blanket pulled up to her nose. Her pale skin glittered in the candlelight and her red hair seemed almost black. Her eyes were wide and mischievous.
"Well met, Kalen," Fayne whispered. She smiled. "Coins bright?"
¦4
TWENTY-NINE
You're here," Kalen said, and he stretched. Though he didn't expect a duel, he didn't turn his back on her and checked the dirk at his belt. He made no hasty moves, and didn't let his eyes linger on her curves under the blanket. "Cellica let you in?"
"Yes." Fayne bit her lip, her smile chased away by his cold voice. "And no. She doesn't remember I'm here. I warded us"—she nodded to the door—"against sound."
"You—" Kalen winced at the zzar ache in his head and rubbed his stubbled chin. "Are you wearing anything under that blanket?"
Slowly, Fayne lowered the blanket to reveal a thin white ribbon around her throat, from which hung a black jewel. Then she raised the sheer back to her chin.
"Ah." Kalen coughed and kept his gaze purposefully averted. Fayne rolled her eyes. She sar up and lowered the blanket to bunch around her. "This is stupid, I know, and I'm a fool to come here, but I just have to say something, Kalen. You don't ever, ever have to see me again afterward, I just have to say it."
Kalen walked near the bed but remained standing. "Then say it." Silence reigned berween them for a moment. They looked at one another.
Kalen had seen Fayne nearly naked at the temple, but that had been different. A battle, when his blood was up. Now, her skin seemed smooth and soft. She was so very vulnerable, deprived of clothing. She seemed younger and lighter—fragile.
Like Myrin.
As though she could read his thoughts and wanted—needed— to turn his mind to her, Fayne opened her mouth and the words gushed forth.
"I... oh, Kalen, I've made a terrible mistake," she said. "A woman
is dead because of me—because of my pranks. And... and I wanted ro teil you that I'm sorry."
Kalen broke the gaze and looked toward the window. "Don't," he said.
Fayne's eyes welled. "Kalen, please. Please just let me say this."
She sat upright and edged closer to him. When he stepped away, she stayed on the bed, peering up at him.
"You were ... you were right about me," she said with a sniffle. "I am just a silly girl who doesn't think about the hurt I cause. My entire life, all I've done is lie and ruin. I have a talent for it, and the powers to match, and that was how I made coin. All I've ever done is scandalize folk—some honest, most dishonest—for gold." She wiped her nose.
"Sometimes I did nobles and fops, sometimes people of real importance—merchants, politicians, traders, foreign dignitaries. Whatever they believed or fought for, I didn't care. I know—I was a horrible wretch, but I didn't care."
She sniffed and straightened up, looking at him levelly.
"I... I was doing the same thing with Lorien and Ilira and 1 didn't mean anyone to get hurt." She cast her eyes down. "You believe me, right? I didn't mean—"
Kalen kept his silence but closed his hand on the hilt of the dirk he wore at his belt. The dirk was a cheap, brute object without the elegance of Vindicator, but it could kill just the same. He'd spent the day searching for Fayne, but he hadn't realized that it had been equally a matter of anger as concern.
He didn't know how he felt.
"Explain why I should believe you."
"Why would I lie about this?" Fayne asked.
"I do not know—but you are lying." Kalen fished in his satchel and pulled out the folded Minstrel. He pulled it open and set it on the table. Then he drew his dirk and slammed it through her false name, pinning the broadsheet down. "Explain that," he said.
She bunched the blanket around herself, rose, and padded toward him on bare feet. "Oh, Kalen!" She flinched away from the broadsheet as though from a searing pan on a fire. "That... that creature killed
my mother. I—I just wanted to cause her pain, rhat's all. But I never meant anyone to die—that was Rath's doing." ^ "How do I know you didn't hire him?"
"I'm telling you the truth!" Fayne cried. "You saw him try to kill me. He would have done so, if you hadn't come!" She sobbed. "I didn't want anyone to die."
"I don't believe you." He put his hand on the dirk—simultaneously gesturing to the broadsheet and offering a quier threat. "Why write that? You know who killed Lorien."
