“That’s more than enough!” Wildfire’s eyes flashed. She looked to Kalen. “We’ll let Lord Nameless decide.”
“What?” Kalen goggled.
Wildfire caught up his right hand and wound herself into his arm; her smile could cut diamonds and her glare was positively deadly. If The Simbul of legend had half that sort of menace, no wonder she’d kept Thay so terrified so long. “Choose,” she said coldly.
Talantress curled herself around his left side. Kalen was almost glad he couldn’t feel much, or all that magic-black skin would drive him to distraction. “You’d better choose me, or you’ll regret it,” she whispered. “I’ll make personally sure.”
“Choose me,” Wildfire purred in his other ear. “I’m much more fun than she is.” Her tone shifted from suggestive to commanding. “And my uncles are richer—and employ more swordsmen to throttle fools who spurn me.”
“Ah,” Kalen said, his mind racing to match his thundering heart.
“Ninny!” Wildfire said. “You want me, aye saer?”
Talantress grasped Kalen’s other arm. “He’s dancing with me.”
“Me!” Lady Wildfire hissed.
All the while, Kalen watched as Araezra wandered toward them. He couldn’t get away, not with the ladies fighting over him. He was trapped.
“You should spare yon knight, ladies,” said a gentle voice behind them.
The soft and alluring voice—strangely familiar—froze him in place like a statue.
“Ilira!” Wildfire’s eyes widened, and she curtsied deeply. Her beautiful face broke into a genuine smile. “So good to see you.”
“Lady Nathalan.” Talantress gave her a false smile. “We did not ask your opinion.” Her tone was that of a noble addressing a lesser—an upstart merchant, whose only honor lay in coin.
“Apologies, young Lady Roaringhorn. I only meant to warn of knights who wear gray and walk lonely roads.” A velvet-gloved hand touched Kalen’s elbow. “Like this one.”
Kalen turned. Lady Ilira—the eladrin he’d seen dancing with Lorien—stood just to his shoulder, but her presence loomed greater than her size. Perhaps it was the weight of years—like all elves, she wore a timelessness about her that defied any attempt to place her age. Her face hid behind a velvet half-mask that revealed only her cheeks and thin lips.
Her pupil-less eyes gleamed bright and golden like those of a wolf, with all the tempestuous hunger to match. Those eyes had seen centuries of pain and joy, Kalen thought. Wisdom lurked there, and a sort of sadness that chilled his heart and shivered his knees.
Ilira wore a seamless low-cut black gown that left her shoulders and throat bare but otherwise covered every inch of her body, highlighting and enhancing her skin. Her midnight hair was bound in an elaborate bun at the back of her head. She wore what he thought was a wide black necklace that broke the smooth expanse of her breast. He realized quickly that it was not jewelry—she wore naught of that but a star sapphire pendant looped around her left wrist—but rather a series of black runes inked in her flesh, which gleamed as though alive.
She had asked him a question, Kalen realized. He also realized he’d been staring at her chest, and his face flushed. Not for the first time, he thanked the gods for his full helm.
“Is this not so, Sir Shadow?” Ilira asked again.
Why was her cool, lovely voice so damned familiar? Where did he know it from?
“It is,” Kalen said, because he could say nothing else.
Lady Wildfire laughed and clapped her hands, delighted to see Lady Ilira proven right. Talantress scowled on Kalen’s other side. “Spare us your poetry, coin-pincher,” she spat. “I’m taking him to dance now—unless you plan to steal him yourself?” She sneered at Lady Ilira. Her voice might have been that of a serpent. “But surely you wouldn’t be interested—surely you’d not sully yourself with us mere humans.’
Ilira smiled and released Kalen’s arm, the better to focus on the drow-glamoured girl.
“If I were you, Talantress Roaringhorn,” Ilira said, “I should not fight battles that cannot be won—particularly over those whose worth is not measured in noble blood.” She winked at Kalen.
“You mean—he’s not noble?” Talantress peered down her nose. “How unwashed.”
