Downshadow

TWENTY-ONE

It was a trick," Kalen said as Ilira led him toward the dancers. "What you told her." "Whar, saer?"

"It was borh true and false," Kalen said. "Your face is covered, and I couldn't tell from your voice or your eyes, but I saw it in your throat. You lied, in parr, and rold true in another."

"How inrriguing, good Sir Shadow." Lady Ilira looked at him with some interest. "When you become more… familiar with moon elves such as myself, you will note that our ears tell lies more clearly than anything else."

Kalen's heart beat a little faster at the thought of becoming familiar with this woman. "Will you solve the mystery, then?"

"I did lose my dearest friend long ago," she said. "But I do not dress in black for him."

"A half-truth, shrouded in lie." Surprisingly, he could feet her hand-very warm-in his.

"Like a paladin shrouded in night," she said. "Light hidden in twilight, aye?"

A song was ending-a gentle Tethyrian melody, with decorous dancing to match. Kalen knew styles of music-he had once romanced a traveling bard of Cormyr-but dancing was quite beyond him. He hoped he did not disappoint the graceful elf.

As though she read his thoughts, she smiled again. "Never fear, saer-I shall teach you."

Lady Ilira released his hand-he felt the loss of her touch keenlyand presented herself before him. She offered an elegant, deep bow, which Kalen returned.

They waited for the applause to die down and for the lordlings to select new partners. Most of this was according to rote, already long established. Many envious glances fell on Kalen and Lady Ilira, who was clearly one of the most beautiful and graceful ladies in the ballroom. In particular, one sour-faced elf lord was glaring at him. That one wore a long false beard and black robes, making him look like a dark sorcerer. Gloves of deep red velvet gleamed, and Kalen could see his fingers tapping impatiently. Kalen felt unsettled.

"Ruldrin Sandhor," she said. "I imagine he does not like to see me dance with a commoner. But I dance with whom I wish-I always have."

Kalen smiled wryly. "How did you know I was not noble, lady?" he asked.

"The way I know / am not." She chuckled. "It is obvious."

"Your husband does not make you noble?" Kalen offered. "Lord Sandhor, mayhap?"

"Oh, good saer." She showed him that she wore no rings over her gloves. "No husband."

Then she took his hands and placed his right on her hip and kept his left hand in her right. "You are fortunate," she said. "As a man, the dance is easier."

The bards played the first few strains of what sounded like a vigorous refrain, then paused to give the dancers a chance to pair off in preparation.

With her left hand on Kalen's shoulder, Lady Ilira reached up for his brow, and his heart leaped at the thought that she might remove his helm and kiss him-but her hand only touched his mask. For some reason, he thought of Fayne, and wondered where she might be.

"Who are you thinking of, I wonder?" she asked as they bowed to one another.

That snapped him back to the ball. "Ah, no one…" Kalen floundered.

"Fear not-I am not jealous," Ilira said. "Your face is hidden, but I can see your eyes well enough." She grinned mischievously. "Keep your secrets as you will."

Her exotic eyes-pure metallic gold without iris or pupil- were unreadable, but he sensed her wisdom-and playfulness. "Indeed, lady."

They danced. The steps were foreign, as he'd feared, but not difficult. He credited his movements to the superior skill of Lady Ilira, who was without a doubt the finest dancer he could have imagined. She flowed through the movements, letting her skirts and sleeves trail like wings as though she were flying. Her shadow seemed to dance independently of her, with the same movements but in different directions, but Kalen reasoned rhat was a trick of the light.

After the first tune, there was applause and the dancers bowed. He seized the opportunity to remove his gloves and sruff them in his belt. Hands shifted and partners moved, but Lady Ilira seized Kalen's arm and held him steady, her eyes like yellow diamonds binding him in place.

With more confidence than the first time, he laid his bare fingers on her hip. Without his gloves, he tried and failed to feel the silk of her gown; all he could feel was the heat of her flesh beneath. Maybe he was touching her too hard-he had no way of knowing-or maybe she was pleased. Regardless, her whole body reacted to his touch, sending tingles up his arm. She was like an immortal creature-not at all human or even elf. A spirit.

They danced again-this time to a Sword Coast tune more forgiving of missreps.

"What was it you meant, touching Lady Roaringhorn?" Kalen asked.

"My good knight, your mind wanders Downshadow, to think of me touching Talantress."

Kalen foughr to keep the heat out of his cheeks. "I mean about her 'precious time.' "

"I happen to have heard of a tiny enchantment." She looked at him knowingly. "Secrets are coin, saer-inrerested in buying one?"

Kalen smirked. "If I'm to keep mine, you'll keep yours."

She nodded serenely.

The minstrels began another song-this one much faster-and rather rhan let him go, Lady Ilira grasped Kalen harder. It was" a Calishite rhythm, he realized-a dance of passion and heat, more akin to Ioveplay than innocent dance. Watch horns blared in his mind, and he repeated to himself that he could not dance, but his feet didn't listen, and his hands-well. x He'd thought her skilled before, but now-with such a tempestuous dance-Lady Ilira was wonderful. Her leg wrapped around his, bringing heat into his cheeks, and she turned around him so gracefully, so expertly, that he might have thought them destined to dance together. He saw her eyes flash; she couldn't have failed to note the steel strapped to the insides of his thighs.

Then she whirled up, pressing herself hard against him, arms around his neck, lips almost against his ear. He felt the whole of her, and he tingled.

The dance lulled, allowing for folk to stand.

"Well, good saer," she whispered in his ear. "You're full of hidden dangers."

Kalen didn't flinch. "Care to search them out?" he whispered back.

She pressed her lips to the mask of his helm: kissing the shadow, not the man. Then she said-aloud for the benefit of the dancers nearby, "Keep your dagger in your breeches, goodsir."

Kalen couldn't help but smile.

The dance built to a furious tempo that he could hardly follow. He felt more and more as though he were merely there to allow Lady Ilira to show herself, and show herself she did. All eyes in the hall fell upon her, and all but the most vigorous dancers stopped to watch.

Kalen wondered about the runes tattooed across her collarbone. What did they mean? He realized they were Dethek, the script of dwarves. Why would an elf wear dwarven runes?

Ilira whirled and met him once more, and he caught her in a fierce embrace. They spun together once, twice-then he held her bent low like a swooned woman as the song ended. Their eyes met, and she smirked at him-mysterious, alluring, dangerous.

As the hall erupted in applause, her expression became a wide grin-the first genuine smile he'd seen her wear. Kalen couldn't help but sigh, pleased.

Ilira made him think, oddly, of Fayne-how he wanted to see her smile like that.

Ilira rose and laughed, curtsying to the crowd in an elegant fashion. She smiled and waved, and blew a kiss at the sour-faced silk merchanr she'd pointed out earlier, Lord Sandhor. Kalen did little more than stand stiffly and wait for her to return. She did so, bowing to him as was proper.

"What have you lost, Lady?" Kalen asked.

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 sawmutely-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.