Downshadow (24 page)

“Are you well, my lady?” the lordling demanded of Myrin.

“Uh,” Myrin said. She couldn’t think. She didn’t know what to do.

Shoving her under the cracked banquet table, the lordling pointed a wand at his advancing foe and fired a blast of green-white light. The spell struck the man hard like a hammer’s blow, staggering him, but he only smiled and srraightened once more.

“Run, my lady!” the lordling said as he looked at his wand angrily. “Run—”

Then the word became a cry of pain as the rogue ran him through.

Myrin could only stare, horrified, as the man kicked the body off his sword. She knew that the blade would come for her next, but she could only crouch, paralyzed in terror.

The murderer squinted around, as though trying to see her. That didn’t make sense to Myrin, who hadn’t moved. She was sitting right before him, not a pace away, just under the table.

The sword flashed through the air, prodding this way and that as though searching for her. She cringed as far back as she could.

The murderer growled in frustration. He rose and ran back into the melee.

Myrin was puzzled. Why wasn’t she dead? Hadn’t the man seen her sitting before him?

Dazed, Myrin looked around, then crawled across the floor to escape her hiding place. She gasped when she looked down—her

DMA Mill 11 UD MB

hands had changed color to match the stone floor. She held them up in front of her and her skin changed tone and pattern to blend with the room. Myrin panicked and grabbed hold of a nearby crimson drapery to haul herself to her feet—and her body immediately flushed crimson to match the fabric. What was happening to her?

She rubbed at her reddened arms and saw that a trail of blue runes like ivy had crept up the inside of her forearm. She slipped back to the floor and sat, wrapped in the velvet drapery.

She didn’t understand—she couldn’t think. Why had she had so much wine?

Looking around the courtyard, she saw that at least twenty men and women in black cloaks—like the man who had attacked nearby— had appeared in the courtyard, attacking revelers. Chaos swept the courtyard, leaving cries of pain and terror in its wake.

A chill passed over Myrin, as though a door had opened nearby and let in a wave of cold air. She saw her skin shift again, back to its usual tan, and the blue runes faded from her arms. Whatever that chameleon magic had been, it was leaving her.

A face bent down to peer at Myrin. “Excuse me, young mistress.”

Myrin turned where she sat, and a shiver of fear passed through her. “Y-yes?”

The woman was very old, but Myrin wasn’t sure how she knew this. The rounded figure standing before her was rather youthful—even lush, with a heart-shaped face surrounded by vibrant gold curls. Her emerald gown, under a jet black cloak, was perfectly in fashion.

Myrin had the distinct sense the woman wasn’t alive, though that couldn’t be.

“I am Avaereene,” said the woman. “Your jack seems to have abandoned you, and I thought you might be in some distress. May I aid you?”

“Oh, no,” Myrin said. “Kalen’s just gone away for a moment. He’ll be—”

But the stranger was raising her hand. Myrin sensed, too late, the pulse of enchantment within the woman’s arm, which beat with its

own inner heat. Its proximity tickled her senses like the aroma of a steaming platter of hot sweets.

“Sleep,” the woman said, in a language Myrin understood without knowing how.

Darkness swallowed Myrin.

The woman who’d called herself Avaereene lifted the girl fluidly. The young body was light, yet she felt a little dizzy—her power diminished around this girl, somehow. She knew the blue-headed waif had power of some kind, but she didn’t know what it was.

No matter. She had more than enough strength for this purpose.

She tucked the sleeping girl under her cloak and whispered a spell to shroud them. Her cloak dimmed and bent the light, hiding them from view. A fog appeared in the air, shrouding half the courtyard in mist. In a few more moments, the temple would be one great brawl, and she and her followers could slip away.

Her employer would be most pleased.

Kalen swung up onto the balcony, where Cellica hopped down and they cast about for the source of the screams. Kalen heard loud, harsh words from the half-open door to the nearest chamber. He pointed, and Cellica dashed to the door, crossbow up and scanning for a target. He padded after her, thankful she’d made him wear his learhers after all.

What they found in the chamber, neither of them could have expected.

Lorien Dawnbringer lay dying upon the floor near a great golden tub. She choked and sputtered and tried to speak, but only blood came from her throar. Bent over her, cradling her as she bled, was Lady Ilira. She seemed to blend into the shadows of the golden tub, as though she had melted from them just heartbeats before.

