Downshadow

TWENTY

As they climbed down from the carriage before the Temple of Beauty and joined the fancifully dressed revelers waiting outside, Kalen admitted to himself that he was not pleased.

But when he looked at it honestly, he had no one to blame but himself. He'd known this was a mistake. How had he let Cellica talk him into this?

"Give me one good reason why you shouldn't go as Shadowbane," she said.

When Kalen had given her seven, Cellica frowned. "Well… give me one more."

In the end, Kalen privately suspected she'd used the voice on him.

"Kalen?" Myrin asked at his side, calling him from his thoughts. "Is aught wrong?"

"No," he said, taking the opportunity once again to admire how the red gown and silver hair suited her. She looked uncomfortably womanly, rather rhan girlish. He hadn't said anything, of course, but that didn't stop him thinking it.

Mayhap that was why he hadn't argued against Cellica more effectively.

Don't let yourself be distracted, he thought. You can survive the night. It's just a ball.

He hoped there wouldn't be dancing. Graceful as he might be, he was a soldier. He knew nothing of the world of courtly balls or dancing.

They entered rhrough the foyer, decorated with images of the Lady Firehair and her worshipers-beautiful and graceful creatures, all. Fountains shaped like embracing lovers trickled wine. Windows of stained glass depicting scenes from Sunite history let in the radiance of the rising moon. Guests were gathered, laughing and flirting with rose-robed priests and priestesses. This, Kalen could handle. Only a ball, he thought.

"Sorry again," Myrin said. "About yestereve-I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Kalen shrugged.

"I thought for sure you'd bring Fayne," said Myrin. "She's your.. ah?"

"No." Kalen looked at her blankly. "I know her about as well as I know you."

"Oh." Myrin held his arm a little tighter. He could have sworn she added, "Good."

"Saer and Lady-if you'll enter the grand courtyard?" A pretty acolyte gestured to a set of open golden doors carved with the visage of the goddess.

"Courtyard?" Kalen murmured, but he couldn't argue with Myrin's brilliant smile. She took his arm and pulled him along. At least Myrin was happy.

Fayne was fuming. Kalen had taken that little chiding-not a real woman like herself.

The carriage started to turn onto the most direct thoroughfare, Aureenar Street, but Fayne wasn't about to lose a single moment of style. Ostentation made her feel better.

"Keep around!" Fayne snapped to the driver. "Up to the Street of Lances!"

The man in his pressed overcoat tipped his feathered hat. "Your coin, milady."

Since she had the carriage already, she might as well prolong her rich procession.

The carriage broke away from the loose train of vehicles and swerved northeast. Fayne smirked out the window, surveying the streets, the jovial taverns, and the folk walking.

Cellica, sitting across from Fayne, fidgeted her thumbs and chewed her lip. Their ride had included a visit to Nurneene's for masks, and the halfling wore a plain white eye mask with her gold gown. She'd added a lute to represent a bard Fayne had never heard of, but apparently halflings knew their own history quire well.

"How long will this be?" She looked at Fayne anxiously.

Erik Scott de Bie

Downshadow

Fayne laughed. "Enjoy it, little one! Not every day working lasses like us ride in style."

"I appreciate you inviting me along, Fayne." The halfling smiled halfway. "I'm just worried about-" She peered out the window.

"Oh, don't fret!" Fayne insisted with a girlish smile. "I'm sure your jack can handle himself. Thar little wild-haired girl didn't look so vile." A touch dangerous, mayhap-but that was intriguing, rather than off-setting. If only the little scamp weren't interfering!

"No." Cellica smiled, apparently at the thought of Myrin. "No, she isn't."

Beshaba, Fayne thought, what is it that makes everyone cling to such pathetic waifs?

They continued north on the Singing Dolphin thoroughfare and turned east on the Streer of Lances. Fayne grinned at onlookers, whose responding srares she chose to interpret as jealous. They turned south again on Stormstar's Ride. At the end of the street, they saw the Temple of Beauty.

"Ye gracious gods," Cellica murmured, eyes wide. She reached across for Fayne's hand.

"Shiny, eh?" Fayne took Cellica's hand automatically, and the halfling clutched her tightly.

