Mistress of the Night

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “One!” they cried, swinging her back toward the crowd. Feena fought to stay on her feet.

  “Two!” chanted the crowd in response.

  The bandits pulled her forward.

  “Three!”

  Stag and Drik swung Feena back again and let go. Feena reeled free, arms flailing as she struggled for balance. She slammed straight into the big woman who had been arm-wrestling the dwarf—and gasped as the woman shoved her away again.

  “Dip!” the woman roared merrily.

  Feena spun a few feet and hit someone else, a gap-toothed merchant.

  “Stagger!” he yelled and pushed her as well.

  “Dip!”

  “Stagger!”

  The crowd shifted and flowed around Feena, never allowing her more than a few steps before she hit or was caught by someone and sent staggering on her way. Beer splashed, drenching her. She didn’t have a chance to catch her breath or recapture her balance. There was certainly no chance for a prayer. Even the wolf within her was whining in fear—she couldn’t have changed form if she wanted to. Wild-eyed, she tried to drop, tried to dart between the legs of the crowd and make for the door. Stag’s hands caught her.

  “No, no, red bird!” he laughed and gave her a hard shove back into the chanting crowd. Other hands twirled her around and around, tossing her across the bar.

  The dwarf whirled into her field of vision. Feena heard him guffaw over the tavern’s din.

  “Dip!” he bellowed and swung a shoulder against her hips.

  Her torso kept going forward. Arms outstretched, she rolled helplessly over the dwarf’s shoulder, bounced off a table, and landed hard in someone’s lap. A goblet spun away with a ring and clash of cheap metal. Spilled wine pattered around her like rain.

  She looked up at a man with light brown hair and a soft goatee. He was well dressed, though wine soaked his clothes. His face was young—he was easily ten years Feena’s junior—but there was a hardness to his eyes that aged him. His mouth was set in a thin line. He looked down at his stained clothes, then at her—and up.

  The crowd went silent. Feena blinked her eyes back into focus in time to see the tavern’s patrons part to leave a clear space between the man who held her and Stag. The bandit’s eyes were narrow.

  “Give her here, Keph,” he growled.

  “Why should I?” The young man—Keph—curled an arm around Feena’s shoulders. “I might just keep her.”

  Drik snickered. The young man’s gaze darted to him and the bandit fell silent. He moved to Stag’s side, both men watching Keph.

  “I hear you think you’re a bad man now,” Stag said. “You still look like a spoiled brat to me. Maybe you want to just step back before you get hurt.”

  “And maybe when the two of you are finished taking on a farmer’s wife, Stag,” Keph replied, “you’ll be ready to face a real opponent.”

  Stag’s face flushed. “I’ll take on both of you by myself!”

  The crowd pulled back even farther, making a wide ring in the middle of the tavern. Keph glanced down at Feena.

  “Do you mind a little help?” he drawled with mock courtesy.

  “Not at all,” Feena replied. She pushed herself to her feet and bared her teeth. “Watch out for Drik. He’s not going to stay out of this.”

  Keph’s eyes betrayed surprise, as if he hadn’t expected such rage to pour out of her, but he rose and stepped to her side. He wore a rapier on his hip, though he didn’t draw it. Stag was already moving, strutting forward confidently but watching them both closely while Drik moved around to the side. The crowd began calling out to all four of them, taking sides and cheering. Feena took a step toward Stag, and so did Keph.

  “Take care of Drik!” Feena hissed at him.

  “You take care of Drik. Stag’s mine.”

  Keph circled around the bandit, hard eyes locked on him. Stag froze, not sure which opponent to focus on. Growling, Feena took the choice away from him. She dived past Keph to throw a punch at Stag.

  He got an arm up and blocked her blow, then swung his other in a backhand that forced her to leap away.

  “Hey!” snapped Keph. “I said he’s mine!”

  He started to move in. Out of the corner of her eye, Feena caught movement and tried to shout a warning as Drik jumped into the fray, but she was too slow. The second bandit wrapped his arms around Keph’s chest and heaved him off his feet. The crowd cheered wildly.

