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.”
26 KYTHORN (MORNING)
WELL,” EDEN SAID, GRINNING LIKE A HUNGRY FOX AMONG sleeping chickens. “My goddess must love me, to offer me this delicious reunion.”
“Truly.” Kalen did his best to ignore the crossbows. “You look well, Sister.”
“You’re a godsdamned liar.” Eden grinned. “But you’re sweet to say so.”
His assertion had been true, after a fashion. The Eden before him was not the sickly girl of his memory—poorly crafted and worse tempered. Some of the signs of her youth remained: a leather-and-metal brace on her left leg, a cane set with antlers at its head that leaned against the divan, quick to hand. There was a certain fleshy presence about her Kalen found all too familiar. She had the body of a girl who’d been told she could never be thin or pretty.
“Wait,” Toytere said. “Brother? Sister?”
“For a seer, you’re remarkably blind,” Eden said. “I suppose you hardly realize other folk exist, much less their relations. But I suppose you never met us together.”
“You came back to Luskan,” Kalen said. “After mother—”
“Spare me the reminiscences.” Eden brushed ebony black ringlets back from her weathered, Luskan face. “I should kill you right now.”
“If that is what you will have.” Kalen wondered if he could cut down one of the crossbowmen before they shot him. He could use that man as a shield, get to the next …
“A thousand pardons,” said Toytere, “but we be coming here under a banner of king’s parley, Lady of the Clearlight. Or do that not matter?”
“Oh bother.” Eden’s full lips turned into a pout. “Why, of course that matters. This one is with you? Think carefully, ’ere you answer.”
Kalen realized putting his fate in Toytere’s hands did not relieve him in the slightest, Sight or no Sight. The halfling could have his revenge right now.
“Aye, your ladyship, he is mine,” Toytere said at length. “And I’ll have no violence done against him, all the same to you.”
“It isn’t, but very well.” Eden waved her lackeys back, but they kept their weapons trained on the visitors. She gestured to a full sideboard with liquors of various colors. In Waterdeep, such a selection would be a matter of course in a noble’s sitting room; in Luskan, Eden must have robbed or killed a dozen bootleggers to acquire it. “Wine? Something stronger?”
“No,” Kalen said.
“Suit your own self.” Eden waved and one of her attendants poured her a snifter of brandy. “I’m surprised to see you here. To what do I owe the denied pleasure of your deaths?”
Kalen bit his lip. He should have known Beshaba had been frowning on this whole damned quest: to bring him to this city he hated, to try to rescue a woman who didn’t want to leave, to avoid a boy he could not teach. Now, the only lead he had was the word of a dying madman, which pointed to his sister.
He had no choice. “The plague.”
“The Fury. Quite painful, I hear.” She sipped her brandy. “So what of it?”
Kalen had hoped it would be easier, but he saw Eden would not part with any knowledge readily. “We were told you knew of it,” he said.
“Told by whom?” she asked. “The Dragonbloods, who you attacked this very day? I trust the Old Dragon’s well.”
“Dead,” Kalen said.
“Pity,” Eden said. “He was a worthy opponent. Unlike your little halfling there, who can’t even See a waiting ambush.”
“Ah—” Then Toytere shrugged. “True, it be.”
Kalen crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, Eden?”
“Why, serving the pleasure of the goddess.” Eden gave him a mock toast.
“Which one?” Kalen asked. “Tymora or Beshaba?”
“Neither. Both.” She shrugged. “I feed the hungry and clothe the naked—at the end of a night when fewer starve or freeze than had to, does it truly matter?”
“Yes,” Kalen said.
Eden smiled at him.
Silence stretched, punctuated first by the scrape of glass on wood when Eden set her empty glass on the side table, then by a click-click-click as Eden tapped her fingernail on her eye-coin. The rhythmic sound grated.
“That’s it?” Toytere said. “You’ll tell us nothing?”