Sune's Waterdeep temple was best approached from Stormstar, Fayne thought, and particularly at this time of evening, when the last rays of the setting sun fell upon its ruby towers and gold-inlaid windows. And from the look on Cellica's face, she was right.

The great cathedral, palace, and pleasure dome towered over the noble villas alongside, shining like a beautiful star of architectural brilliance. Soaring towers and seemingly impossible buttresses made for a facade of true grandeur, which masked an open-air ballroom from which the sounds of revelry could be heard even from far away.

The halfling smiled wanly all the way until the carriage let them off.

"Aye?" Fayne grinned. "Pleased?"

But Cellica said nothing-she looked at her feet nervously.

The iron-faced dwarf attendant at the door looked at their invitation-which Fayne had forged-without any suspicion, then eyed them appraisingly. It was uncommon that two women came to a revel rogether, but hardly rare. "Who're you lasses supposed to be?"

"Olive Ruskettle!" Cellica peeped, then she went back to staring at the temple.

The guard nodded-he seemed at least to have heard of the "first halfling bard"-then looked at Fayne. He handed back the scroll. "And you, lass?"

"Aye?" Fayne gestured down-black leggings tucked into swashbuckler boots, billowy white shirt and black vest, scarlet half-cape and matching dueling glove-and flipped her magic-blacked hair. She grinned through her scarlet fox mask. "I'm not… famous?"

The guard shook his head.

"Good," Fayne said, and she kissed the dwarf on the lips. "Tymora's kiss upon you!"

They skipped inside, arm in arm, Fayne pulling Cellica along.

"Your names?" the herald asked Kalen and Myrin inside the courtyard. Music wafted across the open space from minstrels near the central staircase.

Kalen hadn't thought about such a question. "Ah-"

"Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon," Myrin said without hesitation. Smiling beneath her gold mask and crown, she took Kalen's arm.

The herald nodded. He peered at Kalen's ragged old armor with a touch of distaste. At least Kalen had let Cellica buy him a new cloak. "Of course, your ladyship."

He stepped forward and called to the assembled, "Alustriel of the Seven, and escort."

Heads turned-apparently, dressing as such a famous lady was daring-and Kalen felt Myrin stiffen. But most of the masked or painted faces wore smiles. There was even applause.

Myrin relaxed. "Good," she said, clutching her stomach.

"Outstanding," Kalen agreed, though he wasn't sure he meant it.

She smiled at him in a way that made his chest tingle.

In the courtyard, Kalen and Myrin looked out over a sea of revelers dressed in bright colors and daring fashions. Kings and tavern wenches mingled and laughed around braziers, and foppishly dressed rapscallions flirted with regal queens and warrior women. Muscular youths in the furs and leather of northern barbarians boasted over tankards of mead, eyeing dancing lasses dressed in yellows and oranges, reds and greens, like nymphs and dryads. The dancers whirled across the floor while musicians struck up a jaunty chorus on yartings, flutes, and racing drums.

The ballroom was open to the night sky, and though the season was cool, braziers and unseen magic kept the courtyard comfortableteasingly so, inviting revelers to disrobe and enjoy the headiness of Sune's temple. And, Kalen noted, some of the revelers were doing just that.

They had arrived in time to witness the finale of a dance between two ladies. One-their hostess, Lorien Dawnbringer-wore gold accented with bright — pinks and reds. The other, a dark-haired elf clad in sleek black, was unknown to him. They whirled gracefully, in perfect balance, arms and legs curling artfully. Most of the nobles were watching their dance, enraptured, and when the women finished and bowed to one another, the courtyard erupted in applause and cheers.

Lorien, panting delicately, bowed to the gathered folk. The elf smiled and nodded. They joined hands and bowed ro one another. Then Lorien turned up the courtyard stairs and climbed slowly, turning to wave every few steps, as the elf lady disappeared into the throng of nobles.

Myrin tensed at his side. "The dance!" she cried. "We didn't miss it, did we?"

"What?" Entirely too much dancing was still going on, Kalen thought.

"Lady Ilira Nathalan," said Myrin. "And that priestess-Lady Lorien."