“No,” Ilira moaned. “No, no, no!”

Her gloved fingers caressed the priestess’s face. Lorien did not seem

IMII1DUUI1 HDU1D

able to see her, and could only cough, sputter, and finally go still.

Ilira, her face in shock, opened and closed her mouth several times but could not speak. Then she lowered her lips, tentatively, to Lorien’s forehead. She shook as though from strain at the effort. Then, gently, she kissed the priestess’s pale face.

Kalen expected something to happen, though he did not know why. Nothing came to pass but the gentle sound of her kiss.

Then, as if a wave loosed within her, Ilira threw back her head and screamed, loud and long—an elf mourning cry unknown in the lands of men. She bent and kissed Lorien’s face again—kissed ir over and over, washing it with her tears. She cried out in Elvish, but Kalen could not understand. She tore off her gloves and pressed her hands on Lorien’s cheeks as though she’d never touched them before, as though her skin could bring life to death.

All eyes remained on her, but Kalen became aware of someone else in the room. His gaze flicked to the side, where he saw a thick figure in the shadows. It was Rath, pinning a squirming, mostly naked Fayne under his arm. Both of them looked rapt at Ilira’s display.

“Hold and down arms!” Kalen cried. “Waterdhavian Guard!”

“Ka—!” Fayne gasped.

Rath slammed her head against the wall and Fayne slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Ilira was the first to move. Rather, she remained still, but her shadow moved.

Kalen realized, to his horror, that her dark reflection did not match her—it was great and broad, like a hulking warrior. It moved of its own will; though Ilira knelt, still and trembling, her shadow reached toward the dwarf with clawed hands meaning to rend him apart.

Suddenly, Kalen recognized it—from Downshadow, the night he had followed Lorien. The shadow must be bound to protect both women.

Then Ilira was in motion. She screamed a war cry of fury and leaped—not toward Rath, but backward, toward the wall. Kalen watched as she melted into the shadows, then appeared next to the dwarf and tackled him to the floor. Her hands fumbled at his black robes, and the two rolled and bounced across the silk carpets.

“Fayne!” Cellica cried, and she ran to Fayne, who lay unmoving.

Her voice snapped Kalen into motion. He lunged toward Rath and Ilira, daggers wide.

Rath got two feet under Ilira and heaved, sending her flying toward Kalen. He braced himself to catch her, but she twisted in the air, landed lightly on his chest with both feet, and kicked off, turning a somersault and landing on her toes near the dwarf. She lunged at Rath, hissing like a serpent.

Driven backward by the collision, Kalen fell to the floor. He coughed and kicked his legs around, pushing himself to stand. What he saw paralyzed him for a heartbeat.

Ilira’s shadow had fallen upon Rath. It stood like a living man—a giant of a man. Its features were blurry, but Kalen could see torturofis pain etched on its face. With a soundless cry, it tore at the dwarf with its black claws.

Rath eluded its blows, eyes wide. He danced backward and around the room, running around the tub and leaping over divans and dressers. The shadow pursued, relentless in its assault. Rath ran up a wall, kicked off, and dropped behind it, right hand across his belt on his sword. The creature turned—or rather, turned itself inside-out—and grimaced at Rath out of its back-turned-front. The dwarf began to draw steel.

“Elie en!” Ilira screamed, and she pounced on him like a cat. Her bare hand grasped his wrist, holding his sword in place.

Flesh sizzled and the dwarf screamed. Kalen smelled it before he saw the smoke rising from Rath’s wrist. His flesh burned under Ilira’s touch as though by incredible heat. Great red welts appeared and blood dripped to the floor. Bubbles of skin collapsed into blackening burns.

A spellscar, Kalen realized—Ilira’s power was to unmake flesh at a touch. That explained his burned fingers, her dress and gloves, the way she recoiled from contact. Never would he have suspected it of such a lady—so fair, yet so monstrous as well.

Kalen understood, in a flash, what had happened with Lorien—why Ilira had cried out after she had touched the priestess. Lorien’s flesh had not burned at her touch because the priestess was dead. Only the living suffered the burns. Like Rath.

The dwarf struggled to escape, but the hand he laid on her forearm scalded in the same fashion, and he cried out in pain. His eyes were filled with horror and his voice turned to a squeal.