The halfling’s tone drew their attention. He was the picture of anxiety; sweat beaded on his forehead and his jaw was clenched tight. He shivered, as though he could barely hold back a far more violent outburst. He recoiled as though chastened.
“The Fury.” Eden took up her cane and rose from the divan. “You’d expect, in the nature of plagues, to see folk hacking and coughing, but no. Rather”—she stepped toward Kalen with an awkward sort of sensuousness, like a wounded cat that yet stalks its prey—“rather, folk become beasts. Moody, aggressive, even mad. Rioting in the streets, brawls and duels … ’tis only after, if victims survive all the fighting, that the sickness eats them from within.”
“Well,” Toytere said. “Thanks, lass, but we knew all that. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“This plague,” Kalen said, his eyes on Eden. “How does it spread?”
He knew the answer already—in his heart—but he needed the words.
“None know,” Eden said. “It could be water, or air, or blood—maybe rats?”
“Bah,” Toytere said, avoiding Kalen’s questioning glance.
“Myself, I believe it simply a part of this city,” Eden said. “The gods’ curse, laid upon ruined Luskan. Here, after all”—she touched Kalen’s chin with her cold, gloved fingers—”who’d notice everyone fighting all the time? You could have it and think you are simply trying to live in the harsh world that is Luskan. At least, until the rages begin.
“A person with the Fury,” she began as she turned to Toytere, who veritably shook. She swayed up to him and gently laid her hand on his head. “He grows impatient, first. Then he shouts or snaps at naught. Then out of the blue he savages you. Like an animal. And then”—she clicked her tongue while reaching for Toytere’s wrist—“dear, dear—that doesn’t look well at all.”
The halfling swatted her hand away. “You shut your rutting mouth!”
“So.” Eden eyed Toytere, as did Kalen, pointedly.
The halfling saw their scrutiny and reined in his emotions. “What I be meaning,” he said. “You be showing some respect, me Lady Coin, for them’s what died a terrible death.”
“Granted,” she said, turning and moving back to Kalen. “I’ve prayed the Lady for a cure for this malady, but none has appeared. The only end I know for the Fury is death.” Toytere clutched at his arm. For the first time, Kalen noticed a soaked bandage under the halfling’s sleeve. He felt cold inside.
“No doubt the Lady will provide,” Eden said, looking back at Toytere. “Her blessing is sharp, like a knife upon a whetstone. It prepares us for the violence to come.”
The halfling lost most of the color from his face. Had Kalen entertained any doubt, he knew now that Toytere had the Fury or at least believed he did. Kalen could believe it as well. The way the halfling had acted before—his outbursts and impatience … all of it fit Eden’s words exactly. Did she speak truly or was she merely trying to frighten them?
Eden gazed at him levelly. “Were I you,” she said, “I would get whatever you came to Luskan to find”—she smiled slightly—“and leave.”
That, Kalen thought, was as wonderful idea.
He turned, but she caught his face between her hands, studying him. “You look well, my handsome brother,” she said. “Aye, that’s the face of the Silverymoon seducer who raped my mother, right enough.”
Kalen wanted to protest, but the words caught in his throat. “Sister—”
Kalen shivered.
Eden pushed him away dismissively and wiped her hands. “See them out,” she said to her guards. “Gently, if you will.”
When they were almost to the door, she held up a hand. “Hold,” she said. “Pray, what did Umbra say exactly. The words he used?”
“He spoke of a turncoat priest,” Kalen said. “ ‘The turncloak is the one who knows all.’ I assumed that was you.” He scrutinized her carefully, but she hid her reaction well. She’d always been a far better liar than he. Had this whole visit been a waste of time?
No, Eden had conveyed something of value—a threat. One that awakened him to what had to be done next. He had to get Myrin out of here.
“Farewell Brother,” Eden said. “Get out of my city and don’t return.”
“That,” Kalen said, “I can promise.”
Eden had very much enjoyed that exchange.
