Downshadow (18 page)

Araezra realized Kalen was distracting Rath. She flexed her wrist— broken, but she’d trained left-handed as well. She could still wield a sword, albeit poorly. She looked to the silvery blade on the floor. But it was nearer Kalen than herself, and he could not fight, could he?

Would he? She wondered.

“You can slay both of us, but you cannot silence both of us at the same moment.” Kalen continued. “Thus, if you kill either of us, the other can cry out and you will die.”

The dwarf did not blink, but the look on his face told Araezra he had counted the guards he had bypassed. “Why not call for them now?” he asked.

“Our bargain,” Kalen said. “You leave this place and do not harm either of us, and we will not cry out. No one need die.”

Araezra gasped and coughed, as her breathing once again became normal. “Kalen …”

He ignored her and stared at Rath, who seemed to be considering.

Then the dwarfs fingers touched the edge of Kalen’s jaw, caressing it softly and gently—like a lover, and like death. “Very well, dog,” said Rath. “But I want to hear you beg.”

Kalen cast his eyes down.

“Beg for mercy,” Rarh said with a cruel smile.

When Kalen spoke, his voice hardly rose above a whisper. “Please,” he said. “Please.”

“Kalen…” Araezra couldn’t believe it. The Kalen she loved did not beg.

Rath sniffed. “You call yourself a man, and yet you take the coward’s path,” he said. He looked at Araezra. “Your mastiff is not a hound, my lady, but a mongrel bitch.”

Kalen’s eyes, gleaming pale at Araezra, seemed very, very cold in that silvery light.

Araezra rubbed her bruised rhroat. “Choose, dwarf,” she said. “I have a good scream in me yet, and weak as he is, I’ve no doubt Vigilant Dren can muster such a cry.”

Rath looked from her ro Kalen and back. Then he snorted.

“Very well.” He hauled Kalen up, and to his credit, the man barely coughed. “Know that your cowardice falls beneath the weakest pup, for even such a cur can fight when cornered.”

Kalen did not answer.

“Have you nothing to say?” asked the dwarf. Kalen only stared at Rath. Araezra felt a trembling anger build within her.

Then Rath was gone, nearly flying down the hall. Kalen slumped ro the floor, but he caught himself before his face struck the stone. Araezra saw his eyes, bright and furious and icy, gleam at her. Then he started to cough.

In an instant, as though that sound had given her strength, Araezra pushed herself to her feet. “Guard!” she cried, loud as she could. “Watch, Guard—to arms! Intruder!”

A great clamor of feet and steel arose in the rooms around them. Folk were coming, summoned by Araezra’s cry. Araezra looked at Kalen, so weak and sad, lying there. She reached down. “Up, Vigilant.”

He took her hand and climbed up shakily. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, furious words building in her throat. Kalen coughed. “Gods, Rayse, I didn’t want you to get hurt. You know that.”

“Spare me.” Araezra shook her head, too angry and hurt to spend soft words on him. “I don’t need anyone to protect me—especially not a coward.”

Kalen cast his eyes down.

Araezra took Shadowbane’s sword—it felt warm to the touch but did not burn her—then ran into the hall to muster the Watch.

Kalen stood shaking, wounded deeper than any sword could have cut.

He’d given everything to save Araezra. He had broken his greatest vow to himself, never to beg. And still, she had turned away from him. He had seen the contempt in her eyes.

He was less than a man to her, and he had pulled her low as well.

A coughing fit came upon him then, bubbling up like a cruel reminder of his failure, and he fought it down—in vain. He coughed and retched and spat blood into his hand.

That blood and spit could easily have been Rath’s blood on his hands. The temptation had been so strong—to trick the dwarf into vulnerability and plunge a blade into his liver, kidney, or heart. Like a backstabbing thief, or like an assassin. The way he would have done in Luskan. But that would have sullied his vows, and the paladin in him would not allow it.

He lifted his hands to heal himself at a touch, but his powers did not come forth.

He realized why, and the understanding struck him like a slap across the face.

All this time, he had protected Waterdeep—this city of faceless citizens—and protected those he loved and cherished. But he could not do it at the cost of his own principles. He could not compromise the deepest commitment of all: to himself.

So that he might continue in his duty, he hadn’t revealed himself after Lorien, or after Talanna had been hurt. The threefold god had not punished him for that. But when he hadn’t revealed himself today, he’d chased away his only friend other than Cellica.