“Tala.” Ilira laid a gloved hand on her arm. “Is not your precious time better spent finding a suitable mate for resting ’twixt your nethers? Aye, I believe your time grows short.” The emphasis she put on the words struck Kalen, but he hadn’t the least idea what she meant.
By the way her face turned white as fresh cream—despite the glamour that painted her skin black—Talantress certainly did. Her lip trembled and she gazed at Ilira in shock before she stumbled away. Several lordlings turned to gawk as she scrambled ungracefully through the throng—and thus did those men earn slaps or harsh words from their feminine companions.
Kalen looked back to the ladies, who shared a smug smile. “I cannot dance,” he said.
“That hardly matters, saer, if the Lady Ilira partners you.” Wildfire laughed. Then she turned her wicked smile on the elf. “If she beats me, of course.”
“Oh?” Ilira turned to the girl and raised one eyebrow.
“What boots it?” Wildfire put her hands on her hips and set her stance. “I love common men as well as nobles.” She smirked at Ilira. “I shall fight you for him! Choose the game.”
“Very well.” Ilira nodded serenely. “You are a brave and bold student, Alondra,” she said. “But let us see how good a student you are. You will tell me whether I speak a lie or the truth, and if you are right, he is all yours.” She winked at Kalen. “Gods help him.”
Wildfire straightened her shoulders. “I accept!”
Ilira closed her eyes and breathed gently. Serenity fell in that moment, and the dancers and gossipers and servants around them grew hushed and seemed far away.
The elf opened her eyes again, and they seemed wet. “I wear this black in mourning,” she said. “For my dearest friend, who was taken from me long ago through my own cowardice.”
Wildfire looked positively stunned, as though Ilira had smitten her with a mighty blow.
“Oh, my lady,” she said. “I’m so sorry—I did not know …”
Ilira looked away. “It seems you believed me,” she said. “Aye?”
Wildfire nodded solemnly, and Kalen saw tears in her eyes. The rest of her face revealed nothing though, and he marveled at what must be self-discipline like iron. Like Araezra.
Ilira smiled. “What a pity.” With that, she led Kalen toward the center of the dancers.
“What?” Wildfire colored red to the base of her silvered hair. “What?”
But they were safely protected from any fury she might have wrought, blocked by a living wall of nobility clad in the finest costumes and brightest colors coin or magic could buy. And on Lady Ilira’s arm, Kalen could see no one else.
It completely escaped him, moreover, that a dance with her might attract exactly the sort of attention he didn’t want.
“Olive Ruskettle and …” the herald looked at Fayne, who just smiled. “Escort.”
Arm in arm, Cellica and Fayne looked out into the courtyard full of revelers and song. The dancing—the music—the colors—the gaiety! Cellica, in a word, loved it.
“I’m so glad you came by an invitation,” the halfling said. “Funny you didn’t dress as anyone in particular, though. I was sure—”
“Pay it naught,” Fayne said, her eye drawn to the dancers in the courtyard. She stiffened, as though she saw someone familiar.
“What?” Cellica asked, straining to see, but everyone was too tall. “Who is it?”
“No one,” Fayne said. “No one of any consequence.”
“One moment.” Fayne let go of Cellica’s arm and skipped away through a mass of nobles—roaring drunk and dressed as fur-draped Uthgardt barbarians.
“What? Wait!” the halfling cried. “Fayne!”
But Fayne was gone, leaving Cellica
lost in a forest of revelers.
With a harrumph, she started looking for Kalen or Myrin.
Not bothering with the servants’ stairs, Fayne made her way immediately to the grand staircase that led to the balcony on the second floor. There she’d find the rooms of worship and splendor—where her mark waited, preparing for her dance at midnight.
On the way, she nestled something amongst the statues of naked dancers that flanked the stairs. The item was a small box her patron had given her—a portable spelltrap—into which she had placed an enchantment of her own, one of her most powerful. The item gave off only a faint aura when inactive, and with a courtyard full of woven spells and the temple wards, no one would notice until it was tripped. And by then, enough chaos would be caused.
Two jacks, descending the stairs hand in hand, looked at her askance, but she just nodded. “Sune smile upon you,” she said.
