Downshadow (23 page)

Her smile instantly vanished, replaced by a dangerous cold. Unconsciously, Kalen’s hand twitched toward one of those knives he’d been thinking of just breaths earlier, but he reined his impulse.

“Your tattoo.” He nodded to the runes inked along her collarbone. “Gargan vathkelke kaugathal—Dwarvish, aye? I know only vathkel— lost. What does the rest mean?”

He raised his hand toward her chest. He didn’t intend to touch the tattoo, but perhaps he did—he couldn’r feel anything. His thoughts were suddenly distant—only the warmth of her body pressed against his, the sweet lavender perfume of her hair, the cool velvet of her gloves … he wanred—he. yearned—to know how her skin felt.

But Lady Ilira broke away from him, hand reaching halfway to her chest. Her eyes like burnished gold coins were far away—distant and sad. “No,” she said, and he could have sworn before the Eye of Justice that he saw tears in her eyes. “Good saer, my thanks for the dance.”

“Wait, I did not mean—” he said.

“Your pardon, boy,” said a velvety smooth and dagger-sharp voice behind him. The robed elf—Sandhor—slid past him and seized Ilira’s gloved hands in his own. “Does this human offend, my twilight dove?” He glared back, down his impressive nose.

Ilira blinked over Sandhor s shoulder at Kalen, and for an instant, he thought her eyes were pleading. Then she assumed a brilliant smile and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Ruldrin, heart, just in time—” They swept into the dance. “I’ve been meaning to discuss your latest donation to the Haven.”

“What donation?” Ruldrin favored Kalen with a cruel smile over Ilira’s shoulder.

“Exactly,” the elf woman said sweetly.

They whirled away, leaving Kalen stunned and very alone amidst the other dancers.

He saw, over the whirling gowns, a face framed by red-dyed hair: Araezra. “Gods,” he murmured, and ducked away. With that display, she must have seen him and recognized the outfit. Yes, she was coming his way. Idiot.

He was making his way back to Myrin when he smelled something strange—something burning. He looked at his hand, and saw— mutely—smoke rising from his fingertips. The tips of his fore and middle finger were blistered and bleeding.

When had that happened?

“Hmm-mmm,” Fayne moaned, lounging in one end of Lorien’s golden bathtub. “Perfect.”

The priestess, ensconced at her own end, watched Fayne with a serene smile on her face. Her cheeks were rosy in the candlelight reflected off the warm water.

“Dancing next?” Lorien asked. “Our appointed arrival at midnight cannot be far off.”

“Just,” Fayne said, stroking one of Lorien’s long, slender legs. “Just a little longer.”

The priestess smiled and closed her eyes. Fayne hadn’t been certain this would be the right course—seduction, her favorite method—but it was certainly paying off thus far. And if she enjoyed it a little herself, all the better! Time enough to dispense pain after pleasure, aye?

Careful, she thought. You’ll sound like that Roaringhorn girl you humiliated last month.

The memory made her giggle. The whipmaster. She had rather liked wearing such a big, muscle-bound form. It had felt stupid and thick, but oh so enjoyable—particularly after.

Lorien saw her smile. “What are you thinking of?”

“A jest—nothing.” Fayne in Ilira’s form giggled again. “You?”

Lorien stretched and drew herself out of the bath, gleaming and perfect. The light glittered off her soft curves. Fayne told herself to remember that effect, to use some day.

“Many things.” Lorien crossed to a divan and drew a ruby red robe around her lovely body. “Things about you—and about us.”

“Oh?” Fayne pressed her breasts against the edge of the gold tub and grinned. “What?”

“First—” Lorien lifted from the divan an ornate, golden rod. “Have I shown you this?”

“And what might that be for?” asked Fayne, still blissful.

Lorien smiled. “Revealing secrets,” she said. “From a false face.”

Fayne didn’t understand immediately, and that proved her undoing. “What do you—?”

Lorien gestured languidly. “Come.” Her word was powerful and inescapable. -

The hairs rose on Fayne’s neck—a magical attack. Fayne’s will hammered at the command, but her body was already caught. She stood, trembling, and wrenched herself our of the bath. Against her will, her body began walking toward Lorien.

“I don’t understand,” Fayne said. “Hearr, what are you—”

Lorien shook her head. “Whatever you are, creature,” she said, “Ilira and I love each other well, but you misunderstand our relationship. A pity for you.”

