Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  The Trickster looked over her shoulder but knew she would not see him well. In the shadows, the man could hide even from her. “She stumbled almost right into our meeting, at the appointed place and time,” she said. “Are you certain no other shadows are watching?”

  “Just me.” Hessar’s gold eyes gleamed out of the darkness. “Does that reassure you, Trickster?”

  “Well, if it was anyone but you, then maybe.” She scowled at Myrin’s smile in the square. “She nearly recognized me. I didn’t think we’d cross paths so early, but sure enough—”

  “Our mutual master does play the strings of fate like a master harpist, eh?”

  The man pressed up to her shoulder, and the Trickster felt his sucking cold darkness as though he were a statue of ice. She pulled away a little.

  “If she’s seen you, she might grow suspicious if she spots you again,” Hessar said. “Perhaps the time has come to join her gathering band.” He nodded at Brace, who was even now leading Myrin back among the stands. “The gnome is a suitable target.”

  “Ugh, please.” The Trickster stuck out her tongue.

  Hessar looked bemused. “You mean there’s someone you can’t—or won’t—seduce?”

  She laughed. “I never took you for a bard, to spout such nonsense.”

  Hessar clicked his tongue. “This is not a jesting matter,” he said. “The master is moving, his blades collecting, and when all the forces clash, it will be a sight to behold.”

  “I know what to do, shade. Spare me the melodrama.”

  To that, Hessar never responded. He simply vanished, leaving her alone in the shadows to watch Myrin and the gnome. Whether he had even heard her reply, she did not know.

  The woman in the shadows narrowed her eyes, considering how best to make her next move. It could not be immediate—no. If that came to pass, Myrin would grow suspicious. She looked at the gnome in specific, a plan forming in her mind. At long last, she would have her revenge, and it would be sweet indeed.

  The Trickster smiled. “Tomorrow, then.”

  PART TWO:

  OLD FRIENDS AND NEW

  For young noble scions in Suzail, one of the most important duties is the noble’s social, a particular type of event orchestrated to force participants to dance with friends, both old and new. This allows eligible lads and lasses to meet new and interesting potential mates. More than one death-defying adventure has been known to erupt from such liaisons.

  Garen Thal, Loremaster of Cormyr

  Land of Preening Dragons: Words of a Retired Wizard of War,

  Published in the Year of the Starving (1381 DR)

  HIGHSUN, 25 FLAMERULE

  SOME WAYS DISTANT, KALEN IGNORED A NOXIOUS ALE that looked like harbor water and waited. He wore his cowl low so as not to attract notice, particularly because he was so close to Castle Thalavar and the Eye. He’d also left Sithe’s axe at Darkdance Manor, because the weapon was extremely distinctive. As far as anyone was concerned, he was just another patron at the Rotten Root tavern.

  One of Westgate’s oldest institutions, the Root had festered like a persistent sore on Silverpiece Way’s south flank for at least a hundred years. And in all that time, it had never lost its well-deserved reputation as a grimy dive frequented by only the worst of the worst. The smoke-stained sign over the door depicted a malicious humanlike tree, its bark black and green with mold and red-glowing eyes leering from the end of every branch. The drink was bad, the food was worse, and the clientele would cut a man’s throat just to flavor the evening. Even during the day, when only half the tables hosted patrons, Kalen could feel the forbidding atmosphere of the place.

  He liked the Root a great deal.

  Before he had left Westgate three years ago, the Rotten Root had been Kalen’s favorite place to do what his teacher Levia had called “insightful watching.” They would sit together at one of the tables and appraise the common room with open eyes and ears. They would keep their scrutiny surreptitious, of course. The first time they’d done this, Kalen had provoked a brawl by staring too long at one of the unsavory patrons. He’d since learned better.

  Later, safe in their chambers at the Eye of Justice, Kalen would tell Levia all he had observed and learned: which rogues were casing which city building, which servants were cheating their masters out of coin, which knaves bore watching as they moved up through the ranks of Westgate’s underworld. There were judgments, too: what a drunken sot’s limp said about his swordwork, or which thieves fresh off a take would be the weakest and most likely to break under interrogation.

