Downshadow (25 page)

Kalen tried to respond but she slammed a knee into his belly and he slumped to the floor, gasping.

Ilira glared at her shadow, and the crearure nodded. Ilira said nothing, only closed her fists tightly. As though in response, rhe creature melted into the floor and swirled around her feet, joining with her. She srood, panting and heaving, half naked in her torn gown. Blood—Lorien’s and Rarh’s both, Kalen realized—dripped from her hands.

She glared down at Kalen with a fury and a hate that only an elf—with untold ages stretching behind her and ahead—could know. He crawled backward on the floor, inching away from a lioness that could pounce at any instant. She knelt, meeting Kalen eye to eye, considering.

Two Watchmen burst through the door, swords drawn. “Hold!” they cried. “Down arms!”

The swords pointed first to him, as the man with steel, then at Ilira. Kalen thrust a warding hand toward Cellica, and she cradled Fayne against the wall, hiding her. He opened his hands, daggers hooked between palm and thumb. He rose slowly, trying not to provoke Ilira.

“Hold and talk truth!” cried one Watchman. “What happened here?” His gaze roved to the corpse of the priestess, then to Ilira, kneeling with bloody hands and wrists. “Merciful gods!”

The elf turned baleful eyes toward rhem and they winced.

“Hold!” the armored man said. “Down arms! Down … hands!”

Uncaring, Ilira rose and started toward the window, but Kalen moved to block her.

“Stay, Lady,” Kalen said. “None of us are certain what happened here.”

“Calm yourself,” Cellica said with her suggestive voice. Turning against her will, Ilira raised her hands to her ears, her face contorred. “Stay calm, Lady—calm …”

With a roar, Ilira threw her hands out wide. “Enough!” She gave Kalen a sharp glare, and words died on his tongue as though her will had struck him a solid blow. Her eyes glowed gold-yellow from within

the shadows that enwrapped her like mist. Darkness roiled in her—a cruel, terrible darkness.

,ť Her shadow did not follow her movements. While she stood calmly, it thrashed and clawed on the floor, as though in agony.

Then she laughed—half crazed, half terrified. The mocking cackle—perfect and terrible as the voice of a singer drowning in madness—chilled him to the bone. “You want to pierce me, is that it?” the elf asked, her words wry. She glared at the Watchmen and ran her bloody hands along her hips, pulling the silk gown up past her knees. Her gaze grew alluring and dangerous. “You and any of a thousand men—little boys with your swords.”

Shadows lengthened—the Watchmen shivered. Kalen saw them looking at her writhing shadow, their faces white as cream.

“Lady.” Kalen lowered his daggers. “Lady, no one will harm you.”

Ilira shook her head dazedly, and some of her darkness fell away as though the shadows that surrounded her were tangible.

“I am Waterdeep Guard,” Kalen said. “Calm yourself, and we shall—”

“Shut up!” she snapped, startling him. Angry tears burst forth to stream down her face. “Stay away from me. Away!”

Kalen raised his steel once more. “Lady Ilira, please—”

She loosed a strangled cry of rage and pain, then ran toward the window. Lunging forward, Kalen shouted at her to stop, but she ran straight into the wall—or would have, had not the shadows swallowed her. He staggered to a halt, startled and disbelieving. She had cast no spell—used no magic that he knew of.

“A shade,” said one of the Watchmen. “Did you see her eyes? Lady Ilira’s a shade!”

“Gods above,” said the other. “No other explanation—hold!”

When Kalen moved, they perked up and leveled their war steel at him.

Kalen put his hands out wide—peaceful. He looked to Cellica and to Fayne, whom the halfling clutched near the wall. An ugly bruise was seeping across Fayne’s face where the dwarf had struck her.

He realized Fayne was looking hard at where Ilira had vanished, and her eyes twinkled.

You and any of a thousand men…

Kalen shivered. If Kalen didn’t get Fayne out soon …

The Watchmen were pointing steel at them.

He had no choice.

He raised his hands to the sides of his helm.

Boots sounded on the steps without, and Cellica saw Kalen shake himself from his stupor. She heard shouts from outside and a great clamor, but her eyes locked on Kalen.

“Hold!” said the Watchman, but Kalen ripped off his helm. Fayne inhaled sharply.

“Vigilant Dren!” They scrambled ro salute. “Care for this mess,” he said. “I’m sure she won’t be back, but ‘ware Ilira’s hands—they burn.” He started to don his helm, then stopped. He added, “Her kiss, too.”