Fayne’s mind whirled. “I felt…” she tried. “I felt it was time to … My love, don’t punish me for my haste! I only wanted to take us to another ledge, my darling one!”

Lorien rolled her eyes. As Fayne stood before her, Lorien gestured for her to kneel, and Fayne did so. “I can’t decide,” she said, “whether you are one of my enemies, or one of hers.” She shifted the golden rod from hand to hand. “Which is it, child?”

“Dear hearr,” Fayne gasped. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Show truth,” Lorien intoned in Elvish, and tapped Fayne on the forehead with the rod.

Fayne screeched, loud and long, as magic ripped away from her, shattering her illusions and deceptions. They faded in sequence: first Ilira’s face, then the conjured black hair, then the alluring features, then—as her skin prickled and stretched—her entire shape began to shift, back to—good gods—back to her true self. Something that was certainly not a half-elf.

Lorien gasped. “One of Likens creatures,” she said. “Ilira warned me.”

Those names. Ilira, the woman Fayne hated, but the other. How did she know… ?

i Fayne looked at herself, at her black-nailed fingers and alabaster skin. Her tail slapped her legs. Not her real body—not now! She pawed at her garish pink hair and screamed.

“Gods.” Lorien put out a trembling hand, reaching toward Fayne’s head by reflex. “That explains everything. I’m sorry, child. I didn’t—”

There came a rush and a snickering sound, and Lorien’s head snapped back. Fayne looked at her, confused.

For a heartbeat, Lorien stood there, bent backward, standing erect.

Then she fell in a geyser of blood from her opened throat. The priestess slumped to the floor, twitching and dying.

Rath stood near them. He had struck and sheathed his blade in a single movement.

“What?” Fayne’s mind barely functioned. “I thought… you said you never use that.”

The dwarf looked down at her as one might look at a child. “For those who are worthy,” he said. “And those for whom I have been paid.”

Fayne stared numbly at Lorien—at the blood spreading around her face—and could not think. The priestess’s eyes blinked rapidly, and she tried to speak but only gurgled. Fayne’s stomach turned over and she felt like vomiting into the golden tub.

Rath turned away from Fayne in disgust. “Clean yourself. Put your mask back on.”

Fayne grasped her head, which was reeling. Magic drained the vitality from her limbs, but those limbs shifted, their deathly pallor replaced by the smooth warmth of her half-elf body. She felt her teeth—normal once more—and sighed in deep relief. It was only an illusion and would have to last until she could perform her ritual again, but it was enough.

She rose on shaky, weak legs. Rath didn’t help her.

Finally, her ugly self hidden, she could think clearly again. The enormity of Rath’s actions struck her, and she gasped.

“You stupid son of a mother-suckling goat!” she screamed at the dwarf as she wound a white towel around her nakedness. She pointed at Lorien, who lay dying on the floor. “She wasn’t supposed to die—I didn’t pay you to kill her!

Rath shrugged. “You are welcome.”

“You beardless idiot!” Fayne’s face felt like it would explode. ” Who askedyou:’Who asked you to step in? I had everything under my hand, every—urt!”

The dwarf seized her by the throat, cutting off words and air. Choking, she could not resist as he forced her against the wall and pinned her there with his arm. Her weak fingers could only flail at his ironlike arm.

“Her, I rook coin to kill,” Rath whispered in her ear. “You, I slay for free.”

Fayne gasped as light entered her vision.

Ralen found Myrin surrounded by a crowd of admirers—young noble lads who were taking turns trying to get the silver-haired girl to dance. She kept giggling at their flattery and answering their increasingly bawdy compliments innocently. While her gold crown-mask hid her face, Kalen thought he saw understanding and bemusement in her eyes.

“Kalen!” she said as he approached, and the noble lads looked around.

Kalen flinched—she shouldn’t use his name when he was trying to keep a low cloak.

The lads puffed themselves up against him, but one sweep of his icy eyes and they turned to easier sport elsewhere. At least the damned Shadowbane getup was good for something tonight.

Myrin threw herself into Kalen’s arms. “Hee!” she said. “I’m having such a—heep!—marvelous time.” She ran her pale fingers along his black leathers. “Dance with me.”

Newly confident in that regard from his dance with Lady Ilira, Kalen thought at first to accept. Then he thought better of it, owing to the scent of flowery wine on her breath. From that and the slur in her speech, Kalen could tell Myrin was quite drunk.

“There you are!” said a familiar voice. Cellica appeared out from under a banquet table.

“How did—how did you get in here?” Kalen asked.

