Downshadow

by Erik Scott De Bie

  Perhaps she had even spent some of the time in real sleep—ye gods. Maybe she was wearing a half-elf’s face too much.

  She recalled that the owner of the Dragon had questioned her gruffly when the carriage had dropped her off, but she’d waved him aside, along with the catcalls of patrons. She’d ignored the sneers of the serving girls—saucy wenches who sold their charms as openly as drinks—and managed to climb up to her chamber before collapsing into bed.

  She examined the damage in the mirror. That blue-headed snip had muddled her mind, adding worry lines around her eyes and lips. She’d often wondered what it would feel like, being struck by dark magic—gods knew she’d done it often enough herself.

  “Hit me with my own power, eh?” she murmured. “Children.”

  All in all, totally unacceptable, she thought. She set to work. She would just touch up a few details of her appearance.

  She caressed the invisible pendant that hung at her throat. It faded into sight and gleamed as she harnessed the magic—complex, powerful things for which her wand was not quite suited. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cast the shaping ritual with the wand—it just didn’t feel right to her. It was better for quick castings, particularly illusions and dark, fey-touched art. It had come from her mother, who had been a talented witch of the fey path. The amulet, on the other hand—her patron had built it precisely for this sort of ritual, which was more wizardly than warlock.

  She thought she should see Kalen today. Fayne hoped the man was suitably in agony over the wounds she had sustained in his tallhouse. She might suggest that he could make it up by taking her to the revel instead of Myrin, thus furthering her plan.

  She left shadows under her eyes, so as to make herself appear a little more vulnerable. She knew Kalen liked the gray eyes, so she made them shine. She slimmed her image slightly, and made her face just a bit more darling—her nose, in particular, seemed a bit too long, so she made it small and delicate.

  More like Myrin’s nose, she realized, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust.

  Her amulet had been a gift from her patron on her fortieth name day (gods, how long ago that seemed!), and coincided with her learning how to change her face. First, she had used the wand’s illusory powers, but her patron had taught her how to perform a ritual that would make the changes deeper, harder to dispel.

  Finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. This was the face she would wear this day—Greengrass, the festival of spring. It wasn’t what she’d call beautiful, exactly, but a proper seduction was accomplished according to the desires of the man or woman seduced. She winked at the mirror, glad of her false face. A blessing no one could see the real one—she didn’t spend so much effort hiding it in vain.

  Her face and body made up, Fayne selected suitable attire for the Watch barracks: mid-calf gray dress with open front, laced black bustier cut with slits on the flanks to reveal slashes of lacy red underslip, matching scarlet scarf for the cold, wide leather hat for any rain, and her favorite knee-high boots with dagger-length heels.

  None of them cheap, but none of them rich—quite what she thought Kalen liked.

  As she dressed, she smiled at the revel-ready garments hanging in the wardrobe, carefully selected for the occasion. She would have quite the laugh at that private jest—most of her best pranks were personal.

  She threw on a weathercloak to hide her outfit, whisked her way out the Dragon around a few highsun brawlers and patrons waving for her charms, and hailed a carriage.

  Vainly, Kalen had hoped that by the next day, Araezra would have calmed herself about the Room of Records and they could talk. But he hadn’t seen her all morn, and when he’d asked, a gruff Commander Jarthay had told him she was out on duty. Kalen didn’t need the subtle, tight pitch of the commander’s words to know things would be tense with Araezra.

  He hadn’t wanted to go home, so he’d spent the night at the barracks and eaten among the Guard. Thankfully, no one bothered him. His notorious indifference was good for that, at least. That morn, he had tried to work in the Room of Records, but every time he looked up from the ledgers, he would see Rath holding Araezra helpless or hear her choked whispers. Eventually, he moved outside to work in the warm, sun-filled courtyard.

  Greengrass was the first day of spring, and the weather treated Waterdeep to warm days, cold nights, and frequent rain. Kalen disliked autumn and spring, with their long shadows and false warmth: he preferred the commitment of summer heat or winter chill.

  In the yard, he left the ledger untouched and began a letter to Araezra, trying to explain what he had done. He paused now and then, to listen to the sounds of training in the court.

