LONG BEFORE THEY CAME CLOSE, MYRIN HEARD THE music of the Purple Lady Tavern and Festhall filling the warm Westgate night. The dancing had spilled out into the street, and men and women pressed against one another and swayed in time. Braziers blazed to keep the porch and alley warm, coating the dancers with a thin sheen of sweat. The total effect was like something out of a temple of Liira, goddess of the dance, or perhaps Sharess, goddess of lust.
“Er,” Brace said at her side. “Not a complaint, but are you sure about this?”
“You’re not going to turn goblin on me and run?”
“A gentleman walks, never runs, but I take your meaning, Lady Myrin,” he said. “And in point of fact, I would not be fleeing, but rather …”
Myrin smiled slyly. “And pass up the chance to see Lady Nathalan again?”
That got him. Brace bowed in silent acknowledgment of her superior rhetoric.
In truth, Myrin wasn’t sure about any of this. She’d have felt better with a dose of Kalen’s chiding, but he hadn’t come back the previous night. She’d come to regret the harsh words she’d thrown at him—particularly blaming him for Rhett’s disappearance. Now she didn’t know how to feel. She both wanted him back and hoped he’d stay away.
Either way, until he did reappear, she would just have to do things without him, and that meant confronting Lady Ilira on her own. She had to find out what she could.
Shrouded in sheer purple curtains, the revelry inside the Purple Lady dwarfed the dancing and flirting outside. The festhall was packed to the rafters with dancers, jesters, and romancers. Stunning wait staff in diaphanous purple robes picked their way through the crowd of folk who kissed, caressed, fondled, and did all sorts of other exciting things to each other. Unmoving statues attired in daring gowns (or less) dotted the crowd, and Myrin took them to be fashion dummies similar to those she had seen a year ago in the Menagerie in Waterdeep. When one moved, however, she realized they were real people: servants of the festhall who shifted to show their gowns in all their glory. Surrounding all was an ear-splitting wall of sound fostered by a band of dark-skinned Chultans who pounded a series of tribal drums and blew resonant tones through long trumpets carved of horns.
Myrin had seen such a revel only once before—a year ago at the temple of Sune—and even that had maintained a veneer of respectability. Here, the atmosphere was exotic and almost ritualistic. The patrons reveled in life and pleasure without regret. Brace looked distinctly flustered, but Myrin took it all in stride.
Even in the noisy, crowded festhall, it was not difficult to find Lady Ilira Nathalan. She occupied a private corner of the Purple Lady, surrounded by purple silks that fell like water from the rafters. Myrin saw her silhouette first—the unmistakable shadow of a lithe woman dancing, slowly and sensually. She danced alone, as though out of true love for the dance.
Myrin wanted to go in that direction immediately, but she also saw the shadowed bulk of Ilira’s bodyguard, Vharan, who glared at anyone and everyone who approached.
“Aye,” Brace said. “Tall, thick, and scaly is going to be our first hurdle, no?”
“Indeed. Ilira is no doubt expecting us, but as Kalen would say, this could be a trap.”
“No fear, Lady Myrin.” He was watching Ilira’s graceful movements. “Leave it to me.”
Myrin realized someone was watching her, and she looked around to see the purple-and-white woman she’d seen at the market over at the bar. She grasped Brace’s sleeve. “Do you know that woman?”
“That’s Rujia,” Brace said. “My teacher at the Timeless Blade. She’s a deva—purple and white, immortal, eccentric. You’d like her.”
Myrin nodded. He’d told her about confronting the supposed Rhett, who’d unexpectedly run away without revealing himself. No doubt Kalen was simply off pursuing that lead. It made her feel a little better, actually, to have a firm idea of what Kalen might be about.
“What would she be doing here?” Myrin asked.
“Mayhap she likes drinking. Or dancing.” Brace shrugged. “Rujia’s an odd one, and one can never really say why she does anything. But no doubt there is a purpose, albeit one that goes beyond the scope of our lifetimes. Ah, there she goes.”
The strange woman—Rujia—was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the very air.
“She does that, from time to time,” Brace said. “And now, to yon lovely shadowdancer.”
The gnome broke away from her and headed toward Ilira’s private booth. He donned a brilliant, ingratiating smile—no doubt inspired by his awe of the elf.
