The seer choked and coughed, grasping at himself where she had driven a knife through his bowels. Blackness poured down his legs. He mumbled broken words in his fiendish language—harsh, guttural sounds—but he could summon no magic with his life spilling down his groin.
“If it gives you any comfort,” she said as he sank to the floor, “I did warn you.”
Then she left him in his small nook in Downshadow, which to him had become a shrinking, blurry world of heaving breaths, pain, and—quite later—wet darkness.
FOURTEEN
As dawn rose, Araezra sat alone in her private room at the barracks. She slapped the broadsheet down on the table and leaned back in her chair, fuming.
“Watch fails to apprehend vigilante in Castle Ward,” noted the Mocking Minstrel, this particular tale written by the bard Satin Rutshear. “Clumsy fool Talanna Taenfeather injured in pursuit while narcissistic superior, Araezra Hondyl, parades half-naked through streets.”
Araezra groaned. The emphasized words were underlined in a girlish hand.
“Open Lord Neverember calls Araezra’s actions ‘justified,’ saying ‘I’m sure she acted for the best’ … in protecting his bedmate interests in the Watch,” she read. “Neverember was later seen furtively arriving at Taenfeather’s bedside in the temple of Torm, protected by cloaked men.”
Then: “For misuse of city taxes to support nonregulated religious bodies, see over!’
Araezra rubbed her eyes. The quotations were accurate if slanted, and the additions infuriated her. Lord Neverember and Talanna’s energetic flirtations were well known, but had never been put quite this way. The casual cruelty left a foul taste in Araezra’s mouth. She stabbed her nails into her palms hard.
And of course, Satin quoted Lord Bladderblat, the broadsheet’s ubiquitous parody noble.
“On young Hondyl’s competency as a valabrar, Lord Bladderblat calls Hondyl ‘too pretty for a thinking woman, but she’s got assets; better she find a blade for ’twixt her thighs than one for her belt—though she can wear the belt to my bed, if she likes.’”
That Araezra was presented as the bedmate of a fiction rankled. And being described as “young”—true, she was just over twenty, but her rank came from her success, not her beauty.
This wasn’t new to her, this ridicule. She’d often tried to track down “Satin Rutshear,” but it was just a fancyname, of course. The Minstrel protected its own, and the Lords’ command against punishing broadsheet writers and printers stayed Araezra’s hand. Violating it would have led to her discharge—but it would have made her feel much better.
“Watch keeps silent on continued threat,” Satin went on. “Hondyl has no comment.”
In that private, unheard, and thus safe moment, Araezra finally let vent. “Mayhap you might ask, Lady Rutshear,” she cried. “I’d give you a comment, well and good—then twist your snobby head off your shoulders, you little whore!”
She balled up the Minstrel and hurled it across the office into the spittoon.
She felt better.
Then she set to repressing her anger into a tight, simmering ball.
Burn her eyes and her waggling tongue, but this “Satin” had the right of it—there was no place for screaming, hysterical lasses in the Guard, particularly not those ranked as highly as she.
This story—and the whole situation it cat-raked with such fiendish glee—was bad enough. If she was going to be humiliated and reprimanded for abandoning her patrol, endangering her men, and landing her second in a bed at the temple of Torm, then at least she could do it with some dignity. The judgmental eyes of the rest of the Watch and Guard, the disapproving glare of Commander Jarthay—they were bad enough.
And where in the Hells was Kalen? He hadn’t appeared for duty this morn, and she could really use his shoulder to—
Araezra dropped her face into her hands. She wouldn’t cry—she couldn’t. Crying was for weak-willed women, and she must be strong—for Talanna, if for nothing else.
Don’t think about Talanna, fading in and out of life under the hands of those priests.
She looked instead at the sword on the table, and let its silvery masterwork distract her.
It was a bastard sword, well and good, but deceptively light and sharp. Magical, she knew—it had glowed fiercely silver in Shadowbane’s hand, and retained this glow even after he’d left it. Now, sitting cool on her desk, it radiated power at a touch—but balanced power.
A sword is neither good nor evil, she thought, but that its wielder uses it for either.