Although Araezra was alive, he knew he had acted wrongly. The

Threefold God had taken his powers for sacrificing his duty to himself for his duty to others.

He saw that he must do both—fight for rhe ciry, and fight for himself and those he loved. He would prove himself worthy.

He swore it.

To prepare for the revel, Cellica took Myrin to a dress salon called Nathalan’s Menagerie—named, Cellica explained; for the elf noble who was the owner.

Lady Ilira Nathalan owned a number of such shops across Faeriin, which did their part in supplying—and in many cases crearing—the fashions of the day. Patrons tried on styles amid cages filled with exotic birds and flowers. The gowns, sashes, and shoes were rich in quality but low in cost, which, Cellica explained, was the reason behind the Menagerie’s success.

“I don’t know how she does it,” Cellica said as she gestured to gown after gown for the attendant to take for her, “but some lucky goddess must watch over her supplies. Her prices always undercut her comperitors. Nobles usually have their own seamstresses as a matter of pride, but Ilira caters to merchants and other wealthy folk who don’t have signets stuck up their—heh.” Cellica smiled wryly. “Better dresses, too, though don’t let the nobility hear that.”

Myrin watched as a pair of lovely middle-aged human women draped a series of gowns over their chests, admiring the colors in the mirror. An attendant—whom Myrin realized must be a half-ore, owing to her small tusks and gray skin—watched impassively. Her hair was a brilliant pink that could not be natural. It reminded Myrin of her own blue hair, which she pawed at idly.

“Ninea,” said Cellica, tugging at Myrin’s arm and pointing to the half-ore. “Just watch.”

One of the customers framed a request to Ninea the half-ore, who touched the woman’s shoulder briefly. The effect was as sudden as it was impressive: the woman’s skin took on a brilliant golden sheen, astonishing her companion, who gasped and broke into tittering.

“Gods!” Myrin said. “That’s amazing!”

“Simple magic,” Cellica said. “Ninea has a spellscar that lets her alter colors to match her whims. Temporarily, of course.” She continued breezing through gowns. “Certainly you could find cheaper attire elsewhere, but the quality is hard to defeat.” She selected her tenth and eleventh. “Perhaps it’s goodness rewarding the same.”

“Aye?” Myrin hadn’t selected a gown—she was remembering Kalen’s glare.

“Aye,” Cellica affirmed, taking down her twelfth. “Lady Ilira’s a patron of the Haven of the Scarred, for those run afoul of spellplague or other magical maladies—a consortium of priests and healers. I’m a member.”

The halfling frowned at a conservative brown gown Myrin was looking at and led her away. “It’ll be a costume revel,” she said. “Most of rhese are a particular lady from history—that one must be a Candlekeep ascetic. Boring as old rat tails!”

“What?” Myrin was standing shyly to the side, grasping her right elbow behind her back and burrowing her left foot into the floorboards.

“Pay it no mind, dear,” said Cellica. “Let’s find another that suits you better.”

“Oh?” Myrin behaved around the finery the way a mouse must in a hall full of cat statues. She was terrified she would perish under the assault of silk. “Can … can we afford this?”

“Of course! We halflings have a way with coin. Just none of the priciest, eh? Ooh!” Her eye fell on a rich cloth-of-silver gown. She spoke with a halfling attendant in a language Myrin didn’t understand, winced, then nodded. The gown went into the attendant’s already full arms.

The half-ore woman with the bright pink hair brushed past Myrin. While the attendant was dexterous enough, Myrin’s inherent clumsiness almost knocked her over. The half-ore had to catch her by the hand and ward her off. Ninea’s hand sparked against hers. “Ooh, sorry!” Myrin said.

The woman started to respond, then shook her head, seeming faint.

“Ninea?” asked the halfling attending Cellica and Myrin. “Be ye well, lass?”

“Aye,” said rhe half-ore. Her hair, Myrin saw, was fading from its sharp pink to a dirty brown. “Just weary, methinks.”

“Well, ask Ilira if you can go early, aye?” Cellica’s voice carried a touch of compulsion.

“Aye.” Ninea gave Myrin a curious look. “Aye, I’ll do that.”

The half-ore wandered to the back of the salon, looking ill.

Hesitantly, Myrin selected three gowns—a gentle, deep blue affair with gold trim, a conservative green with silver chasing at the bodice, and a sleek black garment. She didn’t particularly want any of them. She pulled Kalen’s worn runic tighter about her body. She liked how it smelled—it felt like Kalen was embracing her. Why did he have to be so handsome?

