Downshadow (32 page)

The desires of that woman—that creature…

“Growing up like that—hated and beaten and unloved,” she said, her wide, silver, pupilless eyes gleaming at him. “It muddled you— ruined you for mortal women, did it not?”

“Yes,” he gasped. Her magic heightened his senses’ and her hands burned him through his hardened skin. Her lips, oh gods, and her teeth…

Her sharp-fanged grin widened. “Good.”

Kalen shivered at the memory.

He pulled himself from his cool, tousled bed and stretched. It smelled like her. Her scent was everywhere, sweet and intoxicating and wicked.

In the mirror, his face had a short forest of brownish bristle, which he would leave to grow. Fayne had giggled when she touched his rough chin. f

The previous night blurred in his mind—he had an eye for detail but his awareness had ruptured against her. She existed to

him as a forbidding yet alluring ideal—a memory of pleasure and shadowed pain.

“You have to tell me if I’m hurting you,” he had told her.

“Why?” had been her reply.

She whispered a word in his ear that filled him with shuddering agony. He fought through the dizziness to kiss her harder. His fingers dug into her flesh, wrenching a gasp from her lips.

“I can’t tell my own strength—I can’t always feel everyrhing. You have to—”

“You misunderstand.” Nothing about her smile was innocent or confused. “Why?”

He shivered again and the image faded.

There had been pain, yes, but none of it physical. It had been in their hearrs. Things had broken rhat had needed breaking.

He shook his head to clear it. He wandered, in only his loose hose, to the door.

In the main room, all looked much as it always did. But he saw immediately that the coals that kept the simmer stew hot through the nighr in preparation for the morn had gone out, yet the pot still hung over them.

Kalen frowned. Had no one eaten today?

And—when he entered the room fully—he discovered an oily red-black puddle spreading across the floor, coming from the other bedchamber.

Instantly, Kalen was on alert and listening. He heard weak, haggard breathing and recognized it immediately. Heedless of an attack, he hurried to Cellica’s room.

The halfling lay within. Her middle was a mess of red and she was paler than chalk. Kalen would have thought her dead if he hadn’t seen her chest moving, just barely.

“Cellica,” Kalen said, kneeling beside her. “Gods. Gods!”

The halfling’s eyes opened and her lips parted. “Well … met. Coins bright?”

Kalen cupped her face. “Cellica,” he said. “Sister …”

“Look at this, Kalen.” One feeble hand indicated the black mess that soaked the front of her linen shift. “Killed me, Kalen. Knife cur

all my insides. Poisoned. Too much for you.”

Kalen’s fingers lingered over her breast. He knew she was right. The wounds were too deep, and puckered black by poison. He couldn’t heal her—not with his meager powers.

But he had to try. He had to.

He cupped his hand around his ring and closed his eyes. Eye of three gods, Helm, Tyr, Torm, whoever you are—hear my prayer.

“No, Kalen—even if you’d come four hours gone… it’s too late.”

“Shut up.” Kalen gripped his ring tightly, driving the symbol of Helm into his skin. He had sworn he would never beg, but he would beg for any god who might heal his sister …

“Don’t do it, Kalen,” Cellica said. Her suggestive voice was cracked, broken, but still made him pause. “Not for me.”

He looked into her eyes and tried to speak through a choked throat. “Let me save you.”

“You can’t.” She shook her head. “Save it for her. The dwarf… he took her.”

Rath, Kalen realized. “Who?” he whispered. “Who did he take?” “Myr… Myrin.”

Cellica shook her head sharply, prompting a series of heaving, gagging coughs. Kalen thought she might spit forth shards of glass. “And Fayne.”

“What about her?” Kalen coughed, burying his mouth against his arm. “Did you see her?”

Cellica shook her head. “I saw—” Her eyes widened as though aftaid. “Not important.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. Anger suffused him.

“I know—” Cellica clutched his arm hard. “I know that look in your eye.”

“Cellica,” Kalen said. “Cellica, I swear to you. I will find him, and when I do—”

“Please don’t,” she said. “Don’t make me die listening … to dark words.” Tears filled her eyes. “If it takes … me dying to remind you—to save you from…” She gestured feebly, as though to indicate the world entire.

“You’re not going to die,” Kalen said. Cellica grinned wanly. “Just remember who you are.” Kalen swallowed. “I’m nothing. Just a shadow of a man—not fit for—”

“Shush.” The halfling rolled her eyes. She reached for his face and slapped him lightly on the cheek. “You idiot.”

