Mistress of the Night (4 page)

Feena's eyebrows rose. Dhauna Myritar had led Moonshadow Hall for well over twenty years—it was hard to think of the temple without her at its head.

"Pressure?" she asked. "Who from?"

Before Julith could answer, the High Moonmistress lowered her arms. On cue, a chorus of novices began to sing a hymn. After a few bars, the crowd joined in as well, a sweet roar of sound that would have been impossible to hear over. Julith and Feena dutifully added their voices to the song, but Julith caught Feena's eye and nodded toward the sacred pool again.

Four figures had stepped forward from the crowd. Two were acolytes bearing silver pitchers. Dhauna took the pitchers and poured their contents—milk and pale wine—into the sacred pool as a sacrifice to Selune.

Flanking the acolytes, however, were Mifano and Velsinore. Feena's eyes narrowed as another piece of the rivalry between the two fell into place.

The hymn ended. Feena leaned toward Julith once more as they knelt along with the rest of the crowd to receive the High Moonmistress's benediction.

"Dhauna hasn't named a successor yet, has she?" Feena guessed. Julith nodded. "But Velsinore and Mifano are the prime candidates?"

Julith nodded again. Feena grunted and straightened, her suspicion confirmed. Dhauna wanted her to help, but dodging the two rivals wouldn't be easy.

"In the face of darkness," called Dhauna from the front of the courtyard, "be strong, for the Bright Lady of Night gives you her blessing." She folded her hands. "May Selune guide your steps in the night and bring them to a new dawn."

The crowd rose in a rustle of fabric and a murmur of voices, the ceremony complete. Feena rose as well, turning to Julith. Dhauna's voice, however, brought the attention of the entire courtyard back to her.

"Friends!" she shouted. "Friends!"

When silence had fallen again, she spread her arms and smiled.

"I'd like you all to join me in a song of welcome. Moonshadow Hall opens its arms tonight as one of its own children returns home." She held out her hands. "Feena of Arch Wood, daughter of Maleva, come forward and be recognized."

"Oh, Moonmaiden's grace," Feena cursed under her breath. She shot a glance at Julith as the entire crowd turned toward her. "Is this one of Dhauna's bad days?"

Julith wrinkled her face and gave a tiny shrug.

"Wonderful," Feena muttered.

She stepped forward. The chorus of novices led the crowd in another hymn as she walked the length of the courtyard up to the High Moonmistress. Mifano gave her a playful wink as she passed. Feena glowered at him.

Dhauna reached out and took her hands. "Let all on

whom Selune's light falls be welcome if they desire," she said with a soft smile. "Welcome back to Moonshadow Hall, Feena."

"Thank you, Mother Dhauna," Feena replied humbly. Dhauna turned her toward the watching crowd.

"Friends," she called, "this is Feena Archwood, a true priestess of Selune, and by Selune's grace—" The high priestess reached back and dipped her hand into the sacred pool, sending ripples through the shining reflection of the full moon, then pressed her dripping fingers to Feena's face—"I name her Moonmistress-Designate and my successor at Moonshadow Hall!"

Feena stared at Dhauna in shock.

CHAPTER 2

There was probably no one in Yhaunn who could have said exactly how the district known as the Stiltways came into existence—merchants and traders, shops and taverns so solidly packed around a few twisted streets that they filled tall buildings from top to bottom and burst out of the sides like fat from an overstuffed sausage. There were various explanations bandied about, rising and falling in popularity from year to year. That, for example, the district had in the distant past been the site of the original encampment in Yhaunn's ancient quarry and that the first buildings of the Stiltways had grown up within the encampment's walls. Or that the Stiltways had been built around and within the shell of the first fortified tower in Yhaunn after the city's protectors had moved themselves to a bigger, better keep farther up the quarry. Or that the Stiltways' first cramped, crooked buildings had

been built along the walls of a dark gully—since buried— and that if one made ones way into the lost cellars beneath forgotten basements, one could still find that gully and the horrid spirits that lurked there, spirits sometimes said to be guarding a fabulous treasure.

That last theory, of course, found its greatest adherents among crackpot treasure hunters and children too frightened to stray from their mothers' sides.

