Downshadow

by Erik Scott De Bie

  “I prayed—to anyone or anything that might hear,” he said. “I prayed every moment for true death, but the gods did not hear me. They had abandoned Luskan and everyone in it.”

  “You were a man of faith?” asked Fayne. Her voice was respectfully soft—almost reverent. “An odd choice for a beggar boy.”

  He shrugged. “Cellica didn’t follow the gods either—her healing was in needle, thread, and salve. But she believed in right, and she definitely believed in wrong. And though letting me die might have been kinder, as I thought, she told me every day that she would help me, no question. She loved me, I came to realize, though I had no understanding of it then.

  “She kept me from starving. She cared for me when anyone else would have left me for dead. I hated her for that—for not letting me die—but I loved her all the same. She would feed me and clean me and read to me—but other times, she would just sit with me, talking or silent. Just be with me, when I had nothing else.

  “And eventually—finally—I began to pray for life. Just a little bit of life—just enough to touch her cheek, hold her, thank her. Then I could rest.” Kalen brushed a hand down Fayne’s cheek. “Do you understand?”

  Fayne nodded solemnly. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Kalen said. “No god came to save me—no begging brought life back into my dead body. I was alone but for Cellica, and she could not fight for me. I had to fight for myself.”

  Fayne said nothing.

  “I stopped praying,” Kalen said. “I stopped begging. Once …” He trailed off.

  He breathed deeply and began again.

  “After I escaped my master but before my mistake—when I was a boy of eight winters, begging on the streets. Someone once told me not to beg. A great knight, called Gedrin Shadowbane.”

  Something like recognition flickered across Fayne’s face—the name, he thought.

  Kalen continued. “He didn’t ask me why I begged—nothing about my past, or who I was. He didn’t care. He just told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was never to beg again. Then he struck me—cuffed me on the ear so I would remember.”

  “What a beast!” Fayne covered a grin with her hand and her eyes gleamed with mirth.

  Kalen chuckled. “It was the last thing anyone said to me before I fell paralyzed,” he said. “And as I lay unmoving, hardly able to breathe or live, I realized he was right. I stopped praying for someone else to save me, and fought only to save myself. Not to let myself die. Not yet—I would die, I knew, but not yet.” Kalen clenched his fists. “Then, slowly—gods, so slowly—it came back. Feeling. Movement. Life. I could speak to Cellica again. I told her what I wanted—to die—and she cried. If I had begged her, she would have done it, but I would not ask that of her. She pleaded with me to wait—to give it a tenday, to see if it got better.”

  He closed his eyes and breathed out.

  “It did. Slowly, with Cellica behind me every moment, I recovered,” Kalen said. “But I knew it was only temporary. When we had the coin to hire a priest, he told us I still bore the spellplague within me—a spellscar festering at my core. Perhaps I’d had it from birth.”

  He flexed his fingers.

  “Some bear an affliction of the spirit, mind, or heart—mine is in my body. The numbness will return—is returning—gradually, over time. And with it, my body dies, little by little.” He shrugged. “I feel less pain—less of everything. And though it makes me stronger, faster, able to endure more than most men, ultimately, it will kill me.”

  Kalen looked toward the window at the rain hammering the city.

  “I had a choice,” he said. “I could waste my life dreading it, or I could accept it. I followed the path that lay before me. I accepted Helm’s legacy, and followed the Eye of Justice.”

  As though his voice had lulled her into a trance from which she was just waking, Fayne blinked and pursed her lips. “Helm? As in, the god of guardians? The dead god of guardians?”

  Kalen said nothing.

  “I don’t know if you know your history, but Helm died almost a hundred years ago,” Fayne said. “Your powers can’t come from a dead god—so what deity grants them?”

  Kalen had asked himself the same question so many times. “Does it really matter?”

  Fayne smiled. “No,” she said, as she leaned closer to him. “No, it doesn’t.”

  She caressed his ear with her lips, and her teeth. Kalen could just feel it—enough to know what she was doing—which meant she was probably hurting him. He didn’t care.

  She dipped a little and bit at the soft spot at the end of his jaw. She pressed her cheek to his, letting her warm breath excite the hairs on his neck.