Several nearby lordlings and ladies rolled their eyes at her outburst.

"Nay, nay," said a youthful man at their side. He wore the simple but stylish robes of a Sunite priesr. "You've not missed it. They dance again at midnight-Lady Lorien will return to dance with Lady Ilira, as the sun with the night. In the middle-time, enjoy yourselves."

"Oh," Myrin said. She smiled vaguely.

The acolyte took Myrin's hands and kissed them. "Let me know if there is aught I might do to aid in this," he whispered with a sly wink. Myrin blushed fiercely.

The priest took Kalen's hands and paid him the same obeisance, to which Kalen nodded.

When the acolyte had gone, Myrin's eyes roved the crowded nobles, as though searching for someone. She found something far more interesting. "Food, Kalen!" Myrin gasped. "Look at all the food!"

"Yes-let's…" Kalen swallowed. The spectacle dizzied him. "Let's go there first."

Banquet tables around the yard were stacked high with the bounty of the realm. Myrin found sweermeats and fruirs, honey and melon and tarts, breads of a score of grains carved in the shapes of animals, wines of a hundred lands, cheeses of dozens of creatures.

While Myrin piled her plate high, Kalen scanned the parry. Merriment filled the courtyard: the murmur of a thousand conversations, laughs, and whispers in our-of-the-way corners where inrimate encounters waited.

Damn, Kalen thought, seeing the lovers in their half-hidden alcoves. He glanced at Myrin-ar her slender posterior as she bent to inspecr some cheeses-and blushed. Amazing what a difference a proper gown made to Myrin-that and the silver hair, which went so perfectly with her skin like polished oak. The red silk forced Kalen to see her for the woman she was, and that scared him as much as pleased him.

A thought occurred, then, and Kalen shuddered. Gods-she might ask him to dance.

To distract himself, he tried to recognize the costumes. Kalen was no student of history, and he did not recognize all the masks and manners, but he remembered a few heroes from the chapbooks he had bought and occasionally scanned. Mostly, he knew them by their salacious parodies-little about their true lives-and it made him feel even more awkward.

Kalen stood stiffly, trying to quell a wave of panic that had begun in his stomach and threatened to engulf the rest of him. Too many folk-and too much Myrin.

Were she here, Fayne would have a great laugh about this, he had no doubt.

The herald's next call perked Kalen's ears. "Ladies and lords, the Old Mage and escort, the Nightingale of Everlund," he cried. "Representatives of the Waterdhavian Guard."

Kalen froze at the words and turned slowly around.

"Kalen?" Myrin asked, her mouth half-full, but Kalen didn't acknowledge her.

Instead, he stared at the woman he least expected to see: Araezra, walking the halls on the arm of Bors Jarthay. It was the tradition of Watchmen to wear their arms and armor to costume revels-for instant use if needed-but to alter the garb with a tabard or cloak that could quickly be discarded in the event of trouble. Araezra's tabard depicted a stylized bird in purple embroidery. She carried a shield painted with the same bird, and she'd dyed her hair a lustrous auburn.

He told himself he should be keeping his distance, since she was one of only a few who could recognize Shadowbane. Kalen ducked behind a knot of nobles praying she wouldn't see him.

Fortunately, Araezra was distracted by something Jarthay had said. The commander had shirked tradition and opted to dress as a buffoonish sort of wizard in a red robe and an obviously false beard. He looked more than a little drunk; in fact, as Kalen watched, Jarthay took a swig of something from a flask crudely disguised as a pipe.

"A moment," Kalen murmured toward Myrin. Then he cut into the crowd, looking for a mercyroom or a broom closet or at least an alcove where he could lose the tell-tale helm. He could escape-he could…

When a hand fell on his arm, he whirled, thinking certainly it was Araezra.

"Behold, the day improves!" a woman said. "Unveil yourself, man-and don't try to lie about your name, for I'll know."

The noblewoman in question-barely more than a girl, Kalen saw-wore a tattered black gown and must have enchanted her hair, for as he watched, it writhed like a rustling nest of silver vipers. Her gown was cut cunningly and scandalously, with more gods' eye slits than dress. He knew her apparel from stories-the legendary Simbul, the Witch-Queen of Aglarond.