Araezra looked in particular at the sigil carved into its black hilt: an upright gauntlet with a stylized eye in its open palm. She’d thought at first it was the gauntlet of Torm, but an hour in the room of records had shown her otherwise: it was the symbol of a long-dead church—that of Helm, God of Guardians.
That god—a deity neither inherently evil nor good—had faded since the old world, like many across Faerûn. She’d read one story of his death at the hands of the then-god of justice, Tyr—who had also perished in the last century. That hardly made sense to her: Why would two such gods make war? And why were they not left to rest?
She found this sword a mystery, a relic of an ancient past. Its symbol—in particular, the eye—stared at her wryly, as though amused by its secrets.
She thought about the gauntlets on her own breastplate—five, for valabrar. Here was only one, for the rank of trusty. But, she noted, the gauntlet adorned both sides of the hilt, making two, for vigilant. And Helm had been called the Vigilant One.
Araezra thought of Kalen, who wore two gauntlets. Something about a ring he wore …
But that was ridiculous—with his worsening illness, Kalen could hardly walk fast, much less run. He trained, she knew, and kept his body in excellent condition to stave off the illness he’d told her about—but surely he couldn’t outpace Talanna Taenfeather.
She was startled out of her thoughts when a loud knock came at the door. She wiped at her cheeks and was aghast that her hand came away damp. “Come,” she said.
The door opened and Bors Jarthay glided into the room, his face solemn. Standing at attention, Araezra felt a chill of terror and grief.
“Talanna,” Araezra said. “How—how is she?”
Bors narrowed his eyes. “Well, Rayse—I don’t know the best way to say this …”
Tears welled up in Araezra’s eyes and her lip trembled.
“She’ll be …” Bors whispered, “perfectly well.”
Araezra’s heart skipped a beat. “Wait—what?”
“Healing went fine, and she’ll be well,” the commander said. “A little wrathful, but generally her precocious, loud, and—ow!” Araezra slapped him. “Heh. Suppose I deserved that.”
Araezra slapped him again. “Gods burn you! Why do you have to do that?”
He smiled gently. “All’s well, Rayse.”
“You monstrous oaf!” She wound back to strike again. “Damn you to all the Hells!”
Bors caught her wrist, pulled her to him, and hugged her. “All’s well,” he whispered.
Stunned, she put her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. Tears came—thankful, angry tears—and she didn’t stop them.
“You ever want to talk, lass,” he said. “I’m here.”
“Just … another moment.” Then she glared up at him. “And don’t think this means anything. With all due respect, you’re still a boor and won’t be seeing me naked any time soon.”
Bors sighed. “More’s the pit y.”
He hugged her tighter.
FIFTEEN
Kalen woke with the kind of splitting headache that comes after one has slept only moments in the space of several hours. He felt as though he’d never bedded down at all. His nose was stuffy and he coughed and sneezed to clear it.
Worse, he was numb all over. He allowed himself one horrified breath before he tried to move his senseless hands. With some hesitation, they rose, and he pressed them to his cheeks.
“Thank the gods,” Kalen whispered.
Cellica stood in the room, a bucket of water in her hands. She looked a touch disappointed, and moved the water behind her back. “Well!” she said. “About time.”
Kalen groaned.
“Get up, Sir Slug, and come have aught to eat. Our guest has been at the stew all morning, and if you don’t make haste, it might be gone.” As he started to sit up, she glanced down, then back up at his face, unashamed. “And put those on.” She pointed at a pair of black hose, crumpled at the foot of his bed.
Kalen realized he was naked, which made sense. He hadn’t donned aught last night.
“Try and be presentable for our guest.”
“Guest?” he managed as he plucked up the hose, but the halfling was already gone.
The highsun light filtered through his shuttered window, and deep shadows undercut his eyes in the mirror. His wiry chest, with its familiar scars, gleamed back at him. Stubble gone to an early gray studded his chin and neck. Generally, he looked and felt terrible. Pushing himself too hard, he decided.
“Gods,” he murmured.