Then blood poured from her lips and she gasped for air. Kalen held her tightly, felt her heart hammering in her chest. “Remember,” she whispered.

“I—” Kalen squeezed her hand tighter. “I will, but you’ll be right here to remind me.”

“So charming.” She smiled dizzily. “Always so—” And then her eyes quaked and saw nothing.

The world swam back gradually, in layers of gray and black. Myrin struggled for several moments to remember who she was, and even longer to reason out where she was: a darkened chamber with a stone floor and walls. A slim shaft of sunlight fell through a high window, lighting the chamber dimly. Overhead and all around her, she heard a great clicking and whirring, as though from some sort of mechanism—grinding stone and metal against one another.

Fayne sat next to her, looking up at the ceiling and murmuring softly. A bruise colored the right side of her face, and something was wrong with her left arm—it hung oddly from her shoulder.

“Fayne?” Myrin tried to ask. Something lumpy and soft filled her mouth.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the half-elf said. She was not gagged. “I’m almost… there.”

Fayne’s hand slipped out from behind her. Myrin heard a fleshy pop, and Fayne’s arm shifted back into its socket. Her stomach turned over.

Fayne looked around and reached toward Myrin. “Now,” she said, “promise not to cry out or try any magic—something the dwarf might hear?”

Myrin nodded.

Fayne removed Myrin’s gag. “Kalen will come to rescue you soon, I think,” she said. “I left him a note, and I don’t think he knows how to give up.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

“What’s going on? Who was that gold woman?” Myrin asked, hardly daring to speak. Then she struggled against her bonds. “Why aren’t you untying me?”

“Don’t be silly—we can’t both escape,” Fayne said. “If we do that, Rath will get away—and you want him to pay for Cellica, right?”

“I suppose.” Myrin didn’t want anyone else to be hurt. “But won’t he hurt me when he finds you gone?”

“I don’t think so,” Fayne said. “He’s been paid to take us alive, I think.” She patted herself as though searching for something. Her hand settled over her belly. “Here it is.”

“What?”

Myrin watched as Fayne drew from her bodice a shaft of gray-white wood about twice the length of a dagger. It didn’t look at all familiar and Myrin had no idea what it was.

“Wait.” Fayne moved to put it in Myrin’s hand, but paused. “I can only give this to you if you promise you’ll be careful, and only use it when the time is right.”

“I promise,” Myrin said. “But what is it?”

Fayne slipped the item into Myrin’s manacled hand and she knew its touch instantly, though her mind had no memory of it. A wand—her wand.

Fayne slid it gently into the sleeve of Myrin’s nightgown. “Remember your promise—only if you think you can defeat Rath.” Fayne stood.

“Yes,” Myrin said. She longed to feel the wand again, but she could wait. “Hold—”

Fayne had turned to leave. “Aye?”

“Can’t you stay with me?” Myrin asked. “Can’t we fight him together?”

Fayne knelt down again. “Child—”

“Don’t call me a child,” said Myrin. “I’m not that much younger than you. Maybe five or six winters—no more.” Fayne’s eyes glittered. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Myrin lied. She wasn’t, now that she thought about it. “But what’s more important, I know what you said.” “Oh?” Fayne looked dubious.

Myrin narrowed her eyes. “You said Kalen would rescue me—and I also know you aren’t unbinding me and putting the wand in my hand because you think I might use it against you. Now why would you do that—unless you were afraid of me?”

“Not convinced by my performance, eh?” Fayne smiled and

gestured to the manacles she’d discarded. “I’m afraid you’re right. I’m an opportunist, Myrin—and I see my chance. It’s nothing personal, you understand.”

“This is about Kalen,” Myrin accused.

Fayne looked genuinely surprised. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re leaving me here,” Myrin said, “so I won’t fight you for him.”

“Would you?” Fayne knelt before Myrin, her hands a dagger’s length from Myrin’s bonds. “Would you fight me for him?”

“Yes.” Myrin stared her down, looking right into her gray eyes.

Fayne stared back, that same ironic smirk on her face. “You’d be wasting your time,” she said. “Kalen’s a killer—a hard, brutal killer. He’d never love a softling like you.”

“He’s different now,” Myrin said. “He’s changed.”

Fayne shook her head. “Folk never change,” she said. “They just wear different faces.”

Myrin shivered at the words. Her mind raced. “If fighting you for Kalen is useless,” she reasoned, “then you would as well release me. So why don’t you?”