Stop it, girl, she thought. You don’t even know who you are. You shouldn’t worry about men—particularly ones who hate you!

She hoped Kalen didn’t hate her, after what she’d done— accidentally—to Fayne.

But what had she done?

As they made their way to the mirror-walled fitting room, Myrin spotted Ninea near the back of the Menagerie. The woman she spoke ro was slim and elegant and beautiful, with long midnight hair and delicate pointed ears. An elf, Myrin thought, but there was something … otherworldly about her. Looking at her made it hard to breathe.

“Lady Ilira herself,” Cellica said, poking her head around Myrin’s waist. “Aye—you’re thinking she can’t be mortal. She’s an eladrin, lass—they’re all like that.”

“Eladrin?” Myrin frowned. She’d never heard this word before.

Cellica shrugged. “High elves, eladrin, all the same to me.” She took Myrin’s arm. “Come—you’ll see her again at the ball, of course.”

“She’s coming?” Myrin hadn’t thought there might be nobles rhere, but of course there would be. Good thing she would be in costume, otherwise she’d be too afraid to show her common face. Around such a creature as Lady Ilira, she would feel even worse.

“Every year!” Cellica said. “It’s a tradition.”

Myrin blinked then hurried to follow. She felt self-conscious trying on the gowns with the aid of an attendant, but the way Cellica casually flung clothes around made her relax. The attendants measured them, then waited for a decision. The dresses would be altered later, to be picked up in time for the revel.

“The dance between Ilira and Lorien is traditional,” Cellica said. “Every year, she and Lady Lorien dance at the height of the ball. No two ladies are closer friends than that pair, and—so the gossip says-—it’s more than that.” She tossed a slinky green gown over her shoulder, and the attendant barely caught it. “But never we lesser mortals mind.”

Myrin blushed, though she couldn’t say why.

“And who … who will Lady Ilira dress as?” Myrin asked. If she stood on her toes, she could just see the elf woman over the mirrors, surveying her salon.

“Probably no one.” Cellica shook her head. “She always wears black, and lots of it,” she said. “Dull, I know, but she’s so elegant.” She leaned in close to Myrin. “Some say she does it in mourning for a lost love, but I rather think it’s to hide something. Unsightly tattoos or scars or the like. Some say she has one on her back—and that’s why she never wears her own backless gowns—though I think there’s a reason she always wears long gloves, let me tell you.”

“How do you know all this?” Myrin asked.

“One of us has to keep up with the news in the city, and gods-know Sir Shadow isn’t going to do it.” Cellica shrugged into a silver gown and admired herself. “And I like gossip.”

Myrin smiled and looked at her feet—thinking of Kalen.

The attendant returned with a woven basket in which lay two gowns. “If you would be pleased,” she said, “the lady suggests you try these.”

Cellica frowned at the gowns. “Who—?”

“Lady Ilira,” said the attendant. “She saw you in the Menagerie and thought these colors and styles might serve. Fitted per your measurements. Perhaps … a happy coincidence?”

Curious, Myrin looked across rhe room. Lady Ilira was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the shadows. It gave her a chill.

“Ye gods.” Cellica held up a scarlet gown, human-sized. She eyed Myrin devilishly.

“I don’r think—” Myrin started, but Cellica wouldn’t accept such an answer. She disrobed timidly while Cellica drew on a gold gown.

Myrin had to admit the red dress looked fine. It was sleek, it was daring, and ir was bright without being gaudy. And the cut was perfect—it hugged her waiflike curves in a way that was not at all waiflike, but neither was it loose. She almost thought she looked pretty.

“Perfect for your skin!” Cellica nodded.

Myrin looked at her shimmering skin in rhe mirrors. In the soft lighting of the salon, it glowed a deep tan like polished betel wood. She blushed.

“The blue doesn’t really serve,” said Cellica. She srood on a stool, straining up to finger Myrin’s shoulder-lengrh hair. Myrin flushed and tried to look away from the mirror, only to remember she was surrounded by mirrors. “It’s a lovely blue, and all, but it’s … blue.”

Myrin’s insides tingled. “What… what would serve?”

“Well,” Cellica said, “this one’s an evening gown worn by the legendary Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, who—as one of the Seven Sisters—had silver hair to her waist. If we could just get Ninea over here. Shame, as she charges such hard coin for—”

And just like that—as Myrin watched in the mirror—the scraggly blue hair spun and swam like the currents in a whirlpool. In a breath, it turned to rich, burnished silver and fell ro her waist.