“Ah—” Kalen said. He looked at Myrin, who shrugged.
Fayne put her hands on her hips. “Sweet wee one,” she said. “But Kalen’s my escort.”
“Is that so?” the halfling said. Though she reached only to Fayne’s belly, she stood just as strong, arms crossed over her breast. “And don’t you ever call me ‘wee.’”
Fayne smirked and crossed her arms. “Well, if you weren’t such a little thing—”
Kalen was suddenly immersed in the midst of a firestorm that flowed from the women’s lips. Their argument was just as loud, just as fast, and just as deadly as any duel he had ever survived—and many he’d run from. The one and only time he tried to step in, they upbraided him so sharply and fiercely that he reeled as though struck.
The situation was a mess. He’d been planning to give the invitation to Fayne just to get rid of her, but Cellica wanted to go as well. If he gave it away, he would never hear the end of it, and if he didn’t please Fayne, then gods only knew what would happen.
“Choose one of us,” Cellica said, and Kalen felt compelled by that voice of hers. “Choose one of us ladies, right here, right now.”
“Aye.” Fayne tossed her hair over her shoulders. “That choice should be obvious.”
“Only if he dreams of maids half elf, half giant” added Cellica.
Fayne smirked. “Unless he prefers lighter fare—girl-children, perhaps?”
Cellica’s face went bright red.
The ladies went back to bickering sharply, throwing turns of phrase that would have made the best broadsheet satirists applaud.
Kalen turned his eyes on Myrin at the table, who blushed down at her hands in her lap. She was a buoy of gentle calm in a sea of dueling, querulous words. She saw Kalen looking at her and blinked. Then she smiled gently—demurely—and went back to looking embarrassed.
Finally, head spinning and aching, Kalen closed his eyes and pointed. “I’ll go with her.”
Cellica and Fayne looked at him, then at his finger.
“You’re taking her?” Fayne asked, eyes dangerous. “The blue-haired waif?”
Kalen pointed at Myrin. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Cellica grinned widely.
“How sweet! Myrin could use a gown—gods know she can’t go on wearing Kalen’s things all her days.” She sneered at Fayne. “I’m sure we can dress her better than this ogre.”
Ignoring that, Fayne rounded on Kalen. “Why is she wearing your clothes?”
“Better than you wearing them,” said Cellica. “Though they might fit you, she-whale.”
Fayne blushed so fiercely that her face matched her hair. “What?” She investigated her backside. “There’s not a drop of blubber there. Unlike certain halflings—”
As they fell to bickering again, Kalen looked at Myrin. Her mouth drooped in a lonely frown and her eyes were cast toward her hands, which were bunched into fists on the table. Kalen watched as she clenched her fists harder and harder.
A splotch of blue appeared on her wrist, then branched into lines of tiny runes—like a sprouting vine of ivy—that spread up her arm.
“Just because I’m not the perfect height for—cuh!” Fayne’s words ended in a cough.
Grasping her throat, Fayne burbled a cry and slumped, hands clutching her head. She would have fallen, but Kalen caught her. Her hands tightened into claws on Kalen’s bare chest.
“What’s happening?” Cellica cried, terrified.
Fayne was looking around wildly, a look of sheer rage on her face. She murmured words in a language Kalen did not know and clutched at her forehead as though to smother a fire inside.
Kalen looked to Myrin, who sat at the table staring vacantly at the reeling Fayne. Her skin had sprouted an entire lattice of blue runes growing across her shoulder and down her arm. Her eyes glowed like stars.
Flames leaked from Fayne’s hand—dark magic. Her eyes scanned the room as though searching for a foe. Kalen realized she was staring right at Myrin but didn’t seem able to see her.
Yet.
“Stop!” Kalen snapped.
Myrin jumped, fell out of her chair, and scrambled against the wall. “Uh?”
Fayne moaned and slumped against Kalen, panting. The agony slipped away from her face, but her anger burned all the brighter. She glared, still seemingly unable to see Myrin.
The hate in her eyes shivered Kalen to his core.