  Kalen observed these things with increasing skill as the years passed, although he had never grown adept at identifying the subtle matters Levia often asked after. She would want to know which barmaid nursed a broken heart, or how to turn a potential asset without the use of blades or manacles. Kalen had never had an ear for such things, although he wished now he’d paid more attention. If he had, perhaps Myrin wouldn’t bewilder him so.

  He shook the memories away. That had been years ago, and his current business in the Rotten Root would demand his full attention.

  One rumor in particular caught his attention. A group of Fire Knives meant to “teach a lesson” to Dolarune, the innkeeper at the Rosebud Tavern at the edge of the Shou district, for failing to pay her tribute on time. That in itself hardly registered with Kalen, but then the four of them leaned in closer and spoke in hushed tones, and he heard the name “Shadowbane” mentioned. He focused on that table, intrigued—seeing as he’d not operated in the city in a few years—but at that moment his barmaid came around, observed his untouched ale, and gave him a speculative look.

  “Will you be wanting else?” She had hair that was too yellow to be natural—almost the luster of gold. She put one hand to the buttons of her shirt, suggesting the offer included more than just food or drink.

  Kalen shook his head. “I am waiting for someone.”

  She shrugged, her look souring to indifference. “As you will,” she said, and she left to ply her charms on a pair of youngbloods sitting in one of the private booths. Smoke billowed forth when she pulled the curtain aside, and they grinned at her with yellow teeth.

  Kalen looked out the window, but his contact was still nowhere to be seen. He really did hope to find a new lead, as all his others had soured.

  He’d spent the previous night asking around and spilling coin in taverns like the Root to no good effect. No one would have recognized the name Rhett, of course, and Kalen had the foresight not to drop that name, anyway. He’d sent the boy to train with the Eye of Justice, and there was no way Levia would let him use his own name openly. But none of the sources he’d asked had been able to identify the boy by the description Kalen provided: a young man with red hair and an enthusiastic manner, easy to look at but somewhat dull in the wits. Everywhere he’d gone, Kalen had met with the same lack of response.

  His only option at this point was to do what he’d wanted to avoid at all costs: go to the Eye of Justice directly. And so, he waited.

  He heard a commotion from across the common room, toward the back. The blonde barmaid stood on the threshold to the back alley, the two knaves she’d propositioned on either side. They were arguing, and Kalen saw one of them strike her once they got outside. She fell back against the far wall of the alley as the door banged shut. Kalen looked around the common room, but none of the other patrons seemed to have noticed, let alone expressed any interest.

  He got to his feet.

  The ill-fitting door creaked open as he pushed out into the alley.

  One of the men held the barmaid by the shoulders up against the alley wall, while the other fondled her. “Don’t see no need to pay,” he was saying, “when we can just—”

  Kalen had no need to speak. His mere presence drew their attention to where he stood, his cloak swirling around him in the midday breeze, and their pleased expressions turned uneasy.

  They let the barmaid stagger free and stepped into the center of the all
ey. He expected them to flee, but instead they pulled back their cloaks to reveal swords emblazoned with the eye of Helm.

  “Justice Knights.” He looked at the barmaid. “You’ve kept in practice, Levia.”

  “Shadowbane.” The woman pulled off her gold wig, revealing mundane brown hair cropped short to frame her plain features. Without the wig, her slightly pointed ears were obvious. She gave him a slight nod—the only sign of respect either one paid the other.

  The ten years since their first meeting had hardly touched Levia Shadewalker, for which Kalen credited her half-elf blood. She dressed in the same dark green cloak and brigandine armor he remembered, and wore the same flanged mace at her belt. She looked as ageless and constant as he remembered; she was the one he could always rely upon in times of need.

  Also, considering the two Knights of the Eye she’d brought along, he could always rely on her paranoia. “You would lure me into a trap?” Kalen asked. “Force my hand? Why?”

  Wordlessly, Levia directed the Justice Knights to strike. They drew their short swords, giving no quarter to their unarmed opponent.

