Erik de Bie - Downshadow

Kalen did not answer.

"Have you nothing to say?" asked the dwarf. Kalen only stared at Rath. Araezra felt a trembling anger build within her.

Then Rath was gone, nearly flying down the hall. Kalen slumped ro the floor, but he caught himself before his face struck the stone. Araezra saw his eyes, bright and furious and icy, gleam at her. Then he started to cough.

In an instant, as though that sound had given her strength, Araezra pushed herself to her feet. "Guard!" she cried, loud as she could. "Watch, Guard-to arms! Intruder!"

A great clamor of feet and steel arose in the rooms around them. Folk were coming, summoned by Araezra's cry. Araezra looked at Kalen, so weak and sad, lying there. She reached down. "Up, Vigilant."

He took her hand and climbed up shakily. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

She shook her head, furious words building in her throat. Kalen coughed. "Gods, Rayse, I didn't want you to get hurt. You know that."

"Spare me." Araezra shook her head, too angry and hurt to spend soft words on him. "I don't need anyone to protect me-especially not a coward."

Kalen cast his eyes down.

Araezra took Shadowbane's sword-it felt warm to the touch but did not burn her-then ran into the hall to muster the Watch.

Kalen stood shaking, wounded deeper than any sword could have cut.

He'd given everything to save Araezra. He had broken his greatest vow to himself, never to beg. And still, she had turned away from him. He had seen the contempt in her eyes.

He was less than a man to her, and he had pulled her low as well.

A coughing fit came upon him then, bubbling up like a cruel reminder of his failure, and he fought it down-in vain. He coughed and retched and spat blood into his hand.

That blood and spit could easily have been Rath's blood on his hands. The temptation had been so strong-to trick the dwarf into vulnerability and plunge a blade into his liver, kidney, or heart. Like a backstabbing thief, or like an assassin. The way he would have done in Luskan. But that would have sullied his vows, and the paladin in him would not allow it.

He lifted his hands to heal himself at a touch, but his powers did not come forth.

He realized why, and the understanding struck him like a slap across the face.

All this time, he had protected Waterdeep-this city of faceless citizens-and protected those he loved and cherished. But he could not do it at the cost of his own principles. He could not compromise the deepest commitment of all: to himself.

So that he might continue in his duty, he hadn't revealed himself after Lorien, or after Talanna had been hurt. The threefold god had not punished him for that. But when he hadn't revealed himself today, he'd chased away his only friend other than Cellica.

Although Araezra was alive, he knew he had acted wrongly. The

Threefold God had taken his powers for sacrificing his duty to himself for his duty to others.

He saw that he must do both-fight for the ciry, and fight for himself and those he loved. He would prove himself worthy.

He swore it.

To prepare for the revel, Cellica took Myrin to a dress salon called Nathalan's Menagerie-named, Cellica explained; for the elf noble who was the owner.

Lady Ilira Nathalan owned a number of such shops across Faeriin, which did their part in supplying-and in many cases crearing-the fashions of the day. Patrons tried on styles amid cages filled with exotic birds and flowers. The gowns, sashes, and shoes were rich in quality but low in cost, which, Cellica explained, was the reason behind the Menagerie's success.

"I don't know how she does it," Cellica said as she gestured to gown after gown for the attendant to take for her, "but some lucky goddess must watch over her supplies. Her prices always undercut her comperitors. Nobles usually have their own seamstresses as a matter of pride, but Ilira caters to merchants and other wealthy folk who don't have signets stuck up their-heh." Cellica smiled wryly. "Better dresses, too, though don't let the nobility hear that."

Myrin watched as a pair of lovely middle-aged human women draped a series of gowns over their chests, admiring the colors in the mirror. An attendant-whom Myrin realized must be a half-ore, owing to her small tusks and gray skin-watched impassively. Her hair was a brilliant pink that could not be natural. It reminded Myrin of her own blue hair, which she pawed at idly.

"Ninea," said Cellica, tugging at Myrin's arm and pointing to the half-ore. "Just watch."

One of the customers framed a request to Ninea the half-ore, who touched the woman's shoulder briefly. The effect was as sudden as it was impressive: the woman's skin took on a brilliant golden sheen, astonishing her companion, who gasped and broke into tittering.

"Gods!" Myrin said. "That's amazing!"

"Simple magic," Cellica said. "Ninea has a spellscar that lets her alter colors to match her whims. Temporarily, of course." She continued breezing through gowns. "Certainly you could find cheaper attire elsewhere, but the quality is hard to defeat." She selected her tenth and eleventh. "Perhaps it's goodness rewarding the same."

"Aye?" Myrin hadn't selected a gown-she was remembering Kalen's glare.

"Aye," Cellica affirmed, taking down her twelfth. "Lady Ilira's a patron of the Haven of the Scarred, for those run afoul of spellplague or other magical maladies-a consortium of priests and healers. I'm a member."

The halfling frowned at a conservative brown gown Myrin was looking at and led her away. "It'll be a costume revel," she said. "Most of these are a particular lady from history-that one must be a Candlekeep ascetic. Boring as old rat tails!"

"What?" Myrin was standing shyly to the side, grasping her right elbow behind her back and burrowing her left foot into the floorboards.

"Pay it no mind, dear," said Cellica. "Let's find another that suits you better."

"Oh?" Myrin behaved around the finery the way a mouse must in a hall full of cat statues. She was terrified she would perish under the assault of silk. "Can… can we afford this?"

"Of course! We halflings have a way with coin. Just none of the priciest, eh? Ooh!" Her eye fell on a rich cloth-of-silver gown. She spoke with a halfling attendant in a language Myrin didn't understand, winced, then nodded. The gown went into the attendant's already full arms.

The half-ore woman with the bright pink hair brushed past Myrin. While the attendant was dexterous enough, Myrin's inherent clumsiness almost knocked her over. The half-ore had to catch her by the hand and ward her off. Ninea's hand sparked against hers. "Ooh, sorry!" Myrin said.

The woman started to respond, then shook her head, seeming faint.

"Ninea?" asked the halfling attending Cellica and Myrin. "Be ye well, lass?"

"Aye," said the half-ore. Her hair, Myrin saw, was fading from its sharp pink to a dirty brown. "Just weary, methinks."

"Well, ask Ilira if you can go early, aye?" Cellica's voice carried a touch of compulsion.

"Aye." Ninea gave Myrin a curious look. "Aye, I'll do that."

The half-ore wandered to the back of the salon, looking ill.

Hesitantly, Myrin selected three gowns-a gentle, deep blue affair with gold trim, a conservative green with silver chasing at the bodice, and a sleek black garment. She didn't particularly want any of them. She pulled Kalen's worn runic tighter about her body. She liked how it smelled-it felt like Kalen was embracing her. Why did he have to be so handsome?

Stop it, girl, she thought. You don't even know who you are. You shouldn't worry about men-particularly ones who hate you!

She hoped Kalen didn't hate her, after what she'd doneaccidentally-to Fayne.

But what had she done?