could not pretend that she didn’t know Kalen. Still, she could be regal about it-acting in a way befitting the leader of the Dead Rats.
Befitting the Witch-Queen of Luskan.
Kalen stared at Myrin-startled, confused, and yet somehow, not as surprised as he might have been. It was not just the hint his spellscar had provided when it seemed to draw toward her: it had recognized her. Rather, since they’d met that foggy night a year ago, Myrin had shown a talent for defying expectations. Going from hostage to queen was more of the same. Kalen rather admired that about her.
He wished she hadn’t surrounded herself with so many snakes, however. The Dead Rats stared at her with equal parts deference and wariness. Kalen saw more than a few look not to Myrin but to Toytere for a sign as to what to do, including Sithe. Clearly, Myrin’s position was tentative, and she would lose it if she did not act the part.
By her eyes and the way her expression became masked, Myrin knew it, too. “Stand him up.” She waved dismissively. “Blood on my floor simply won’t do.”
“Aye, Lady Darkdance,” Toytere said and signaled to his men.
Darkdance? Kalen pondered.
Two of the Dead Rats came forward-including the one Kalen had stunned with his sudden attack-and hauled Kalen to his feet. They grasped Rhett as well, though the boy hadn’t moved. “She’s very pretty,” Rhett observed quietly. “Or is that an illusion?”
“No, that’s not an illusion,” Kalen said.
It was true. A year had turned the waifish girl of his memory into a striking young woman. Her almond tan skin had grown warm and dark. It brought out the vibrancy of her shocking blue hair, which fell to the middle of her back. Her bright blue eyes seemed the same as always: sparkling and thoughtful.
“You certainly know your share of lovely ladies, Saer Shadowbane,” Rhett said.
“Stop calling me that,” Kalen said.
It was flattering that the boy used that salutation-for a noble of unknown rank or a common knight acting particularly well-but he didn’t feel worthy of either part of the moniker.
One of the thugs raised a club to silence them both, but Myrin put up a staying hand. “Who’s your flattering friend, Kalen?” she asked.
“He’s nobody,” Kalen said. “Just a boy.”
“I can speak for myself,” Rhett countered. “Dark Sorceress, I am Rhetegast of the House of Hawkwinter-” His words cut off when the thug hit him anyway.
“That,” Kalen murmured, “you probably should not have said.”
“Point.” Rhett groaned.
The two thugs guarding the prisoners raised their clubs, while several others in the room eyed Rhett with considerable interest. They were, after all, thieves, and naming oneself a noble scion among them was not wise. Kalen looked to Myrin, hoping she would do something to quiet them before violence ensued anew.
Either she got the message or had thought of that herself, because Myrin immediately raised her hand and sent forth a fan of flames to lick at the rafters. The Rats shied away from the magic. Blades disappeared into their sheaths and clubs lowered. Toytere, who had been reaching into his vest, relaxed.
“Now then,” Myrin said. “I will take the prisoners to my private chambers. If anyone objects, kindly make yourself known, so I can burn you to ash on the spot. No one?” Myrin smiled. “Outstanding.”
She rose, and they all bowed to her.
“Bring them.” Myrin turned to Sithe. “I’ll take the sword, please.”
The genasi cast Kalen and Rhett a look, but she handed Vindicator over to Myrin.
Rhett’s eyes were wide indeed as the guards seized their arms. “That’s some lady you know, Saer Shadowbane,” he said. “Who is she?”
Kalen smiled despite himself. “She’s Myrin.”
The trek to the chambers of the Witch-Queen was a brief one: she had the largest quarters in the tavern, which must formerly have belonged to Toytere. The room was bare of decoration, its walls were peeling like dead skin, and its furnishings were limited to a single narrow bed and an end table with a single shelf.
Myrin gestured and a chair obediently rose for her to sit in. She set Vindicator down and settled in, straight-backed and regal, like a queen ought to be.
The guards pushed Kalen and Rhett to their knees on the rug then looked to Myrin. She waved them away. They were out of the room before her hand moved more than a finger’s breadth. That hand was dangerous, Kalen thought.
The door closed and the three of them were alone in Myrin’s chambers. Their heavy breathing seemed deafening in the charged silence.
“Myrin,” Kalen said, even as she started to say his name, rising as though to approach. They both froze, neither ready to speak over the other-neither knowing what to say. He stared at her, hundreds of words wrestling in his throat and getting stuck. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth formed words she couldn’t quite speak.
“So-” Rhett said.
At that single, unexpected syllable-Kalen had almost forgotten the boy was there-the moment broke. Kalen drew into himself, suddenly self-conscious. Myrin shook her head as though to clear a fog.
“Darkdance?” Kalen asked, unable to bring himself to say anything else.
“My name,” Myrin said. “I found out more of it a tenday or so past. Myrin Darkdance. What do you think?”
“It suits you,” Kalen said.
Myrin smiled and turned to Rhett. “You were asking a question?”
“Who are you, lady?” Rhett then looked at Kalen. “Who is she?”
“Not the gang leader of the Dead Rats, last I checked.” Kalen faced Myrin. “How exactly did this happen?” Myrin’s face colored slightly. She seemed a little embarrassed. “Well …”
17 KYTHORN (NIGHT)
Myrin awoke in a bare prison cell that smelled of rot, excrement, and worse things she chose not to identify. Her only pillow was stained gray stone, which made most of her body ache when she tried to move. Myrin didn’t remember much after the attack-her mind felt fuzzy and disconnected.
“Hmm.” She climbed to one knee. A sound outside the wood door drew her attention and she crossed to it. “Well met?” she said. “Hail?”
A metal viewing panel slid open in the door. A pair of jaundiced eyes peered in at her, belonging to a grizzled, weedy man of dubious hygiene. “Aye?”
“Where am I?” Myrin asked. “Or possibly some other basic information?”
The man’s nose twitched. “Shut up, you blue-haired wench,” he said.
“Hmm.” Myrin pursed her lips. “In that case, may I please have a cup of water.”
“I’ll say it slower, then,” the man said. “Shut up. You. Blue-haired. Wench.”
“As I thought.” Myrin put her hands on her hips. “You should know that I am a great and powerful wizard. You should do this little thing for me, before I make you-all of you-very sorry for not doing it.”
The man stared at her for a heartbeat, shocked, then roared with laughter. “Heh! That’s rich, lass! Rich!” He shouted down the hall. “Oi! Lads! Come hear this!”
Two more rogues appeared, each of them as ugly as the first. The second had an over-large eye-or perhaps the other had shrunk-while the third had three separate scars across his mouth that looked a bit like red stitches.
“Oi!” the guard said. “This one say she’s to make us all
The thieves looked at him, then one another, and then laughed wildly. They slapped each other on the shoulders, bending over in a vain attempt to contain themselves.
“Ha ha!” said the yellow-eyed one. “Whatcha gonna cast your magic with, eh, wench? This?” He drew from the chest pocket of his leathers a long gray stick.
Myrin recognized her wand. “Yes, actually,” she said, extending her hand as though to take it from him, should he offer it.
