"Not the stairs," Kalen said, and Cellica nodded.
The screams died, but chaos was in full bloom. Revelers scrambled this way and that, shouting and shoving. Kalen saw noblemen arguing, terrified, hands on their blades, and he knew a brawl was imminent.
Abruptly, another cry came-loud and wrenching-from the midst of the dancers. Kalen looked, for he recognized the voice: Lady Ilira had backed away from Lord Sandhor, clutching at her throat. The elf merchant stepped toward her, casting the shadow of his cloak around her, but she shook her head to whatever he was saying. She vanished into him, as though she had stepped through him. She did not appear out the other side.
Wide-eyed, Kalen looked at Cellica, and the halfling nodded.
"Kalen?" Myrin asked sleepily. "Kalen, what's going on?"
"Have you your murderpiece, wee lady?" Kalen asked, drawing the daggers from their sheaths against the inside of his thighs. Where Lady Ilira's leg had wrapped, he recalled.
Cellica gave an impish smile and drew out her necklace, with its little crossbow-shaped charm. "Always." She spoke a word in an ancient language, and the medallion grew to fit her hand. She wound the crossbow with two quick twists of her wrist. "And don't call me 'wee.'
"
Kalen boosted the little woman up on his shoulders and bent his knees.
"Kalen?" Myrin's face was pale. She seemed sober-and frightened. "Where-?"
"Wait." Kalen cupped her chin and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. "We'll be back."
He scooped up Cellica, hopped onto the banquet table, and ran. When he reached the end, his boots gleamed with blue fire and he leaped for the edge of the balcony. He caught it with one hand, hoisted Cellica up, and swung himself over the rail.
Myrin's hair rustled in the wind of Kalen's jump. He and Cellica flew up and away, toward the balcony where the screams had come from. Many revelers looked up, startled, and shouts renewed. Men argued, shouted, and shoved.
She wondered what magic let him jump like that-leaving a thin trail of blue flame.
Myrin only watched Kalen as he flew, and silently cursed herself.
"Of course he didn't kiss you, you ninny," she said, fighting the tears. "You get drunk and throw yourself at him? How pitiful!"
Then Myrin gasped as a lordling slammed into the banquet table beside her with enough force to crack it. The man who had shoved him-a cruel-faced man in a black cloak-turned to leer at Myrin. She gaped and fought for air, frozen at the suddenness of his appearance.
"Kalen!" she moaned.
"Coward!" the nobleman cried. He lunged from the table and punched the cloaked man in the face. The rogue staggered back, snarling, and reached for a blade.
"Are you well, my lady?" the lordling demanded of Myrin.
"Uh," Myrin said. She couldn't think. She didn't know what to do.
Shoving her under the cracked banquet table, the lordling pointed a wand at his advancing foe and fired a blast of green-white light. The spell struck the man hard like a hammer's blow, staggering him, but he only smiled and srraightened once more.
"Run, my lady!" the lordling said as he looked at his wand angrily. "Run-"
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.