26 KYTHORN (EARLY MORNING)

KALEN CROUCHED ON THE EDGE OF A RUINED BUILDING, HIS cloak rustling in the cold morning breeze. He wiped his brow, exhausted. In the day and night since they’d returned from Blood Island—indeed for a day and night before that—he had not slept.

His spellscar ached, as much from lack of rest as separation from Myrin.

Whatever had happened to Myrin in the audience chamber of the Dragon, she was silent all the way back to the Rat. The wizard had sealed herself in her chamber and would listen to no appeal to open the door. Her silence was a constant source of discouragement to Rhett, who had taken vigil at her door without being asked.

For his part, Kalen understood. He wished he’d been that upset the first time he’d killed a man—if that’s truly what Myrin had done. Who could say for certain what had come to pass when Myrin had taken the memories from Umbra? Had she drained his life as well?

Those were questions for another day. For now, he had to focus on the plague and trust Myrin to find her own answers. He wasn’t sure what this “turncloak priest” would have to tell him, but Umbra had seemed insistent they find him. And the Coin-Spinners were the only priests he knew of in Luskan.

He could see the Clearlight—the old temple of Tymora—down below. To call it a “temple” seemed wrong: it no longer boasted its former statuary and someone had reinforced it considerably in the years he’d been away. The place more resembled a fortress, with high wood walls on all sides and watch fires burning throughout the night. The construction of the temple’s walls and the organization of its defenses were both solid. Just on that basis, Kalen could tell why the Coin Priest commanded such respect in the city. Possibly the “turncloak priest” was one of them, or the Coin Priest himself. If not, perhaps they would be able to help him find the man.

All in all, the lead seemed thin. Kalen might have ignored the whole thing were it not for Rhett. The lad had pushed Vindicator on Kalen. “Take it,” he’d said. “Use it and find this priest. Then get us the Nine Hells out of this city.”

The blade felt entirely too comfortable in his hand. He wondered how badly its hilt burned him even now, but he feared to inspect the wound. No doubt, it would be awful.

Focus.

He’d been looking for a way in for hours, but every wall and watchpost was well covered. They changed guard on a random basis, as though dictated by the toss of dice—which, knowing Tymorans, was likely their method. Watchers were also stationed outside the walls, in the surrounding buildings. It was an easy matter to duck them during surveillance, but it would be much harder when the time came to break in. Even when dawn broke, security did not waver.

All told, he could find no means of entry—none short of killing a good number of men and women with whom he had no quarrel.

The old Kalen—Little Dren—wouldn’t have hesitated.

A twinge in his leg drew Kalen’s attention to his bandaged thigh. Mostly, he couldn’t feel the wound—he had barely felt it even when the Shou blade had dealt it—but it had needed tending. Good thing Cellica had taught him to bind wounds. He had to remember not to rely too heavily on that side.

He found it unsettling, to be a stranger in his own body.

“Hail, Little Dren,” a voice said behind him.

“That was impressive,” Kalen said. “I didn’t hear you until you gained the roof.”

“Aye, then,” said Toytere. “You didn’t think I meant to steal upon you, no? I’d hate to have you think of me that way.”

“You could dress better.”

“I rather doubt it.” The halfling smirked. “How’s the leg, incidentally?”

“How’s the wrist?”

The halfling sneered. “Aye, you be right. I didn’t care.” The halfling stepped up to Kalen’s side and peered out over the compound. “So that’s where you’d go.”

“Aye,” Kalen said. “That’s what the Dragon said: ‘the turncloak priest.’ Do you know any other priests in Luskan?”

Toytere shrugged. “Sithe told me you got old Lord Ever-Be-Wary to see you,” he said. “And also that he be dead.”

“Yes.” Kalen nodded at the Coin-Spinner complex. “Well?”

Toytere squinted at their target. “Not easy, that be the truth. But we can do it.”

Kalen regarded him skeptically. “We?”

Toytere nodded. “Why not? If it gets you gone from me city.”