  A cluster of Watchmen had gathered to watch a practice match between two of the youngest and most handsome members of the Guard: Aumun Bront and Rhagaster Stareyes. The latter was the more handsome thanks to his elf heritage (the legacy of a scandalous, hypocritical indiscretion on the part of his elf supremacist father, Onstal Stareyes, with a serving lass in Dock Ward). The men circled each other, stripped to the waist and sweaty, padded swords swishing.

  They sparred under the unimpressed eye of Vigilant Bleys Treth, whom Kalen had done his best to avoid these last days. He didn’t much like the man (the feeling was mutual), and Treth had seen Shadowbane on the night Talanna had been hurt. He might recognize Kalen.

  The other guard who might have known him—Gordil Turnstone—was there, too, sitting on a bench. Though he was ostensibly watching the sparring, Turnstone was dozing.

  Bront cut over and high and Stareyes replied with a plunging block. It could have become a counter to the belly, but the half-elf held the parry too long. Finally, Stareyes broke the parry and cut in from the opposite line, then reversed again, striking from both directions in sequence. He feinted right and attacked left. In rhythm, Bront tried to parry right, and the half-elf dealt him a sharp rap on the left side with his blunted blade.

  The watchers clapped and Stareyes flashed his winning smile. Bront cradled his bruised side and gave Stareyes a rueful grin.

  Kalen watched them surreptitiously over his spectacles. A part of him wished he could lord his prowess before an audience, but the needs of his disguise prevented it. He’d learned that lesson in a harsh manner during his time as an armar, before Araezra.

  He thought about the flaws in Bront’s style, and it must have shown on his face. Treth was watching him with a sneer. Kalen averted his eyes.

  “Dren,” Treth called. “Care to teach us aught?”

  The congratulatory chatter in the courtyard fell silent, replaced by whispers.

  Kalen said nothing, only looked at his parchment and quill. He had paused before telling Araezra the truth. He could see the unwritten sentence: “I lied to you, Rayse.”

  Did he dare? Would she understand? Or would she continue to hate him, not only for humiliating her but for lying to her as well? Not to mention that Araezra would be honor-bound to arrest him as a dangerous vigilante—or would she keep his secret?

  He shook his head. He hadn’t given her any reason to trust him.

  A gloved hand seized his book of notes—with it the letter—and tore it from his hands. He looked up, calmly, to see Bleys Treth gazing down at him with that same cocky smile.

  “Come, Dren,” he said. “You’ve not graced the yard in some time. Spar with Stareyes, and show us your style.” He winked lewdly. “Now that Rayse’s attentions are elsewhere, you’ve the chance, aye?”

  Though Treth was older, almost twenty winters over Kalen, they were the same rank in the Guard: vigilant. But Treth had been a master swordsman for hire, a sellsword for nobles, and he bore an aura around him that had made him quite popular. “The Dashing Jack,” the older Watchmen called him—a name he hated. His looks had faded little with the years, but his smile still melted hearts.

  He took pride in his charms, and in his skill. And like many warriors past their prime, Treth saw the need to assert his dominance among the “young pups,” as it
were.

  Kalen saw no reason to stand in his way.

  “I’ve work to attend.” He refused to meet Treth’s eye. “Perhaps when I am at leisure—”

  “I’m sure”—Treth dropped the ledger in the dirt—“this can wait.”

  Kalen looked up at him and around at the silent training yard. The folk—Guard and Watch alike—watched the confrontation intently.

  “Vigilant Treth,” Kalen said. He coughed. “You know I can’t—”

  “Fleeing behind your weakness of the flesh, eh?”

  Kalen looked around once more, seeing uncertain, expectant faces.

  The Watch and Guard knew of his illness only in part. Certainly none knew he pretended it had grown worse than it truly had. It had been months since he had wielded a sword while wearing a uniform. But when he had … Those who had served with him knew of his ferocity, and he saw in the eyes of those gathered that tales had spread.

  “I must decline,” Kalen said.

  “Then Rayse told true,” Treth whispered in his ear. “And you are a coward.”

  That stabbed into Kalen’s chest like a searing knife. It struck not because of his own ego—though he confessed there was some—but because of the truth in Treth’s words.