  Kalen caught the first one’s sword arm and let the blade slide past his head. He pulled the man around and threw him toward his companion. The second knight pulled back to avoid the hit, and Kalen lunged with his stolen short sword. The man’s eyes went wide and he parried desperately, but Kalen slapped his sword aside and smashed the pommel of the sword into the man’s face in the same motion. Even as the knight stumbled back against the wall, Kalen reversed the sword for a deathblow.

  The ground roiled under Kalen, throwing off his aim. He stabbed the blade into the wall behind his opponent, then fell to one knee and struggled to keep his balance. Levia let her earth-shivering magic subside and turned her glowing mace toward Kalen. “Yield,” she said.

  The gray flames of the Threefold God surged in Kalen, and suddenly surrender was not an option. He rose to his feet and raised one hand high over his head. Magic burned, and Vindicator materialized in his hand. The Justice Knights fell back, gasping, and Levia’s eyes went wide. In the hesitation, Kalen cut the blade from one man’s hand and blood bloomed in the greasy alley.

  They had forced his hand. If Kalen let them go, then the Eye would know he had returned to Westgate—the very thing he’d wanted to avoid. The alternative, however …

  Then something happened that Kalen had not expected.

  “Lord Shadowbane.” Levia fell to one knee, and the others followed her example.

  “What is this?” Kalen turned Vindicator slightly so it illuminated the knights.

  The men raised their hands, palms toward him, and tattoos appeared on their skin: the stylized eye that was the symbol of Helm—the symbol of Vindicator. The symbol appeared only a moment, then vanished once more.

  “Leave us.” Levia gestured, and the knights slinked back into the shadows. “Have no fear. The Eye tattoo marks them as loyalists to Gedrin and the Threefold God.”

  Kalen crossed the alley between them in a heartbeat and shoved her back against the Rotten Root. He wedged Vindicator against the wall across Levia’s throat, so that pressing in would behead her. “Why did you attack me?”

  “I had … to be sure,” Levia said. “I had to be assured you were you.”

  He brought his face closer to hers. “And are you assured?”

  She stared into his eyes, unblinking. “I am.”

  They stood there another moment, their bodies close together, before Kalen finally pulled away.

  “You summoned Vindicator,” she said. “I saw Gedrin do that, once or twice. I didn’t realize you could as well.”

  “Only recently,” he said.

  “When someone put out the flag that set a meet for the Root, I didn’t dare to think—” Levia shook her head. “Thank the Threefold God you’ve returned.”

  “Not for the Eye of Justice,” he said. “I need your help.”

  Levia considered that a moment, then nodded. “Ask me.”

  “I need to know about the boy,” he said. “Rhetegast Hawkwinter.”

  “Who?”

  That one word told him much. So Rhett had never found Levia—he’d met his fate before he had the chance. “He is … my apprentice. I must find him.”

  Curiosity broke through Levia’s cool expression. “Another wielder of Vindicator?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The softness passed and her face hardened like frosted stone. “Why should I help you? You’ll just take what you need and leave again.”

  He had never read Levia particularly well, and that day proved no exception.

  Kalen leaned against the opposite wall. “So what do you want?”

  “It has never been about what I want,” she said. “The Eye of Justice needs you.”

  Kalen had feared this. He’d hoped their friendship would forestall this subject, but he remembered how they had parted three years ago.

  “I swore an oath never to return,” Kalen said. “I am here to find the boy, nothing else.”

  Levia looked uncertain. Then she sighed. “You’re certain he’s here in Westgate?”

  Kalen imagined the bloody parcel, which contained shards of jagged steel—the broken blade and hilt. Upon the largest of the pieces stood a single word scribed in blood: WESTGATE.

  “I’m certain,” he said.

  “Then I’ll find him.”

  This was the Levia that Kalen remembered: confident, practical, and determined. She did not mince words or show any hesitation. He set the sword against the wall and reached into his pack. He drew forth the blood-spattered sack, which he had kept since the sewers in Luskan. It was the only clue he had, aside from Vindicator itself.