“Outstanding,” Myrin said. “This will end well, no doubt.”
She looked into the shadows where Rujia had been leaning against the wall, considering. Something about the deva was familiar to her, but she was sure she’d never seen anyone like her before. At least, she could not remember such a creature, but then, she could remember so little. Had one of Rujia’s previous lifetimes and the past Myrin crossed paths?
Musical laughter drew Myrin’s attention over her shoulder. “Mother Mystra,” she said.
Inexplicably, Brace had not only managed to get to Ilira, but indeed, he was dancing with her. Mostly, she was dancing and he was watching, but regardless, they were together.
Myrin couldn’t say what Brace had done, but somehow Vharan seemed not to have noticed him. He stared off into the common room, coughing and rubbing his snout. Any moment, however, he was going to turn and see the gnome, so Myrin had to intervene.
She stepped in that direction, but found herself face-to-breast with a tall barmaid in one of the sheer purple gowns. The woman gave Myrin a wink and a smile, then pushed past her.
Too late. Ilira laughed again at something the gnome said, drawing Vharan’s attention. The dragonborn turned, and Myrin could hear him growl even halfway across the room. He rose like a raging bear and closed one massive fist around Brace’s neck. “You.”
“Ah,” the gnome said. “Pardon, Lady—”
The words cut off when Vharan wrenched him off his feet and up against the ceiling.
“Wait—” Myrin reached for the crystal orb at her belt.
Brace gave Vharan a smile, then seemed to blur. Colors wavered around him like a cloak, and the gnome faded away. The dragonborn dropped his hands, searching for something unseen.
“As I was saying ’ere we were interrupted, lady,” Brace’s voice said. “We have some business this night, and if you’d kindly call off your gods-pissed meat-shield, I won’t have to do something we’d both regret.” And so speaking, he faded back into view at her side, his rapier at her most excellent chest. “Deeply, deeply regret.”
Ilira looked down at the sword more as a challenge than anything else, then looked over at Myrin. For the first time, Myrin got a good look at her in her gown. It was black, like the other, but considerably less conservative. For one thing, the neckline hugged her breasts, revealing what looked at first like a broad black necklace. Myrin realized quickly that this was in truth a line of runic tattoos inked into her skin—much like Myrin’s own markings. The sigils were in Dethek, the dwarves’ script, which was odd. One would have expected an elf to have a tattoo in graceful Espruar, the language of her people. Myrin wondered what the significance might be. She suspected little about Lady Ilira Nathalan was not significant.
“I am pleased you accepted my invitation, Lady Darkdance. Vharan, leave us.”
“But my lady.” The dragonborn pointed at Brace. “At least let me hurt that one.”
Ilira donned a reproachful expression, and Vharan shuffled off, casting Brace a warning look as he went. The gnome returned the challenge with a grin.
Ilira looked down at the sword set to her chest. “You have a firm hand, Brace Lenalice,” she observed. “I like that in a man, no matter how tall.”
“You know me, lady? No one uses that name. None but—” The gnome’s eyes widened.
Ilira said nothing but fixed him with her golden gaze. She raised one gloved hand and tapped the tip of Brace’s rapier. He shivered, flushed, and put the steel away.
Another day, Myrin might not have understood, but now she did. She remembered Ilira telling her the day before about perception, and her senses opened up. Of a sudden, she understood the interplay between the two, and she realized Ilira might not be armed, but her will dominated the gnome as though she held a sword at his throat. Myrin had to intervene.
“You’re very trusting,” Myrin said. “What if we had come to attack you?”
“I see no need to be wary.” Ilira spread her hands. “But it’s not because I’m trusting.”
The shadows coalesced around Brace’s feet, but before Myrin could speak, long-fingered hands of blackness seized his ankles. The gnome was so startled he couldn’t elude the shadow as he had Vharan. As Myrin watched, paralyzed, a humanoid creature of inky blackness loomed around Brace, holding him firmly in place with icy cold fingers.
“Release him!” Myrin said.
“Why should I do as you ask?” Ilira asked. “I asked you to come alone and you did not.”
“No, I didn’t.” She nodded at Brace. “Release my man. Or I’ll make you do it.”