  The moment of distraction cost her as well. Stag’s fist seemed to snake out of nowhere and snap into her jaw. The punch spun her halfway around and knocked her to the floor.

  “You’re a lot of trouble, red bird!” Stag growled as he drew a foot back to kick her.

  Feena threw herself away and came up beside Drik and Keph. The young man was struggling ferociously against Drik’s embrace, but the bandit just kept squeezing tighter. Feena rolled up to her knees and drove a punch hard into Drik’s kidneys. He gasped and stumbled. As soon as Keph’s feet touched the ground, he hunched forward sharply, tumbling Drik over his shoulders. Drik didn’t loosen his embrace, however. For a heartbeat, the two men stood twined, then Drik went over, pulling Keph after him. They sprawled across the floor, both stunned, as the crowd jeered. Feena scrambled to her feet and swung around to face Stag once more. The bandit was circling her, fists ready. She took a slow step away from where Drik and Keph lay.

  “Trouble?” she asked. “You don’t know the half of it.” She gestured for him with both hands. “Come and get me.”

  Stag took a cautious pace forward. Feena glanced down.

  “Keph! Yours!”

  On the floor at Stag’s feet, Keph looked up. He grinned viciously and his hands snapped out to grab at the bandit’s leg. Stag stumbled, surprised. Feena darted forward, grasped the fabric of his shirt, and slammed her knee into his groin. Stag let out a horrible rattling gasp and stiffened.

  “Bitch!”

  Still holding Stag upright, Feena spun around. Drik was up in a crouch, one leg stretched out, the other bent in front of him. Sharp metal glinted in his hand. A throwing knife. His arm drew back …

  Keph twisted over onto his side, pulled a leg in, then kicked out hard. His booted foot hammered straight into Drik’s bent knee with a bone-splintering crunch. Drik shrieked and the knife tumbled from his fingers as he toppled over, clutching his leg.

  For a moment, the crowd held its breath, then erupted in a roar of appreciation for the brawl.

  Keph pushed himself up and rose to his feet. Feena glanced at Stag. The bandit’s eyes had rolled back and he was making rasping, choking noises that flecked his lips with foamy saliva. She shoved him into Keph’s arms.

  “I’m done,” she said over the noise of the crowd. “Your turn.”

  The young man pushed Stag to the floor, grabbing her instead and pulling her close.

  Keph felt the red-haired wildcat’s body stiffen in alarm as he drew her in.

  “Easy!” he hissed before she got the wrong idea—he didn’t want to try fighting her on his own. “We’re not out of danger yet.”

  He spun her around toward the door of the Cutter’s Dip. Between them and it were big Kor, wily old Noyle, half-mad Lahumbra, and a few other thugs. None of them looked happy.

  “Those are Stag and Drik’s friends,” he whispered in the woman’s ear. “They’ll cool down later, but if we want to get out of here now, we’d best go together.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and she nodded. Keph led the way toward the door. The woman didn’t try to challenge him. Hands reaching out to touch and congratulate them, the crowd parted easily. The woman flinched back—after a round of Dip’s Stagger, Keph thought, who could blame her?—but he accepted the congratulations and shook hands easily. As they drifted past the bar, the thugs were forced back away from them by the press of people, but he heard Noyle hiss out a warning.

  “Best not be coming back to the Cutter’s Dip any time soon!”

  The woman started to twist angrily. Keph held his g
rip on her and kept them moving.

  “Bad odds,” he muttered to her. “You can get back at them another time.”

  A moment later, they were through the tavern’s door and out on the platforms of the Stiltways. Keph walked a short distance away from the Cutter’s Dip, then let out a breath and released his hold on the woman.

  “What did you do to get Stag and Drik so mad at you?” he asked her.

  “They tried to rob me a tenday ago,” she said bluntly. “I objected.” She jerked her head at the door of the Dip. “This was just … unlucky. Thank you for your help.”

  Keph couldn’t hold back a disdainful snort.

  Dark, he thought, if Jarull and the other cultists saw this.…

  “Don’t thank me,” he told her. “If Stag had held his tongue, I would have given you back to him.”

