Mistress of the Night

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “Mantle it is!” Keph replied.

  He planted his feet and hauled Talisk around so they all turned a corner toward a staircase that led to the highest level of the Stiltways.

  Just coming down the staircase were Lyraene and her friends.

  She hadn’t seen them.

  An idea burst into Keph’s head. He leaped back, dragging Talisk and Starne with him. Baret only barely managed to jump away from the tangle of cursing bodies.

  “Dark!” he spat. “What are you doing, Keph?”

  Keph pulled himself free. “There’s going to be a half-elf woman coming around the corner in a moment,” he hissed. “You three scatter, but follow my lead.” He clenched his fist. “I want to give Shar proper homage on the night of my initiation.”

  The three man glanced at each other then ducked away. Keph ground his teeth together and stepped around the corner.

  Lyraene was only steps away. Her hand darted to her sword at his sudden appearance—and stayed there when she recognized him.

  “Keph!” she snarled.

  “Did you miss me, Lyraene?” Keph asked. He kept his hand close to Quick, but not on her hilt. Lyraene’s friends had their eyes on him, but the half-elf’s gaze was darting around suspiciously. “Looking for Jarull?” he asked her. “Don’t waste your time. He isn’t here.”

  “That’s what I thought last time,” she grunted. She focused on him again. “We’ve got unfinished business.”

  “Just what I was thinking.” He flicked the fingers of his left hand, gesturing her to him. “You and me. You know about Quick. I know about your tricks. What do you think—a duel?”

  He could tell that she was considering it, trying to guess if he was hiding something.

  “Bring your friends if you’re worried,” he suggested.

  There were four of them—two men and two women. Talisk, Baret, and Starne would be able to handle them if they tried anything.

  Lyraene’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded and said, “Where?”

  “Fanter’s swaybridge,” Keph said.

  Her eyes narrowed even more, but then relaxed. “Now?”

  Keph spread his arms wide and said, “There’s no better time.”

  He spun around, boldly presenting his back to her, and started walking.

  Fanter’s was a tailor shop out near the edge of the Stiltways and up on the fourth level, a quiet and respectable area. Relatively few people went that way after dark. The swaybridge was a railed platform suspended from beams above and tied off to walkways at either end. No strangers would interrupt them and no allies could interfere without being spotted on the empty bridge. If either of them tried to run, there would be no escape in two directions. It was a long way down to the street from the sides of the bridge. Fanter’s had also spent good coin having spells of light cast on the posts of the bridge—they burned with a cold, eternal flame. Keph and Lyraene would have good lighting for their fight, but anyone watching would be blind to whatever happened in the deeper shadows around them.

  As Keph stepped onto the swaybridge, Baret peered out quickly from a hiding spot near its far end. His hand flashed in the flickering, magical firelight—two fingers, pointing back the way Keph had come. Talisk and Starne would be hiding behind Lyraene and her friends. Keph gave no reaction, but just walked out to the middle of the bridge and turned. A moment later, Lyraene stepped onto the bridge as well.

  A warm wind blowing through the canyon of the Stiltways stirred her blond hair. She drew her sword.

  “Since you have a magic sword,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind if I even the odds a little.”

  She spoke a word and gestured with one hand. With her other, she stabbed the rapier up into the air. A pure, ringing note shimmered in the night as she cast the spell. The metal of the sword seemed to ripple faintly.

  Keph smiled. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? Don’t use up all your magic, though. You may need some later.” He drew Quick and said, “Storm’s lash!”

  Lightning crackled up the blade and quickly subsided. Lyraene snorted as she walked out to meet him.

  “I could just knock that out of your hand again,” she said.

  “You can try.”

  He held Quick up in a salute. Lyraene returned the gesture—then lunged.

  Keph had been expecting it. He dodged back, then flicked Quick in a fast cut across her torso. Lyraene arched away from it, but only barely, and smacked her back against the railings of the bridge. The platform shook with the impact, but swayed no more than a couple of inches. The ties at the ends held it firmly. Lyraene rolled off the railings, turning to meet him again. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Nice try,” she spat.