The Stiltways were an image of Yhaunn in miniature: bustling and successful, but so hemmed in on either side that they could no longer grow out, only up. Their lowest level, where the streets twisted through damp darkness, was home to the most desperate of thieves, thugs, and fences. Prosperity and dignity rose with altitude. Three, four, and even five stories stood above the buried streets of ground level, all interconnected by a groaning, ever-changing maze of bridges, ladders, stairs, and ramps. A proper lady from the better part of the city could pass through the upper levels of the Stiltways by day, buy a new dress, and gossip with friends without ever even thinking of the hard-currency girls working in the perpetual shadows two floors below.

By night the shadows rose like foul cream. Proper ladies didn't come to the Stiltways after dark unless they wanted their friends to gossip about them.

On the highest level of the district, one enterprising landlord had managed to bring the bustle and the success, the shadows and the danger together. The tavern called the Sky's Mantle sprawled across the rooftops, a beacon to the more adventurous of the city's wealthy, a chance to brush against the darker dangers of the Stiltways in complete safety. And of course, on a warm summer night, to enjoy the rarest of luxuries in crowded Yhaunn: a wide terrace, open to moonlight and the cool sea breeze.

In one corner of the Mantle's terrace, the laughter of a cluster of young men and women trailed away into barely-restrained silence. Keph Thingoleir watched as one of their number—a golden-haired half-elf lass in a sleeveless jerkin of black leather—rose from the table

and swaggered with predatory grace toward the bar. Her route took her past his table and the young man watched her carefully.

She swung her hips sharply as she passed.

Keph grabbed for the goblet and pitcher on the table-top, but the woman's hips were faster than his hands. He rescued the half-full pitcher, but the goblet, entirely full, rocked, wobbled, then fell over. Deep red wine splashed across the wood. Keph leaped to his feet and away from the flooding wine with a curse.

The half-elf smiled at him as her friends snickered.

"Spilled your drink, Keph?" she teased. "That was clumsy of you."

At the tables around the pair, patrons glanced at each other, then grabbed their drinks and scrambled away. Keph brushed light brown hair out of his face and set the pitcher down.

"Buy me another, Lyraene," he hissed through clenched teeth, "and I'll pretend this didn't happen."

"Pretend what didn't happen?" asked Lyraene. "This?" She reached down and grabbed the edge of the table, swiftly lifting it.

Before he could snatch it up again, the pitcher toppled over, adding to the cascade of wine that came rushing toward him. He danced back, but not quickly enough. Wine poured across his boots and trousers. He drew a sharp breath and his hand darted toward the hilt of the slim rapier he wore on his hip. He stopped it just in time.

Of all the nights for Lyraene to pick a fight, he cursed silently. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but if it was, misfortune had wrapped her ivory arms around him. He forced his hand back to his side. Under the whiskers of his goatee, his lips pressed hard together.

Lyraene's smile turned into a sneer. She let go of the table. It dropped back down with a solid thud.

"Damn, Keph, you are having a bad day, aren't you?" she said. "What's the matter? City guard pick you up while they were looking for your big friend, Jarull? Your papa have to come bail his youngest son out of jail—again?

Papa tell you this was absolutely the last time he'd do it?" She smacked her forehead. "Oh, wait. That's exactly what happened."

No coincidence. Damn it. Keph glanced past Lyraene to her table of cronies. They were all watching eagerly. He groaned. They all knew, of course. And if they all knew....

Obey Strasus Thingoleir's ultimatum or rescue his own dignity? There wasn't really any choice.

Cursing his father and Lyraene equally, Keph twisted his glower into a sneer to match the half-elf s. "Now where could you have heard about that?" he asked her lightly. "Oh, wait." He smacked his forehead. "Your brother's on the city guard. Oh, wait." He smacked his head again. "Your fea(f-brother. Shame your mother was already married when she met your pointy-eared father."

Lyraene's breath hissed out between her teeth. Keph caught an ugly murmur from her friends. Lyraene, however, ignored them.

"At least I got something from my father," she said.

Without taking her eyes from Keph's, she reached across her body and drew her sword. All around them, patrons flinched back. Keph didn't move. Lyraene's posture was all wrong for an attack—the half-elf had something else in mind.

She held the rapier horizontally in front of her body and uttered a word of magic, then stroked her left hand along the blade. Where her fingers passed, light clung to the metal.

"Son of two wizards," she hissed. "Brother of two more. But you can't do that, can you, Keph? You've got no magic."