Cellica’s eyes darted back and forth between Kalen and Myrin. She seemed not to notice Myrin’s eyes or runes—the girl’s eyes had been locked on the half-elf. “What was that?”
“Damn,” Fayne murmured, touching her head as though it were tender. “Damn me for good and all.” She shook her head and looked to the table, where she finally was able to see Myrin. Her lips curled like those of an angry canine, and Kalen half expected to see fangs. But no, her teeth were quite normal.
“Wait,” Kalen whispered to Fayne.
She looked up at him, gray eyes slowly draining of rage—and replaced by wariness. “Aye?”
Kalen fell into communion with his threefold god, fingers curling around his gauntlet-etched ring. His hands glowed, attracting Myrin’s and Cellica’s awed gazes. Healing power flowed into Fayne, easing her breathing.
She closed her eyes and nuzzled her cheek against his hand. “Oh, Shadow,” she said.
“Kalen,” he corrected.
“Hrmm.” Fayne moved away—a little wobbly, but that might have been feigned. “If you’re taking blue-hair girl, then I’ll just have to wait until next time, won’t I?”
She winked at Kalen in a way that assured him there would indeed be a next time.
“You don’t—you don’t have to,” Cellica said. “Let me look at you. I’ve a healer’s—”
“No need!” Fayne gave Cellica a winning smile and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll be just fine.” She tossed a glare at Myrin. “Just fine.”
The half-elf left.
Kalen glanced at Cellica and Myrin. The halfling stood, pale faced, near the door, staring after Fayne. At the table, Myrin looked terrified. Blue runes adorned the left side of her face.
Kalen sighed. “I’ll see her home,” he said. “Wherever home is.”
He grabbed his spare uniform, the black coat of leather and plate with its two gauntlets of rank. Heedless of whether they watched, he pulled off his hose and dressed.
With an eep! Myrin blushed and looked away.
Cellica looked hard at Kalen. “Do you know where?” she asked.
Kalen shrugged.
“So you really don’t know her, eh?” the halfling said brightly.
Kalen laced up his breeches and shrugged on the harness straps.
“You … you’re still taking Myrin to the revel on the morrow?”
Kalen shrugged. It hardly seemed relevant.
“Well, then,” Cellica said. She smiled.
Myrin pressed her back against the wall and slid down, trembling and hot in the face.
What had she done?
She stared at her hands and her heart leaped. Little blue marks showed vividly against her left palm. She rubbed at them, as one might dirt smudges, but they didn’t come off. She pulled up the sleeve of the old tunic, breathing hard. She found more marks traveling up her arm. She scratched hard at her skin, trying desperately to get rid of them, but she drew blood.
She touched her cheek, which tingled. In the small mirror across the room, she saw a vine of blue runes running along her throat and up her face. She sat, rigid in horror, and tried vainly to stay calm. The marks were moving—shrinking.
Soon, they faded entirely, and she could breathe again.
Fayne had gone, she realized, and Kalen—fully dressed and about to follow—was staring at her. His icy eyes glittered balefully. When Myrin opened her mouth, nothing came out. Wordlessly, Kalen strode into the corridor and banged the door shut.
Myrin looked down at her hands. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Don’t mind h
im.” Cellica appeared at her side, smiling. “He’s just a glowering bastard.”
“Really?” Myrin sniffed.
“Yes,” she said. “I know what will make you feel better.” Her eyes twinkled. “Dresses!”
SEVENTEEN
When she realized Kalen wasn’t in the Room of Records either, Araezra slammed her fist on the table. Pain flared and she kissed her wrist to lessen it.
Damn that Kalen—where the Hells was he? He wasn’t at home, and he wasn’t anywhere at the barracks. This, the Room of Records, was his favorite place—it was peaceful and quiet, and he could read. Where could he be?
And who the Hells was that girl? Wearing his tunic, with hair like that? Had he brought a girl home from the Smiling Siren?
She felt sick. Everything was going wrong that day—everything. Except for Jarthay being so kind, she’d have sworn this was still a nightmare. The commander being sensitive made it seem more a fever dream.
