'Me.' The word tasted like wormwood in her mouth. 'I'm beautiful, did you not say it?'
Rath smirked.
Then he hauled Araezra away from the wall and threw het to the floor near the desk as though she were an empty tunic. Her head knocked againsr the stout darkwood and her vision blurred. She reached to pull herself up, but the dwarf caught her hand-her sword hand- and twisted it. A crackle of bones sounded and her wrist exploded in pain. She uttered a screech that did not reach any volume, because he kicked her in the belly and blew any air from her body. The scream became a wet sob.
Kalen was saying something.
The dwarf looked at Kalen then. 'I did not hear you, trained dog,' he said.
'You should flee this place,' Kalen observed in his indifferent manner. 'You can accomplish nothing here.'
The dwarf lunged across the distance between them and stood over Kalen, one hand grasping him by the brown-black hair that hung messily in his eyes. 'Why, dog?' he asked. 'Do you offer me a threat?'
Kalen's eyes did not leave Rath's, and he shook his head. 'Only a fact,' he said. 'You are in the heart of our barracks, and a cry will call more Watchmen than you can defeat alone.'
Araezra realized Kalen was distracting Rath. She flexed her wristbroken, but she'd trained left-handed as well. She could still wield a sword, albeit poorly. She looked to the silvery blade on the floor. But it was nearer Kalen than herself, and he could not fight, could he?
Would he? She wondered.
'You can slay both of us, but you cannot silence both of us at the same moment.' Kalen continued. 'Thus, if you kill either of us, the other can cry out and you will die.'
The dwarf did not blink, but the look on his face told Araezra he had counted the guards he had bypassed. 'Why not call for them now?' he asked.
'Our bargain,' Kalen said. 'You leave this place and do not harm either of us, and we will not cry out. No one need die.'
Araezra gasped and coughed, as her breathing once again became normal. 'Kalen…'
He ignored her and stared at Rath, who seemed to be considering.
Then the dwarfs fingers touched the edge of Kalen's jaw, caressing it softly and gently-like a lover, and like death. 'Very well, dog,' said Rath. 'But I want to hear you beg.'
Kalen cast his eyes down.
'Beg for mercy,' Rarh said with a cruel smile.
When Kalen spoke, his voice hardly rose above a whisper. 'Please,' he said. 'Please.'
'Kalen…' Araezra couldn't believe it. The Kalen she loved did not beg.
Rath sniffed. 'You call yourself a man, and yet you take the coward's path,' he said. He looked at Araezra. 'Your mastiff is not a hound, my lady, but a mongrel bitch.'
Kalen's eyes, gleaming pale at Araezra, seemed very, very cold in that silvery light.
Araezra rubbed her bruised rhroat. 'Choose, dwarf,' she said. 'I have a good scream in me yet, and weak as he is, I've no doubt Vigilant Dren can muster such a cry.'
Rath looked from her ro Kalen and back. Then he snorted.
'Very well.' He hauled Kalen up, and to his credit, the man barely coughed. 'Know that your cowardice falls beneath the weakest pup, for even such a cur can fight when cornered.'
Kalen did not answer.
'Have you nothing to say?' asked the dwarf. Kalen only stared at Rath. Araezra felt a trembling anger build within her.
Then Rath was gone, nearly flying down the hall. Kalen slumped ro the floor, but he caught himself before his face struck the stone. Araezra saw his eyes, bright and furious and icy, gleam at her. Then he started to cough.
In an instant, as though that sound had given her strength, Araezra pushed herself to her feet. 'Guard!' she cried, loud as she could. 'Watch, Guard-to arms! Intruder!'
A great clamor of feet and steel arose in the rooms around them. Folk were coming, summoned by Araezra's cry. Araezra looked at Kalen, so weak and sad, lying there. She reached down. 'Up, Vigilant.'
He took her hand and climbed up shakily. 'Are you hurt?' he asked.
She shook her head, furious words building in her throat. Kalen coughed. 'Gods, Rayse, I didn't want you to get hurt. You know that.'
'Spare me.' Araezra shook her head, too angry and hurt to spend soft words on him. 'I don't need anyone to protect me-especially not a coward.'
Kalen cast his eyes down.
Araezra took Shadowbane's sword-it felt warm to the touch but did not burn her-then ran into the hall to muster the Watch.
Kalen stood shaking, wounded deeper than any sword could have cut.
He'd given everything to save Araezra. He had broken his greatest vow to himself, never to beg. And still, she had turned away from him. He had seen the contempt in her eyes.
He was less than a man to her, and he had pulled her low as well.
A coughing fit came upon him then, bubbling up like a cruel reminder of his failure, and he fought it down-in vain. He coughed and retched and spat blood into his hand.
That blood and spit could easily have been Rath's blood on his hands. The temptation had been so strong-to trick the dwarf into vulnerability and plunge a blade into his liver, kidney, or heart. Like a backstabbing thief, or like an assassin. The way he would have done in Luskan. But that would have sullied his vows, and the paladin in him would not allow it.
He lifted his hands to heal himself at a touch, but his powers did not come forth.
He realized why, and the understanding struck him like a slap across the face.
All this time, he had protected Waterdeep-this city of faceless citizens-and protected those he loved and cherished. But he could not do it at the cost of his own principles. He could not compromise the deepest commitment of all: to himself.
So that he might continue in his duty, he hadn't revealed himself after Lorien, or after Talanna had been hurt. The threefold god had not punished him for that. But when he hadn't revealed himself today, he'd chased away his only friend other than Cellica.
Although Araezra was alive, he knew he had acted wrongly. The
Threefold God had taken his powers for sacrificing his duty to himself for his duty to others.
He saw that he must do both-fight for the ciry, and fight for himself and those he loved. He would prove himself worthy.
He swore it.
EIGHTEEN
To prepare for the revel, Cellica took Myrin to a dress salon called Nathalan's Menagerie-named, Cellica explained; for the elf noble who was the owner.
Lady Ilira Nathalan owned a number of such shops across Faeriin, which did their part in supplying-and in many cases crearing-the fashions of the day. Patrons tried on styles amid cages filled with exotic birds and flowers. The gowns, sashes, and shoes were rich in quality but low in cost, which, Cellica explained, was the reason behind the Menagerie's success.
'I don't know how she does it,' Cellica said as she gestured to gown after gown for the attendant to take for her, 'but some lucky goddess must watch over her supplies. Her prices always undercut her comperitors. Nobles usually have their own seamstresses as a matter of pride, but Ilira caters to merchants and other wealthy folk who don't have signets stuck up their-heh.' Cellica smiled wryly. 'Better dresses, too, though don't let the nobility hear that.'
Myrin watched as a pair of lovely middle-aged human women draped a series of gowns over their chests, admiring the colors in the mirror. An attendant-whom Myrin realized must be a half-ore, owing to her small tusks
