Downshadow (15 page)

“Huh.” Words didn’t come easily to Kalen in the morning.

The halfling, however, was at her most garrulous just after sleep. “Nothing fashionable, but at least they’re clothes.” Cellica winked. “Not like you provided any lasr night.”

Kalen grunted and looked to the cook pot, in which the remainder of the morning simmer stew bubbled warmly. He fished a roundloaf out of the box by the hearth, hollowed it out, and spooned in a healthy dollop. The stew had a sharp, pungent aroma from the many spices Cellica had added—she knew his illness stole his sense of taste as well as touch, so she took pride in making food that he could taste. He limped back to the table, sat on the stool Cellica had vacated, and stared across at Myrin.

Heedless of the tears rolling down her cheeks at the heat of the spices, Myrin was eating like she hadn’t eaten in years, and seeing how skinny she was, maybe she hadn’t. She licked up Cellica’s stew with wild abandon, and Cellica brought her another roundloaf while Kalen sat there, picking at his stew. The halfling was smiling grandly, and Kalen imagined she was thrilled to practice her adoptive mother’s

recipes on someone who appreciated their full taste.

Kalen nodded at Myrin. “So … who is she?” he asked Cellica.

Myrin paused in her eating and looked to Kalen. Cellica sniffed.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Cellica’s manner was sweet, so her suggestion didn’t strike him as a command.

Kalen looked at Myrin sidelong. “You can talk?” He winced at Cellica’s glare.

“I…” she said. “I can talk.”

Cellica beamed. “Go on, peach,” the halfling said. “Tell him what you told me!”

Myrin looked shyly at the table.

Cellica clapped her hands. “She’s a mys-ter-y!” she exclaimed, pronouncing the word in excited syllables, like this was a great adventure. “She doesn’t know who she is or where she came from—only her name and a few things from her childhood.”

Kalen looked at Myrin, who was staring at her bread. “Aye?”

Myrin nodded.

“Naught else?” Like how I found you naked in an alley, he thought, speaking gibberish?

“Kalen!” Cellica snapped at his tone. “Manners!”

Myrin only shook her head. “I remember a little … a little about when I was small.” Her voice was thin, and her words were oddly accented—old, like something out of a bardic tale.

“My mother—her name was Shalis—she raised me alone. I never knew my father. I was apprenticed to a wizard—his name was … I don’t remember.” She sniffed. “I can see these things, but they seem far away—like dreams. Like I slept years and never woke.”

Kalen eyed her tanned coloration. Her complexion was exotic— Calishite, perhaps, though mixed with something else entirely. A whisper of elf heritage was about her as well—not a parent, but perhaps a grandparent. It was clear she would be quite beautiful when she grew to womanhood, but she was yet on the verge.

“Aught else?” he asked. “Homeland?”

Myrin shrugged.

“Was it city or countryside?” Cellica glared and Kalen added: “If you remember.”

“City,” Myrin said slowly. Her eyes glazed. “It was always cold… cold off the sea. Gray stone buildings, sand on the streets. Nights spent locked inside while terrors waited without. They waited, you see—the crearures in the night. Masks of shadows.”

Cellica looked anxiously at Kalen, who only shook his head. “What city?” he asked.

“West, it was called,” she said. “West… aught else, but I don’t remember.”

“Westgate?” Cellica suggested.

Myrin shook her head. “Mayhap.”

Kalen shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “I don’t know what ‘terrors’. you would mean—there haven’t been anything but men in the shadows of that city for a century, almost. Not since Gedrin and his knights drove the vampires out…”

He trailed off as Myrin looked down, her shoulders shaking as though she would cry. Cellica cast Kalen a sharp look, and he sighed.

They sat in silence for many breaths—perhaps a hundred count— saying nothing. Kalen ate a few spoonfuls of his stew, but it was tasteless to him. He drank his mulled cider and tried not to feel so awful.

As he did so, he gazed at Myrin, exploring the contours of her exotic face, trying to figure out where she had come from. She wasn’t exactly beautiful without that crown of flames she’d been wearing in the alley, Kalen thought, but there remained a certain girlish appeal to her delicate features. Wearing Kalen’s old shirt made her look like a child, too—in a dress or even a real gown…

Cellica caught him staring. “You’ve another question, Sir Longing-Gaze?”

Myrin’s head shot up and her eyes went wide in expectation. “Mind your stew,” Kalen said to Cellica, harsher than he intended.

Myrin looked back down, blushing. Cellica’s wry smile became a chiding frown.