Ilira considered her a moment, then shrugged. “As you wish.”
The shadow released Brace, who slumped coughing to the floor.
“Good.” Myrin’s impulse was to kneel at Brace’s side and aid him, but she would stand firm, like Kalen. “I’d like some answers, please. Who you are, what you know of my family and me, the like.”
“No,” Ilira said.
“No?”
“Not yet.” Ilira gazed at Myrin in a way that could not be easily defined. Thoughtful. Anxious. Dangerous.
Regardless, Myrin stepped closer to her—trying not to feel like a moth drawn into a deadly flame—and Ilira matched her step for step until they stood face-to-face. They were of a height, the two women, and although Ilira had seen many more years than Myrin, the elf suddenly did not seem older at all. Focused on those gold eyes, Myrin expanded her awareness, as Ilira herself had suggested to her the day before. They battled for dominance without words.
Myrin heard Brace’s sharp intake of breath and saw him at the very limit of her peripheral vision. The gnome’s face was white as he stared at them, fascinated. Even the otherwise clueless swordsman could feel the tension between them.
Finally, Myrin reached for Ilira’s bare cheek. Her runic tattoos tingled into being up her arms in anticipation of memories to be gained. A spellscar lit inside Ilira in answer, and Myrin saw a shudder go through the elf. Whatever effect it had upon Ilira, she did not elude Myrin’s touch as she had before. She stared, trembling.
A roar of pain rippled around them from the alley behind the Purple Lady. Ilira drew away before Myrin could touch her. Her eyes turned jet black and shadows gathered.
“Vharan.” Ilira turned away, and Myrin saw a flash of gold on her mostly bare back—another tattoo. Ilira vanished into the shadows.
Myrin shook herself. Brace was still staring at her, dumbfounded. “Come!” she said.
They rushed out the back into the alley. Although summer had come to Westgate, the air still felt chill from the winds off the Inner Sea. After the humid closeness of the Purple Lady, the night relieved Myrin’s sweaty skin and chilled her bones. That sound …
They saw the two immediately: Ilira kneeling over Vharan, who lay shaking in a pool of his own blood. It was much as Kalen described seeing her standing over Lorien that night at the temple of Sune in Waterdeep. This time, though, there was no question as to whether she could have been responsible. The dragonborn leaked dark blood from half a dozen deep gashes, carved open by a sword—something Ilira did not have.
“Who—?” Brace asked, but Myrin laid a hand on his shoulder and shook her head.
A shadow moved on the rooftop above them: a man in dark leather with a sword that burned in the moonlight. Perhaps Myrin had just imagined it.
The way Ilira stared up into the sky, she had seen—or imagined—it, too.
Slowly, Ilira kneeled over Vharan. “It’s well,” she said. “You go now into the clearing beyond the veil, old friend. Rest well among the trees.”
Vharan coughed, and blood spattered Ilira’s unflinching face. She did not seem to notice.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’d ask one … one last boon … my lady.”
“Anything, Vharan.”
“A kiss.” Then, to forestall her next words, he growled. “Aye, I know … I know what I ask. But if I’m to die, then …” Tears leaked from his eyes. “I’d just as soon it be you.”
Ilira smiled weakly, and beating veins appeared at her temples. She seemed, in that moment, much older. “Aye, then,” she said softly. “As you wish.”
She pressed her lips to his bloody mouth, and a deep sigh rumbled up from his throat. At first, all seemed well, and Brace sighed at the sad romance of it all. Myrin held her breath.
Then the burning started.
Where Vharan’s scales came into contact with Ilira’s skin, a sickly blue flame spread across them, leaving only ashen death in its wake. His flesh unraveled and came apart, stretching painfully over his bony jaw. His body shook but he did not cry out, even in the heat of the excruciating torment of her touch.
Finally—after three heartbeats that had seemed to last hours—it was over, and Vharan slumped dead to the ground. Ilira pressed her face to his, and although Myrin was prepared for more of the burning agony, nothing happened. Ilira simply wept into Vharan’s dead cheek.
Finally, Ilira looked up at them, her golden eyes shining in the moonlight. Tears streaked her pale cheeks. “Come,” she said. “I have much to explain.”