They replied in kind and joined the throng.
Fayne, managing to keep herself from giggling like a clever child, strung the privacy rope between the statues’ hands and nodded to the watchmen, who smiled indulgently and knowingly. Just a reveler off to some tryst.
Oh, yes, fools—oh, yes.
Fayne skipped up toward Lorien Dawnbringer’s chamber. No guards milled about—why would they, when all were below, at the revel?
Fayne knocked gently, and a womanly voice came from within. “Who calls?”
Then Fayne remembered, and swore mutely. She had almost forgotten—dressed in these ridiculous clothes—a face to go with the attire.
She ripped off her fox mask and passed her wand over her body, head to toe. She shrank herself thinner and a little shorter, her face slimming and sharpening, and she became the elf to whom this outfit belonged—the one Fayne remembered in her nightmares.
Fayne always committed herself fully, throwing herself into danger with wild abandon.
The door opened, and Lorien peered out, blinking in genuine surprise. “Lady Ilira?”
Fayne gave her a confident wink, then she leaped into Lorien’s arms. She kicked the door closed as they staggered inside.
TWENTY-ONE
It was a trick,” Kalen said as Ilira led him toward the dancers. “What you told her.”
“What, saer?”
“It was both true and false,” Kalen said. “Your face is covered, and I couldn’t tell from your voice or your eyes, but I saw it in your throat. You lied, in part, and told true in another.”
“How intriguing, good Sir Shadow.” Lady Ilira looked at him with some interest. “When you become more … familiar with moon elves such as myself, you will note that our ears tell lies more clearly than anything else.”
Kalen’s heart beat a little faster at the thought of becoming familiar with this woman. “Will you solve the mystery, then?”
“I did lose my dearest friend long ago,” she said. “But I do not dress in black for him.”
“A half-truth, shrouded in lie.” Surprisingly, he could feel her hand—very warm—in his.
“Like a paladin shrouded in night,” she said. “Light hidden in twilight, aye?”
A song was ending—a gentle Tethyrian melody, with decorous dancing to match. Kalen knew styles of music—he had once romanced a traveling bard of Cormyr—but dancing was quite beyond him. He hoped he did not disappoint the graceful elf.
As though she read his thoughts, she smiled again. “Never fear, saer—I shall teach you.”
Lady Ilira released his hand—he felt the loss of her touch keenly—and presented herself before him. She offered an elegant, deep bow, which Kalen returned.
They waited for the applause to die down and for the lordlings to select new partners. Most of this was according to rote, already long established. Many envious glances fell on Kalen and Lady Ilira, who was clearly one of the most beautiful and graceful ladies in the ballroom. In particular, one sour-faced elf lord was glaring at him. That one wore a long false beard and black robes, making him look like a dark sorcerer. Gloves of deep red velvet gleamed, and Kalen could see his fingers tapping impatiently. Kalen felt unsettled.
“Ruldrin Sandhor,” she said. “I imagine he does not like to see me dance with a commoner. But I dance with whom I wish—I always have.”
Kalen smiled wryly. “How did you know I was not noble, lady?” he asked.
“The way I know I am not.” She chuckled. “It is obvious.”
“Your husband does not make you noble?” Kalen offered. “Lord Sandhor, mayhap?”
“Oh, good saer.” She showed him that she wore no rings over her gloves. “No husband.”
Then she took his hands and placed his right on her hip and kept his left hand in her right. “You are fortunate,” she said. “As a man, the dance is easier.”
The bards played the first few strains of what sounded like a vigorous refrain, then paused to give the dancers a chance to pair off in preparation.
With her left hand on Kalen’s shoulder, Lady Ilira reached up for his brow, and his heart leaped at the thought that she might remove his helm and kiss him—but her hand only touched his mask. For some reason, he thought of Fayne, and wondered where she might be.
“Who are you thinking of, I wonder?” she asked as they bowed to one another.
That snapped him back to the ball. “Ah, no one …” Kalen floundered.
“Fear not—I am not jealous,” Ilira said. “Your face is hidden, but I can see your eyes well enough.” She grinned mischievously. “Keep your secrets as you will.”