  She swung her sword. He parried.

  Their weapons met with a shriek. Blue sparks spat off of Quick’s blade. The magic in the rapier guided his hand as he pushed Lyraene’s sword to the side and tried to thrust inside her guard while she was out of line. The half-elf was faster though. Her sword came back up and caught Quick. Brushing the rapier aside, Lyraene thrust at him.

  Keph gave ground and surged back. Lyraene thrust and retreated. With each blow and step, the swaybridge shimmied.

  When Lyraene turned to avoid a blow, he slid past her and threw an elbow into her stomach, then sprinted for the end of the bridge. Lyraene’s cronies shouted in surprise and derision.

  If they thought he was giving up the fight, they were going to be disappointed. At the end of the bridge, he reached down and slashed Quick at the thick ropes tying off the platform. Lightning crackled with the blow. The ropes parted.

  The end of the bridge swung free.

  Keph whirled back to Lyraene. She was clutching the rail with her free hand but the shock on her face was already fading into an angry growl.

  “I hope your balance is as good as you think it is!” she yelled.

  Lyraene let go of the rail and charged straight along the swaying bridge.

  Keph met her with a charge of his own, catching her blow on Quick. Sparks showered down on them. Keph leaned against Lyraene, trying to force her back, but she was stronger than she looked. She heaved up, forcing their locked weapons away and bringing their bodies closer together. For a moment, Keph could feel her breath on his face.

  Her weight shifted as she raised a foot to kick him or stomp on his leg.

  Keph stopped straining against her and folded backward, twisting with her weight as he fell. Lyraene gasped and stumbled, falling past him to hit the wood of the platform. She squirmed around, trying to raise her sword above herself in defense, but as soon as she let him go Keph was sprinting again—to the other end of the bridge.

  He swung Quick and lightning crackled again. The stink of burning rope puffed into the night wind. The whole bridge shook and swung.

  “You crazy bastard!” yelled Lyraene.

  Keph spun around. The half-elf was kneeling. She thrust her free hand at him and shouted a word of magic.

  A shimmering bolt streaked from her hand. Out of instinct, he raised Quick, but it was no good. Magic blasted through his body and left him gasping and staggering. His free hand found a rail and he grabbed it for support. Bright spots of pain danced in his vision. He could see Lyraene, though. She was up stalking toward him, sword out and ready.

  Throwing his arm around the rail, he flung the weight of his body backward.

  Ropes creaked and groaned as the platform swung forward. Lyraene stumbled with the motion—then staggered and fell as the end of the bridge slammed hard against the walkway that had once anchored it. Her sword flew out of her grasp and slid across the wood.

  Keph stepped forward and stopped it with his foot. He scooped it up and advanced slowly on Lyraene. She lifted her head, blond hair falling down around her face, to stare at him.

  “Get up,” he ordered her.

  The half-elf rose cautiously. With Quick hovering at the ready, Keph held her sword out to her.

  “Take that,” he said, “and cast the cantrip
you used at the Mantle on it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. At the end of the bridge, her cronies began making nasty sounds.

  “Don’t try anything or she doesn’t get a second chance!” Keph yelled at them. He twitched the sword. “Cast the cantrip!”

  Lyraene reached out and took it. She kept her eyes on him as she spoke the spell and wiped her fingers along the blade, leaving pale light behind. Keph raised Quick to her. She lifted her glowing sword—and Keph swung Quick down hard and fast. Sparks flew and metal screeched.

  The blow slapped Lyraene’s sword out of her hand. Keph drew Quick back, then jabbed out with delicate precision. Lightning crackled and Lyraene staggered against the rail, gasping as she clutched at the neat, smoldering puncture in her left hip.

  Lyraene’s cronies were shouting again, but their shouts soon turned to cries of alarm. Out of the corner of his eye, Keph could see Talisk and Starne menacing them with slashes of their own swords. Bracing himself against the swaying of the bridge, Keph raised Quick once more.

  “Remember that cantrip!” he screamed. “It’s going to be the last spell you ever cast!”

