Downshadow (27 page)

had undone years, perhaps decades of delicate spellwork that had achieved the beauty the lich wanted for herself. Complex castings, suid probably painful.

Avaereene barked a sharp word. Myrin recoiled, but it was no attack. Hissing in pain and anger, the lich vanished, taking part of the wall with her—and leaving aught of herself too.

With a sick cry, Myrin closed her eyes and fists. She willed the magic to vanish.

It didn’t.

Dark fire rolled out of her, uncontrolled. Myrin screamed for ir to stop, but it was alive in its own righr. It danced around her, gleefully consuming whatever it touched.

She could not stop it.

“Myrin,” came a voice, cutting through the chaos.

It was Kalen, his form blurring as though it fought to maintain consistency. His gauntleted hand grasped her tightly—strange, that the right hand had a gauntlet and the left hand was bare, she reached for his bared hand, but she remembered what her touch had done to the lich. She drew back, horrified.

“Myrin, you have to stop.” Kalen’s voice was calm, his eyes filled with blood.

“I can’t!” she cried, and barely jerked her face away from his in time to send her words into the air and away. The force of her voice struck a spire on a nearby building, which tore free of its mounting and fell—horribly—toward them.

Kalen seized Myrin in his arms and threw them both aside. Sharp stone shattered into the cobbled street where they had been standing. Kalen held Myrin with fingers hard and cold as coffin nails.

“Stop!” he cried. “Stop this now!”

Myrin moaned and the ground began to shake. Buildings trembled around rhem and began ro wrench themselves aparr. Blue-white flames burst out of loose stones and bricks, which started rolling as though to put themselves out—or to delight in destruction. Folk screamed around them, gagging on what Myrin prayed were meals and not blood or worse.

“Calm,” Kalen whispered. “All’s well. You must calm yourself.”

“I can’t!” Myrin sobbed. Her body was shaking, far beyond her control.

His eyes bored into hers, shrinking her world to the size of two orbs. She saw her face reflected in his eyes, saw that almost every finger-length of her skin was scripted with blue runes. They told her a story, and she could almost read them.

“Calm,” Kalen whispered again. His face was close to hers, but not touching. His lips hovered over hers, not kissing. “Please.”

Slowly—so slowly—Myrin’s heart slackened its race. Her screams and sobs subsided and her breathing slowed. The buildings ceased their shaking and the blue flames flickered out and died.

Finally, finally, the blue haze faded, and they were alone in the street, Kalen lying atop her, holding her, protecting her from the night—and from herself.

He wasn’t moving, she realized.

“Kalen?” she asked. “Kalen!”

“Uhh,” he groaned and rolled off, coughing. “Not so … not so loud.”

Myrin could have kissed him, but men loomed over her, and she looked up. Thieves and kidnappers had come to harm them. Many were wounded or bruised, attacked by Kalen in his pursuit or wasted by the spell chaos. Kalen’s eyes glittered and he closed his helm’s faceplate, preparing to fight again.

No. Myrin would stop this. Words came unbidden to her lips.

Kalen knelt on the ground, coughing and trying to rise. “No,” he said. “No—don’t do it.”

“All’s well.” She touched his helmed face with a loving hand, which yet glowed blue. “This is mine,” she said. “It’s only magic.”

“Only…” Kalen coughed and retched. “Only magic?”

Myrin spread her hands and began the chant. This time, no blue runes crawled onto her tanned skin. This was a spell, whose words were written on her hean, though she had not known them until now. The power felt pure—untainted by the horrid darkness she had channeled from the lich woman. Somehow, she had drawn Avaereene’s poweg, but it was too much—she couldn’t control something so strong.

Never again would she draw powers like that. Never again.

“Begone,” she said, magic crackling about her fingers. The men hesitated.

f,”Begone!” she cried, and conjured fire arced up and burst from her hands.

The thieves didn’t have to be told a third time. They turned and fled.

Myrin let the power subside and die, then breathed out in a rush. She felt so tired—so very drained. She sat down next to Kalen. His breath came raggedly and his face was bloody, but his eyes were bright and sharp as diamonds.

She wanted so much to kiss him, but a part of her feared to do so. Instead, she pressed her forehead against his. “I… Kalen, I…”

His eyes widened and he thrust her away. She saw, as her backside hit the cobbles, his reason.