"Choose your words with care!" the girl said with a confident sneer beneath her half mask. "I've been taking lessons from the greatest truth-teller in Waterdeep, Lady Ilira herself! I can hear lies in a voice or read them in a face…" She snaked her fingers across his mask. "That is, I could read your face if you'd be so good as to unmask yourself." Her hand retracted and she grinned at him-much like a cat grins at a mouse. "For now, a name will do."

Kalen stumbled in his head for a reply. "But lady, my name-"

The girl smirked at his consternation. "I don't mean your true name, good saer," she said. She gestured to his outfit. "I mean, who are you meant to be?"

That didn't make it better. He didn't have an answer for that, either.

"Lay off him, Wildfire." The venomous lady's voice behind Kalen's back saved him, and he felt something take hold of his arm. "I saw him first!"

Wildfire. He knew that nickname. He didn't remember the girl's true name, but Lady Wildfire, heir of House Wavesilver, was infamous for one of the sharpest tongues in Waterdeep. Kalen remembered Cellica telling him considerable gossip about her, and wished he'd listened more. As it was, he'd heard enough to thank the gods someone had saved him.

Until he looked around.

Kalen gawked ar a petite woman dressed in a gown composed of black leather and webbing-not much of either-rhat barely covered her mosr precious family heirlooms. Her skin was tinted black and her hair was snowy white. Her skin marched her garments perfectly, especially her thigh-high boots with heels as long as fighting dirks, giving her a height to match his. She fingered the handle of a whip wrapped around her waist.

It took Kalen a breath to recognize her: a drow priestess of the spider goddess, Lolth. He knew she wasn't really a drow, as she'd made no attempt to disguise her human features. This did not surprise him: lordlings and lordlasses were quite vain. The whip didn't match, either-it made her look more a priestess of Loviatar, goddess of pain.

At his side, Kalen heard breath catch and saw The Simbul's eyes light up with fire that was anything but magical.

"Perhaps you saw him first, Talantress Roaringhorn-but I claimed him first," Lady Wildfire said in a low, dangerous hiss. "I'm surprised to see you, after last month's scandal. If I recall-the Whipmaster and his… whip?"

Kalen knew Lady Roaringhorn as well-Cellica had mentioned aught of such a scandal, though he remembered no details. He did recall that these noble girls hated each other, and competed in all ways-for the best salons, fashion, marriage, anything that could be fought over. For Waterdeep entire, if it was on the table.

"A misunderstanding," Talantress said tightly.

"Mmm. Aye, you leather-wrapped tramp," Wildfire countered.

"Kindly note my utter lack of surprise," Talantress said, "that you're so crude."

Wildfire hummed-almost purred-at Kalen. "Mmmm. Buck-toothed tease." She shot a glance at Talantress.

"Ah!" Talantress glared. "That will be quite enough, slut of a dull-eyed dwarf!"

"Gutter-battered wick-licker!" Wildfire put her fingers to her lips and licked them.

"How unwashed!" Talantress's wrath had almost broken through her calm face, but she seemed possessed of as much self-control as Araezra. Her lip curled derisively. "I wonder about those tales in the sheets about all those sweaty dockhands that loiter around Wavesilver manor. I'm sure they're very helpful with your… boat."

"That's more than enough!" Wildfire's eyes flashed. She looked to Kalen. "We'll let Lord Nameless decide."

"What?" Kalen goggled.

Wildfire caught up his right hand and wound herself into his arm; her smile could cut diamonds and her glare was posirively deadly. If The Simbul of legend had half that sort of menace, no wonder she'd kept Thay so terrified so long. "Choose," she said coldly.

Talantress curled herself around his left side. Kalen was almost glad he couldn't feel much, or all that magic-black skin would drive him to distraction. "You'd better choose me, or you'll regret it," she whispered. "I'll make personally sure."

"Choose me? Wildfire purred in his other ear. "I'm much more fun than she is." Her tone shifted from suggestive to commanding. "And my uncles are richer-and employ more swordsmen to throttle fools who spurn me."