Who was that girl? Gods, had Kalen fallen in love with someone else? Gods!
In her anger, Araezra hadn’t noticed the door quietly opening or anyone entering. Only as she sat there, willing herself not to cry, did gooseflesh rise on her arms. She realized she was no longer alone. “Who’s there?” she asked. “Kalen?”
Light vanished from the room and she gasped. The Room of Records had no windows, and with the door shut, it was utterly lightless. Pushing her uneasy shivers aside, she put her fingers to the amulet she and those of her rank wore and whispered a word in Elvish. The medallion glowed with a gentle green light, softly illumining the room around her.
She made out the desk nearby and anchored herself. The candle on the edge of the desk gave off a little plume of smoke from its too-short wick.
“Fool girl,” she said. “Scared by a burned-out candle.”
She saw another source of light, then, coming from her belt. She froze and reached down, very slowly, to the hilt of Shadowbane’s sword. She remembered that it had scalded her hand before, but the hilt was no longer warm to the touch. Instead, it felt cool and comfortable. Right. Light leaked around the edges of the scabbard and she drew it forth, gasping in awe at the silver shimmer that fell from it.
“Gods,” she murmured. She cut the blade twice through the air, marveling at the way the light trailed. It felt so efficient—a killing weapon, beautiful and deadly.
Then she thought she saw movement against the wall. “What was—?”
She crept forward, Shadowbane’s sword held before her like a talisman. She approached, letting the circle of light creep closer and closer to the wall, until—
Nothing.
Nothing had moved—it was just a Watch greatcoat hung on a peg by the disused hearth.
Araezra loosed a nervous breath.
Then a man was there, leaping inside her guard. She gasped and tried to slash, but he was too fast, batting the sword out of her hands. The weapon spun end over end toward the door and clattered to the floor. Her attacker seized her by the throat and hip and crushed her against the wall. She could see, by the dim, flickering light of the sword, that it was a smooth-faced dwarf. His features were flawless, making him look all the more monstrous to her eyes. She knew his name—remembered Kalen mentioning a beardless dwarf.
“Arrath Vir,” she squeaked.
“I am pleased that you know me,” the dwarf said. “It means you might be useful.” He fixed her eyes with his own. “Tell me—who is seeking me? A name.”
“Piss—urk!” He pressed his arm tighter against her throat, cutting off air.
“Know that you are mine to slay on a whim.” His eyes bored into hers. “You are powerless. The Watchmen in the barracks—all those swords and shields sworn to serve this city. All those men who hunger for your beauty. All of them mean nothing to you now.”
Her face felt as though it would burst from the pressure within. As though he sensed this, Rath eased his arm enough that she could breathe.
“All the years spent cultivating your life—everything you learned as a child, all the pointless loves and hates that have defined who you are. All of it ends, here and now, at my whim.” He smiled gently. “You will die at my hands, no matter what you do now.”
Araezra gasped but could not speak. She could barely breathe.
“Aye,” he said. “But you’ve a choice. Aid me, and I shall make your death a painless one. Do not, and I shall not.”
Araezra looked over Rath’s shoulder.
“What say you?” The dwarf eased his grasp so she could just choke out words.
“Pick … it … up,” Araezra said.
Rath looked back, and there stood Kalen Dren.
Kalen had trailed Fayne through the streets as best he could, but she was like a devil to follow. She would vanish around a corner and appear elsewhere, a dozen paces to one side or another. Eventually he lost her entirely.
Perhaps it was good riddance—to be free of whatever scheme she’d concocted for the revel—but in truth, no small part of him wanted to see her again. To finish what they’d started.
But duty came before beguiling lasses who showed up at his door unannounced, and so he made his way to the barracks. Araezra was not in any of her usual haunts—her office, the commons, the training yard—and Kalen was a little relieved. He didn’t feel like facing her, and if duty had called her away before he got the chance, then so be it. After Talanna had been hurt, he didn’t feel like he could lie to Araezra anymore.
He reached the unlatched door of the Room of Records—just a little ajar, so he could see inside—and froze. Rath was inside, holding Araezra captive.