  He shouldn’t do anything to risk revealing himself, but everything was going so very wrong. And Kalen was angry.

  “Very well, Dashing Jack,” said Kalen, invoking the man’s hated moniker.

  Treth sneered.

  Kalen rose, stiffly, and stepped to the center of the yard. He heard gasps at first, then applause. Rhagaster Stareyes saluted and took a high guard with his padded blade.

  Kalen took the weapon handed him by Bront, who smiled. Kalen shrugged.

  “Tymora’s luck on you,” said Treth—mostly to Kalen. “Begin!”

  They circled each other slowly, the ring of Watchmen backing away to give them room. The half-elf skipped from foot to foot, keeping himself loose. Kalen flexed his legs. The front of his thighs felt as if they bore heavy pads, but the sensation was merely his numb flesh.

  Stareyes came at him with a plunging cut that Kalen knocked aside easily. He coughed and sidestepped, not holding the parry or countering.

  Stareyes turned back toward him. “To you, sir,” he said.

  Kalen shrugged—and attacked high. He didn’t move fast—he didn’t have to.

  From his hanging guard, Stareyes parried high. He could have countered, but as Kalen had expected, he didn’t. Rather than pull back, Kalen ran a hand along the length of his own sword, caught the end of his blade, and twisted to set the edge near the hilt at the half-elf’s throat.

  A gasp passed through the yard.

  “You hesitated to reply,” Kalen said. “You don’t need speed—just readiness.” He pulled back a step and set his sword against Stareyes’s raised blade. “You just parried. Now stab.”

  Stareyes, blinking, pushed forward, and the padded blade punched into Kalen’s belly.

  “A counter in every parry,” he said. “Do not hesitate, but commit yourself.”

  The half-elf shook his head. “But my parry needs to be—”

  “Firm, I know,” Kalen said. “Trust yourself to set a strong position, and there is no way the other blade can hit you.”

  He demonstrated, slapping his blade against Stareyes’s parry. With the guard wide enough, his blade could not reach Stareyes’s arm.

  The gathered watchers—who had grown in number, Kalen saw—murmured agreement.

  Treth laughed. “Try a master, Sir Dren.” He tossed his hat and black watchcoat to a junior Watchman, then unbuttoned his uniform and unlaced his white undertunic to the belly.

  “The winner goes with Rayse to the ball tonight at the Temple of Beauty,” said Treth.

  Coughing, Kalen nodded grimly. He’d known it would come to this.

  Treth sneered. Gray-black hairs bristled along his chin and neck.

  Kalen shrugged. He handed the sword to Stareyes with a nod, then brought his fingers up to the buttons of his uniform.

  Apparently, an attractive form—such as the one she had donned in the Skewered Dragon—was more a hindrance than a help in a barracks filled with wandering eyes.

  Fayne had arrived at the barracks earlier, and now wore the illusory form of a junior Watchman whose name she hadn’t asked. She could have done so, but why bother? The boy, who had been only too eager to follow her into the stuffy Room of Records, now slumped senselessly under a desk, trapped by magic that bound his mind into a relentless nightmare. Fayne had invoked the power in her wand, taken his face, and gone out into the warm sunshine. She found Kalen in the courtyard, just in time to see him handily defeat a rather handsome half-elf with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes.

  Fayne made a mental note to visit the barracks more often.

  Then a good-looking man of middling years—Vigilant Treth, she heard a Watchman whisper—challenged Kalen, and they proceeded to disrobe in the middle of the yard.

  Fayne had to restrain herself not to squeal. She wasn’t a gambler, but she loved cockfights.

  She shared in the collective intake of breath when Kalen stripped off his shirt. His body was covered in scars—knife cuts, arrow holes, burns. Some of them, Fayne recognized: the finger-shaped lines on his forearm were the spellscar burns he had suffered in Downshadow the night they had met. His tightly woven muscles carried not a drop of fat.

  Treth was a whip-wire of a man, like a curled snake, ready to lunge. Kalen, on the other hand, was a wolf. Fayne saw it in his movements and the way he stood—and the way he glared.

  Her cheeks grew warm, and she cursed herself for a brainless child.