"I... I was upset, Kalen!" Her eyes grew wet. "You don't understand! I was there when she killed my... I saw it happen! I hate that woman, Kalen—I hate her!"
She ripped rhe Minstrel off the table, tearing it against his blade, balled it up, and hurled it to the floor. Her scream that followed nearly shook the room.
Kalen flinched and looked to the door, but Fayne had spoken true. Had it not been warded against sound, Cellica would have burst in.
"So why not kill her? "Kalen asked. "Why Lorien, and not Ilira?" He stepped closer to her, so he could seize her throat if he wanred.
"I don'r—I don't like people, aye," Fayne said. "I hate them. I hate everyone, especially her—-bur I don't hate enough to murder. That isn't me, and ... and I have to make you see that."
"Why do I matter so much?"
Fayne wiped her eyes and nose. "Because I can't—not with you. I can't lie to you or trick you. You always know—you always know." She sobbed again. "Ir was so, so frustrating at first, but—there's something between us, Kalen. And it's something I can't understand."
. Kalen looked into her eyes. How rich they seemed-—bright, wet pools of gray cloud in her half-elf face. How earnest and true.
"I have to know, Kalen." She made a visible effort to compose herself, grasping her hands tightly in front of her waist. "Is... is what we have real? Can that really happen between two people who meet only for a moment? I've never loved any..." She trailed off and stared at the floor. She stomped angrily—frustrated. "I don't understand! It's not—it's not fair!"
"Fayne," Kalen said.
"You!" she cried. "The one man I can't have—the one man I should flee—but I can't leave you. Even now, as I stand here naked before you—you, who chastised me, who rejected me, who threatened to arrest me, and I can't leave—I can't just forget you."
Tears slid down her cheeks, and he couldn't have spoken if he tried.
"I need to know if I love you, and if you love me," she said. "I need ... I need something real in my life of shadows and lies. Does that make any sense? Can't you understand?"
Kalen looked away when she met his eyes. He weighed her words and body language, probing for a lie, but found nothing. This was the truth, as far as he could tell.
Hers was a life of shadows and lies, he thought. Like his own life.
"Oh, Kalen," Fayne said. "Say something .. . say anything, just please."
Kalen turned toward her. "It isn't true."
Fayne's body went rigid, as though his gaze had turned her to stone. "What isn't true?"
"That a woman died because of you," Kalen said. "You didn't send Rath to kill her."
Fayne inhaled sharply.
"I believe you," Kalen said. "Your game was thoughtless and wicked and took Lorien off her guard, but it is not your fault—"
Fayne threw an arm around his neck and kissed him hard. It caught Kalen off guard and he staggered back a step. He could feel the pressure and could taste her lips on his, even with the numbness. The blood thundered in his veins, and he could feel his heart beating in his head.
"No." Fayne pulled away. "No. I'm sorry. I just... I had to. I'm sorry."
"What is it?"
Fayne went to reclaim the clothes she'd left on his bed. "You love her," she said.
"Ha." Kalen shook his head. 4 "Ha?" Fayne scoffed. "That girl practically hurls herself at you every moment you're together—it's in everything she does. She adores
you—the sight of you, the thought of you. She loves you, you idiot. And you"—her eyes narrowed—"you love her, too." * He shook his head. "I do not."
She paused and looked at him curiously, warily. "You're sure?"
She stepped toward him, and he could feel heat growing within— lust for her and for the duel. It would always be this way with her, he thought.
"What do you feel, then?" she asked. "What do you feel, right now?"
It came to him, the perfect word. Kalen smiled sadly. "Pity."
Whatever Fayne had expected, that surprised her. "You pity her?" Then her voice became colder. "You pity me?"
"Myself." Kalen shook his head. "She makes me wish I were a better man."
Fayne flinched as though he'd slapped her. "That sounds like love to me."
She started to turn but he caught her wrist. "No," he said. "No?"
He shook his head.
"Well thank the Maid of Misfortune," Fayne said, raising her jaw proudly. "I was starting to think you didn't fancy me anymore."