Hot blood rushed to Keph's face and roared in his ears. "Maybe I don't, Lyraene," he said, stepping around the table. "But being able to cast a cantrip that my eight-year-old niece has mastered isn't especially impressive either. Now this-"

His rapier slid from his scabbard with a pure, ringing whisper. He held it up before himself, vertically, turning

it so it caught the meager light on the terrace. Lyraene took a step back. Keph followed her, staying close.

"—this is impressive. Beautiful workmanship, isn't she?" He glanced up the length of the thin blade. "I call her Quick. She came from the forge of a master weapon-smith, Mandel Oakhand in Iriaebor. The sapphire in the hilt was found in Amn and was cut specifically for her." He looked Lyraene in the eye. She had her sword, still shining with feeble light, up. Her cronies were trying to get through to her, but the other patrons of the Mantle, struggling at the same time to stay back from the impending fight and get closer for a good view, were hampering them. Keph gave Lyraene a thin smile. "And in fact, my father did give me something." He lifted the rapier close to his face and whispered, "Storm's lash!"

With a crisp snap, blue lightning crackled once along the blade then subsided, though deep within the metal, sparks seemed to dance. Keph cocked an eyebrow at Lyraene.

"Do you still want to do this?" he asked. "More than ever," Lyraene replied—and slashed her blade at him.

Startled, Keph dropped Quick down. Lyraene's attack was hard and fast, slapping against the rapier in a flare of blue sparks. Her blow hammered Quick out of Keph's hand and sent her skittering away. Spectators stumbled back from the crackling weapon.

Keph stared down in shock at the point of Lyraene's sword as it hovered in front of his chest.

"Nice sword," she said. "I've heard about it before. It doesn't do you much good when it's lying over there, though, does it?" Her blade rose and fell, traveling between his throat and his groin. "You know, Keph, you've got a reputation, but without your magic sword and that big ox Jarull to back you up, you're not that tough."

"Who says he doesn't have me to back him up?" rasped a deep voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Keph saw a dark form bull through the crowd. As Lyraene half-turned to meet the

charge, he ducked under and around her sword to come up at the half-elf s side and twist her arm back, pulling her sword down. Before she could even cry out, Jarull was out in the open and swinging heavy fists.

A jab snapped Lyraene's head back. Keph let her go and a heavy hook caught her, spinning her around and leaving her sprawled out on the terrace floor. Jarull reached back and snatched up Quick, tossing her to Keph.

"We need to go," he growled.

"I can't argue with that!" Keph shot back.

The Mantle's hulking peacekeepers were closing on them from one direction while Lyraene's friends were finally emerging from the crowd in the other.

"This way!" he called to Jarull and whirled in a third direction, toward the wall that surrounded the Mantle's terrace and hid the rooftops of the Stiltways from the view of the tavern's patrons.

Slamming Quick back into her scabbard, Keph jumped up on a table, then leaped to hook his arms over the top of the wall. A moment's scrambling and he heaved himself over to drop onto the rooftop beyond.

Jarull simply vaulted the wall with surprising lightness and grace for someone his size.

The commotion on the terrace wasn't going away, though. The peacekeepers might not care about them once they were off the premises, but Keph knew that Lyraene's friends—and Lyraene herself, once she recovered—would be after them. He grabbed Jamil's arm and dragged him on across the rooftops toward a dark gash of shadow, a rickety stair leading back down into the Stiltways. In only moments, they were out of sight and clambering down to the relative safety of the Stiltways's lower levels.

As soon as they were on an even walkway again, Keph pulled Jarull into a rough embrace and pounded his arm against the big man's back.

"Tymora's own luck!" Keph swore. "Your timing has never been better! Damn it, where have you been for the past five days? Your mother had the city guard pick me

up today—she had them convinced I'd led you off and gotten you killed."

"Trembling old crow! She would think something like that." Jarull shoved Keph away from him, then threw a fist into his shoulder. "As if I'd let you get me killed!"

Even Jamil's playful punches had a tendency to hurt. Keph rubbed his shoulder as he looked his friend over. Jamil's grandmother on his father's side had been an ore and that blood granted him not only size and strength, but coarse, heavy features and a skin tone that carried a slightly grayish cast. That night, however, his skin seemed strangely pale and his dark eyes fever-bright.