22 KYTHORN (NIGHT)

CONSIDERING THE TWO BATTERED MEN SPRAWLED BEFORE her, Myrin reflected on this odd turn of events. She couldn’t say for certain what she’d expected when Toytere had told her of the infiltrator who’d come to Luskan. It might be a bounty hunter, assassin, wizard—anything or anyone following her trail. Not a day had gone by in the past year that someone hadn’t been after her. But the last person she’d expected was …

“Kalen?” she asked, startled. “How did you get here?”

“Gods,” Kalen murmured.

Myrin stared at him where he lay on the floor and he stared right back at her. Breath was hard to come by. They might not have seen each other in a year, but in that heartbeat the connection between them came back—every smile, every kind word, every argument.

She saw in him the man who’d carried her across half of Waterdeep, faced a lich to get her back, and thrown himself off a building for her sake.

She also saw the man who had, a year ago, killed her kidnapper in cold blood and that cooled her growing ardor. The memory snapped her back to the present.

Kalen was hurt, Myrin realized, and badly. She started forward, wanting nothing more than to tend to his wounds, but stopped, reconsidering. The Dead Rats were staring at her, waiting for a cue. After that outburst, she could not pretend that she didn’t know Kalen. Still, she could be regal about it—acting in a way befitting the leader of the Dead Rats.

Befitting the Witch-Queen of Luskan.

Kalen stared at Myrin—startled, confused, and yet somehow, not as surprised as he might have been. It was not just the hint his spellscar had provided when it seemed to draw toward her: it had recognized her. Rather, since they’d met that foggy night a year ago, Myrin had shown a talent for defying expectations. Going from hostage to queen was more of the same. Kalen rather admired that about her.

He wished she hadn’t surrounded herself with so many snakes, however. The Dead Rats stared at her with equal parts deference and wariness. Kalen saw more than a few look not to Myrin but to Toytere for a sign as to what to do, including Sithe. Clearly, Myrin’s position was tentative, and she would lose it if she did not act the part.

By her eyes and the way her expression became masked, Myrin knew it, too. “Stand him up.” She waved dismissively. “Blood on my floor simply won’t do.”

“Aye, Lady Darkdance,” Toytere said and signaled to his men.

Darkdance? Kalen pondered.

Two of the Dead Rats came forward—including the one Kalen had stunned with his sudden attack—and hauled Kalen to his feet. They grasped Rhett as well, though the boy hadn’t moved. “She’s very pretty,” Rhett observed quietly. “Or is that an illusion?”

“No, that’s not an illusion,” Kalen said.

It was true. A year had turned the waifish girl of his memory into a striking young woman. Her almond tan skin had grown warm and dark. It brought out the vibrancy of her shocking blue hair, which fell to the middle of her back. Her bright blue eyes seemed the same as always: sparkling and thoughtful.

“You certainly know your share of lovely ladies, Saer Shadowbane,” Rhett said.

“Stop calling me that,” Kalen said.

It was flattering that the boy used that salutation—for a noble of unknown rank or a common knight acting particularly well—but he didn’t feel worthy of either part of the moniker.

One of the thugs raised a club to silence them both, but Myrin put up a staying hand. “Who’s your flattering friend, Kalen?” she asked.

“He’s nobody,” Kalen said. “Just a boy.”

“I can speak for myself,” Rhett countered. “Dark Sorceress, I am Rhetegast of the House of Hawkwinter—” His words cut off when the thug hit him anyway.

“That,” Kalen murmured, “you probably should not have said.”

“Point.” Rhett groaned.

The two thugs guarding the prisoners raised their clubs, while several others in the room eyed Rhett with considerable interest. They were, after all, thieves, and naming oneself a noble scion among them was not wise. Kalen looked to Myrin, hoping she would do something to quiet them before violence ensued anew.

Either she got the message or had thought of that herself, because Myrin immediately raised her hand and sent forth a fan of flames to lick at the rafters. The Rats shied away from the magic. Blades disappeared into their sheaths and clubs lowered. Toytere, who had been reaching into his vest, relaxed.

“Now then,” Myrin said. “I will take the prisoners to my private chambers. If anyone objects, kindly make yourself known, so I can burn you to ash on the spot. No one?” Myrin smiled. “Outstanding.”

She rose, and they all bowed to her.

“Bring them.” Myrin turned to Sithe. “I’ll take the sword, please.”

The genasi cast Kalen and Rhett a look, but she handed Vindicator over to Myrin.

Rhett’s eyes were wide indeed as the guards seized their arms. “That’s some lady you know, Saer Shadowbane,” he said. “Who is she?”

Kalen smiled despite himself. “She’s Myrin.”

The trek to the chambers of the Witch-Queen was a brief one: she had the largest quarters in the tavern, which must formerly have belonged to Toytere. The room was bare of decoration, its walls were peeling like dead skin, and its furnishings were limited to a single narrow bed and an end table with a single shelf.

Myrin gestured and a chair obediently rose for her to sit in. She set Vindicator down and settled in, straight-backed and regal, like a queen ought to be.

The guards pushed Kalen and Rhett to their knees on the rug then looked to Myrin. She waved them away. They were out of the room before her hand moved more than a finger’s breadth. That hand was dangerous, Kalen thought.

The door closed and the three of them were alone in Myrin’s chambers. Their heavy breathing seemed deafening in the charged silence.

“Myrin,” Kalen said, even as she started to say his name, rising as though to approach. They both froze, neither ready to speak over the other—neither knowing what to say. He stared at her, hundreds of words wrestling in his throat and getting stuck. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth formed words she couldn’t quite speak.

“So—” Rhett said.

At that single, unexpected syllable—Kalen had almost forgotten the boy was there—the moment broke. Kalen drew into himself, suddenly self-conscious. Myrin shook her head as though to clear a fog.

“Darkdance?” Kalen asked, unable to bring himself to say anything else.

“My name,” Myrin said. “I found out more of it a tenday or so past. Myrin Darkdance. What do you think?”

“It suits you,” Kalen said.

Myrin smiled and turned to Rhett. “You were asking a question?”

“Who are you, lady?” Rhett then looked at Kalen. “Who is she?”

“Not the gang leader of the Dead Rats, last I checked.” Kalen faced Myrin. “How exactly did this happen?” Myrin’s face colored slightly. She seemed a little embarrassed. “Well …”