  He thrust Quick down into Lyraene’s right arm—and held it there, the rapier piercing the flesh of her forearm and grating along the bone. Lyraene’s shrieks almost drowned out the snap of lightning as it lashed through her. Her muscles twisted as they burned, warping her hand and wrist into a dreadful claw. Keph wrenched Quick free. Lyraene fell to the floor of the platform, twitching and screeching. Keph planted a foot on her shoulder to hold her still and took aim at her left arm.

  “Halt!”

  The command rolled over and through him like thunder, locking his arm and stopping his blow. Keph gasped and looked up.

  A man in fine clothing was racing along the walkway toward the other end of the swaying bridge. In his hand he held a long, delicate sword that burned with cold white light. The magical illumination shimmered on his silvery-white hair and on the silver medallion he wore around his neck. Baret leaped out to confront him, but the man barely paused in his pace. His free hand thrust out, fingers spread wide.

  “In Selûne’s name, I bid you go from this place!”

  To Keph’s eyes, the man seemed to shimmer with power. He could only guess what Baret saw. The cultist shrieked louder than Lyraene, turned on his heels, and fled in terror.

  A priest of Selûne! Keph cursed.

  The silver-haired man’s command was already fading and he could move again. He stumbled away from Lyraene, twitching Quick to point at the priest as the man paused before the end of the swaying bridge. Keph risked a fast glance over his shoulder. Lyraene’s cronies had regained some of their bravado while Starne and Talisk were retreating, glancing uneasily between cronies and priest.

  Keph whirled and fled toward them, vaulting from bridge to walkway with a hoarse shout. He crashed into two of Lyraene’s friends, sending them sprawling, then scrambled to his feet. As the other two spun around in surprise, Starne and Talisk turned and fled. Keph sprinted after them, lashing Quick at the cronies to drive them back.

  There were stairs down to the depths of the Stiltways nearby. They raced down them and down the next set, too. Only when they were two levels and a full street away from the vengeful priest did they stop.

  “Dark,” panted Talisk. “What happened? Where did he come from?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Keph replied. He held up Quick. Lyraene’s blood was still smoking on the metal. He kissed the blade. “Hail Shar, Mistress of the Night,” he murmured, his voice thick with rapture. “Thank you.”

  The old woman seated alone at a table for two pressed her hands to her cheeks as Mifano crossed the terrace of the Sky’s Mantle.

  “My dear,” she gasped, “I was angry that you were so late, but I see that you must have reason!” She reached out and touched his doublet. “Is that blood?”

  “Not mine, madam.”

  He sat down wearily and reached across the table for the decanter of wine. It was almost half empty and he gave the old woman a disapproving look.

  “You are very late, Mifano,” she said.

  He shook his head and poured wine into a goblet.

  “I was late when I left Moonshadow Hall,” he explained, “and a good thing, too—I took a shortcut and ended up interrupting a duel.” He gulped wine and shook his head again. “No,” he corrected himself, “not a duel. Something closer to torture. I was able to offer the victim healing and she may recover the use of her arm.”

  “My poor, silver-haired dear!” The woman reached out and wrapped her fingers around his free hand. “You’re a hero!”

  “It was nothing more than my duty,” he said, but smiled anyway and set the wineglass down. “And a terrible duty it is to keep me a moment longer than necessary from the company of the charming Lady Monstaed!” He raised her hands and kissed them, then smiled again. “And I must compliment you again on your fine new ring. So many other women of your station disdain amethyst as gaudy, but you wear it so well.”

  “Oh, you tremendous flirt,” laughed Variance. She smiled with wrinkled lips. “But tell me, what kept you at Moonshadow Hall? What has been happening there since we spoke last?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Feena leaned forward into the breeze that blew through the carriage window. Julith clicked her tongue in gentle disapproval, and Feena grimaced and sat back, swaying slightly with the carriage’s motion.

  “A high priestess isn’t allowed fresh air?” Feena muttered under her breath.

  “A high priestess can have fresh air,” Julith replied, “but she should try not to mess up her hair.”