Kalen ignored them both and turned back to his mostly untouched roundloaf, only to find nothing but his spoon on the table. He looked across to where Myrin was contentedly eating his morningfeast with her hands. Curious—he hadn’t thought her reach so long.

“Do you need a spoon, peach?” asked Cellica.

“Sorry,” rhe girl said. “I don’t mean to be rude—I’m just so hungry.” She looked at Kalen’s spoon and murmured something under her breath that Kalen didn’t understand.

Cellica reached for the spoon as though to give it to Myrin, but it skittered away, rose into the air, and floated to Myrin’s hand. She caught it and set immediately to spooning stew to her mouth. Kalen and Cellica looked at one another, then at her.

Myrin, looking nervous in the silence, blinked at them. “What?”

“Lass,” the halfling said. “Was that a spell?” “Of course,” Myrin said. “Can’t—” She blushed. “Can’t everyone do that?”

Kalen and Cellica exchanged another glance. Myrin went back to eating.

Before anyone could say more, there came a loud knock at the door, and Cellica fell off her stool with a startled gasp. Myrin didn’t seem to notice and went right on eating. Kalen reached for Vindicator by instinct, and only then remembered he didn’t have the blade any more—or his watchsword, for that matter. Bane’s breath, where had he left that?

“Hark,” he said. “Who calls?”

No answer came.

He seized a long knife from the table and reversed it, the better to conceal the blade against his forearm. Cellica grasped the crossbow amulet around her throat and Kalen nodded. He rose, a finger to his lips, and crossed to the door.

He put his left hand on the latch and lifted it as silently as he could, keeping his body shielded by rhe wall. Then he threw open the door and raised the knife …

A familiar red-haired half-elf, clad in a plain leather skirt and vest over a white shirt, leaped over the threshold into his arms. “Shadow, dearest!” she exclaimed.

Her lips found his and he could see only the stunned expressions on Cellica’s and Myrin’s faces.

Wheeling around for balance, Kalen managed to break the kiss and breathe.

Fayne seemed undaunted. “Shadow! It’s been so long!” She hugged him tightly and squealed.

He blinked over her shoulder ro rhe table, where Cellica was staring at him in shock. Myrin looked at him, then the newcomer, then down at her stew—she seemed to shrink on her stool. Cellica looked halfway between angry and wonderstruck.

“Oh, Shadow, we’ll have such a glorious time at the revel,” she said, emphasizing her words breathlessly. “I can’t believe you have an invitation—I can’t wait to wear my dress! Oh!”

Kalen could hardly breathe, she held him so hard.

“Kalen,” Cellica asked slowly, “Kalen, who is this? What revel?”

“I—urph,” Kalen said as the woman kissed him again, cutting off any words. This kiss was harder than the first, more insistent, and he tasted her tongue in his mouth.

A little hand tugged the hem of the half-elf s vest. “Pardon, lass,” Cellica asked, hands on her hips. “Who … who are you?”

“I’m Fayne,” the half-elf said, lacing her fingers through Kalen’s. “A…friendof Shadow, here—I mean, Sir Kalen Dren.” She winked conspiratorially.

Kalen could only stare when Cellica looked at him. “I don’t know her,” he said.

“She knows you” the halfling quipped. Then, eyes widening: “She knows? About—”

“Of course I know,” Fayne said with a laugh. Then she looked between them and put her hand over her mouth in mock fear. “What, is it a secret?”

Cellica’s face turned bright red, and Kalen shivered. “It’s not how it looks—”

Kalen saw Fayne glance at Myrin, and she hesitated half a breath. Then she let loose a squeal. “Who’s this, Kalen? She’s adorable!”

Myrin’s eyes widened as Fayne rushed to her and hugged her around the neck, then proceeded to fuss over her like a child with a kitten. Myrin stared at Kalen, stunned.

A tiny blue rune appeared on Myrin’s cheek, Kalen saw, where Fayne had touched. But before he could comment, a halfling finger poked him insistently and he looked down.

“What’s going on?” Cellica looked furious. “Kalen, who is this woman?”

“I don’t—” Kalen’s head hurt even worse than when he had risen. “I can explain.”

“Oh.” Cellica climbed up on her stool and crossed her arms. “This should be grand.”

Myrin looked positively mouselike at the table under Fayne’s attentions.

“Better make it fast,” Fayne noted, drawing out the word. “Someone else is coming up.” Kalen’s heart skipped. “Who?”

“A woman,” Fayne said. “Very pretty—gorgeous, even. Long dark hair, deep blue eyes. Armed and armored. Five gauntlets on her…” Fayne made a gesture across her collarbone and giggled. “Why—” She smiled. “Do you know her?”