“Fayne brought me,” Cellica said. “Haven’t you seen her?”

“Fayne?” Kalen furrowed his brow inside his helm. It was hot and hard to think in there—good thing Cellica hadn’t seen him dancing, or she’d start blaming that for any…

“Aye,” the halfling said. “Little red-headed half-elf dressed as a swashbuckler … maybe you didn’t notice her while you were

dancing with that elf hussy. Who was she, anyway?”

“Uh.” Kalen flinched. He remembered Cellica speaking of Lady Ilira, usually in glowing rerms. Perhaps it was for the best that she hadn’t recognized the woman.

Cellica stared up at him, tapping her foot. “Well?”

“Well what?” Kalen flinched away from Myrin teasing at his mask.

Cellica looked at the intoxicated woman in his arms. “Eep!”Myrin said, and she giggled.

“Oh.” Kalen hitched Myrin up and set her down on the table with a bump that made her giggle. “I wasn’t doing—”

Cellica just narrowed her eyes, and Kalen sighed.

At that moment, a scream split the night, cutting through the music of the minstrels. The murmur of conversation, jests, and laughter died a little, and nervous titters followed the scream, as though it were a jape or prank played by some noble lass with more drink in her than sense.

Myrin shivered. “Kalen, I don’t think I like this ball any more.”

Louder screams followed—screams of someone being tortured in the rooms above—and the revelers could ill laugh it off. “Fayne,” Kalen said, recognizing the voice.

Cellica went white.

“We need to get up there,” Kalen said.

Kalen saw a pair of guardsmen start up the grand staircase, only to meet a crimson flash. Black, froth-covered fangs appeared in the air, gnashing and tearing at the first guard. The others paused, horror-stricken, and disembodied mouths struck at them, too. Ladies screamed and panic broke around the stairs as the spell struck celebrants and revelers at random. The other guards employed to watch over the revel could not get through the crush of bodies.

“Not the stairs,” Kalen said, and Cellica nodded.

The screams died, but chaos was in full bloom. Revelers scrambled this way and that, shouting and shoving. Kalen saw noblemen arguing, terrified, hands on their blades, and he knew a brawl was imminent.

Abruptly, another cry came—loud and wrenching—from the

midst of the dancers. Kalen looked, for he recognized the voice: Lady Ilira had backed away from Lord Sandhor, clutching at her throat. The elf merchant stepped toward her, casting the shadow of his cloak around her, but she shook her head to whatever he was saying. She vanished into him, as though she had stepped through him. She did not appear out the other side.

Wide-eyed, Kalen looked at Cellica, and the halfling nodded.

“Kalen?” Myrin asked sleepily. “Kalen, what’s going on?”

“Have you your murderpiece, wee lady?” Kalen asked, drawing the daggers from their sheaths against the inside of his thighs. Where Lady Ilira’s leg had wrapped, he recalled.

Cellica gave an impish smile and drew out her necklace, with its little crossbow-shaped charm. “Always.” She spoke a word in an ancient language, and the medallion grew to fit her hand. She wound the crossbow with two quick twists of her wrist. “And don’t call me ‘wee.’ “

Kalen boosted the little woman up on his shoulders and bent his knees.

“Kalen?” Myrin’s face was pale. She seemed sober—and frightened. “Where—?”

“Wait.” Kalen cupped her chin and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “We’ll be back.”

He scooped up Cellica, hopped onto the banquet table, and ran. When he reached the end, his boots gleamed with blue fire and he leaped for the edge of the balcony. He caught it with one hand, hoisted Cellica up, and swung himself over the rail.

Myrin’s hair rustled in the wind of Kalen’s jump. He and Cellica flew up and away, toward the balcony where the screams had come from. Many revelers looked up, startled, and shouts renewed. Men argued, shouted, and shoved.

She wondered what magic let him jump like that—leaving a thin trail of blue flame.

Myrin only watched Kalen as he flew, and silently cursed herself.

“Of course he didn’t kiss you, you ninny,” she said, fighting the tears. “You get drunk and throw yourself at him? How pitiful!”

Then Myrin gasped as a lordling slammed into the banquet table beside her with enough force to crack it. The man who had shoved him—a cruel-faced man in a black cloak—turned to leer at Myrin. She gaped and fought for air, frozen at the suddenness of his appearance.

“Kalen!” she moaned.

“Coward!” the nobleman cried. He lunged from the table and punched the cloaked man in the face. The rogue staggered back, snarling, and reached for a blade.