  Through it all, Kalen stayed still as a statue.

  “I know you can feel this.” Fayne’s eyes were sly. “I wonder what else I can make you feel. Things that little girl couldn’t dream of—things your mistress Araezra doesn’t know.”

  Kalen smiled thinly. “Only,” he said, “only if you give me something.”

  “And what,” she asked, kissing his numb lips, “is that?”

  “Tell me your name,” Kalen said.

  Fayne stepped back and regarded him coolly. “You don’t trust me, even now?” He shrugged.

  “Very well. Can’t blame you, really,” Fayne said. “Rien. That’s my real—”

  Kalen shook his head. “No. It isn’t.”

  “Gods!” Fayne laid her head on his shoulder and pressed herself hard against him, kissing his neck once more. He felt her sharp teeth, which meant they must have drawn blood. She wiped her lips before she drew away to speak to him, so he could not know for certain. “Rien is my true name, given me by my mother before she died.”

  “And it means ‘trick’ in Elvish,” Kalen said. “No need to trick me.”

  She swore mildly, still smiling. Then she nibbled his earlobe and breathed into his ear. He knew his senseless skin awakened and went red, but he could not feel it.

  Kalen sighed. “You can stop lying,” he said.

  “Eh?” Fayne clutched his lips hard enough for him to feel—hard enough to draw blood.

  “You don’t have to pretend to love me,” Kalen said.

  With a last, lingering kiss on the corner of his lip, Fayne pulled away and faced him squarely. His eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  “How dare you,” she said, half-jesting and half-serious.

  “All this,” Kalen said. “This is just an act. Isn’t it?”

  Her face went cold and angry, shedding all pretense of jest. “How dare you.”

  Fayne snapped up her hand to strike him, but he caught it and held her arm in place.

  “That time,” Kalen said, “your anger told the truth.”

  Fayne said nothing for a long time. Kalen put his hand on her elbow and though he held it only lightly, he might as well have bound her in iron.

  “It’s still that girl, isn’t it?” Fayne accused. She raised one finger to point at him. “It’s that little blue-headed waif with her tattoos you fancy, isn’t it?”

  She drew the bone wand from her belt and flicked it around her head. An illusion fell over her, cascading down like sparks to illumine her form, which shrank and tightened, billowed out a scarlet silk gown, and became Myrin.

  “Is this what you want?” came the soft, exotic voice. Fayne in Myrin’s image knelt and pressed her hands together. “Please, Kalen—please ravage me! Oh, ye gods!” She caressed herself and moaned. “I just can’t stand the waiting, Kalen! Oh, please! Oh, take me now!”

  Kalen shrugged. “This is beneath even you.”

  “Even me, eh? You have no idea how low I can sink,” Fayne said with Myrin’s voice. “Wouldn’t you like that, Kalen? To see your little sweetling as wicked as I can be?”

  “She’s far too good for me,” Kalen said. “For any of us.”

  “And I’m what—a perfect fit?” She flicked her tongue at him. “You disgust me.”

  “No,” Kalen said, “I don’t.”

>   “Oh?” Fayne crossed her arms—Myrin’s arms—and regarded him with an adorable pout.

  She took out her wand again and broke the illusion. Her half-elf form reappeared, wavered over something darker, then settled. It was brief, but it made him wonder …

  “Why, O wise knight of shadows,” she said, “why don’t I hate you?”

  “Because you’re like me,” Kalen said. “A lover of darkness.”

  Fayne stared at him another moment, anger and challenge in her eyes. Every bit of him burned—wanted him to lunge forward and grasp her, wrench the blanket from her body, throw the paladin aside and free the thief at his heart.

  “I should go,” she said finally. “You and I … she’s the one for you, Kalen, not I. She is better for you.” Fayne made to leave, but Kalen stopped her. This time, his grip was firm.

  “I know well what’s better for me,” Kalen said. “And I want you instead.”

  Fayne blinked at him, wordless.

  “Show me.” Kalen ran his fingers along her cheek. “I want to see your face.”

  He saw the shift in her stance, could almost feel every hair on her body rise. He felt her bristle, the way a lion might just before it pounces. “But you do see my face,” she said, her tone dangerous. “I stand here before you, no illusions.”