The sheer, unflappable confidence in her eyes—the mock outrage and scornful words, the shameless flirtation—all of it made Kalen smile. The bravado of this woman astounded him.
Fayne was not like shy and thoughtful Myrin, but bold and conceited, utterly convinced of her own allure. And as arrogant as Fayne was, Kalen had to admire her. She was unchanging, immovable, perfect in her imperfection.
He told her what he hadn't told Myrin—what he never would have dared tell her. He wanted to stop himself but couldn't.
"I am sick, Fayne."
She stared at him, as though judging whether he spoke true. Finally, she nodded.
Kalen went on. "When I was a child, I felt less pain than others did. My fingers are scarred from my teeth"—he spread his hands so she could see—"as are my lips." He licked his lips and pursed them,
so she might see the marks. "I just—1 just didn't feel ir."
Fayne nodded, and her gray eyes grew a touch wider.
"I would have died, but for the scoundrel who took me in and raised me, among a host of other orphans," Kalen said. "He taught me how to inflict the pain I couldn't feel—how to use my 'blessing' for my benefit. Or rather, his."
"Sounds like my father," said Fayne. When he paused, she waved him on. "But this is your story—pray, continue."
"I found feeling eventually, but long after my skin had hardened. At six, I shrugged off stabs that would have left a man weeping on the floor."
Kalen watched Fayne's eyes trace the scars along his ribs and chest, some of which were very old. Each one, Kalen remembered well.
"I killed my master when I was just a child," Kalen said. "He was a cruel old man, and I had no pity for him. More pity I had for the older orphans he had hurt over the years—though I reserved the most for myself, undersrand."
Fayne nodded. She understood.
"I was a thief, and a mean one," he said. "Folk had done things to me—terrible things—and I had seen far worse. So when I hurt folk—killed them, sometimes—I didn't think anything of it. I used my blade to get coin—or food. Or if I was angry, as I often was. I was born hard as steel, and I only got harder."
He almost wanted Fayne to say she was sorry—as though she could take the blame for all the world and offer atonement. But she merely watched him, listening patiently.
"Without my master, I was forced to beg on the streets—to sell my services for food or warmth. I met Cellica shortly thereafter, and she became like a sister to me, but my master had done his work and I was stone not only on the surface, but inside."
"Cellica grew up in Luskan, too?" Fayne glanced toward the door. "She seems too soft."
Kalen shrugged. "She was a prisoner," he said. "Escaped the grasp of some demon cult." *
"A cult?" Fayne looked troubled. "What kind of cult?"
Kalen shrugged. "Cellica didn't talk about it much, and I didn't
uuin uvui i on mu
ask," he said. "I met her by chance, and she set my broken arm. Healing hands."
* "Mmm." Fayne nodded. "She was a good friend?"
"I hated her, too, at first," Kalen said. "As soon as my arm healed, I hit her, but only once." He grinned ruefully. "She put me down faster than you could say her name."
Fayne giggled. "You wouldn't think it, to look at her."
"Tough little wench," said Kalen, and Fayne shared his smile.
Then he paused, not wanting to tell her the story of Gedrin or of obtaining Vindicator, and in truth it did not matter. That would instill a touch of nobility to his story, and he did not feel noble. He was awash in his brutal past.
"When I was eight years of age, I ... I made a mistake. I did something terrible, and my spellscar returned in full force. I couldn't move at all."
He tried to turn, but she held his hand tighter and didn't look away. Kalen set his jaw.
"I was frozen, locked in a dead body that felt nothing, but saw and heard everything. It was like my childhood sickness, but returned a hundredfold. A man grown would have gone mad, and perhaps I did—not knowing when or if I would ever move again. I couldn't even kill myself—only lie there and wait to die."
His hands clenched hard enough for him to feel his fingernails, which meant they would be drawing blood. Fayne watched him closely, consuming every word.
"I prayed—to anyone or anything rhat might hear," he said. "I prayed every moment for true death, but the gods did not hear me. They had abandoned Luskan and everyone in it."