  The woman looked at him with disgust. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected any more.” She drew herself up as if she wore a noblewoman’s finery instead of country clothes, and lifted her chin haughtily. “In that case, accept my apologies for interrupting your drink and my congratulations on a fight well fought.”

  Keph blinked at the change in her manner and cocked his head. Country wife, scrapper, noble—the woman had more sides than a loaded die. She must have recognized the surprise in his expression because she grimaced and shook her head.

  “No,” she said, as much to herself as to him it seemed. She looked at him and bent her head. “Thank you,” she said with genuine gratitude. “Even if you don’t accept it—thank you.”

  “I …” He searched for words, something that would knock her back down. To his surprise, he couldn’t find any. “You’re … welcome,” he told her haltingly.

  She extended her hand. “Feena,” she said.

  “Keph,” he replied, “but then, you already know that.” He took her hand and bowed over it politely.

  Feena started.

  “Keph Thingoleir?” she asked, surprised.

  Keph bit down on his tongue, let go of her hand, and said, “My reputation precedes me.”

  Feena seemed confused. “No,” she said, “it’s just … this is the second time tonight I’ve heard your name. And you shake hands like your father.”

  “I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear that,” Keph snapped. He stepped away from her. “You should go.”

  She looked at him strangely. “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Go. And like Noyle said, best not be coming back any time soon.”

  “All right.” Feena’s expression hardened. “Will they come after you?”

  Keph laid a hand on Quick. No weapons was an unspoken rule inside the Cutter’s Dip, but outside was another matter.

  “They can try.”

  “You’ll be alone,” she warned.

  “I was waiting for a friend before you came along. He’ll be here soon.” He gave Feena a cold glare. “Leave!”

  She turned and stalked away—then paused and twisted to look back at him.

  “I owe you,” she said, then she turned back around and continued on.

  “You don’t owe me anything!” he shouted after her.

  He turned to the railing of the platform and looked out into the darkness of the Stiltways.

  Dark, he thought silently. Mistress of the Night, are you the only one who can see me as more than the failed son of Strasus Thingoleir?

  He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then opened them again. He stood that way for a long while, listening as the sounds of the Cutter’s Dip returned to normal at his back. The bleeding light of the tavern caught his shadow and threw it out, long and thin.

  Heavy footsteps came creaking along the platform toward him. He twisted around. Jarull stood staring at him.

  “What are you doing out here?” the big man asked in surprise.

  Keph put on a false smile. “A little trouble,” he laughed. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He swaggered up to his friend and punched him in the arm. “You should have been here. You would have enjoyed it!”

  Jarull gave him a sober look and said, “Variance wants to see you.”

  All of Keph’s swagger and bravado vanished. He slumped back against a wall.

  “Dark, Jarull.” He pushed his hands through his hair. “Did she say anything? Is she still angry?”

  Three nights past, as he, Talisk, Starne, and Baret had staggered through the depths of the Stiltways celebrating his revenge against Lyraene, Variance had descended on them like the wrath of Shar herself. For Baret, still trembling after the Selûnite’s spell, the dark priestess’s appearance had been too much. He had shrieked and dropped where he stood. Talisk and Starne had fled. Keph had found himself backed into a corner as Variance stalked after him, shadows surging as if brought to life by her rage.

  “You fool,” she had seethed. “You fool! What were you thinking?”

  But she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain, just pointed a finger at him and hissed, “You will not see me or know Shar’s favor again until I send for you!”

  His heart had gone cold. All he’d been able to do was stare as she turned and vanished into the shadows. He hadn’t seen her—or Bolan—since. He had not been summoned to the Sharran temple. Starne, Talisk, and Baret had taken to shunning him. Even Jarull had seemed distant. And when he tried to work the orison that Variance had taught him at his initiation, there had been nothing. Not after a thousand desperate prayers and hours of sitting in the dark. Shar had not answered him.

  If Variance wanted to see him.… He looked up at Jarull hopefully. The big man’s face twisted.

