Araezra waved. “When all the panic started, Shadowbane appeared and picked up Cellica, of all folk, and leaped up—” She trailed off.
“We’re sorry,” Talanna said. “That’s why we’ve come—because of Cellica.” Kalen opened his mouth, but she continued. “Of course we heard. Her family was just concerned about you, Kalen. They sent word to the Watch, and we requested to go along for the task.”
“So, now,” Kalen said. “You’ve come to arrest me?”
Talanna laughed.
Araezra didn’t look so amused. “Aye, or so the ten Watchmen below think,” Araezra said. “You’re a dangerous vigilante, Kalen. We came up alone to talk to you, and they’re under orders to follow if either of us shouts. But since we know you and love you well, we came to see if you would come peaceably.”
“What happens now?” Kalen looked at the dagger stuck in the floor. He was fast, he knew—could he knock Talanna to the floor before she could put two daggers in him?
“We arrest you,” Araezra said. Then she shrugged. “On the morrow.”
Kalen blinked. “What?”
“Assuming, of course, you’re still in the city,” Talanna said. “But why would you leave? Waterdeep is the city of splendors—everything you could ever want is here, aye?”
Araezra shifted her boots.
“We worked out a wonderful tale,” Talanna said. “We found you, agony-stricken, inconsolable. Plying that indefinable charm of yours, you lulled Rayse and I—”
“Mostly her,” Araezra noted.
“—into lowering our guard,” Talanna continued. “Then you sprang from the window and fled!” She grinned. “Naturally, the story will vary around the Watch for months, and I expect you’ll have charmed us both into bed and escaped while we were searching for our trousers, but nevertheless!” She sighed grandly. “Ah, such is the legend of Kalen Dren!”
Araezra groaned.
Talanna sheathed her daggers and stepped toward Kalen. “Here,” she said. “Take this.” In her hand was her golden ring of carved feathers. “I’ve had my fill of high places.”
“It was a gift,” Kalen said. “Won’t Lord Neverember be offended?”
“He can always buy me another.” Talanna shrugged. “I owe you a debt for saving me.”
It was pointless to argue. Kalen did not don the ring, but laced it into the sleeve over his bare hand, so he could use it at a heartbeat’s notice.
“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I love you both well, and I never meant to hurt you.” He looked especially at Araezra. “I mean … hurt the Guard.”
Talanna laughed. “Surely you jest! Your exile from the city will be the cheeriest bit of news the Guard’s had in ages.” She winked at Araezra. “It means some certain lass has become free game once again.”
Red in the face, Araezra looked ready to strangle Talanna.
“What are you talking about?” Kalen asked.
“Are you that dull?” Talanna asked. “For months, Rayse has been free of suitors because everyone thought that you two—”
Araezra’s cheeks were burning. “Shouldn’t you be going, Kalen?”
He smiled weakly then said, “I have aught to do, first.”
“Does this have to do with Cellica?” Araezra asked gently. “If so, let the Watch—”
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry—I can’t tell you. I must do it alone.”
Araezra sighed. “You always seem to have to be alone,” she whispered.
Kalen donned his helm once more and secured it in place. “Araezra—I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Araezra said. “Just—one thing.”
He turned toward her, thankful for the helm that hid his anxious expression. “Aye?”
“In the Room of Records,” she said. “When Rath was holding me prisoner, and you came in. You … you did what you did, broke your vow, to protect me, didn’t you?”
Kalen didn’t trust his tongue, so he just nodded.
She stepped forward, snaked her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his cold, shining helm. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He smiled inside his steel mask.
Then she slapped him lightly, causing his helmet to vibrate and his ears to ring. “I don’t need you making decisions about what is best for me,” Araezra said. “I can make those myself.”
“Yes, Araezra.”
“Rayse,” she corrected.
Talanna rolled her eyes. “No wonder you two didn’t last.”
Araezra reversed Vindicator and handed it to him. As she did, her hand lingered on his. She gazed into his eyes, and he into hers. He knew she wanted to say much, but both of them knew she could not say it.