He paused at the door to his bedchamber and fought down a wave of dizziness. His legs felt beyond exhausted. He still hadn’t recovered from his flight from Talanna and Araezra.
“Fair morn, Risen Sun,” said Cellica when Kalen staggered out to morningfeast—or highsunfeast. She turned to the table with a brilliant smile. “Myrin? This is Kalen.”
Kalen realized someone else was in the room—a tawny-skinned young woman who couldn’t have seen more than twenty winters, with shoulder-length hair of a hue like cut sapphire, who seemed more bone than flesh. He remembered her now—the woman in the alley from the night before.
“Oh!” She blushed, casting her eyes away from his bare chest.
Kalen grunted something like “well met”—which sounded more like “wuhlmt.”
Myrin wore a ratty, sweat-stained tunic and a pair of loose breeches—his, Kalen realized. Being far too big, they made her look even more frail than when he had carried her home.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Cellica said to Kalen. “None of my things would fit her.”
“Huh.” Words didn’t come easily to Kalen in the morning.
The halfling, however, was at her most garrulous just after sleep. “Nothing fashionable, but at least they’re clothes.” Cellica winked. “Not like you provided any last night.”
Kalen grunted and looked to the cook pot, in which the remainder of the morning simmer stew bubbled warmly. He fished a roundloaf out of the box by the hearth, hollowed it out, and spooned in a healthy dollop. The stew had a sharp, pungent aroma from the many spices Cellica had added—she knew his illness stole his sense of taste as well as touch, so she took pride in making food that he could taste. He limped back to the table, sat on the stool Cellica had vacated, and stared across at Myrin.
Heedless of the tears rolling down her cheeks at the heat of the spices, Myrin was eating like she hadn’t eaten in years, and seeing how skinny she was, maybe she hadn’t. She licked up Cellica’s stew with wild abandon, and Cellica brought her another roundloaf while Kalen sat there, picking at his stew. The halfling was smiling grandly, and Kalen imagined she was thrilled to practice her adoptive mother’s recipes on someone who appreciated their full taste.
Kalen nodded at Myrin. “So … who is she?” he asked Cellica.
Myrin paused in her eating and looked to Kalen. Cellica sniffed.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Cellica’s manner was sweet, so her suggestion didn’t strike him as a command.
Kalen looked at Myrin sidelong. “You can talk?” He winced at Cellica’s glare.
“I …” she said. “I can talk.”
Cellica beamed. “Go on, peach,” the halfling said. “Tell him what you told me!”
Myrin looked shyly at the table.
Cellica clapped her hands. “She’s a mys-ter-y!” she exclaimed, pronouncing the word in excited syllables, like this was a great adventure. “She doesn’t know who she is or where she came from—only her name and a few things from her childhood.”
Kalen looked at Myrin, who was staring at her bread. “Aye?”
Myrin nodded.
“Naught else?” Like how I found you naked in an alley, he thought, speaking gibberish?
“Kalen!” Cellica snapped at his tone. “Manners!”
Myrin only shook her head. “I remember a little … a little about when I was small.” Her voice was thin, and her words were oddly accented—old, like something out of a bardic tale.
“My mother—her name was Shalis—she raised me alone. I never knew my father. I was apprenticed to a wizard—his name was … I don’t remember.” She sniffed. “I can see these things, but they seem far away—like dreams. Like I slept years and never woke.”
Kalen eyed her tanned coloration. Her complexion was exotic—Calishite, perhaps, though mixed with something else entirely. A whisper of elf heritage was about her as well—not a parent, but perhaps a grandparent. It was clear she would be quite beautiful when she grew to womanhood, but she was yet on the verge.
“Aught else?” he asked. “Homeland?”
Myrin shrugged.
“Was it city or countryside?” Cellica glared and Kalen added: “If you remember.”
“City,” Myrin said slowly. Her eyes glazed. “It was always cold … cold off the sea. Gray stone buildings, sand on the streets. Nights spent locked inside while terrors waited without. They waited, you see—the creatures in the night. Masks of shadows.”
Cellica looked anxiously at Kalen, who only shook his head. “What city?” he asked.
“West, it was called,” she said. “West … aught else, but I don’t remember.”
