Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  “And what are you now?” she asked.

  “I am the blade of the Threefold God—his vengeance given flesh. The guardian he demands.”

  “An avenger, then,” she said.

  “It is as good a name as any.” The food was helping. Kalen felt almost like himself again.

  He told her more. He spoke of his time in Waterdeep: days spent as a sickly guardsman, nights spent as Shadowbane facing those criminals the law could not capture. In return, Levia told him of the developments in Westgate: the scheming of House Bleth, the rise of the Nine Golden Swords, and most recently, the crippling of the Fire Knives. Apparently, the Golden Swords had proved ruthlessly effective in weakening their rivals, and the organizations had been involved in a brutal gang war for the last year. Rumors abounded of a shadowy power behind the Golden Swords, which had inspired their recent success.

  They spoke as old friends, complimenting each other’s deeds and wincing at the recitation of scars gained. It felt relaxing to unburden himself. Kalen did not, however, see through to mentioning Myrin or the quest for her memories. Hinting to Levia that he had returned only to leave Westgate again would sour the mood. And somehow, he did not feel comfortable discussing another woman with her.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened here?” Levia touched one finger to Vindicator’s blade, letting its gray flames stir around her hand. She traced the flaw in the steel.

  Even as Kalen’s will had restored the blade, the flaw that marked his failure to save Vaelis remained. That was another matter that would only cause pain between them—or worse, pity. He shook his head. “Levia, I—”

  Footsteps in the hall interrupted Kalen’s words. He forced himself up.

  “Kalen—” Levia started, but he shushed her.

  A shadowy figure pushed in through the door, and Kalen brought Vindicator sweeping at his head. The man ducked and flowed backward into a roll that knocked Kalen’s legs out from under him. He moved with a monk’s fluidity. Kalen bounced back up and thrust Vindicator forward. Yellow eyes flashed and one dark-skinned hand slapped the seeking blade away. Kalen saw a black moon tattooed on the monk’s wrist, making his loyalty clear: Shar.

  The monk danced back and came down in a tight fighting posture. Shadow magic swirled around the hand that beckoned Kalen to try again.

  Magic, Kalen thought, was definitely not like a monk.

  “Kalen, hold!” Levia said. “That’s enough, Hessar!”

  “And you must be Levia’s hero.” The monk—a muscular Calishite in plain gray clothes—cast Levia a sly glance. “So passionate.”

  Kalen stood, but he kept up his defensive posture. Levia might trust the man, but Kalen had faced enough foes in the guise of friends over the last month.

  “This is Hessar,” Levia said. “He’s a friend, and a true knight of the Threefold God.”

  “What does that mean?” Kalen kept Vindicator raised.

  “It means, lovely boy”—the Calishite swept to one knee in a graceful bow—“that those of us who honor the Threefold God of Gedrin grow few, but I am one of them.” He revealed the eye-in-gauntlet sigil tattooed into his palm. “I see you and know you, Shadowbane’s Heir.”

  Kalen relaxed slightly, but kept his eye on the monk. “Has the Eye of Justice fallen so far that it employs shades—and sorcerers of the Dark Moon, at that?” He nodded to Levia. “I saw his eyes and his mark of loyalty. He may hide his nature with magic, but I can tell.”

  “Impressive.” Hessar drew his sleeve over the tattoo on his wrist. “My loyalties to Netheril ended long ago, and the Dark Moon did not approve of my … proclivities.”

  “Oh?” Kalen asked. “And what might those be?”

  “I enjoy life entirely too much for their more nihilistic tastes. But tell me truly.” He nodded to the axe on the table. “Does truck with the followers of Shar truly bother you?”

  Kalen tightened his jaw. Of course Hessar would recognize Sithe’s axe. The genasi Sithe had been a follower of the Lady of Loss, and he had learned more from her than anyone other than Gedrin and Levia. “The Eye has lost its faith, then?”

  “It is not so bad, but close to it,” Levia said. “Gedrin’s words have faded, and few recognize the Threefold God any longer. Instead, they invoke the name of Torm the True.”

  Kalen narrowed his eyes. “And they pay no honor to our other patrons—to Helm and to Tyr? They forget their sacrifices?”

  “So one could say,” Hessar replied. “The Vigilant Seers even now consider forbidding worship of the Threefold God on pain of heresy.”

  “Gods.” Kalen’s hand trembled, which he only just now noticed. He stilled it.

  “Why do you ask?” Levia crossed her arms. “You told me you wanted nothing to do with the Eye, and I have honored your wishes. Unless your heart has changed?”

  Kalen opened his mouth, but in truth he did not know. He heard the pain in Levia’s voice as she described even that bit of the Eye’s faded faith. He could tell there was more to that tale.

  “I must do what I came to do,” he said finally.

  “Find your elf?” Levia asked. “Hessar and I came across some clues as to—”

  “No. I am looking for Rhett, my—apprentice.” The word tasted bitter. “He may or may not be this imposter Shadowbane, or a prisoner of his. Either way, that is our next goal—find the imposter and beat the information out of him, if need be. Nothing else.”

