Downshadow (39 page)

“Hmpf!”Ľayne stuck out her tongue.

He laughed. “Gods know I’ve made mistakes like yours, and mostly for the same reason.” He patted her head. “Love is the sharpest sword of all.”

Fayne swore colorfully.

Her patron winked. Then he handed her the amulet and bone wand.

“And what did you do,” Fayne asked, “to correct those mistakes?”

“Oh. A bit of this”—he waved three circles in rhe air—”a bit of that.” He put his hand on the hilt of his rapier. His white-gloved fingers caressed the starburst guard. Then, as though its touch had reminded him, he looked at Fayne with affectionate, twinkling eyes. “She made the same mistake many times.”

“My mother?” Fayne asked. “Cythara?”

He smiled knowingly.

“Not that again,” Fayne said, rolling her eyes.

“I speak with all sincerity,” he said. “You remind me of your mother at your best—and at your worst. She made many mistakes of the heart—at your birth and at her death. You see?”

Fayne only nodded. She wondered why he wouldn’t say her morher’s name. He probably found it painful. A weakness, perhaps?

As they left the jail, the binding spell that had frozen the Watchmen expired, and they bolted upright, searching in bewilderment for their prisoner. Fayne almost started to cast a hiding spell of her own, but of course, her patron had prevented that.

She was, after all, his best and most important asset. She could trust him—at least, until her usefulness to him ended.

The bonds of blood, Fayne thought.

As they were leaving, cloaked in invisibility magic, Fayne mused over the one question that she’d been dying to ask—and could, now that this phase of his game had ended.

“Would you permit me to ask a question?”

“I would certainly permir you to ask.”

“The dwarf,” she said. “You paid him to kill Lorien.”

Smiling, her patron waved one casual, delicate hand.

“Lilianviaten,” she murmured, speaking his name.

In Elvish, it meant something like “master fate spinner.” Liken, she knew some called him. Also the Last Heir, rhough he’d never explained that to her. Mayhap he would, in a decade or so—perhaps a century.

It mattered little, Fayne thought. He was the only man she could trust in the world: trust to love her and betray her with equal frequency.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

She pressed. “So Rath was yours all along? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“For my play to work, I had to make your reaction real, didn’t I? And I knew you’d just ruin the whole game.” He smiled wryly. “You should have seen your face.”

Fayne started to ask, but then she understood it all—all of his plan, down to the smallest detail. How he had used her to manipulate events, and let her think he cared about her vengeance on the Nathalan bitch.

“Myrin,” she said. “Myrin’s the whole game—always has been.”

“And?” Her patron waved her on.

“And now she’s alone, undefended …” Fayne scowled. “You bastard!”

He flicked a lock of gold hair out of his eyes. “That’s me.”

Fayne couldn’t help but laugh. It was so deliciously obvious—so simple—and so perfect. She could only pray to Beshaba she had half this sort of canniness when she came of age—and that the opportunity to pay Lilten back for his deception would arise soon.

“So … the game went according to your desire?”

“Of course.” He stretched and yawned. “The next move is mine to make.”

“I could help you with the rest of the game.” Fayne nuzzled close to him—half like a solicitous child, half like a lover—and purred. “I promise I’ll play by your rules.”

“That’s kind of you, but no.” He shrugged. “Luck is with me—as she always is.”

Of course, Fayne thought. She should have known—being the high priest of Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune, had its advantages.

And he was treacherous—she must never forget that. He’d served anothet god before, in the old world: Erevan Ilesere, if she remembered correctly, one of the faded Seldarine. Liken the Turncloak: the apostate high priest, who had abandoned his god in favor of his bitter enemy.

She wondered when he would betray Beshaba in her turn.

Fayne hugged herself close to his arm, pressing her breast against his side. “You’re sure you don’t want me?” she purred.

“Quire sure, my little fiendling,” he said. “This is my game, and I’ve dealt myself a shining hand at it.”

She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re such a bastard, Father.”

“Indeed I am, Ellyne, indeed I am.” Liken winked and returned the kiss. His lips burned like the fires of the Hells. “But you—you are as trueborn as I could make you.”

Fayne blushed.

yrin wasn’t there when Kalen returned.

He hadn’t really expected her to be, though he had hoped.

Too much had passed between them, and she had seen the crudest and worst in him, as he had seen it in her. And yet, he had held out hope that mayhap, just mayhap…

A parchment letter—wrapped around Talanna’s ring—was waiting on the empty, scarred table. That table reminded him of Cellica. How many times had he lain there while his adopted sister stitched his wounds? How many times had they sat together to mend Shadowbane s armor?

But it was Myrin’s table, too, where he had first seen her, eating stew. Everything in the tallhouse had her on it—her scent, her smile, her memory.

The letter was brief. There were gaps, where many things went unsaid. It sounded of her and smelled of her, that sweet perfume of her bare skin. She’d crossed things out, and the ink had run in places. The parchment was dry, but he could see water stains. Tears, he realized.

As he read, all he felt was persistent cold,

Kalen, I’m sorry.

I keep thinking [smudge) this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Mayhap I would wait for you, to be yours and to live out the rest of our story with you. Gods know I wanted [smudge]

But life doesn’t work like that. I need to find my own way—/ can’t have you make my choices for me. And until you see that [smudge] Here’s your ring back, by the way.

Farewell.

Ihopeyoufindwhatyou’re lookingfor—and that I do too. —M

Kalen sat a long time, looking down at the letter in his hand. He let the aches and sharp reminders of the past days settle. He felt them more keenly, since Myrin had touched him—had kissed him—though he didn’t know why.

A tremor of sadness passed through him. It might have been a sob, if he’d not been weighed down by so many years—so many scars earned in service to the memory of a long-dead god—that he could not weep. So much pain, inflicted and suffered. When would it be enough?

He realized, almost immediately, that it didn’t matter.

She was asking him to make a choice that went against everything he was, or had ever been. He couldn’t make that choice, and she knew it. That was why she had left.

If he followed her now—if he rose and limped out the door and tracked her down—would it be to set things right, or would it be for her? What would he say to her?

He moved to crumple the note and toss it in the bin, but he saw more words scrawled on the back. He smoothed the parchment with shaking hands.

I wasn’t goingto say this. I scratched it out on the front, but you deserve to know.

I did something to you, Kalen—/ can’t [smudge] I can’t feel my hand well, as I write this.

When Ikissedyou, I took some of your sicknessfromyou. I absorbed it. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just happened, [smudge] I think you’re going to live. Just a bit longer. Some of my life for some of yours. Call it [smudge] a fair exchange, for bringing me to life at all.

You don’t owe me.

Kalen blinked. He stared at the letter for several pounding heartbeats.

He was out the window before rhe letter fluttered to the floor.