The thief who’d held her—the one Kalen had stabbed—was crawling toward them, a hooked blade in his hands. The edge dripped with a purple smear that Myrin knew was poison. Kalen’s rapier— still inside him—scraped along the stones with a sickly hiss. Blood ran from his mouth. Pain and hatred filled his eyes, from which dripped red tears.

“Bitch,” the thief rasped as he limped toward Myrin. “Stick you good, I will—”

His dagger fell. It would have struck Myrin’s chest, but Kalen lunged in front of her and grappled with the thief. Myrin watched, stunned, as they wrestled, the knife pressing ever closer to Kalen’s unprotected face. Then the knife cut across his cheek and she screamed.

The thief’s eyes flicked to her, and the distraction was all Kalen needed. He slammed.his open helm against his attacker’s face, sending him reeling. He punched out with his gauntleted fist, hitting the man in the same place and shattering his nose. Before the thief could flee, Kalen caught hold of his wrist. He wrenched, and the man screamed as his arm snapped.

“Kalen, stop!” Myrin wept.

At her cry, Kalen looked up, and the thief punched him in the jaw, knocking him down. The man limped away, coughing. Kalen stumbled after him, his hands curled into claws.

“Stop! Please!” Myrin cried, weeping big tears that ran down her cheeks. The man had attacked her, yes, but she had to stop Kalen. He was not a beast but a man—she wanted a man, not a monster.

At her words, Kalen turned and caught Myrin in his arms. And though she knew they were both falling down beaten, she felt perfectly safe.

“Shush,” Kalen murmured. “It’s well—all’s well.”

“Gods…” Then Myrin’s heart leaped. “All’s Kalen—you’ve been poisoned.”

She lifted her fingers to touch the slash across his cheek, where rhe venomed knife had cut him. Greenish black veins had appeared there and spread beneath his skin, the poison Working through his blood. They already covered half his face. Myrin had no idea how she could see it—she knew she shouldn’t be able to.

Then, as she watched, the poison began to recede. The veins became pink once again, little by little, and the blackness shrank until it vanished entirely from beneath his skin.

He looked as surprised as she felt. “My blessing,” he said.

Myrin felt power unlike her own—divine, rather than arcane—fill him. His bare fingers joined hers against his cheek, and she watched as they shimmered white with heat, so bright she could see his bones. The light spread from his fingers into his skin, and the cut turned into a sharp scar. He gasped in relief and surprise.

“I don’t understand,” Myrin whispered, yet somehow she did understand. A god had saved him.

He shook his head. “Helm—nay. The threefold god,” he explained. “He… he isn’t finished with me yet.” He hugged her tighter and his head dipped against her shoulder.

Myrin let loose a deep, terrified breath. She feared Kalen had succumbed, but she could feel him breathing. Tears welled in her eyes.

She and Kalen held each other in the empty street. They would have to move along soon, she knew—before the Watch came—but for now, they could just rest together.

Above them, far above them, a light rain began to fall. ŚŤ

At the top of the cracked tavern, a half-elf woman moved out of the moonlight, trailing a mane of scarlet hair.

hat’s the matter, child?” asked her patron over ale at the Knight ‘n Shadow.

Fayne couldn’t tell him the truth—didn’t know the truth. She didn’t understand the source of the discontented hollow in her chest. She thought she’d feel better with it done. But now…

They sat in the shadowy lower level, in the last hour before dawn. It would be darkest out now, or so the saying went, but the darkest time in Waterdeep occurred not in the city at all but below it, when the hunters of Downshadow returned from a night spent above, pillaging and raiding and doing what they loved best.

Fayne used to love this time, but now … she felt nothing but sadness. And anger.

“That damned dwarf stlarned it up.” Her ale tasted sour—like goblin piss—and she pushed it aside. She gestured at a serving girl to bring wine. “I had Lady Dawnbringer—I had the situation fully in control and he just… damn!”

She slammed the heel of her palm down on the table. The loud bang attracted the notice of a few fellow drinkers, but her patron’s magic made them look away. As for the man himself, he merely listened to her without speaking.

“No one was supposed to die,” she said. “And she wasn’t supposed to get any kind of vengeance. Her lover was supposed to leave her, not die.” She scowled. “I’m glad that hrasting pisshole Rath got scarred—served him well for taking matters into his own hands.”