“I will miss you, Vigilant Dren,” she finally said.
“And I you,” he said, “Rayse.”
She smiled widely, as though he’d paid her the finest compliment in Waterdeep.
“Now, go do what you must,” she said. She straightened and her face turned stony. “Farewell, and remember—begone by the morrow. You have one day.”
Talanna winked at him. “One day,” she repeated. “Then I get to chase you down.”
Kalen nodded, turned, and leaped out the window. He hit the roof of the building across the alley, rolled to his feet, and broke into a run.
He would need only one night.
THIRTY-FOUR
Rath meditated, waiting for nightfall.
Fayne had sworn Shadowbane would get the note, and that he would be punctual. The woman had subsequently fled—while Rath had gone in search of food for them—but no matter. The human was the more important, and Fayne’s absence meant one less distraction.
He’d drunk three bottles of brandy the night of the revel, when the elf woman had scarred him. He’d paid for all the healing he could afford, but the marks were still there. He’d drunk until he couldn’t see them in the mirror anymore. And he’d paid for whores who wouldn’t wince to see his face. The next morning, his employer had come upon him as he lay aching from liquor and burns and women.
Now, he would wait for the next move in this game. And he would be sober.
He breathed in and out, in time with the ticking. He’d listened to the clock for a long while—it helped him to focus and align his breathing with the world around him. It was off, he thought, but only slightly. Craftsmen would be required to fix the clock soon—on the morrow, perhaps. After this business was concluded.
The girl fidgeted again, distracting him.
He’d brought her food. He’d even ungagged her long enough to pour soup down her throat—slowly, so as not to choke her. He hadn’t unbound her wrists—no need. He’d helped with her toilet so that he didn’t have to untie her. She’d nearly died of embarrassment, but he’d just stared at her with the same bored expression until she yielded. There was nothing erotic about it.
Even as he meditated, he was aware of her staring at the back of his head. What a curious creature. At least her fear kept her quiescent enough.
Finally, when he found his thoughts settling too much on her, he opened his eyes and turned his head. She quickly looked away, but he knew she’d been staring at him.
He sighed. Feeling the lightness in his ready joints, he rose and crossed to her. “I will not harm you, girl,” he said. “I have not been paid to slay you. If you are hurt, it will be accidental and as a consequence of your own actions.” He frowned. “Understand?”
She nodded. From the way she flinched when he turned his head toward her, he could tell the mangled half of his face frightened her. That brought a twinge of anger, but he suppressed it.
“I will remove this,” Rath said, touching the gag in her mouth. “But you must promise you will not scream or attempt any magic. There will be consequences. Yes?”
She nodded, and her eyes looked wet.
The dwarf sighed, then pulled the gag out of her mouth. She gasped and coughed but made no loud sounds. This was good.
She looked at him, lip trembling. “What—w
hat are you going to do with me?”
Rath frowned. “Just hold you here for a time. Nothing more.”
“Are you—are you going to …?” Myrin trembled and edged a little away.
“Humans.” Rath rolled his eyes. “I would swear by any god you could name that you are the most despicable, insecure, bastard blood in the world, but I know the ways of my own kind and find them worse.” He shrugged. “You have no dishonor to fear from me.”
“Why not—” Myrin swallowed hard. “Why not unbind me? Am I a threat to you?”
“No,” he said, perhaps faster than he should have.
She pursed her lips. “You fear me?”
“I fear nothing,” Rath said. “I have nothing to fear from you.”
“Prove it.” Myrin puffed herself up as big as she could in her frail body. “Unbind my hands. If you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Hmm.” Rath couldn’t argue with her logic. “Why do you want them unbound? You cannot escape.”
“Uh.” Her eyes widened. “My wrists hurt.”
Rath said nothing, only reached around to do as she asked. She hadn’t lied: the ropes had left red welts on her wrists. He pulled away and let her rub her skin.
