Downshadow

TWENTY-TWO

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.

"Are you well, my lady?" the lordling demanded of Myrin.

"Uh," Myrin said. She couldn't think. She didn't know what to do.

Shoving her under the cracked banquet table, the lordling pointed a wand at his advancing foe and fired a blast of green-white light. The spell struck the man hard like a hammer's blow, staggering him, but he only smiled and srraightened once more.

"Run, my lady!" the lordling said as he looked at his wand angrily. "Run-"

Then the word became a cry of pain as the rogue ran him through.

Myrin could only stare, horrified, as the man kicked the body off his sword. She knew that the blade would come for her next, but she could only crouch, paralyzed in terror.

The murderer squinted around, as though trying to see her. That didn't make sense to Myrin, who hadn't moved. She was sitting right before him, not a pace away, just under the table.

The sword flashed through the air, prodding this way and that as though searching for her. She cringed as far back as she could.

The murderer growled in frustration. He rose and ran back into the melee.

Myrin was puzzled. Why wasn't she dead? Hadn't the man seen her sitting before him?

Dazed, Myrin looked around, then crawled across the floor to escape her hiding place. She gasped when she looked down-her

DMA Mill 11 UD MB hands had changed color to match the stone floor. She held them up in front of her and her skin changed tone and pattern to blend with the room. Myrin panicked and grabbed hold of a nearby crimson drapery to haul herself to her feet-and her body immediately flushed crimson to match the fabric. What was happening to her?

She rubbed at her reddened arms and saw that a trail of blue runes like ivy had crept up the inside of her forearm. She slipped back to the floor and sat, wrapped in the velvet drapery.

She didn't understand-she couldn't think. Why had she had so much wine?

Looking around the courtyard, she saw that at least twenty men and women in black cloaks-like the man who had attacked nearby- had appeared in the courtyard, attacking revelers. Chaos swept the courtyard, leaving cries of pain and terror in its wake.

A chill passed over Myrin, as though a door had opened nearby and let in a wave of cold air. She saw her skin shift again, back to its usual tan, and the blue runes faded from her arms. Whatever that chameleon magic had been, it was leaving her.

A face bent down to peer at Myrin. "Excuse me, young mistress."

Myrin turned where she sat, and a shiver of fear passed through her. "Y-yes?"

The woman was very old, but Myrin wasn't sure how she knew this. The rounded figure standing before her was rather youthful-even lush, with a heart-shaped face surrounded by vibrant gold curls. Her emerald gown, under a jet black cloak, was perfectly in fashion.

Myrin had the distinct sense the woman wasn't alive, though that couldn't be.

"I am Avaereene," said the woman. "Your jack seems to have abandoned you, and I thought you might be in some distress. May I aid you?"

"Oh, no," Myrin said. "Kalen's just gone away for a moment. He'll be-"

But the stranger was raising her hand. Myrin sensed, too late, the pulse of enchantment within the woman's arm, which beat with its own inner heat. Its proximity tickled her senses like the aroma of a steaming platter of hot sweets.

"Sleep," the woman said, in a language Myrin understood without knowing how.

Darkness swallowed Myrin.

The woman who'd called herself Avaereene lifted the girl fluidly. The young body was light, yet she felt a little dizzy-her power diminished around this girl, somehow. She knew the blue-headed waif had power of some kind, but she didn't know what it was.

No matter. She had more than enough strength for this purpose.

She tucked the sleeping girl under her cloak and whispered a spell to shroud them. Her cloak dimmed and bent the light, hiding them from view. A fog appeared in the air, shrouding half the courtyard in mist. In a few more moments, the temple would be one great brawl, and she and her followers could slip away.

Her employer would be most pleased.

Kalen swung up onto the balcony, where Cellica hopped down and they cast about for the source of the screams. Kalen heard loud, harsh words from the half-open door to the nearest chamber. He pointed, and Cellica dashed to the door, crossbow up and scanning for a target. He padded after her, thankful she'd made him wear his leathers after all.

What they found in the chamber, neither of them could have expected.

Lorien Dawnbringer lay dying upon the floor near a great golden tub. She choked and sputtered and tried to speak, but only blood came from her throar. Bent over her, cradling her as she bled, was Lady Ilira. She seemed to blend into the shadows of the golden tub, as though she had melted from them just heartbeats before.

"No," Ilira moaned. "No, no, no!"

Her gloved fingers caressed the priestess's face. Lorien did not seem able to see her, and could only cough, sputter, and finally go still.

Ilira, her face in shock, opened and closed her mouth several times but could not speak. Then she lowered her lips, tentatively, to Lorien's forehead. She shook as though from strain at the effort. Then, gently, she kissed the priestess's pale face.

Kalen expected something to happen, though he did not know why. Nothing came to pass but the gentle sound of her kiss.

Then, as if a wave loosed within her, Ilira threw back her head and screamed, loud and long-an elf mourning cry unknown in the lands of men. She bent and kissed Lorien's face again-kissed ir over and over, washing it with her tears. She cried out in Elvish, but Kalen could not understand. She tore off her gloves and pressed her hands on Lorien's cheeks as though she'd never touched them before, as though her skin could bring life to death.

All eyes remained on her, but Kalen became aware of someone else in the room. His gaze flicked to the side, where he saw a thick figure in the shadows. It was Rath, pinning a squirming, mostly naked Fayne under his arm. Both of them looked rapt at Ilira's display.

"Hold and down arms!" Kalen cried. "Waterdhavian Guard!"

"Ka-!" Fayne gasped.

Rath slammed her head against the wall and Fayne slumped to the floor, unmoving.