“That it will.”

“Right then.” He smiled. “Maybe we resolve our business first, no?” He trailed off and chuckled—a sound that involved clicking his filed teeth.

Kalen reached for Vindicator under his cloak. The halfling’s eye twitched repeatedly and his lips seemed wet as though he hungered for a conflict. There was an air about him that spoke of battle—one he sought and one Kalen would gladly give him. He would rather fight a duel in the open than fear a knife in the dark.

“Eh, maybe later.” Toytere coughed.

Whatever was wrong with the halfling, it hadn’t overcome his reason—he knew when he was overmatched. It was a tribute to how confused the halfling must be that he had even considered fighting Shadowbane blade to blade.

“While we just be brooding here for the moment,” the halfling said. “You want me to tell your fortune?”

“Why not?” Kalen said.

The halfling took his hand and stared into it, his eyes glossing over like fogged glass. He hummed a tune under his breath to unlock the Sight. For a moment, he stared right through Kalen. Finally, he shivered. “Ay, this be good.”

“Oh?” Kalen raised an eyebrow.

“You retire a crippled old man outside a town called Shadowdale,” Toytere said, “where you spend your time offering bad advice to younglings and tupping goats. Oh”—Toytere smirked at him—“and you be ugly, but I don’t be needing the Sight for that.”

“Well,” Kalen said. “At least I’m alive.”

The halfling’s smile widened. “True that be.”

The spark of mirth fell away. They stared out at the temple.

“I loved her, you know,” Kalen said. “Like my sister.”

“And she was me sister,” Toytere said. “That don’t change a thing between us.”

He wiped his nose with his sleeve and Kalen caught him nibbling at his wrist. He squinted, trying to make out a bandage, but the halfling scoffed.

“Enough of this,” Toytere said. “We go now.”

“King’s parley,” Toytere said to the guards at the gate.

The two men—armed with heavy crossbows and swords, gold coins on leather thongs around their necks—looked at one another, then back down at the halfling, then up at Kalen.

“Who’s this?”

“Me bodyguard,” Toytere said.

“And why you need a bodyguard when you come to parley?”

“Oh, I don’t fear the honorable Coin Priest,” the halfling said. “But the streets to this place, they not be so safe, no? These streets be full of cutthroats, it’s said, that sooner cut out your tongue than bid you well met. I can ill parley without a tongue, methinks.”

The men seemed a touch confused by Toytere’s speech, but they caught the drift. “ ’Ware the Lady’s snares,” one of them said as he pushed open the door. “If Tymora favors you—”

“Oh aye,” said Toytere. “I do remember.”

“Snares?” Kalen asked.

They entered a great worship hall cleared of chairs or benches for supplicants. In the center stood an altar shaped like a coin, shadowed by a carved statue of the goddess Tymora. Kalen remembered that the statue’s shadow marked the hour of the day—or night, were the moon bright enough. A dim light flickered across the shadow-dappled hall.

“Watch your step,” Toytere said. “Me Lady Coin, she be fond of her tricks ’n’ traps. She only meets with those Tymora favors—others, well, they don’t make it.”

Somehow, the concept didn’t surprise Kalen—it even seemed familiar, never knowing if death or pain would strike in any heartbeat. He pointed out a tripwire, which they stepped over cautiously. Toytere was smiling like a madman.

“Lady Coin?” Kalen asked. “The Coin Priest is a woman?”

Toytere laughed uproariously at the question, then caught himself and scowled. “So say her face, but faces they do deceive.”

“As do words.”

“It be a good tenday to be a lass in Luskan, it seems,” Toytere said. “Two of five Captains be ladies now. There goes the city, no?”

“Three,” Kalen said, “if that Dragonblood Kasi becomes queen of the Shou.”

Toytere looked at him blankly, then grinned. “Aye,” he said. “I do be forgetting.”

Kalen wondered if he had truly forgotten the Dragonbloods, or if he’d included Kasi in his count and “forgotten” to include Myrin as the head of the Dead Rats. What was his game?