Her patron watched her levelly, his easy smile betraying nothing. If he agreed or disagreed, she had no idea. She hated that about him, at times. With that face, he could bluff a dragon out of its hoard, or a god out of her powers. The bastard.

She hated feeling so weak when she sat across from him—hated the way he stared at her, weighing her, like both a prized horse and a petulant child.

That was the way Kalen had looked at her—as a child.

“My sweet?” her patron asked. Fayne looked up, startled. “What are you thinking about?”

“Only how I’m better than her? Fayne said, as much to herself as to her patron.

Though Fayne hadn’t named her, her patron must have known who she meant: the bitch who styled herself Lady Nathalan. After what Fayne had done this night… well. At least Ilira Nathalan’s anguished face should chase away Fayne’s nightmares about that night eighty years gone.

“Ah.” Her patron gazed at her closely. “And yet, something is amiss. What is it?”

“Naught.” Fayne downed her bowl of wine and waved for another. “Tell me this, though—it was a brilliant plan, aye? If Rath hadn’t come, I’d have ruined Lorien for her, right?”

She saw her patron’s wry smile—saw his eyes glowing dimly in the light, as though he enjoyed some private jest. Now it was his turn to grow quiet. “What?” Fayne asked.

“Just reflecting,” he said, “how like your mother you are.”

Any other day, she’d have taken that for a grear compliment.

Fayne sniffed. “What do you mean?” she asked, false bravado in her voice. “That I am proud? Regal? Competitive? Perhaps”—she flipped her hair back—”beauriful?”

He waved a gloved hand and laughed once. “Why not?”

She glared across the table. “Speak plain, fate-spinner.”

“As you wish,” he said. “She was all those things and more, but she was also flawed. You have shown a similar weakness, but rather than frustrating, I find it endearing.”

Fayne bristled. “My mother,” she said, “had no weaknesses.”

He shrugged, and she saw a quiet twinkle in his eye. “As you say.”

Those three little words cut her legs out from under her. Thfey reminded her that she was just a foolish child who had never really known her mother—not as her patron had.

Sometimes, she truly and utterly hated this man. Loved him, of course, but hated him too.

P “If you’re going to mock me, at least be plain,” Fayne said. Her lip trembled.

“Very well,” he said. “Your mother … if all did not go exactly as she had planned, victory was dust to her. I see the same drive in you, my sweet child.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m pleased. See how I—”

He reached across the table and laid a hand on hers, cutting off her words. She felt a fearsome heat in his fingers, as though fire coursed in his blood. She stared at him.

“In the end,” he said, “did you not succeed at destroying her— this Lady Nathalan?”

The name struck her like a blow, but Fayne felt only a deep, irresistible sadness. “I—I suppose, yes, but—” Fayne wiped her cheeks. “Damn you, I’m pleased!”

“Then why are you crying?” he asked. She looked down, and there was a white kerchief in his dainty, perfect hand, the runes for L.V.T. stitched into the corner in red thread.

She ignored his handkerchief and wiped her nose with her hand. “It’s not relevant,” she said.

Illusions could hide tears, anyway.

“As you say.” Her patron smiled patiently, his eyes unreadable. “Don’t worry—folk do not change. Killer or hero, angel or whore, no one ever changes. We only wear different faces.”

Fayne shivered. She fixed her patron with a cold glare. “You must really hate her.”

“Who?” he asked, tucking his kerchief into his colorful doublet.

“Her.” Fayne ground her teeth. Who else could she mean? The yellow-eyed whore—the woman who had destroyed her life—she who had taken the only thing she held dear in the world.

He was going to make her say it, she realized. Might as well accept it.

“Ilira,” Fayne said, the name like bile in her mouth. “You must hate her as much as I do.”

“Ah.”

Fayne swore under her breath, remembering. She’d seen such pain on that damned face—and yet, it hadn’t soothed her. Now she was not sure what to feel.

Her patron reached across the distance between them and laid a lithe hand against her cheek. She felt his awful heat over her scar—felt again the cutting bolt across her face.

“Do I hate her? No.” His eyes were burning pits of molten gold. “Quite the opposite.”

Fayne opened and closed her mouth several times. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“No.” His eyes seemed very sad for a moment. “No, I don’t expect that you do.”

He drew away. She felt as if something had been cut from her—as though an axe had taken her arm, leaving a stump that tingled impotently.