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
DMA Mill 11 UD MB 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 throar. 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 ir 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.
TWENTY-THREE
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 torturofis pain etched on its face. With a soundless cry, it tore at the dwarf with its black claws.
Rath eluded its blows, eyes wide. He danced backward and around the room, running around the tub and leaping over divans and dressers. The shadow pursued, relentless in its assault. Rath ran up a wall, kicked off, and dropped behind it, right hand across his belt on his sword. The creature turned-or rather, turned itself inside-out-