Kalen gestured to a rusty blade hung precariously from the ceiling. “A messy deterrent to unwise guests.”

“Such be luck,” Toytere said. “Perhaps it best you not touch nothing in this place—unless you know the Lady loves you and be watching.”

Kalen knew he’d not die—not until he resolved this mess and got Myrin out of Luskan.

They made their way cautiously across the chamber, avoiding tripwires, wolf irons, and pressure plates at random intervals. When they reached the center, Kalen paused for a moment.

“What?” Toytere said irritably.

“Well, at least some things stay the same.” Kalen pointed upward.

The Clearlight took its name from the multi-colored window in the roof: one of the last surviving sheets of glass in Luskan and one carefully preserved by the folk in the city as a matter of tradition. Kalen was pleased to see the tradition still held. He took in the faint starlight filtering down, and it filled him with as much wonder as it had in his youth. He had seen far greater wonders in Waterdeep and even Westgate, but this sight reminded him that beauty yet persisted even in a place as wretched as Luskan.

Below the window stood the same statue of Tymora from his youth. Someone had actually made efforts to clean the graffiti off and seal the cracks from the years of abuse by the mean-spirited folk of this depraved city.

“Perhaps this Coin Priest of yours truly is reverent,” Kalen said.

“Oh, she’s none of mine.” Toytere pointed. “And look again, no?”

Kalen looked up at the statue’s face, deep in the folds of its cowl. Shadow had hidden it before, but the statue’s face seemed as marred and cracked as ever—rendered unrecognizable by time and spite. If this Coin Priest truly cared for Lady Luck, would she not have fixed the visage of her goddess? Something about that seemed familiar too—as had the tricks and traps—but he couldn’t quite say what.

Gazing at the iconography, Kalen was suddenly uncertain of his initial appraisal of the temple. Perhaps it didn’t represent Tymora at all, but instead Beshaba. “Coin-Spinner” could just as easily refer to the Maid of Misfortune as to her bright-eyed sister, Lady Luck. He wondered if that’s what “turncloak priest” meant.

Toytere murmured a song below his breath. Kalen found that more than a little disturbing—that, and the way Toytere had laughed loudly at the entrance. Again, he wondered what ailed the halfling. Had he been bitten after all, and even now, the Fury grew inside him?

They came at last to the other end of the trapped hall and Toytere directed them to a single door set beside defaced statuary. It was not the main set of double doors, flanked by withered gold curtains, but rather a servant’s door.

“Heh!” Toytere gestured to a large black stain on the floor near the double doors. “That could be us, Little Dren. The doors sprout fangs when you touch them false.”

His huge smile unsettled Kalen more than anything he’d said before. The halfling seemed to long for death and every second without it made his smile all the more manic. Kalen checked Vindicator at his belt. Something about this felt so godsdamned familiar, as well. Almost—

“After you, goodsir,” Toytere said with a bow.

When they entered the Coin Priest’s chambers, it all made sense to him. The traps that could spring at any moment, the defaced feminine statue, the hall bare of ornamentation. He’d known all these things, grown up with them.

And the one common factor that tied them all together was the woman in the loose-fitting white robe, reclining on a black divan in the center of the room.

His hand went to Vindicator’s hilt.

“Kalen,” the Coin Priest said in recognition. “Take them.”

On her word, crossbows clicked and sighted on Kalen and Toytere’s faces. Six of her acolytes stood ready—men and women with cruel faces and no hesitation.

Kalen watched only the woman who issued the commands. She was much older, but he recognized her eyes. One was cold and pale, so like his own. The other was a platinum coin that winked at him in the candlelight.

Toytere eyed the crossbows. “I suppose you two have met, no?”

Priestess and paladin locked eyes across the room. For them, no one else mattered.

“Hail and well met, Kalen,” the Coin Priest said. “Little Brother.”

“Well met, Eden,” he said. “Sister.”