"You were a man of faith? "asked Fayne. Her voice was respectfully soft—almost reverent. "An odd choice for a beggar boy."
He shrugged. "Cellica didn't follow the gods either—her healing was in needle, thread, and salve. But she believed in right, and she definitely believed in wrong. And though letting me die might have been kinder, as I thought, she told me every day that she would help me, no question. She loved me, I came to realize, though I had no understanding of it then.
"She kept me from starving. She cared for me when anyone else would have left me for dead. I hated her for that—for not letting me die—but I loved her all the same. She would feed me and clean me and read to me—but other times, she would just sit with me, talking or silent. Just be with me, when I had nothing else.
"And eventually—finally—I began to pray for life. Just a little bit of life—just enough to touch her cheek, hold her, thank her. Then I could rest." Kalen brushed a hand down Fayne's cheek. "Do you understand?"
Fayne nodded solemnly. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Kalen said. "No god came to save me—no begging brought life back into my dead body. I was alone but for Cellica, and she could not fight for me. I had to fight for myself."
Fayne said nothing.
"I stopped praying," Kalen said. "I stopped begging. Once . .." He trailed off.
He brearhed deeply and began again.
"After I escaped my master but before my mistake—when I was a boy of eight winters, begging on rhe streets. Someone once told me not to beg. A great knight, called Gedrin Shadowbane."
Something like recognition flickered across Fayne's face—the name, he thought.
Kalen continued. "He didn't ask me why I begged—nothing about my past, or who I was. He didn't care. He just told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was never to beg.again. Then he struck me—cuffed me on the ear so I would remember."
"Whar a beast!" Fayne covered a grin with her hand and her eyes gleamed with mirth.
Kalen chuckled. "It was the last thing anyone said to me before I fell paralyzed," he said. "And as I lay unmoving, hardly able to breathe or live, I realized he was right. I stopped praying for someone else to save me, and fought only to save myself. Not to let myself die. Not yet—I would die, I knew, but not yet." Kalen clenched his fists. "Then, slowly—gods, so slowly—it came back. Feeling. Movement;* Life. I could speak to Cellica again. I told her what I wanted—to die—and she cried. If I had begged her, she would have done it, but
I would not ask that of her. She pleaded with me to wait—to give it a tenday, to see if it got better." t He closed his eyes and breathed out.
¦ "It did. Slowly, with Cellica behind me every moment, I recovered," Kalen said. "But I knew it was only temporary. When we had the coin to hire a priest, he told us I still bore the spellplague within me—a spellscar fesrering at my core. Perhaps I'd had it from birth." He flexed his fingers.
"Some bear an affliction of the spirit, mind, or heart—mine is in my body. The numbness will return—is returning—gradually, over time. And with it, my body dies, little by little." He shrugged. "I feel less pain—less of everything. And though it makes me stronger, faster, able to endure more than most men, ultimately, it will kill me."
Kalen looked toward the window at the rain hammering the city.
"I had a choice," he said. "I could waste my life dreading it, or I could accept it. I followed the path that lay before me. I accepted Helm's legacy, and followed the Eye of Justice."
As though his voice had lulled her into a trance from which she was just waking, Fayne blinked and pursed her lips. "Helm? As in, the god of guardians? The dead god of guardians?"
Kalen said nothing.
"I don't know if you know your history, but Helm died almost a hundred years ago," Fayne said. "Your powers can't come from a dead god—so what deity grants them?"
Kalen had asked himself the same question so many times. "Does it really matter?"
Fayne smiled. "No," she said, as she leaned closer to him. "No, it doesn't."
She caressed his ear with her lips, and her teeth. Kalen could just feel it—enough to know what she was doing—which meant she was probably hurting him. He didn't care.
She dipped a little and bit at the soft spot at the end of his jaw. She pressed her cheek to his, letting her warm breath excite the hairs on his neck.
Through it all, Kalen stayed still as a statue.
"I know you can feel this." Fayne's eyes were sly. "I wonder what else I can make you feel. Things that little girl couldn't dream of— things your mistress Araezra doesn't know."