“Elie en, ilythiri” Ilira said, her words soft and cold. She leaned in to kiss him.

The dwarf flinched, Kalen saw, sparing his lips. Ilira’s kiss fell instead on his unprotected cheek, and the smoke of burning flesh wafted around their faces. Rath cried out and beat at Ilira, trying to break her hold, tearing her black gown. The elf hung on, clinging to him with her arms and legs like a spider as he burned under her touch and shrieked.

“What’s she doing?” Cellica screamed. She cradled the unconscious Fayne and pointed her crossbow at the duel but did not fire, unable to sight a clear target.

Kalen shivered to warch Ilira’s attack. Even the shadow seemed to pause in its fury, standing back to let her kiss the dwarf with her burning lips. The creature recoiled, seeming to cower as though ashamed. Rath cried out over and over, wordless.

“Hold!” Kalen cried, but to no avail. He knew the fury on Ilira’s face. This was not a woman who would stop until she killed or was killed herself.

He ran at the pair, daggers held low and wide, and the shadow lunged into his path. He cut at the creature, but as he expected, his knives passed through the black stuff of its body as though through heavy mist, causing no injury. Mortal steel could hardly touch a creature from beyond their world. If only he still had his paladin’s powers, he could harm it.

The beast lashed out with its claws, and Kalen knew better than to parry. He danced aside, weaving, trying to get around the creature rather than through it. It was huge and powerful, but as Kalen guessed, not fast or nimble. He could dodge its strikes as long as he stayed fast and low. Cowardly, perhaps, but it kept him alive.

Fight like a paladin, he thought. Prove to the threefold god that you are worthy. Have faith that your strikes will harm it, and they will.

But growing up in the cesspool of Luskan, Kalen had never trusted to faith. The center of his being was wrought of cold practicality, hardened by a thousand strikes and hard blows. Thanking the gods again he had worn his leathers rather than his Guard arms, he moved in the tight, efficient dance of elusion and avoidance that had marked his days as a thief.

Yet he couldn’t get past the shadow. It was too strong a guardian—a perfect mate to its mistress, this elf noble with her hidden scars. He pulled back to face it levelly, and held up his daggers to ward it back. The creature ceased its attack and stared at him, and he had the distinct sense that he was gazing at a guardian just as devoted as he.

He hefted a knife to throw. He thought it might pass through the shadow and strike Ilira, distracting her from Rath. He hated the dwarf, but he needed to stop this. Ť

Then Ilira groaned as the dwarf punched her solidly on the ear—at the same instant, the man-shaped shadow drew back as though struck.

The elf reeled away and Rath rose, his half-blackened face dripping blood. He touched it and winced. His bare hand came away bloody and sticky.

With anger that was the stuff of nightmares written on his face, the dwarf reached down with his unburned hand and pulled his sword free. The blade glittered with its perfect, keen edge.

Kalen had seen such blades on the Dragon Coast, among tradesmen from the east. Katanas, they were often called—light, efficient, and delicate.

Rath crouched to lunge at the shuddering woman. His grimace calmed a little as he focused himself into the blade. Then he leaped.

Kalen darted in front of him, daggers crossed, and caught the sword high.

The slender sword shrieked against his crossed steel, and Kalen thought for one terrible heartbeat that it would shear through them and into his chest. But the steel held, and Rath pressed only another instant—face wrought in agony and rage—before he pulled the sword back, dropped low, and kicked Kalen’s legs out from under him. Kalen fell back, colliding heavily with Ilira and falling in a tangled heap. Flesh burned—Kalen’s own—but he could not stand. He looked up, saw Rath’s sword, and knew he could not block.

A crossbow bolt streaked toward Rath and he swept his blade up to slap it aside.

CeUica.’Kalen saw the halfling near the door, standing protectively over Fayne, who was coughing her way back to awareness. The shot had startled them all—broken the rhythm of the battle. Cellica glared at Rath banefully and reloaded her small crossbow.

Eyes wild with horror, the dwarf touched a trembling hand to his face and moaned. Not bothering to sheathe his sword, he leaped through the open window.

Kalen grasped Ilira to pull her away, but the bare flesh through her ruined gown burned his fingers. It felt distant, that burning, but still powerful—he felt the death inside her.

Ilira moaned and struggled. “No!” she cried. “You’re letting him escape!”