Fayne shook her head. “You’re a clever girl. But I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have reasons, I assure you.” “I’d like to hear them.”

Fayne said nothing, only leaned in to kiss Myrin on the lips, in a gesture that was as sisterly as it was mocking. It lingered, becoming warmer, but Myrin felt trapped—paralyzed as though by a spider’s venom.

Dimly, she felt Fayne freeze taut as well. Her hands clasped ineffectually, as though she was trying to escape the kiss but could not.

It felt strange. She’d never kissed a woman—that she remembered, anyway—and it stirred odd, tickling feelings on the back of her neck and down deep in her stomach. She wanted more of Fayne—to drink Fayne in, absorb her into herself.

Myrin saw, reflected in Fayne’s widening eyes, blue runes spreading across her forehead.

When Fayne’s lips touched hers, Myrin saw her clearly—saw inside he,r. She couldn’t say how—as with the lich woman and her magic, Myrin simply saw and did not question.

She was in an underground chamber, she realized, smoky with torches and the reek of burning flesh. She could see no more than half a dozen paces around her.

An elf woman in leathers stood a few steps from her. She looked familiar, and Myrin knew her: Lady Ilira, only younger. Young enough that she could see the difference, which for an elf meant seven or eighr decades, mayhap ten. She held a crossbow pointed at Myrin—no, at Fayne.

Myrin realized she was watching this through Fayne’s eyes.

“Where is she, Cythara?” Ilira’s voice burned her ears. “Where is the child?”

Myrin felt strong hands grasp her shoulders. “What child?” a woman’s velvet-dark voice asked over her shoulder. “I hold none but my own daughter. Why—lost one of yours, did you?”

Myrin saw Ilira shiver in rage.

“By the Seldarine—don’t fire!” a man cried from behind Ilira. “You’ll hit her child!”

Myrin looked: a tall, handsome, gold-skinned elf, clad in shimmering mail, with a sword that gleamed in the torchlight. The sword should have pulsed with magic, but she felt a pressure she recognized-as a magic-killing field radiating from the elf. A spell he had cast. Bladesinger, she thought, though she had no idea what the word might mean.

She understood that he had meant her—Fayne. She had a sense of feeling childlike. If Ilira was almost a century younger here, how old was Fayne? What was Fayne?

Myrin looked up through Fayne’s eyes at the woman holding her protectively. Mother, she realized: a gold-skinned elf, half-dressed in a sweaty black robe. She could have been twin to the bladesinger, were it not for her cruel beauty. Shadows danced in her eyes.

“Kill me if you will, slut, only let my daughter live,” Fayne’s morher said to Ilira, with a cruel smile. “You see,
can have a child,p>

while you are barren, no matter how my brother ruts you. I am well pleased with that and can die smiling.”

Ilira gave a strangled cry and would have fired, but the bladesinger stepped in the way.

“Twilight, please!” the elf lord begged. “Please—she’s my sister, and she has a—”

“That is not a child, YIdar,” Ilira said. “That is a demon. A demon!”

Myrin felt white-hot loathing for Ilira wash over her like a wave and knew it was Fayne’s hatred. It suffocated her, and she could not move.

The bladesinger put his arms out. “You’ll have to kill me, too. I’ll not move.”

Ilira grasped his arm to pull him aside, and Myrin-as-Fayne saw smoke rise where their skin touched. Yldar’s flesh burned, and yet he stood firm. They both looked startled by Ilira’s use of her power, and she quickly let go.

“How can you defend her?” Ilira cried. “She murdered your betrothed!”

“That was an accident,” he asserted. “She meant to kill—”

“Don’t you see?” Ilira cried. “She’s controlling you! She’s controlled your life since you were a child. She rules you now, though you refuse to see it. She—YIdar!”

The bladesinger had fallen to his knees, clutching his chest. Ilira reached for him, then flinched away as though her touch might kill him. She looked at Fayne’s mother. “Stop it!”

Myrin looked up to see a bloody mass in her mother’s hand. A heart, Myrin knew—Yldar’s heart. She realized Yldar’s attention had waned, and his counterspell with it.

“Flee,” her mother said, “or he dies.”

“Do not do this, Cythara,” Ilira said. “He is your brother. You saw how he—”

“Only that he stood between us,” Fayne’s mother said. “Now you owe him your life—don’t waste his. Flee’

Myrin heard the imperative—the magical command in that word—but Ilira fought to hold her ground. Myrin saw something