Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  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 p
eripheral 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.”

  DAWN, 28 FLAMERULE

  AWARENESS CAME BEFORE SENSATION, AS IT ALWAYS DID, and he lay for a time wondering if he had died. The room was dark around him and he could breathe only in short, warm gasps.

  “Kalen?” a voice asked. “You’re awake.”

  Levia sat beside him, looking exhausted. Her bloodshot eyes rested in deep hollows in her homely face, and her rumpled clothes looked as though they’d not been changed in days.

  His body awoke slowly, a thousand tiny pinpricks of sensation creeping back into his numb flesh. He tried to speak, but could not yet collect enough breath. He slowly closed, then opened his eyes to indicate an affirmative.

  “Thank Torm. I found you, raving in and out of consciousness. You’ve been feverish a day and a night gone. I found both Vindicator and that awful black axe.” She gestured to the table, which held both weapons, Vindicator wrapped in linen. “I thought you might want them.”

  “I see …” he managed. “I see you still can’t wield it. Vindicator.”

  Levia shook her head. “Only that once. I am not Shadowbane.”

  Kalen remembered that night three years ago, when assassins had cornered them in the alley by the Vhammos shipyard. They’d fought their way free, but only after Levia had picked up Vindicator to defend him. He’d left Westgate that night, although he could not say for sure what had driven him away: watching Levia wield Vindicator or learning that the assassins had been Justice Knights. Or, perhaps, what Levia had done afterward.

  He also could not say how she’d managed to find him in a rainy alley far from Castle Thalavar. “You’ve been watching me.”

  “Of course.” She put her hand on his wrist, which he could barely feel. “Who did this?”

  “An elf,” he managed through lips that felt like lead weights. “Ilira—”

  Darkness filled Levia’s face. He knew that look, as did enemies who subsequently came to fear her wrath. “Ilira Nathalan.”

  “How—?” Kalen wet his lips. “How do you know that name?”

  Levia wore a circumspect look that gave nothing away. “You’re still the student, Kalen, and I’m the master. Did you think I wouldn’t learn you chased her here?”

  That wasn’t quite true. When he came to Westgate, he’d been chasing Rhett. His interest in Ilira was more recent. “And you know something of her?”

  “I know she’s a wanted murderess.”

  “Alleged murderess. She may not have done the deed.”

  Levia gave him a dubious look exactly like the one he’d given Myrin when she’d offered the same defense. She withdrew her hand from his wrist.

  Strength finally returned. Kalen sat up, letting the bedclothes fall away from his naked chest. Levia immediately averted her eyes. Kalen remembered their parting three years ago and understood her awkwardness. He drew on the robe she had set out for him.

  He was beyond hungry—he could feel it even through his numbness. “Is there food?”

  “Bread and cheese.” Levia gestured toward the table.

  Two days of inactivity had stiffened his muscles, but he managed to stagger over. As he ate, he tried to place himself: a cramped, well-used chamber, a small, boarded-over window.

  “Where are we?” As he flexed his numb arms, a terrible thought came to him. “This isn’t Castle Thalavar? I told you I wanted nothing to do with the Eye.”

  Levia shook her head. “I brought you to a safehouse.” She turned her attention to Vindicator, which lay upon the table near the bed. “Kalen, are you lying to me?”

  “What do you mean?” He rubbed away the tension in his brow.

  “Shadowbane,” she said. “First you took out the Fire Knives and Golden Swords three nights back, then you attacked those thieves by the Rosebud. What are you doing?”

  Kalen furrowed his brow. “I’m not,” he said. “That—”

  With the certainty of a blade clicking into a scabbard, he suddenly understood. He knew why Levia hadn’t seemed surprised to see him, and neither had her Justice Knights. He understood now what the thieves had been saying before he attacked them. And then again, just before he had slipped into oblivion, he realized that the dark figure he had seen had been no illusion, but a man of flesh and blood.

  Once more, Shadowbane stalked the streets of Westgate as it had been years ago—but he was not Kalen Dren.

  “Another one,” he said. “That’s who sent me the sword. He knew I could reconstruct it, because he can, too. He—”

  Kalen closed his hand around Vindicator’s
hilt. He felt a distant pull, but it relaxed immediately. He had felt this before, but hadn’t until now realized what it was: the other Shadowbane’s connection to the sword.

  “It’s chosen both of us,” Kalen mused. “And now it wants us to decide.”

  Levia stared at him, her face blank. “Decide what?”

  “Which of us will be Shadowbane,” he said.

  She listened as he ate and told her all. He spoke of the events in Luskan, and the mysterious package he had received—in more detail than he had dared before. The bloody sack he had given her had contained shards of Vindicator smeared with blood—Rhett’s blood, it seemed—and a single word: WESTGATE. At first, he had despaired, but then he embraced his drive for vengeance and awakened a deeper power in himself. The sword had answered his call—rebuilding itself in his hand.

  Levia nodded, but her lips were pursed. “A deeper power?”

  Kalen kept one hand tight on Vindicator and held out his other hand. At his call, gray radiance flowed around his fingers, resolving itself into a heavy steel gauntlet made of light. His faith girded him.

  “Watching Gods Above and Sleeping Gods Below,” she said with genuine wonder in her eyes. “Even Gedrin couldn’t do that.”

  Kalen nodded grimly. “There was a woman, in Luskan. She changed me—”

  “A woman?” Clearly, Levia had not meant to speak, but the words escaped her.

  “Not in that way.” Kalen fumbled a wedge of cheese to his lips. His fingers still felt like dead sticks. “I am a paladin no longer. I renounced that path long ago, and only recently have I found another.”