“There,” said Rath. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” Myrin brought a wand of pale wood from behind her back and thrust it under his chint. Rath felt sparks hissing out of it. “Hmm,” the dwarf said.
Myrin stared at him, her eyes very wide. She breathed heavily.
“You should do it,” Rath said. “I have slain many—men and women both. And children.”
Myrin breathed harder and harder. Rath could feel her heart racing, see the blood thudding through her veins on her forehead.
“Do it,” Rath teased.
The girl inhaled sharply.
Then he slapped the wand away and swatted her head at the temple with his open hand, as one might stun a rabbit. She collapsed to the floor limply. Lightning crackled and died.
“Wizards,” he murmured, rolling his eyes.
THIRTY-FIVE
On nights when Selûne hid behind a veil of angry clouds, the streets of Waterdeep became much like those of Downshadow below. Moon shadows deepened and buildings loomed. Even the drunk and foolish had the sense to lock their doors against unseen frights. Few but the dead walked such nights. Even Castle Ward, protected by the Watch and the Blackstaff, was risky after dark—particularly on a night like this.
But Waterdeep’s darkest nights knew something Downshadow never could: rain.
Water cut against Kalen’s cloak like a thousand tiny arrows. Every drop was a command to reverse his course—every one a despairing word. His body told him to lie down and die. The spellplague was taking him, he knew.
Kalen took the crumpled note out of his pocket and read it again.
This was surely a trap, he thought, but he had no choice.
In particular, he thought of Myrin. Fayne could care for herself, certainly, but Kalen could not abandon Myrin. Powerful as she might be, she was still a lost, confused girl. And if her powers overcame her control, no one could predict what destruction might follow. He’d barely stopped her that night after the ball.
And Rath had to answer for Cellica’s murder—he would see to that.
Kalen knew that even if he failed, Talanna and Araezra would hunt down the dwarf, but that gave him little comfort. The Guard could do little more than avenge him, and vengeance would mean little to his corpse and less still to Myrin and Fayne, if Rath killed them.
No, he would go, no matter the obstacles—no matter the rot inside him. He would not fail. One last duel—that was all he needed. Just this one last fight.
He opened his helmet and vomited into the gutter. Passersby hurried along.
He staggered down the alley near the Blushing Nymph festhall, which led to a tunnel into Downshadow near the Grim Statue and whispered under his breath.
“I will make an emptiness of myself,” Kalen murmured against the rising bile in his throat. “A blackness where there is no pain—where there is only me.”
He shuffled past rain-slicked leaves and unrecognizable refuse. His head beat and his lungs felt waterlogged. The fronts of his thighs were numb—he felt as though he wore heavy pads beneath his leathers. If he hadn’t worn such heavy boots against the rain, he’d have thought his toes frostbitten. His hands were steady, but that was scant comfort. Dead flesh was steady. His stomach roiled.
“A blackness where there is only me,” he said again.
He repeated the phrase until the aches subsided. They did not leave him—not fully—but they faded. He would not recover, he knew. Not if he did this.
“Every man dies in his time,” he murmured. “If tonight is my time, so be it.”
His hands felt dead as he wedged his fingers under the lip of a metal plate, uncovered beneath the alley’s debris. The reek did not offend him, for he could hardly smell it. The trap door had been used that night, he knew—it was loose. It awaited Downshadowers who prowled the rainy streets, and would for hours hence. Creatures of shadow risen from below. What was he, but a shadow come from above?
A shudder, worse than ever before, ripped through him, and he curled over, hacking and coughing. He wedged his helm open and spat blood and bile onto the metal door. It dripped onto the cobblestones and swirled with the rain.
When the fit passed—he had half expected it would not—Kalen righted himself and gazed at the rusty ladder that led into the shadows beneath the city.
“Eye of Justice,” he prayed. He didn’t beg. “Be patient. I am coming soon.”
He wiped his mouth and began to climb down.
Downshadow felt surprisingly empty that night. Its inhabitants saw night in the world above as their due, when they could dance or duel at whim, love or murder at their leisure. Those with eyes sensitive to light could walk freely in the streets, and a heavy rain or a mist off the western sea would hide their deeds, be they black or gray.