  Feena wrinkled her nose and asked, “How much longer?”

  Julith peered out the window herself, but Feena noticed that she was careful to avoid the breeze.

  “We’re almost there,” the dark-haired priestess said. “Now remember: watered wine only and drink it sparingly. Merchants and most nobles will bow to you, but you bow only to the Nessarch of Yhaunn, if we encounter him. Treat clergy as equals, whatever their faith or station. Only sit down to converse with someone who’s already seated. Stick to minor topics. That’s safest. If you really need to start a conversation with a scholar or a mage, ask about their research but be careful—they can usually talk for hours. You don’t need to discuss city politics or temple policy. This isn’t that kind of—”

  “I’m not going to remember all of this.”

  Julith squeezed her hand and said, “You’ll do fine, Feena. Don’t worry. If there’s anything you need to know, I’ll be right beside you.”

  “I’d rather you were right in front of me,” Feena grumbled.

  It was only half a jest. Her stomach was knotted. Julith had permitted her only a very light dinner that night, and Feena was grateful for that.

  The carriage turned and its rattling progress slowed then stopped. Bright lights shone through the windows. Julith took a deep breath as footmen scurried outside.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “No,” Feena grunted, “but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

  The carriage door opened. Feena rose into an uncomfortable crouch, then stepped out as Julith had taught her—head and shoulders first, arm extended to take the hand of a waiting footman, then feet, down to the stepstool placed for her convenience, unfolding gracefully as she cleared the door.

  She managed it all without tripping on her shoes or her dress.

  “Well done,” murmured Julith from behind her as she stepped down from the carriage herself. “Let’s keep going.”

  Feena nodded and moved forward.

  Small steps, she reminded herself. No need for long strides.

  The white walls of the mansion of Ammanas Aumleagarr, patron of Yhaunn’s arts and host of the city’s most lavish parties, loomed above them. Tall lanterns of glass and bronze lit the great entrance arch; within it, smaller lanterns marked a path up a broad flight of stairs. The sounds of talk, laughter, and music floated down from a
bove. Other guests to Ammanas’s party were drifting up the stairs as well. For a moment, Feena felt crushed, hemmed in like a sheep in a pen, even though she could have swung her arms wide without so much as touching anyone. She froze.

  Julith took her arm and drew her gently onward.

  As the stairs rose into the open again, she spoke to another footman. The servant cleared his voice and announced, “Moonmistress-Designate Feena Archwood and High Initiate Priestess Julith Harkspur of Moonshadow Hall!”

  Feena climbed the last few steps and the night opened up around her. Below the perfect, delicate bow of Selûne’s waning crescent, more lanterns shone on the raised flower beds and tiled paths of a garden terrace. Along the paths and among the beds strolled the wealthy and powerful of Yhaunn, the crystalline music of flutes and harps mingling with the buzz of their conversations. A few men and women, those closest to the stairs, looked up idly at the footman’s announcement—then looked again as they caught sight of Feena.

  She could understand their awe. When she first looked in a mirror after Julith had finished dressing her, she’d hardly been able to recognize her own reflection.

  Gone were the frilly blue dresses with layered crinolines that Dhauna Myritar favored and that Velsinore had insisted on squeezing Feena into. Julith had summoned a proper dressmaker to Moonshadow Hall. Feena wore a slim gown of moon-pale white silk with silver embroidery traced along the hem and across the bodice. Long, tapered sleeves covered her arms and ended in pointed, silver-trimmed cuffs that extended across the backs of her hands. The high, starched lace collars that scratched her neck were gone as well, replaced with a light stole that draped softly across her shoulders. Instead of ridiculous slippers, she wore solid shoes of tooled white leather with heels that lent her an imposingly noble height. Julith had brushed her hair until it shone, then dipped deep into the neglected recesses of Moonshadow Hall’s regalia chests. The moon’s road tiara and the silver circlets with their heavy representations of Selûne’s phases had remained at the temple. Instead, Feena’s flaming hair was caught back with a web of silver filigree from which a crescent-carved opal hung over the center of her forehead.