Shadowbane

be steeling herself for what was bound to be an ungentle discourse. “Kalen,” she said coolly.

“Myrin,” he said.

“My Lady Darkdance, what a pleasure.” Lilten took her hand and brought it close to his lips, but he did not kiss it as he had Flick’s hand. “You look radiant, dear one.”

“Um, thanks?” Myrin stared at the dashing elf like a puzzle that defied her every attempt to solve it. Lilten smiled back. “Kalen?”

“Pardon me,” Kalen said to Lilten, then he followed her.

Myrin stood at the end of the bar, where the shadows hung deepest. She had assumed her familiar anxious posture, clutching one arm behind her back, with one toe grinding into the floorboards. “Kalen, I know what you’re going to say-”

“Thank you.”

“-but it was my own decision. I know you don’t approve but godsdammit, you need me and … did you just say thank you?” Her eyes widened.

“Thank you.” Kalen put his hand on Myrin’s narrow shoulder. “I was wrong,” he said. “I needed you and I sent you away. It won’t happen again.”

Myrin blinked. “That-that was an entirely unexpected response,” she said. “Nor is that quite what I hoped you might say.”

“What did you hope I would say?”

“Perhaps, ‘thanks for saving the day again, Myrin,’ or ‘I’m glad to see you, Myrin,’ or ‘thanks for showing me what a wool-head I am when it comes to tactics, Myrin’-”

“All right.” Kalen squeezed her shoulder a little and took heart in the smile that crossed her face. The tension that had grown between them since their parting seemed to evaporate. He felt close to her and very comfortable in her presence. “What of Rhett?”

Her face fell and he could tell that he hadn’t said quite the right thing. She stepped out of his reach. “He’s well enough,” she said, her voice disinterested. “We marched five days to Westgate, stayed half a day, and I came right back.”

“Five days,” Kalen said. “It took you that long to decide to ignore my request.”

“You only told me to leave,” Myrin said. “You never said I couldn’t come back.”

“True,” Kalen said. “Rhett’s made contact with Levia?”

Myrin shrugged. “I never saw her myself, but Rhett looked optimistic when he returned from their moot,” she said. “Quite secretive, those Eye of Justice folk.”

“You have no idea.” Kalen nodded. “And he still wields Vindicator?”

“That was what won him Levia’s ear. Still-” Myrin bit her lip.

“Speak,” Kalen said. “What is it?”

“The sword chose you,” Myrin said. “You cannot simply abandon its call.”

Kalen shook his head. She didn’t understand-couldn’t understand. What the sword asked of him … It was not something he could give. Would she even want him to accept it, if she knew what she asked?

“Kalen, I-” Myrin looked sullen, any hint of former mirth fled. “I have to tell you something. About Rhett.”

Unease flickered in his stomach, but he suppressed it. “Can it wait?” he asked. “If it’s important, I don’t trust our new friend where he can overhear.”

A barmaid and one of the handsomer Dead Rats had wandered over to Lilten, where he seemed to be wooing them with some jest or another. He winked at Kalen, perhaps in response to the scrutiny, or perhaps because he overheard his name.

“Very well-it can wait.” Myrin sighed. “I’m still furious at you, you know.”

“Furious?” Kalen hadn’t expected that. “Why?”

Myrin blinked, startled. “You-you still don’t know?” She turned red. “I can’t believe you, Kalen Dren! One of these days, you’ll see how hard it is to-to-ahh!”

She stomped up the stairs, then paused on the first landing. She made an effort to compose herself, turned, and addressed him icily.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve wasted the last tenday doing, but I’ve just been hiking through the Shadowfell all that time without rest, and I’m very tired. Excuse me.”

She went up to her room and slammed the door.

“Troubles?”

Lilten lounged in his seat, one leg tossed over the table. His fawning adherents had gone off hand-in-hand toward the broom closet at the end of Flick’s bar. It seemed the mere presence of this elf aroused warm, sweaty feelings.

Lilten sipped at a delicate glass of blue wine-such a thing as Kalen had never seen outside the richest taverns of Waterdeep. Where had he gotten that?

Kalen wandered back to the table, his world spinning slightly. Everything felt numb, not just his body. “I think,” he said, sinking into his seat. “I think she hates me.”

“More’s the pity you think that,” Lilten said. “But to business. I find that the women we love often cloud the issue unnecessarily. Agreed?”

Kalen nodded dumbly, though he had no idea what the elf had just said. He’d thought he and Myrin had dealt with the tension between them, but now, with the last words she’d said to him, he wasn’t so sure. He remembered a tenday past, when she had slapped him. Kalen noted two creases on the elf’s otherwise perfect cheek, like ancient scars. Had those come about in the same fashion?

“For now,” Lilten said, “I think you wish to hear of Scour.”

Hot tears started rolling down her cheeks as soon as she closed the door behind her. She slumped back against it, beating her fists against the grimy wood.

She’d come back to Luskan prepared to rage at Kalen for sending her away. Then-of all things-he had thanked her for coming back. She’d ended up raging at him anyway. And what she’d said-or, rather, almost said to him … Gods!

It was all so frustrating! If only she had more power-if only she could remember when she had wielded more! Then Kalen wouldn’t doubt her. Then-

Myrin felt like screaming, but that would draw attention, which would be worse. She grabbed her grimoire, flipped it open to a simple silencing incantation, and intoned the ritual. A hazy blue glow filtered over her door and walls, ensuring her privacy. Perfect.

Her wand flashed into her hand and she slashed it at the bed. A wave of thunder streaked forth, sending the bed shattering against the wall. Her pack burst open in a rain of colorful garments. She blasted one out of the air with a conjured arrow of force, sending scraps of fabric sailing in all directions, then whirled and sent forth a burst of flame to consume a fluttering white shift. The destruction was petty but it relieved her.

She turned her wand toward another garment, then stopped. The slinky red dress hung where it had caught on a broken bedpost, swinging like a hapless doll. Somehow, this image got the better of Myrin and she dropped her wand. More tears came. She didn’t fight them.

“Lady Darkdance.” Sithe stood at the door, dressed in her ruined fighting clothes. She spoke in words that barely rose above a whisper. “You are well?”

“Yes.” Embarrassment seized Myrin and she wiped her nose. “Yes, I’m well.”

Sithe hesitated on the threshold. Myrin wondered if she’d ever actually shared more than a dozen words with the genasi at any one time.

“You do battle?” The dark woman glanced around Myrin’s ruined room.

“Only against myself, I suppose,” Myrin said. “Please-come in, if you like.”

Slouched and shivering, Sithe entered. The swarm demon’s assault had torn her clothes to little more than ribbons. The tatters hid little enough that Myrin blushed to look at her. Lilten’s song had healed her wounds, but Myrin knew the genasi had been grievously hurt in the battle.

“That can’t be warm enough,” Myrin said. “Let me find you something else.”

Sithe adjusted her cloak self-consciously. “No need.”

“Please,” Myrin said. “I must have something you can wear. Here”-she pulled down the red dress from