It amused her to witness the confused look on Kalen’s handsome but stupid face. As well, she always enjoyed watching the halfling sweat. She realized why he had come in the first place—to keep her from slipping word of his impending betrayal.
“Oh yes, sweetling,” she murmured. “That game ends soon.”
Her other attendants looked at her quizzically—talking to herself was not something Eden did often. She dismissed them with a look.
After they were gone, she refilled her brandy—made it a double—and chuckled.
Since that first night she’d seen Kalen sneaking into the city, she’d wondered why he’d come back. It all made its own sort of sense, now that she’d seen the answers written across Kalen’s face with her own eye. The girl had called him and he would protect her with his very life if need be. How better to get him out of the city than suggesting that inescapable danger came toward her—a plague he could neither prevent nor cure?
Good-bye, brother, she thought.
“Now,” she said. “If only I could find the Horned One …”
“Sweetling, you’ve but to ask.”
The voice came so suddenly that she lost her balance on the edge of the divan. She caught at the sideboard, missed, and fell haphazardly to the floor. Her twisted leg roared in protest, but the pain vanished into the frenzied beat of her heart.
“Y-you,” she said.
“Me.”
The Horned One was a tanned sun elf, tall and slim of stature, with eyes like burnished gold coins. He dressed head to foot in the garb of a dandy. Bright colors stole her eyes away from the comparative drabness of Luskan. From his brow curled a graceful rack of antlers—a sign of favor from the Lady of Misfortune.
“Interesting that you have that,” he said, gesturing to the platinum coin in her eye socket. “Quite the device. But do you have any power of your own, I wonder?”
“I—I know who you are,” she said.
“So do I,” he replied, his voice smooth as silk.
She could not rise above one knee—his majesty compelled her. He was, after all, the high priest of her faith.
“Chosen of the Lady,” she said, touching the false eye that was her holy symbol.
“Stay a moment—Chosen? Oh nay, nay, that reaches much too far.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, the bowing and scraping would just be tiresome. Rise, lass, or you’ll set me all aflutter.”
He reached down and took her by the shoulders. Though his body did not show it, his arms held great strength and he lifted her to her feet easily.
“There now,” he said. “As to why I’m here, I’ve come before you, unglamored and undisguised, because you wanted to talk. So talk.” When she could not form words, he added: “For instance, you might tell me why you seek me.”
“I wish to know what business of the Lady brings you to Luskan.”
“My own,” he said.
Eden swallowed. It was hard to think in his presence. “Might I aid you somehow?”
“No,” he said. “What you can do is not cross my path. In particular, leave the girl Myrin Darkdance be. The others—feel free to dispose of them as you see fit.”
“The girl?” She had plans for that one, for which her wealthy outlander patron was paying her quite well. “But why, my lord?”
“I know all about your business with her and I know all about your employer,” he said. “You’ll leave her be or unpleasant consequences will follow.”
He was beautiful and he was terrible, but no one threatened Eden of the Clearlight, favored servant of the ladies luck, in her own chambers. A wave of anger rose and washed away her fascination with the Horned One, only to replace it with cold scheming.
“What will you give me, then, to ensure my loyalty?” She reached out and laid her hand on his chest. A moment ago, that had seemed like the height of blasphemy. Now, he was just a man, and she knew how to handle men. Her eyes dipped along his body. “Or perhaps I can give you something?”
His smile radiated cold. “Your mockery of a church is a disappointment to the Lady,” he said. “Count it a blessing I don’t murder you right here and now.”
“Do it, if you wish,” she said. “I like it rough.”
“No doubt.” He drew from his coast sleeve a bound and sealed scroll, one that appeared too big to fit there. “Here is your bribe, Eden One-Eye.”
“A scroll?” Eden sneered. “And here I offer myself to you, Chosen of the Lady.”
He stared at her a long, long moment. She felt, suddenly, the weight of his will arrayed against her—he had attempted some sort of magic. It drained away into her two-faced coin, however, leaving her untouched.