  “Hope is for the ignorant and the weak,” he said in disgust. Keph flinched, and Jarull pointed and said, “There’s a bookbinder’s shop a street along that way and one level up. Go in. Variance is waiting for you.”

  Keph scrambled to his feet and ran in the direction his friend pointed.

  He found the shop easily enough. It was closed for the night, of course. No light showed around the heavy shutters that covered its windows. Keph swallowed and reached for the door handle. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside, closing the door swiftly.

  The shop smelled of leather, paper, and glue. Variance stood over a table on which half a dozen books were laid out. A single candle was set on the table as well, though its flame seemed writhed in shadow, dimming its light to the barest dull glimmer. The light certainly wasn’t enough to read by. It came to Keph that Variance didn’t need the light. She belonged to Shar. She lived within the darkness. The candle was there for him, a reminder of his weakness.

  “Writing,” Variance said without looking up, “is a marvelous thing. Someone can write down a thought they had or a story they heard or a description of something they experienced, and that thought or story or experience is preserved. It will last as long as the writing itself lasts. If the writing is copied, it can last even longer. Through writing, even the humblest man or woman can become, in a way, immortal. Without magic. Without the favor of the gods.”

  She reached out and turned a page in one of the books. Keph waited in silence while Variance turned another page, and another. He wanted to fall down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He didn’t dare. What would another misstep cost him? He waited and the hollow in his heart seemed to grow into an empty, desolate void.

  Just when it seemed he had to cry out or go mad, Variance finally looked up.

  “And now,” she said, “you begin to understand Shar’s great sorrow. She may be the Mistress of the Night, but she is also the Lady of Loss. When Selûne kindled fire in the darkness of creation, she did so without thought for her sister. Ever since that first dawn, Shar has ached for the simple peace that Selûne tore from her.” Variance stepped away from the table. “Do you understand, Keph?”

  He nodded. He could feel tears on his cheeks. Variance studied him. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

  “What were you thinking when you attacked that half-elf?”

  “I wanted to h
urt her,” Keph said. The words burst out of him. “I wanted to hurt her the way she hurt me. She mocked me with what I didn’t have, so I wanted to take it away from her.” He wiped at his face with the heel of his palm. “I wanted to honor Shar with Lyraene’s loss!”

  “Ah.”

  Variance turned and began to close the books on the table. Keph clenched his jaw.

  “I’m sorry, Variance!” he blurted. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  She turned on him sharply.

  “Now,” she hissed, “you dishonor Shar! The agony of an enemy’s spirit, that is joy to the Mistress of the Night. Regret—” She slammed the cover of the final book. “Regret is no honor. Especially false regret.” She glared at him. “Everything that you did to Lyraene, you did deliberately.”

  Keph stumbled back. “No …” he gasped. Variance raised her eyebrows. Keph’s hands curled into fists. “I mean, yes. Yes, everything was deliberate. But I didn’t mean to dishonor Shar!” He sank down to his knees. “Please, Variance. Forgive me!”

  Variance’s pale face was cold. “Shar does not forgive.”

  Keph felt his heart drop out of his chest.

  “But,” added Variance, “she does teach.” She reached down and offered Keph her hand. He took it and rose. “If you wish to truly honor Shar, Keph, you must be patient. The Selûnites would erase us from Faerûn, just as Selûne tried to erase her sister’s darkness. Think … if you had been patient, if you had taken Lyraene somewhere else.…”

  “The priest of Selûne wouldn’t have found us,” Keph said. He clenched his teeth and looked at Variance. “But he did find us. Variance, the Selûnites—”

  The priestess silenced him with a gesture and said, “The Selûnites don’t recognize Shar’s hand in what you tried to do.”

  “But Lyraene or her friends must have told someone what happened,” Keph protested.

  Variance tilted her head.

  “Is this the first you’ve thought of that possibility?” she asked.

  Keph blinked, and flushed. Not one guard had so much as come calling on Fourstaves House since his attack on Lyraene. He’d been so terrified by Variance’s rage that the fact hadn’t crossed his mind.