"Ah," Kalen said, his mind racing to match his thundering heart.

"Ninny!" Wildfire said. "You want me, aye saer?"

Talantress grasped Kalen's other arm. "He's dancing with me?

"Me!" Lady Wildfire hissed.

All the while, Kalen watched as Araezra wandered toward them. He couldn't get away, not with the ladies fighting over him. He was trapped.

"You should spare yon knight, ladies," said a gentle voice behind them.

The soft and alluring voice-strangely familiar-froze him in place like a statue.

"Ilira!" Wildfire's eyes widened, and she curtsied deeply. Her beautiful face broke into a genuine smile. "So good to see you."

"Lady Nathalan." Talantress gave her a false smile. "We did not ask your opinion." Her tone was that of a noble addressing a lesser-an upsrart merchant, whose only honor lay in coin.

"Apologies, young Lady Roaringhorn. I only meant to warn of knights who wear gray and walk lonely roads." A velvet-gloved hand touched Kalen's elbow. "Like this one."

Kalen turned. Lady Ilira-the eladrin he'd seen dancing with Lorien-stood just to his shoulder, but her presence loomed greater than her size. Perhaps it was the weight of years-like all elves, she wore a timelessness about her that defied any attempt to place her age. Her face hid behind a velvet half-mask that revealed only her cheeks and thin lips.

Her pupil-less eyes gleamed bright and golden like those of a wolf, with all the tempestuous hunger to match. Those eyes had seen centuries of pain and joy, Kalen thought. Wisdom lurked there, and a sort of sadness that chilled his heart and shivered his knees.

Ilira wore a seamless low-cut black gown that left her shoulders and throat bare but otherwise covered every inch of her body, highlighting and enhancing her skin. Her midnight hair was bound in an elaborate bun at the back of her head. She wore what he thought was a wide black necklace that broke the smooth expanse of her breast. He realized quickly that it was not jewelry-she wore naught of that but a star sapphire pendant looped around her left wrist-but rather a series of black runes inked in her flesh, which gleamed as though alive.

She had asked him a question, Kalt n realized. He also realized he'd been staring at her chest, and his face flushed. Not for the first time, he thanked the gods for his full helm.

"Is this not so, Sir Shadow?" Ilira asked again.

Why was her cool, lovely voice so damned familiar? Where did he know it from?

"It is," Kalen said, because he could say nothing else.

Lady Wildfire laughed and clapped her hands, delighted to see Lady Ilira proven right. Talantress scowled on Kalen's other side. "Spare us your poetry, coin-pincher," she spat. "I'm taking him to dance nowunless you plan to steal him yourself?" She sneered at Lady Ilira. Her voice might have been that of a serpent. "But surely you wouldn't be interested-surely you'd not sully yourself with us mere humans."

Ilira smiled and released Kalen's arm, the better to focus on the drow-glamoured girl.

"If I were you, Talantress Roaringhorn," Ilira said, "I should not fight battles that cannot be won-particularly over those whose worth is not measured in noble blood." She winked at Kalen.

"You mean-he's not noble?" Talantress peered down her nose. "How unwashed."

"Tala." Ilira laid a gloved hand on her arm. "Is not your precious mm sun i he mi time better spent finding a suitable mate for resting Wixt your nethers? Aye, I believe your time grows short." The emphasis she put on the words struck Kalen, but he hadn't the least idea what she meant.

By the way her face turned white as fresh cream-despite the glamour that painted her skin black-Talantress certainly did. Her lip trembled and she gazed at Ilira in shock before she stumbled away. Several lordlings turned to gawk as she scrambled ungracefully through the throng-and thus did those men earn slaps or harsh words from their feminine companions.

Kalen looked back to the ladies, who shared a smug smile. "I cannor dance," he said.

"That hardly matters, saer, if the Lady Ilira partners you." Wildfire laughed. Then she turned her wicked smile on the elf. "If she beats me, of course."

"Oh?" Ilira turned to the girl and raised one eyebrow.

"What boots it?" Wildfire put her hands on her hips and set her stance. "I love common men as well as nobles." She smirked at Ilira. "I shall fight you for him! Choose the game."