“I had forgotten,” he said, acknowledging the coin. “A clever artifice.”
He glanced down at her braced leg, which chose just that moment to seize up. She cried out in pain and fell back onto her divan. In falling, her brace snapped neatly in two, the metal biting into her flesh.
It hurt—gods how it hurt—and yet she found it exhilarating. She had seen him work no magic and yet somehow, misfortune obeyed his whim. What a blessing!
The Horned One spoke. “I have lived far longer than you, child,” he said. “And in all my centuries, I have loved only one woman. And you are not she.”
Then he was gone, as though he’d never been.
Eden fell prone on her divan, stunned. The Horned One himself, in her private chambers! It didn’t seem real, that such a minor servant of the Lady should be so honored. His presence filled her with a pleasure she could not explain.
Yet, he had offended her grievously—rejecting her and making demands on her. For this, she would have revenge on him, favorite of the Lady or no.
With trembling fingers, Eden opened the scroll and scanned its contents. At first, the dark runes startled her. Then her excitement grew. And grew.
So the Horned One didn’t want her to impede the girl—Eden could cope with that instruction. But gold was gold, and the outlander who wanted her had promised much of that. She simply had to keep her hands clean of the business: time for Toytere to do it all himself. If she’d been right about the Fury inside of him, she knew just how to do it. This scroll would help.
But first—
“Come,” she called.
A secret door opened, admitting her favorite sentry. Compared to the Horned One, he was a mere brute, but at least he was hers. “Me lady?”
“I’ve just had a brush with death and it has left me … unfulfilled.” Eden clapped her hands sharply. “Take off your breeches.”
26 KYTHORN (HIGHSUN)
WHEN KALEN RETURNED TO THE DROWNED RAT, THE SUN was high. The gang ruffians were mostly there, bragging of conquests that night or keeping a low cloak to hide their failures. Toytere took his leave to take care of one thiefly matter or another. Any other day, Kalen might have considered watching him, but at the moment, he had another goal.
Eden.
Manipulative, scheming, dangerous Eden.
Eden, who had let slip no opportunity to frame him for stealing food, to add rotted rats to his stew, or to put live spiders in his bed.
Eden, who had ever hated him for reasons he could not name.
Despite all this, he’d loved her after a fashion—really, he’d had little choice. Their mother had scarcely known his name most of the time.
Kalen had been very young at the point their mother drank and drugged herself to death. Rather than stay to care for a brother she’d never loved, Eden had charmed and slept her way into an adventuring party and turned her back on Luskan. Kalen, then only a lad of six, had fallen in with a harsh crowd, including Toytere with his filed teeth. If he hadn’t met Cellica—Toytere’s compassionate and sensible sister—he might have become just as bad as Eden.
That Eden had returned and now ran the greatest of Luskan’s Five troubled him to no end. The fact that her gang held a semblance of respectability about it made resisting them all the harder. The Eden he’d seen today, with her protestations of reverence in “the Lady,” crossed his earliest memories of her. Perhaps she’d truly changed.
Perhaps.
“Her Majesty said what?” one of the Rats shouted.
Kalen turned his attention to the bar. There, Flick engaged one of the Dead Rats in a battle of will.
“You’re to take these here turnips and things down to Old Shim’s at the dock,” Flick said. “Them youngins is low on food, what with the plague and all.”
“But—but them’s our rations!”
Rations. Kalen’s stomach growled even if he didn’t feel hunger. He welcomed the reminder to eat. Flick had taken charge of the larder—a better quartermaster Kalen had never met outside the Guard.
What caught his attention, however, was what Flick said next.
“Orders of Her Majesty,” Flick said. “You take this food and you share it, understand? And you don’t demand no payment, neither.”
The Dead Rat stared at her as though she’d grown a second and third head. Kalen couldn’t blame him. Generosity? From the gang?
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