At first, neither of them noticed his appearance, so he kept to the shadows and stood, unmoving, in the doorway. He was not wearing Shadowbane’s leathers and cloak, but the Guard uniform was black and he could use that to his advantage. He called upon the lessons he’d learned first in Luskan—how to stand still and silent—and thought hard.
Kalen’s instinct was to strike, but he suppressed it. Rath held Araezra at such an angle that if Kalen stepped forward, the surprise could prove fatal for her. With his training as a thief, Kalen could kill the dwarf in one, fast blow, but he could not cross the room without one or the other noting him. The silver glow of Vindicator illumined the room enough for that.
Neither could he cry out for guards—as Araezra would surely die in the confusion. And if he went to get aid quietly, he would be abandoning his friend to death.
He had to do something, though. He had—
He had no sword. The scabbard at his belt was empty.
How had he forgotten that? He had dropped the blade when he brought Myrin back, and never retrieved it. He’d even walked past the barracks armory on his way, coughing and feigning weakness as always. He could reclaim Vindicator, but surely moving the light source would alert Rath.
Think, he told himself. Think.
But nothing came. He was the weakling Kalen Dren who could barely hold a sword, much less fight with it. There was so little he could do. The dwarf had been too much for him at his prime as Shadowbane, armed and on even ground. If he attacked now, in any way, Rath would kill them both. If it were just himself, he might take Tymora’s chance, but it was Rayse.
He felt helpless. He could not attack, could not flee, and if he revealed himself …
That was it.
Making sure to hunch as usual, Kalen stepped forward, out of the shadows, and coughed—softly, but distinctly.
Araezra’s eyes danced with stars, but she clearly saw a figure step out of the shadows and into the silvery light: Kalen! His hand was not a dagger’s length from Shadowbane’s sword.
“Pick … it … up,” she said.
Rath looked, and a smile spread across his face, particularly at the stooped way Kalen stood, and his empty belt. He only smirked as Kalen stood over the silver blade.
“Touch that steel,” Rath said, “and I snap your commander’s neck.”
“Valabrar,” Kalen corrected, in his damnabl
y precise manner.
What are you doing? Araezra thought at him.
“Speak thus, again,” Rath said. “I do not understand.”
“She is a valabrar. To explain”—Kalen gestured to the two gauntlets on his breastplate—“two, for vigilant. Araezra wears five for a valabrar. One would be a trusty, three a shieldlar—”
“Silence,” the dwarf said. “If you wish this Araezra to live, down any weapons you carry, shut the door, and do only as I say.”
Kalen inclined his head, the way he did whenever an instruction was given. Not taking his eyes from Rath, he slid the door quietly shut. He spread his hands to show them empty.
“Kneel,” Rath said. “There—where you will block the door.”
Kalen did so without argument, sinking to his knees.
Araezra wanted to scream at him. Burn him, what was Kalen doing?
The dwarf smiled at Araezra, and she could smell the brandy on his breath. “What a finely trained mastiff you have,” he murmured.
“Let him go,” Araezra said. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Such as?” A bemused fire lit in the dwarf’s eye, as though she had reminded him of a private jest. “What could you possibly offer me?”
“Me.” The word tasted like wormwood in her mouth. “I’m beautiful, did you not say it?”
Rath smirked.
Then he hauled Araezra away from the wall and threw her to the floor near the desk as though she were an empty tunic. Her head knocked against the stout darkwood and her vision blurred. She reached to pull herself up, but the dwarf caught her hand—her sword hand—and twisted it. A crackle of bones sounded and her wrist exploded in pain. She uttered a screech that did not reach any volume, because he kicked her in the belly and blew any air from her body. The scream became a wet sob.
Kalen was saying something.
The dwarf looked at Kalen then. “I did not hear you, trained dog,” he said.
“You should flee this place,” Kalen observed in his indifferent manner. “You can accomplish nothing here.”
The dwarf lunged across the distance between them and stood over Kalen, one hand grasping him by the brown-black hair that hung messily in his eyes. “Why, dog?” he asked. “Do you offer me a threat?”
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