“Sir!” a Watchman cried. “What passed here? Who killed—” Kalen shook his head, and Fayne realized that he didn’t know. When he arrived, Lorien was already dying, and Ilira had been closest to her.

Fayne’s heart raced. What did he think had happened? Kalen gestured to Fayne and Cellica. “These two are wirh me.” One Watchman stiffened and nodded. “Sir,” he said. The other was openly weeping over the slain priestess. “We’ll ward this place, as you command.”

Kalen returned their salute then pushed past them, out the door onto the balcony. He carried his helm. Fayne opened her mouth to speak, but Kalen’s cold eyes froze her tongue. She snatched up her clothes, which lay next to the bathtub, now wet from all the commotion.

Cellica followed Kalen to the balcony, and Fayne held her hand tightly. With the other hand, Fayne tucked the towel around her body wirh some degree of modesty.

“You showed them your face!” Cellica hissed.

“No choice,” Kalen said. “We needed to get out of there before Rayse arrived.” He looked pointedly at Fayne.

Fayne goggled. Revealing himself seemed so stupid, yet Kalen had done it for her? Why would he do something like that? Had the world gone mad, or just her?

You’re losing your mind, her inner voice noted. Again.

Chaos boiled up in the courtyard of the Temple of Beauty. Brigands had appeared as if from the air and began a brawl that had since turned the place into a mess of shouts and steel. As they watched, noble ladies screamed and ran from hot-headed duelists. The room was half filled with mist, confusing the fighters into hacking at everything that moved.

“Myrin,” Kalen and Cellica said at once.

The name was like a knife in Fayne’s belly. What use had they for the doe-eyed stripling? Hadn’t Kalen compromised himself to protect Fayne, just now? Didn’t he fancy Fayne?

Oh, gods, didhe? Fayne wasn’t sure if she was pleased or terrified.

Fayne’s head hurt and she grew fearful, as she always did in confusing situations. Kalen was acting on instinct and passion, not cold rationality, and that was unpredictable.

“Where is she?” Cellica asked.

Kalen shook his head. His rumpled hair swayed in front of his eyes.

“Wait—” Fayne started. “Wait a breath—tell me…”

But Kalen whisked her up in his arms, naked and all, and shoved her against the wall in an alcove, pressing himself firmly against her. She coughed, sputtering, but then he kissed her to still her lips and she ceased struggling. Then she was certain she’d gone mad.

He broke the kiss, finally, parting them by a thumb’s breadth.

“Well met to you as well,” she managed.

“I did that to shut you up.” Kalen’s eyes were cold. “What were you doing there?”

“I—” she said. “You don’t understand…”

Kalen scowled. “Never mind,” he said. “You’d only lie anyway. Just… just shut up.”

“You could kiss me again,” she thought of saying, but stopped with a shiver. Kalen’s face was hard and his eyes were those of a warrior. Those of a killer.

No use being ingratiating or alluring. She would just keep her mouth shut for now.

s, A woman in armor ran past, and when they heard rhe muffled voices inside Lorien’s chamber, rhey recognized Araezra Hondyl.

“Gods,” the valabrar said. “What happened?”

“Murder—gods above!” a man said. “Lady Nathalan… oh, gods, her closest friend!”

“Did you see it? You saw the murder?”

“Nay, but… Vigilant Dren. He was here, you could …”

“Dren?” The valabrar sounded shocked. “Kalen Dren, my aide?”

“Time to go,” Cellica murmured. She’d wedged herself inro the alcove near Kalen’s leg, and she darted out.

Kalen, shoving Fayne roughly along, followed her around the balcony to look down into the chaotic courtyard. Cellica was looking for Myrin, Fayne realized. Kalen was just glowering.

“Are those yours?” Kalen demanded, waving at the intruders.

Fayne could only shake her head, complerely at a loss. Whoever had sent these men to the temple, it hadn’t been her.

Near the entrance, Kalen saw a knot of guardsmen and Watchmen rallying around Bors Jarthay. The commander—whose drunkenness had been mostly an act—knocked one man out with his handflask pipe and drew a surprisingly long blade out of his billowing shirt. Commander Kleeandur was there too, barking orders to cut off exits and trap the chaos inside.

“I don’t see her!” Cellica cried.

The more Watch that arrived, the fewer rogues remained. But the nobles began dueling, and that perpetuated the brawl. Lady Wildfire, surrounded by a dozen noblemen fighting over the right to prorect her, tired of the commotion, brained one of the lordlings with her jeweled purse, and fled of her own power. Talantress Roaringhorn was conspicuously absent, and dozens of nobles cried out in search of one another amidst the din.