Her exotic eyes—pure metallic gold without iris or pupil—were unreadable, but he sensed her wisdom—and playfulness. “Indeed, lady.”
They danced. The steps were foreign, as he’d feared, but not difficult. He credited his movements to the superior skill of Lady Ilira, who was without a doubt the finest dancer he could have imagined. She flowed through the movements, letting her skirts and sleeves trail like wings as though she were flying. Her shadow seemed to dance independently of her, with the same movements but in different directions, but Kalen reasoned that was a trick of the light.
After the first tune, there was applause and the dancers bowed. He seized the opportunity to remove his gloves and stuff them in his belt. Hands shifted and partners moved, but Lady Ilira seized Kalen’s arm and held him steady, her eyes like yellow diamonds binding him in place.
With more confidence than the first time, he laid his bare fingers on her hip. Without his gloves, he tried and failed to feel the silk of her gown; all he could feel was the heat of her flesh beneath. Maybe he was touching her too hard—he had no way of knowing—or maybe she was pleased. Regardless, her whole body reacted to his touch, sending tingles up his arm. She was like an immortal creature—not at all human or even elf. A spirit.
They danced again—this time to a Sword Coast tune more forgiving of missteps.
“What was it you meant, touching Lady Roaringhorn?” Kalen asked.
“My good knight, your mind wanders Downshadow, to think of me touching Talantress.”
Kalen fought to keep the heat out of his cheeks. “I mean about her ‘precious time.’”
“I happen to have heard of a tiny enchantment.” She looked at him knowingly. “Secrets are coin, saer—interested in buying one?”
Kalen smirked. “If I’m to keep mine, you’ll keep yours.”
She nodded serenely.
The minstrels began another song—this one much faster—and rather than let him go, Lady Ilira grasped Kalen harder. It was a Calishite rhythm, he realized—a dance of passion and heat, more akin to loveplay than innocent dance. Watch horns blared in his mind, and he repeated to himself that he could not dance, but his feet didn’t listen, and his hands—well.
He’d thought her skilled before, but now—with such a tempestuous dance—Lady Ilira was wonderful. Her leg wrapped around his, bringing heat into his cheeks, and she turned around him so gracefully, so expertly, that he might have thought them destined to dance together. He saw her eyes fl
ash; she couldn’t have failed to note the steel strapped to the insides of his thighs.
Then she whirled up, pressing herself hard against him, arms around his neck, lips almost against his ear. He felt the whole of her, and he tingled.
The dance lulled, allowing for folk to stand.
“Well, good saer,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re full of hidden dangers.”
Kalen didn’t flinch. “Care to search them out?” he whispered back.
She pressed her lips to the mask of his helm: kissing the shadow, not the man. Then she said—aloud for the benefit of the dancers nearby, “Keep your dagger in your breeches, goodsir.”
Kalen couldn’t help but smile.
The dance built to a furious tempo that he could hardly follow. He felt more and more as though he were merely there to allow Lady Ilira to show herself, and show herself she did. All eyes in the hall fell upon her, and all but the most vigorous dancers stopped to watch.
Kalen wondered about the runes tattooed across her collarbone. What did they mean? He realized they were Dethek, the script of dwarves. Why would an elf wear dwarven runes?
Ilira whirled and met him once more, and he caught her in a fierce embrace. They spun together once, twice—then he held her bent low like a swooned woman as the song ended. Their eyes met, and she smirked at him—mysterious, alluring, dangerous.
As the hall erupted in applause, her expression became a wide grin—the first genuine smile he’d seen her wear. Kalen couldn’t help but sigh, pleased.
Ilira made him think, oddly, of Fayne—how he wanted to see her smile like that.
Ilira rose and laughed, curtsying to the crowd in an elegant fashion. She smiled and waved, and blew a kiss at the sour-faced silk merchant she’d pointed out earlier, Lord Sandhor. Kalen did little more than stand stiffly and wait for her to return. She did so, bowing to him as was proper.
“What have you lost, Lady?” Kalen asked.
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