Downshadow

FOURTEEN

As dawn rose, Araezra sat alone in her private room at the barracks. She slapped the broadsheet down on the table and leaned back in her chair, fuming.

"Watch fails to apprehend vigilante in Castle Ward," noted the Mocking Minstrel, this particular tale written by the bard Satin Rutshear. "Clumsy fool Talanna Taenfeather injured in pursuit while narcissistic superior, Araezra Hondyl, parades half-naked through streets."

Araezra groaned. The emphasized words were underlined in a girlish hand.

"Open Lord Neverember calls Araezra's actions 'justified,' saying 'I'm sure she acted for the best'… in protecting his bedmate interests in the Watch," she read. "Neverember was later seen furtively arriving at Taenfeather's bedside in the temple of Torm, protected by cloaked men."

Then: "For misuse of city taxes to support nonregulated religious bodies, see over''

Araezra rubbed her eyes. The quotations were accurate if slanted, and the additions infuriated her. Lord Neverember and Talanna's energetic flirtations were well known, but had never been put quite this way. The casual cruelty left a foul taste in Araezra's mouth. She stabbed her nails into her palms hard.

And of course, Satin quoted Lord Bladderblat, the broadsheet's ubiquitous parody noble.

"On young Hondyl's competency as a valabrar, Lord Bladderblat calls Hondyl 'too pretty for a thinking woman, but she's got assets; better she find a blade for 'twixt her rhighs than one for her beltthough she can wear the belt to my bed, if she likes.' "

That Araezra was presented as the bedmate of a fiction rankled.

And being described as "young"-true, she was just over twenty, but her rank came from her success, not her beauty.

This wasn't new to her, this ridicule. She'd often tried to track down "Satin Rutshear," but it was just a fancyname, of course. The Minstrel protected its own, and the Lords' command against punishing broadsheet writers and printers stayed Araezra's hand. Violating it would have led to her discharge-but it would have made her feel much better.

"Watch keeps silent on continued threat," Satin went on. "Hondyl has no comment."

In that private, unheard, and thus safe moment, Araezra finally let vent. "Mayhap you might ask, Lady Rutshear," she cried. "I'd give you a comment, well and good-then twist your snobby head off your shoulders, you little whore!"

She balled up the Minstrel and hurled it across the office into the spittoon.

She felt better.

Then she set to repressing her anger into a tight, simmering ball.

Burn her eyes and her waggling tongue, but this "Satin" had the right of it-there was no place for screaming, hysterical lasses in the Guard, particularly not those ranked as highly as she.

This story-and the whole situation it cat-raked with such fiendish glee-was bad enough. If she was going to be humiliated and reprimanded for abandoning her patrol, endangering her men, and landing her second in a bed at the temple of Torm, then at least she could do it with some dignity. The judgmental eyes of the rest of the Watch and Guard, the disapproving glare of Commander Jarthay-they were bad enough.

And where in the Hells was Kalen? He hadn't appeared for duty this morn, and she could really use his shoulder to Araezra dropped her face into her hands. She wouldn't cry-she couldn't. Crying was for weak-willed women, and she must be strong-for Talanna, if for nothing else.

Don't think about Talanna, fading in and out of life under the hands of those priests.

She looked instead at the sword on the table, and let its silvery masterwork distract her.

It was a bastard sword, well and good, but deceptively light and sharp. Magical, she knew-it had glowed fiercely silver in Shadowbane's hand, and retained this glow even after he'd left it. Now, sitting cool on her desk, it radiated power at a touch-but balanced power.

A sword is neither good nor evil, she thought, but that its wielder uses it for either.

Araezra looked in particular at the sigil carved into its black hilt: an upright gauntlet with a stylized eye in its open palm. She'd thought at first it was the gauntlet of Torm, but an hour in the room of records had shown her otherwise: it was the symbol of a long-dead church-that of Helm, God of Guardians.

That god-a deity neither inherently evil nor good-had faded since the old world, like many across Faerun. She'd read one story of his death at the hands of the then-god of justice, Tyr-who had also perished in the last century. That hardly made sense to her: Why would two such gods make war? And why were they not left to resr?

She found this sword a mystery, a relic of an ancient past. Its symbol-in particular, the eye-stared at her wryly, as though amused by its secrets.

She thought about the gauntlets on her own breasrplate-five, for valabrar. Here was only one, for the rank of trusty. But, she noted, the gauntlet adorned both sides of the hilt, making two, for vigilant. And Helm had been called the Vigilant One.

Araezra thought of Kalen, who wore two gauntlets. Something about a ring he wore…

But that was ridiculous-with his worsening illness, Kalen could hardly walk fast, much less run. He trained, she knew, and kept his body in excellent condition to stave off the illness he'd told her about-but surely he couldn't outpace Talanna Taenfeather.

She was startled out of her thoughts when a loud knock came at the door. She wiped at her cheeks and was aghast that her hand came away damp. "Come," she said.

The door opened and Bors Jarthay glided into the room, his face solemn. Standing at attention, Araezra felt a chill of terror and grief.

"Talanna," Araezra said. "How-how is she?"

Bors narrowed his eyes. "Well, Rayse-I don't know the best way to say this…"

Tears welled up in Araezra's eyes and her lip rrembled.

"She'll be…" Bors whispered, "perfectly well."

Araezra's heart skipped a beat. "Wait-what?"

"Healing went fine, and she'll be well," the commander said. "A little wrathful, but generally her precocious, loud, and-ow!" Araezra slapped him. "Heh. Suppose I deserved that."

Araezra slapped him again. "Gods burn you! Why do you have to do that?"

He smiled gently. "All's well, Rayse."

"You monstrous oaf!" She wound back to strike again. "Damn you to all the Hells!"

Bors caught her wrist, pulled her to him, and hugged her. "All's well," he whispered.

Stunned, she put her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. Tears came-thankful, angry tears-and she didn't stop them.

"You ever want to talk, lass," he said. "I'm here."

"Just… another moment." Then she glared up at him. "And don't think this means anything. With all due respect, you're still a boor and won't be seeing me naked any time soon."

Bors sighed. "Mores the pity."

He hugged her tighter.