Kalen saw black-garbed figures slipping out of the courtyard, hooded ladies in their grasp. They moved south into the temple plaza.

Cellica followed his gaze and pointed at the kidnappers. “What are you going to do?”

Kalen pushed Fayne roughly at the halfling and took his helmet in his hands. He slid it over his head.

“Kalen, you have no sword,” the halfling said. “You can’t—”

He pulled the daggers from his belt. He looked across the courtyard as though judging the distance to one of the high windows.

“Wait, Kalen!” Fayne caught his hand, and he glared at her. His eyes burned. She swallowed a sudden rush of fear. “You … saved my life,” she said.

“You stupid girl!” Kalen slammed his fist, dagger and all, into the wall beside her head. The blade rang against the stone, deafening her. “What the Hells did you think you were doing?”

Fayne was stunned. “Kalen, I—”

“Shut up. I’m tired of it,” he said. “You’re a spoiled child playing games. Just a stupid fool who thinks there aren’t consequences to your pranks—that people don’t die.”

“Kalen,” Cellica said, casting her eyes down, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment.

Fayne trembled. “Please don’t,” she said. “Please, Kalen—I’m sorry!

But Kalen’s eyes were cold. “Begone,” he said. “I want nothing to do with you. Now, pardon,” he said as he locked his helm in place, “but I have someone worthwhile to save.”

He ran for the opposite end of the courtyard, leaping from table to table around battles, his enchanted boots guiding him. Screams went up in the courtyatd from startled nobles, and a few wary Watchmen fired crossbows in his direction. The bolts cut through his cloak and one cut open his left arm, but he did not falter. When he gained the far window, he paused and looked back—his colorless gaze cut into Fayne. Then he turned, cloak swirling, and was gone.

Fayne, shocked, pulled herself away from Cellica. She drew out her wand—the wand she could use to hide herself from the world, as she had always done—and glared.

“I’m sorry,” Cellica said. The halfling rubbed her hands together. “Kalen … he—wait!”

The halfling staggered as Fayne turned her gaze on her and whispered a word of dark magic. Cellica pawed blearily at her face and seemed unable to see Fayne, who had pulled away and hurried down the stairs toward the brawl. Her longer legs meant Cellica could not catch her.

As she went, she growled. “Didn’t warn me about this, Father.”

Avaereene paused when they had run two blocks, to see how many of her men followed. It didn’t matter—she held the wealthiest prize in her own arms—but every noble lass taken prisoner was more coin for the Sightless.

She was pleased to see that a dozen had escaped, carrying half that many girls among them. Not all of her men had made it, but desperate men were plentiful in Downshadow she could always hire more.

The lead man stopped at her side. He carried an unconscious Hawkwinter in his arms, head hooded, moaning up a squall through her gag. Though the face was hidden, Avaereene knew all the nobles in Waterdeep by figure as well as face. She had an excellent memory.

“Where, mistress?” asked her lieutenant.

They were panting from exertion. Avaereene wasn’t breathing hard—she wasn’t breathing at all, as she hadn’t had to for almost a century.

“The sewers—keep a low cloak,” she said. “I shall follow with haste.”

The man nodded and directed the other stealthy kidnappers to follow him. Downshadow men, all of them, and useful enough, even if scarred and ugly.

“Hasn’t the spellplague warped us all?” she murmured. She thought of the horror lurking inside her and grinned. “Some more than others.”

Avaereene stepped into an alley, where she found her employer

stepping out of a bank of shadows. His cowl hid most of his face, but she knew he was a half-elf. And while he was not dead, neither was he alive. He was something like her.

“Well accomplished,” he said, indicating the girl in her arms. “Give her to me.”

“The gold, first.” The blue-headed girl started to moan in her arms as Avaereene began to draw the life from her like a sponge from a pool of water. “Or she dies.”

His face held no emotion. “Very well.” He gestured, and a pouch appeared from his sleeve, heavy with coin. His black eyes never left the girl’s face.

Instinct told Avaereene to grasp the reward while it was there, but pragmatism stayed her.

“Such a curious thing,” Avaereene said. “To pay so much for a girl with no family or connections. I do not even know who she is, and I’ve spent more than a century in Waterdeep.”

Her employer reached out silently and stroked the girl’s temple with his gloved hand.