No space was emptier on such nights than the plaza around the Grim Statue: a great stone monolith of a man on a high pedestal, his head missing and his hands little more than stubs of stone. Tingling menace surrounded the figure, filling the chamber with quiet dread. A careful onlooker would see tiny lightnings crackling around its hands at odd moments.
Kalen knew the legend that this had been an independent and enclosed chamber designed as a magical trap. However, the eruption of the Weave during the Spellplague—as story would have it—caused the statue to loose blasts of lightning in a circle continuously for years. The walls had been pulverized under the onslaught, making the twenty-foot statue the center of a rough plaza.
Eventually, the lightning had subsided as the statue was drained of its magic. In recent years, lightning flashed from the statue only occasionally. The surviving walls, a hundred feet distant from the statue, marked the danger zone of the statue’s destruction. The ramshackle huts and tents of Downshadow extended only to that limit, and most of those were abandoned. Only a fool or a fatalist would live so close to unpredictable death.
A favored game among Downshadow braves was to approach the statue as closely as possible, taking cover behind chunks of stone, to see where their courage would fail them.
Kalen stood at the edge of the round plaza, scanning the neighboring hollows and warrens for any sign of his foe. He saw little movement in the dead plaza, but for a pair of figures that stalked through one of the broken passages nearby.
Then he saw Rath step into the open from behind the remains of a blasted column twenty paces distant. His hands were empty, his face calm and emotionless. He wore his sword on his right hip, as Kalen had hoped he might. The dwarf’s right hand was wrapped thickly in linen.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” said the dwarf. “That her note wouldn’t bring you.”
“You were wrong.” Kalen put his hand on the hilt of Vindicator but did not draw. He knew the tricks of the Grim Statue—knew how its lightning could be
random, but it almost always triggered in the presence of active magic. If he drew his Helm-blessed sword …
“I am pleased,” the dwarf said. He made no move to draw.
Kalen saw that Rath’s face, while not as horrible as on the night of the revel, still showed evidence of burn scars across its right side. His left side was unchanged, and Kalen could tell from his stance that he coddled the burned side. Proud of his looks, Kalen thought. He would remember that. If he could find a way to make the dwarf emotional, it could be an advantage.
“Agree to let them go if you kill me,” Kalen said. “They mean nothing to you.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Rath’s scarred face. Then he shrugged. “What is this if?”
“Agree,” Kalen said.
Rath shrugged. “No,” he said. “Your little blue-headed stripling has another use to me.”
Kalen didn’t like that reply, but it wasn’t a surprise. He shivered to think of the possibilities.
“What will you do next, dwarf, after I am dead?” Kalen had approached within ten paces, and the two of them began to circle. “Do you have other vengeance to take?”
Rath sniffed. “I kill for coin—vengeance means little,” he said. “But I do know of hatred.” He smiled, an expression made unpleasant by his ruined face. “Two guardsmen. Araezra Hondryl and Kalen Dren—they will die as well.”
Kalen smiled, reached up, and pulled off his helmet, showing the dwarf his face.
Rath’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. His hands trembled for only a moment. He was realizing, Kalen thought with no small pleasure, how deeply and completely he’d been fooled.
“Well,” the dwarf said. “I suppose I need slay only one other after you.”
Kalen smiled and put his helm back in place. He circled Rath slowly, keeping his hand on Vindicator’s hilt and one eye on the statue.
“You should draw your sword this time.”
“If you prove worthy of it,” said Rath. “This time.”
Kalen was so intent on letting the dwarf strike first that when Rath finally moved, it almost caught him off guard. One moment, Rath was circling him peaceably, and the next he was lunging, low and fast and left, where Vindicator was sheathed. Only reflexes and instincts built up over long years on mean streets sent Kalen leaping back and around, sword sliding free of its scabbard to ward Rath away. Vindicator’s fierce silver glow bathed them in bright light, making both squint.
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