"Very well." Ilira nodded serenely. "You are a brave and bold student, Alondra," she said. "But let us see how good a student you are. You will tell me whether I speak a lie or the truth, and if you are right, he is all yours." She winked at Kalen. "Gods help him."

Wildfire straightened her shoulders. "I accept!"

Ilira closed her eyes and breathed gently. Serenity fell in that moment, and the dancers and gossipers and servants around them grew hushed and seemed far away.

The elf opened her eyes again, and they seemed wet. "I wear this black in mourning," she said. "For my dearest friend, who was taken from me long ago through my own cowardice."

Wildfire looked positively stunned, as though Ilira had smitten her with a mighty blow.

"Oh, my lady," she said. "I'm so sorry-I did not know…"

Ilira looked away. "It seems you believed me," she said. "Aye?"

Wildfire nodded solemnly, and Kalen saw tears in her eyes. The rest of her face revealed nothing though, and he marveled at what must be self-discipline like iron. Like Araezra.

Ilira smiled. "What a pity." With that, she led Kalen toward the center of the dancers.

"What?" Wildfire colored red to the base of her silvered hair. "What?"

But they were safely protected from any fury she might have wrought, blocked by a living wall of nobility clad in the finest costumes and brightest colors coin or magic could buy. And on Lady Ilira's arm, Kalen could see no one else.

It completely escaped him, moreover, that a dance with her might attract exactly the sort of attention he didn't want.

"Olive Ruskettle and…" the herald looked at Fayne, who just smiled. "Escort."

Arm in arm, Cellica and Fayne looked out into the courtyard full of revelers and song. The dancing-the music-the colors-the gaiety! Cellica, in a word, loved a.

"I'm so glad you came by an invitation," the halfling said. "Funny you didn't dress as anyone in particular, though. I was sure-"

"Pay it naught," Fayne said, her eye drawn to the dancers in the courtyard. She stiffened, as though she saw someone familiar.

"What?" Cellica asked, straining to see, but everyone was too tall. "Who is it?"

"No one," Fayne said. "No one of any consequence."

"One moment." Fayne let go of Celiica's arm and skipped away through a mass of nobles-roaring drunk and dressed as fur-draped Uthgardt barbarians.

"What? Wait!" the halfling cried. "Fayne!"

But Fayne was gone, leaving Cellica lost in a forest of revelers.

With a harrumph, she started looking for Kalen or Myrin.

Not bothering with the servants' stairs, Fayne made her way immediately to the grand staircase that led to the balcony on the second floor. There she'd find the rooms of worship and splendor-where her mark waited, preparing for her dance at midnight.

On the way, she nestled something amongst the statues of naked dancers that flanked the stairs. The item was a small box her patron had given her-a portable spelltrap-into which she had placed an enchantment of her own, one of her most powerful. The item gave off only a faint aura when inactive, and with a courtyard full of woven spells and the temple wards, no one would notice until it was tripped. And by then, enough chaos would be caused.

Two jacks, descending the stairs hand in hand, looked at her askance, but she just nodded. "Sune smile upon you," she said.

They replied in kind and joined the throng.

Fayne, managing to keep herself from giggling like a clever child, strung the privacy rope between the statues' hands and nodded to the watchmen, who smiled indulgently and knowingly. Just a reveler off to some tryst.

Oh, yes, fools-oh, yes.

Fayne skipped up toward Lorien Dawnbringer's chamber. No guards milled about-why would they, when all were below, at the revel?

Fayne knocked gently, and a womanly voice came from within. "Who calls?"

Then Fayne remembered, and swore mutely. She had almost forgotten-dressed in these ridiculous clothes-a face to go with the attire.

She ripped off her fox mask and passed her wand over her body, head to toe. She shrank herself thinner and a little shorter, her face slimming and sharpening, and she became the elf to whom this outfit belonged-the one Fayne remembered in her nightmares.

Fayne always committed herself fully, throwing herself into danger with wild abandon.

The door opened, and Lorien peered out, blinking in genuine surprise. "Lady Ilira?"

Fayne gave her a confident wink, then she leaped into Lorien's arms. She kicked the door closed as they staggered inside.