  “That’s a lie,” Kalen said. “I’ve taken my mask off for you—take yours off for me.”

  He still held her by the wrist. Could he feel the blood thundering in her veins, or was he imagining it? His grip lessened.

  “Run,” Kalen said, “or take off your mask. Choose.”

  “Kalen, you can’t—” she said. “Please. I’m frightened.”

  Perhaps I am cruel, Kalen thought. But Gedrin had taught him the value of pain, with that clout on the ear. Pain reveals who we truly are.

  “You want it to be real, then choose.” He shook his head. “I won’t ask again.”

  Trembling, Fayne looked at him for three deep breaths. He was sure—so sure—that she would run. But then she drew her wand from her belt with a steady hand. He saw the tension in her body, practically felt her insides roiling and tossing like a rickety boat in a god-born storm, but she stayed calm.

  She was like the thief he had been, he thought.

  “Very well,” she said.

  She passed the wand in front of her face and a false Fayne slid away like a heavy robe, leaving her naked before him. Her true face took form—her skin and hair and body. All her lies vanished, and she was truly herself. Regardless of her shape, she was just a woman standing before a man.

  Kalen said nothing, only looked at her.

  Finally, Fayne looked away. “Am I …” she asked, her voice broken. “Am I really so repulsive?”

  She tried to run, but he caught her arm once more. “Your name,” Kalen said. “I want your name.”

  Fayne’s eyes were wet but defiant. “Ellyne,” she said. “Ellyne, for sorrow.” Her fists clenched. “That’s my name, damn you.”

  “No.” Kalen looked down at her, his mouth set firm. “No, it isn’t.”

  Fayne’s knees quaked. “Yes, it—”

  Then he kissed her, cutting off her words.

  He kissed her deeper.

  The blanket slipped down to the floor and her warm body pressed against him.

  THIRTY

  Cellica must have dozed at her work. She awoke at the table, needle and thread in hand, to the sound of muffled sobs.

  The tallhouse rooms were not large—only a central chamber five paces across that served for dining and sitting, and two smaller rooms for slumber. Cellica’s room, from whence the sobbing came, was small by human standards, adequate for a halfling. It boasted a window—Kalen, in one of his rare thoughtful moments, had cut it out of the wall.

  Myrin was crying, she realized. But why?

  “Kalen,” she murmured.

  Cellica slipped down from the chair and padded over to Kalen’s door. She peered through the keyhole, much as she expected Myrin must have—

  She looked just long enough to see Kalen’s back, a pair of feminine arms wrapped around it, and knew instantly what had happened. She pulled away and her face turned into an angry frown. “Kalen, you stupid, stupid—”

  She hurried to her chamber. Sure enough, Myrin was clad in her red gown again, though it was now much rumpled. She sat in the corner, compacted as small as she could manage, and bit her knuckles. She smelled of honeysuckle—Cellica’s favorite and only perfume.

  “Oh, peach, peach,” Cellica said. She crossed to Myrin and embraced her. “It’s not your fault. You know that, right?”

  Myrin sobbed harder and leaned her head against Cellica’s chest. Where their skin touched, Cellica felt a tickle of magic.

  It wasn’t difficult for the halfling to connect events. Behind the closed door, Myrin had doffed the more practical attire they’d received at the Menagerie in favor of the red gown, which she’d asked Cellica to mend and clean earlier that day. Armed with that—and Cellica would confess readily that she looked a true beauty—and a bit of Cellica’s perfume, she’d padded out to Kalen’s room.

  But Fayne had pounced on Kalen first.

  Cellica cursed the man. How could he be so blind? Myrin had been throwing herself at him ever since that morn when they met. No wonder nothing had ever come of Kalen and Araezra. Cellica was surprised Rayse still spoke to the dumb brute.

  “There, lass, there.” Cellica stroked the girl’s hair. “Kalen’s just an idiot.”

  Myrin wrenched away. “No, he’s not!” she said. “You know he isn’t. Shut up!”

  The halfling blinked, stunned by her outburst, and leaned away. She tried to speak, but a compulsion in Myrin’s words had stolen her speech.

