“I don’t understand,” Fayne said. “Heart, what are you—”

  Lorien shook her head. “Whatever you are, creature,” she said, “Ilira and I love each other well, but you misunderstand our relationship. A pity for you.”

  Fayne’s mind whirled. “I felt …” she tried. “I felt it was time to … My love, don’t punish me for my haste! I only wanted to take us to another ledge, my darling one!”

  Lorien rolled her eyes. As Fayne stood before her, Lorien gestured for her to kneel, and Fayne did so. “I can’t decide,” she said, “whether you are one of my enemies, or one of hers.” She shifted the golden rod from hand to hand. “Which is it, child?”

  “Dear heart,” Fayne gasped. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Show truth,” Lorien intoned in Elvish, and tapped Fayne on the forehead with the rod.

  Fayne screeched, loud and long, as magic ripped away from her, shattering her illusions and deceptions. They faded in sequence: first Ilira’s face, then the conjured black hair, then the alluring features, then—as her skin prickled and stretched—her entire shape began to shift, back to—good gods—back to her true self. Something that was certainly not a half-elf.

  Lorien gasped. “One of Lilten’s creatures,” she said. “Ilira warned me.”

  Those names. Ilira, the woman Fayne hated, but the other. How did she know …?

  Fayne looked at herself, at her black-nailed fingers and alabaster skin. Her tail slapped her legs. Not her real body—not now! She pawed at her garish pink hair and screamed.

  “Gods.” Lorien put out a trembling hand, reaching toward Fayne’s head by reflex. “That explains everything. I’m sorry, child. I didn’t—”

  There came a rush and a snickering sound, and Lorien’s head snapped back. Fayne looked at her, confused.

  For a heartbeat, Lorien stood there, bent backward, standing erect.

  Then she fell in a geyser of blood from her opened throat. The priestess slumped to the floor, twitching and dying.

  Rath stood near them. He had struck and sheathed his blade in a single movement.

  “What?” Fayne’s mind barely functioned. “I thought … you said you never use that.”

  The dwarf looked down at her as one might look at a child. “For those who are worthy,” he said. “And those for whom I have been paid.”

  Fayne stared numbly at Lorien—at the blood spreading around her face—and could not think. The priestess’s eyes blinked rapidly, and she tried to speak but only gurgled. Fayne’s stomach turned over and she felt like vomiting into the golden tub.

  Rath turned away from Fayne in disgust. “Clean yourself. Put your mask back on.”

  Fayne grasped her head, which was reeling. Magic drained the vitality from her limbs, but those limbs shifted, their deathly pallor replaced by the smooth warmth of her half-elf body. She felt her teeth—normal once more—and sighed in deep relief. It was only an illusion and would have to last until she could perform her ritual again, but it was enough.

  She rose on shaky, weak legs. Rath didn’t help her.

  Finally, her ugly self hidden, she could think clearly again. The enormity of Rath’s actions struck her, and she gasped.

  “You stupid son of a mother-suckling goat!” she screamed at the dwarf as she wound a white towel around her nakedness. She pointed at Lorien, who lay dying on the floor. “She wasn’t supposed to die—I didn’t pay you to kill her!

  Rath shrugged. “You are welcome.”

  “You beardless idiot!” Fayne’s face felt like it would explode. “Who asked you? Who asked you to step in? I had everything under my hand, every—urt!”

  The dwarf seized her by the throat, cutting off words and air. Choking, she could not resist as he forced her against the wall and pinned her there with his arm. Her weak fingers could only flail at his ironlike arm.

  “Her, I took coin to kill,” Rath whispered in her ear. “You, I slay for free.”

  Fayne gasped as light entered her vision.

  CHAPTER 22

  Kalen 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 terms. 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 straightened 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 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 throat. 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 it 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.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ilira was the first to move. Rather, she remained still, but her shadow moved.

  Kalen realized, to his horror, that her dark reflection did not match her—it was great and broad, like a hulking warrior. It moved of its own will; though Ilira knelt, still and trembling, her shadow reached toward the dwarf with clawed hands meaning to rend him apart.

  Suddenly, Kalen recognized it—from Downshadow, the night he had followed Lorien. The shadow must be bound to protect both women.

  Then Ilira was in motion. She screamed a war cry of fury and leaped—not toward Rath, but backward, toward the wall. Kalen watched as she melted into the shadows, then appeared next to the dwarf and tackled him to the floor. Her hands fumbled at his black robes, and the two rolled and bounced across the silk carpets.

  “Fayne!” Cellica cried, and she ran to Fayne, who lay unmoving.

  Her voice snapped Kalen into motion. He lunged toward Rath and Ilira, daggers wide.

  Rath got two feet under Ilira and heaved, sending her flying toward Kalen. He braced himself to catch her, but she twisted in the air, landed lightly on his chest with both feet, and kicked off, turning a somersault and landing on her toes near the dwarf. She lunged at Rath, hissing like a serpent.

  Driven backward by the collision, Kalen fell to the floor. He coughed and kicked his legs around, pushing himself to stand. What he saw paralyzed him for a heartbeat.

  Ilira’s shadow had fallen upon Rath. It stood like a living man—a giant of a man. Its features were blurry, but Kalen could see torturous pain etched on its face. With a soundless cry, it tore at the dwarf with its black claws.