“Westgate?” Cellica suggested.
Myrin shook her head. “Mayhap.”
Kalen shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “I don’t know what ‘terrors’ you would mean—there haven’t been anything but men in the shadows of that city for a century, almost. Not since Gedrin and his knights drove the vampires out …”
He trailed off as Myrin looked down, her shoulders shaking as though she would cry. Cellica cast Kalen a sharp look, and he sighed.
They sat in silence for many breaths—perhaps a hundred count—saying nothing. Kalen ate a few spoonfuls of his stew, but it was tasteless to him. He drank his mulled cider and tried not to feel so awful.
As he did so, he gazed at Myrin, exploring the contours of her exotic face, trying to figure out where she had come from. She wasn’t exactly beautiful without that crown of flames she’d been wearing in the alley, Kalen thought, but there remained a certain girlish appeal to her delicate features. Wearing Kalen’s old shirt made her look like a child, too—in a dress or even a real gown …
Cellica caught him staring. “You’ve another question, Sir Longing-Gaze?”
Myrin’s head shot up and her eyes went wide in expectation. “Mind your stew,” Kalen said to Cellica, harsher than he intended.
Myrin looked back down, blushing. Cellica’s wry smile became a chiding frown.
Kalen ignored them both and turned back to his mostly untouched roundloaf, only to find nothing but his spoon on the table. He looked across to where Myrin was contentedly eating his morningfeast with her hands. Curious—he hadn’t thought her reach so long.
“Do you need a spoon, peach?” asked Cellica.
“Sorry,” the girl said. “I don’t mean to be rude—I’m just so hungry.” She looked at Kalen’s spoon and murmured something under her breath that Kalen didn’t understand.
Cellica reached for the spoon as though to give it to Myrin, but it skittered away, rose into the air, and floated to Myrin’s hand. She caught it and set immediately to spooning stew to her mouth. Kalen and Cellica looked at one another, then at her.
Myrin, looking nervous in the silence, blinked at them. “What?”
“Lass,” the halfling said. “Was that a spell?”
<
br /> “Of course,” Myrin said. “Can’t—” She blushed. “Can’t everyone do that?”
Kalen and Cellica exchanged another glance. Myrin went back to eating.
Before anyone could say more, there came a loud knock at the door, and Cellica fell off her stool with a startled gasp. Myrin didn’t seem to notice and went right on eating. Kalen reached for Vindicator by instinct, and only then remembered he didn’t have the blade any more—or his watchsword, for that matter. Bane’s breath, where had he left that?
“Hark,” he said. “Who calls?”
No answer came.
He seized a long knife from the table and reversed it, the better to conceal the blade against his forearm. Cellica grasped the crossbow amulet around her throat and Kalen nodded. He rose, a finger to his lips, and crossed to the door.
He put his left hand on the latch and lifted it as silently as he could, keeping his body shielded by the wall. Then he threw open the door and raised the knife …
A familiar red-haired half-elf, clad in a plain leather skirt and vest over a white shirt, leaped over the threshold into his arms. “Shadow, dearest!” she exclaimed.
Her lips found his and he could see only the stunned expressions on Cellica’s and Myrin’s faces.
SIXTEEN
Wheeling around for balance, Kalen managed to break the kiss and breathe.
Fayne seemed undaunted. “Shadow! It’s been so long!” She hugged him tightly and squealed.
He blinked over her shoulder to the table, where Cellica was staring at him in shock. Myrin looked at him, then the newcomer, then down at her stew—she seemed to shrink on her stool. Cellica looked halfway between angry and wonderstruck.
“Oh, Shadow, we’ll have such a glorious time at the revel,” she said, emphasizing her words breathlessly. “I can’t believe you have an invitation—I can’t wait to wear my dress! Oh!”
Kalen could hardly breathe, she held him so hard.
“Kalen,” Cellica asked slowly, “Kalen, who is this? What revel?”
“I—urph,” Kalen said as the woman kissed him again, cutting off any words. This kiss was harder than the first, more insistent, and he tasted her tongue in his mouth.
Downshadow Page 12