  My voice, Cellica thought. She took my voice?

  The girl’s anger turned to a sob. “He doesn’t love me,” Myrin said. “I thought maybe he followed me from the ball because he loved me, but … but …” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “He followed because it was his duty, because he was guarding me. That’s all.”

  “But that’s not true,” Cellica said. “I’ve never seen him look—”

  “Go away,” Myrin said. “Take your false hopes and just go away!”

  Cellica found herself rising to her feet without thinking. Her conscious mind wanted to stay and talk, but her body obeyed without her consent.

  It was the voice. Cellica’s own command, but from Myrin’s lips. How was this possible?

  “Go away and go to sleep,” Myrin said. “Here.” She handed Cellica the blanket.

  The halfling closed her door softly, leaving Myrin alone in her chamber. She wandered, increasingly sleepy, into the kitchen and main room. She felt so tired, as though she had run fifty leagues that day. Just a little—

  She slumped down on the floor and was snoring before her chin hit her chest.

  “Mother!” Fayne gasped, waking with a start, that one word on her lips.

  Merely a nightmare, she assured herself with some disgust. She’d been sleeping again.

  Fayne leaned back, her naked body glistening with sweat, while the world drifted back. A sparse tallhouse chamber. A plain bed. A man sleeping beside her, head nestled in her lap. Her tail curled around him like a purring cat, restlessly flicking back and forth.

  Who was this man, and why did she smile when she thought of him?

  She remembered the dream. An elf woman screamed and tore at herself to fight off a horror that existed only in her mind. A gold-skinned bladesinger without a heart moaned on the rough, slick floor. Fayne’s own mother, dark and beautiful and dead, lay impaled at her feet. The cold, bone wand in Fayne’s tiny hand sent pain through her arm and into her soul.

  And the girl—Fayne had seen the girl wreathed in blue flames. The girl flickered into being just as Fayne’s mother’s magic burned her from the inside out.

  She looked down at the muscled, scarred man who embraced her naked thighs and slept. Kalen, she remembered.

&nb
sp; Then it all returned, chasing the nightmares away once more. She whistled in relief.

  Gods, she hated sleeping. So barbaric. It limited more pleasant activities, anyway.

  Fayne slipped out of Kalen’s embrace and left him on the bed alone. She smiled at him for a moment before shaking her head. “Belt up, lass,” she chided. “You’re going all giggly.”

  She emptied the chamber pot out the wall chute—again, a barbaric necessity—and sat on the cold floor for a moment, collecting herself. Then she rose and stretched.

  The moonlight that leaked through the window would not last long—dawn was coming, and she had best take her leave soon. She opened the shutters and put her face out into the cool Waterdeep night. She breathed deep the refreshing breezes off the sea and let loose a peaceful, contented sigh. Then she shut herself back inside.

  She reclaimed her clothes—plain leathers, slightly shabby and worn. They weren’t the ones she remembered wearing there, but she was used to that feeling. When most of one’s wardrobe was illusory, one’s basic clothes often varied.

  Illusion …

  She realized something and crossed quickly to Kalen’s mirror, which hung on the wall over a small basin. The water was tepid when she trailed her fingers through it, but the mirror was more important.

  Her true face blinked back at her.

  “Gods,” she murmured, caressing her pale skin. “Did I really sleep in this?”

  She ran her fingers across the scar along her cheek—pushed back the rosy pink hair that obscured it. The scar, from a crossbow bolt, ached, as it always did that time of night.

  “This just won’t do,” she said. “Can’t go scaring children, now can we?”

  She made to draw her wand from her belt, then stopped. That was for cosmetic changes. Her true body—she really needed to hide that.

  She invoked her disguising ritual with the aid of her amulet. Her flesh shifted like putty. The pink hair turned back to her familiar half-elf red, her sharp features smoothed, her ears shrank and rounded slightly, and her wings and tail vanished.

  “Now, then,” she said.

  Over this she slid an illusion, one that suited her. Simply because she felt like it, she made herself look like her mother: a beautiful sun elf with eyes like tar pits and lips like rubies. A gauzy black gown spun itself out of the air around her thin limbs.