  “Is this his?” Gingerly, she took the stained cloth.

  “I believe so, but perhaps not. If you can work your divinations on that blood and find its owner, that might be a good starting place.”

  It had occurred to him that Myrin could do such a thing, but he didn’t want her to find Rhett before he did, particularly if only a torn corpse remained. There was a great deal of blood.

  “What is this?” She turned the bloody parcel over in her hands. “Who gave this to you?”

  “An invitation to Westgate—and a challenge,” he said. “I had it from a gold-eyed elf.”

  Levia nodded. “I will do this straight away. But if I do, will you at least consider—?”

  “Levia, do not ask me this,” Kalen said. “It’s bad enough your men have seen me. Word will be all over the Eye within the day that I am here.”

  “They owe you their fealty,” Levia argued. “You are the wielder of Vindicator, the true heir to the Eye of Justice. They will not betray you.”

  “They are men, and neither of us is foolish enough to believe otherwise.” Kalen slid Vindicator into the empty scabbard at his belt. “I will watch for the Eye’s hunters at my back.”

  Levia conceded that point. “You would rather fight the entire Eye of Justice than return?”

  “If I must,” Kalen said. “Find the boy. He is as much a true wielder of Vindicator as I am—more so, even. He will redeem your precious Eye of Justice. I want no part of it.”

  Levia shook her head. “It’s been so hard without you, Kalen. You haven’t seen what the Eye has become these last years.”

  “I saw what it was becoming,” Kalen said. “And that’s why I left.”

  “That was the only—?” She trailed off without finishing the question. They both knew what she had meant to ask, and neither was inclined to voice it.

  He turned and walked away. To his relief and sorrow, Levia didn’t follow.

  Levia waited until Kalen—gods, Kalen Dren!—had turned the corner out of the alley before she sagged back against the wall and tried to steady her suddenly rapid breathing.

  She pressed herself against a stack of crates, out of view. As a sworn priestess of the Eye of Justice, she could hide as well as any street thief. Gedrin had taught her that skill, and she and Kale
n had spent many excellent nights testing each other’s sneaking abilities.

  Kalen.

  Even when she’d seen the red flag hanging from the gnarled tree outside Castle Thalavar—a signal to meet that only Kalen would know—she had dismissed it as a foolish hope. But now she had seen him with her own eyes, and she had been shocked. Of course he hadn’t wanted to talk (when did he ever want to talk?), but it was enough that he had returned.

  Enough, at least, for the moment.

  And just as it had been three years ago when she had seen him last—indeed, just as it had been the whole of the time they had known one another—there was work to be done.

  “That’s your man, is it?” Hessar melted out of the shadow of the Rotten Root, startling her. “Quite the specimen, isn’t he?”

  “Belt up and stow it.” She could never quite grow accustomed to the way the sorcerous monk slinked about. Then again, that was the very quality that made him useful. “What news?”

  “Good for us. Shadowbane’s attack shattered any hope for peace between the guilds. Their war continues, and they will not intercede in our business.” Hessar nodded after Kalen. “What of him? What do we do?”

  “Leave him to me.”

  “Truly?” As if to indicate his disappointment, cold shadow magic swirled around him. “Possessive, aren’t we?”

  A Calishite by birth, Hessar was one of the few members of the Eye of Justice who used arcane magic, seemingly unfazed by the order’s stated distrust of the Art. He kept his magic hidden from most other than her, buried under a strict pattern of meditation and focus that earned him a good deal of respect from the more staid members of the organization. He was also entirely too good at moving unseen and unheard, as though the shadows embraced him as one of their own. Ironically, he was also Levia’s best and only reliable ally in Castle Thalavar.

  “I’m more concerned about this ‘gold-eyed elf’ that Kalen mentioned,” Levia said. “Do you think it’s the same one I’ve had you following?”

  “I only know of one gold-eyed elf in Westgate. She stands out.” From under the folds of his black robe, he produced a sheaf of thirty papers or so and handed it to Levia.