  The men faced each other across the courtyard. Sneering, Treth held his steel low. Kalen held his high, and coughed. Part of his disguise, Fayne realized.

  Then Treth lunged toward Kalen, fast as a striking viper, and Kalen caught his spinning, shifting cut with a solid, low-hanging parry. The padded swords thumped.

  Treth pulled back and struck again, reversing, and Kalen parried easily. Where Treth attacked wildly, with great sweeping slashes and flurries, Kalen’s movements were quick and precise—conservative. It was obvious to Fayne—who knew as little about swordplay as a stray kitten—that Kalen was better. But could he win, and still maintain his mask?

  That held Fayne’s interest—that, and Kalen’s glimmering skin. Mmm.

  They came together again, and again. Every time, Treth attacked, lunging fast, and every time, Kalen warded him off. He didn’t press—he was holding back.

  They broke apart for the eighth time, and Treth, hopping from foot to foot, grinned madly. “Don’t say you grow weary yet, youngling,” he said. “I’m enjoying this.”

  Kalen dropped a hand to his heaving chest. It curled into a fist.

  Treth came again, his lightning strike harder—more brutal. He hammered into Kalen’s high guard, both hands on his sword, and Kalen compressed toward the ground.

  Then the older man dropped a hand unexpectedly from his sword and punched at Kalen’s face. Fayne bristled at the injustice, but Kalen seemed to have expected it. He grappled his left arm around Treth’s and threw their flailing swords wide. They wrestled, each trying to push the other away, and finally half a dozen Watchmen rushed forward to pull them apart.

  Fayne saw that the watching horde had grown—sixty or more folk were in the yard. Some commotion arose at the gates, but she couldn’t see what it was.

  Treth thrust, but Kalen moved so suddenly and quickly that the crowd gasped. He attacked high into Treth’s attack, locking blades. The clash of steel rang blasphemously loud.

  Kalen punched forward to shift his blade under Treth’s and inside his guard. Treth’s arm was hopelessly twisted and wide. Kalen grasped the older man’s throat.

  “Low guard,” Kalen said. “Surely you know better than that.”

  A cry came from the gates and both of them looked, startled.

  Fayne saw a girl—she realized, after a he
artbeat, that it was Myrin—with a shimmering red gown and a wild, perfect sweep of silver hair that fell to her waist. She was as a magical apparition—so unexpected that the courtyard gaped at her.

  Kalen hissed as Treth broke the hold and wrenched away. Kalen tried to follow, but Treth lashed out hard across his unprotected face with his padded blade, making a sound like a hammer on wet wood. Kalen’s head snapped back and he fell, like a cut puppet, to the dirt.

  “Kalen!” Myrin shrieked. She shoved past black-coated forms as she ran to him.

  Treth stood over Kalen. He blew his nose on his hand then spat in the dust. “Well struck, Dren.” He jerked his head at Myrin. “Now I see your weakness, Rayse’s hound.”

  Kalen only glared at him, blood running from his nose. As he sat on the ground, coughing and retching, Fayne reflected that he must be as fine a mummer as she.

  “What the Hells is this?” shouted a voice. Fayne recognized it from a past misunderstanding as that of Commander Kleeandur. Kleeandur was much like Bors Jarthay—whose tastes in women Fayne knew quite well—but older, harder, and less amusing. She’d crossed him before and come out the worse for it. She retreated behind a pillar as the commander strode into the yard.

  Kleeandur grasped Treth by the arm. “What the Hells are you about, Vigilant?”

  “Commander,” Treth winced. “I can explain—”

  “Caravan patrol for two tendays!” Jarthay shouted. “At half pay.”

  Fayne stuck out her tongue. What kind of vengeance was that? She would get Treth much worse than that for daring to hurt Kalen.

  Since when do you care? she asked herself. You’re just using him, anyway. Aye?

  Kleeandur turned on Kalen, who lay coughing in the dirt. “And you, Dren,” he said. “Brawling in the yard—goading him like that. Suspension without pay for a tenday.”

  Fayne almost screamed at the injustice of it, but Kalen only coughed and nodded. Kleeandur strode away, beckoning Treth to follow him. The man sneered at Kalen and went.