“Tymora guard us,” Cellica said. “That’s Rayse.”

“Who’s Rayse?” Fayne looked at Kalen jealously. “Another lass friend?”

“His superior, Araezra Hondyl!” Cellica said. “You were supposed to report this morn, Sir Snores-a-bed!” Cellica stared, wide-eyed, at Kalen. “What do we—?”

Kalen was in motion, crossing to the table.

Fayne purred at him. “You’re quite the man, to have so many—hey!”

Kalen seized her by the arm and hauled her toward a closet, in

which hung their spare clothes. He pushed her in, despite muffled protests, and stepped in himself.

“Kalen!” Cellica hissed. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

Kalen shrugged—he couldn’t think, except that he knew he couldn’t let Araezra catch them.

He shut the door behind them.

Myrin took very close care to stare at her stew the whole time.

She didn’t know what was going on—where she was, who rhese people were, or anything—but just because she remembered nothing didn’t mean she was an idiot. She’d seen that red-haired girl—Fayne— and the way she touched Kalen.

Of course he’s got a lass friend, you fool, she thought. What did you expect?

She fancied she could still feel Fayne’s fingers on her cheeks—the way the half-elf had prodded at her, grinning all the while. The touch lingered and Myrin felt oddly full, though it was not just from all the stew she had eaten. She felt full in spirit.

Maybe it was just Kalen looking at you, she thought. You’re such a girl!

Cellica looked at her, and her mouth drooped in a sympathetic frown. She threw up her hands. “He’s not always so,” she said. “Just… hold a moment.”

Myrin opened her mouth to speak, but she felt a gentle pressure in her ears—a voice rhat itched at her mind, telling her to remain in her seat. Magic. She stayed sitting, wondering.

Cellica got up and started toward the door, which Fayne had left open. In the corridor, Myrin saw with a stabbing curdle in her stomach, stood a very lovely and very angry lady. She had sleek, glossy black hair and liquid eyes bound in a face like that of a wrathful nymph. The woman wore a uniform, but Myrin did not know what sort. Little about this world seemed familiar to her thus far.

“Rayse!” Cellica said. “What a surprise! Won’t you come”—the dark-haired woman swept into the chamber past the halfling—”in?”

“Well—” Araezra pulled up short and stared. “Well met?”

After an awkward breath, Myrin realized she was talking to her. “Oh… well met.”

Araezra looked confused. “I’m sorry—have we met? I don’t know you.”

“Uh—I’m … I’m Myrin.” Her fingers curled and her heart thudded. Why did they all have to be so perfect”. “I’m… uh …”

Her brow furrowing, Araezra looked to Cellica.

“You probably want Kalen,” the halfling said. “He’s … ah—”

“It’s very important,” Araezra said. “He was supposed to report for duty this morn, and I haven’t seen him.” She glared toward Myrin, whose cheeks felt like they might burst into flame. She picked at her blue hair and wished it weren’r so straggly.

Myrin wondered if Kalen wasn’t some kind of nobleman, or rich merchant, or perhaps the lord of a harem, to have this many lasses flocking to his door. She wasn’t cerrain where she’d heard that word “harem” before—it was floating somewhere in the back of her mind. Elusive, like a shard of a dream that danced just on the edge of her awareness.

Like her mother’s face. Like all her memories.

“I’ll tell him when I see him,” Cellica said. “He’s … he might be with Commander Jarthay. They were bound for the Siren yestereve. Perhaps they’re still there?”

Araezra glanced at Myrin, who tried to shrink smaller. She looked back at Cellica. “You didn’t …” she said awkwardly. “You didn’t happen to read the Minstrel this morn?”

Cellica folded her hands behind her back. “No, absolutely not.”

“Cellica.”

“Well, yes—” The halfling winced. She waved her hands. “But it’s horribly unfair! You aren’t like that at all. That’s just bloody Satin Rutshear.”

Araezra smiled and sighed. “My thanks. I—I just have to find Kalen. We need to talk.”

Cellica nodded. “I’ll tell him when I see him.”

The halfling looked at Myrin as though expecting her to say aught, but Myrin had no idea what to say. She couldn’t stop staring at Araezra, who was the most beautiful woman she had ever

seen—that she could remember, anyway.

Araezra didn’t leave. She bit her prerty lip, and Myrin saw her eyes were damp.

Cellica shrugged. “Berter have a seat, dear. Would you like cider?”

The armored woman nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.