  Levia’s face was still dark. “But you told me the elf drew you to the city. We must—”

  “The elf has naught to do with this.” Indeed, Kalen wondered if Lilten was even in Westgate. It would not surprise him. Unless Levia meant Ilira? Either way, it made no difference. “This is how it will be. I am going to find the imposter Shadowbane, whether you aid me or not. And”—he fixed her with his gaze—“I would much prefer your aid.”

  Levia looked startled at his request, but ultimately nodded. “You say we’re going nowhere near this gold-eyed elf of yours?”

  Kalen wondered why she was so fixated on finding Lilten. “Not at all.”

  “Just you and me, finding this pretender?”

  “That’s the theme.” Kalen looked over at Hessar. “And the shade, if you truly trust him.”

  The Calishite bowed. “As your lordship will have it.”

  Kalen felt uneasy, but he nodded. “Levia? What say you?”

  The half-elf bit her lip, then nodded. “When do we start?”

  Silence reigned in Darkdance Manor that morn.

  The night before, after the passing of her bodyguard Vharan, Ilira had promised many words, but she had instead fallen into silent brooding. She took the mug of tea Elevar prepared for her—the dwarf seemed to know what was needed before anyone asked—and then she kneeled on the rug in Neveren’s study to stare into the fire kindled on the hearth. She did not drink, but rather held the mug as though she craved only its warmth. The flames danced in her metallic gold eyes, and her face bore absolutely no expression.

  It was a silent vigil, Myrin understood, for her lost friend.

  Much as he liked the elf, Brace argued vehemently against letting her stay in the manor house. Myrin waved away his concern. Ilira was hardly a danger to them, even if she could burn them at a touch. To demonstrate this, Myrin went into the study to sit with her and wait. Bowing to the demands of honor, Brace had done the same, and quickly fell to snoring softly in the corner. For her part, Myrin found sleep elusive.

  She kept thinking back to that shadow she’s seen on the rooftop above the alley. It couldn’t have been Shadowbane, but it had felt like him. Could Kalen really have killed Ilira’s bodyguard? Why? What was going on?

  Sleep must eventually have claimed her, for Myrin shook herself to find morning light filtering in through the thin, sword-shaped window. Brace still snored contentedly in the corner. The cold tea mug sat upon the rug, but Ilira herself seemed to have vanished.

  Myrin reached out with her spellscar, and the warmth of her inner blue fl
ame directed her gaze to the lone window, where Ilira leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking out into the city. Her shadow—the great hulk pooled at her feet—was active and moving. It made expressive hand gestures as though involved in a silent conversation with Ilira, who did not respond. Perhaps the shadow reflected the elf’s thoughts. Either way, the dynamic fascinated Myrin.

  Moreover, Myrin felt relieved to see Ilira had remained, though she couldn’t quite say why. The hope of secrets and memories was there, true, but there was something more.

  Myrin rose as silently as she could—sure the elf would hear—and crossed to stand beside her. “It was your spellscar, wasn’t it?”

  Ilira gave her a sidelong glance, and Myrin knew she was right.

  That was why the elf had staved off her touch at the manor, and why Myrin had felt pained after their brief contact in the market. Her spellscar unmade living flesh at a touch. And—

  “It burns whether you will it or no,” Myrin said. “That was what Vharan wanted. He loved you, but could never touch you without—”

  “Yes.”

  Myrin nodded solemnly. “A fitting end, then.”

  “As you say.”

  “Nyah!” came a cry from the corner.

  Although Myrin had been talking much more loudly, it was Ilira’s words that stirred Brace, and he rose with a start, his swords in his hands. “Where?” he asked. “I’ll get you, Shar-spawned sons of poxy whores! I’ll get—oh.” He trailed off when Myrin laughed and even Ilira formed a tiny smile. The gnome cleared his throat. “Morningfeast?”

  A discreet knock sounded at the door, and Elevar entered with three steaming platters of food. The gnome stared at the offerings with longing, and Myrin waved to him to start. She felt hungry as well, but she was more interested in Ilira. For her part, the elf continued to stare out into the city, indifferent to the demands of the flesh.

  Westgate had awakened long before the cock’s crow, with thieves going about their dark deeds in the early hours. But as the sun rose, the rest of the city stirred from beds and alleys. A new day of business and intrigue dawned.

  “How did it happen?” Myrin asked. “The spellscar, I mean.”

  Ilira shrugged. “Mystra died, I suppose.”

  “You—you were there? I mean, you lived then? Did you see the blue fire?”

  Ilira nodded slowly.

  Myrin tried hard to control her excitement. She’d read all about the goddess of magic and the Spellplague, but she’d never met anyone who’d actually lived through it. If Ilira had been scarred in the first waves of the Spellplague, then it stood to reason her scar was deeper and more powerful than most others Myrin might encounter.

  “And you’ve never learned to control it?” Myrin asked.

  “No,” Ilira said. “No matter what I do. For a century, I have been unable to touch man or woman without unraveling flesh—and leaving a horrific scar for the experience.”

  “No exceptions?” Brace asked from the table, his mouth full of food.

  Ilira shrugged.

  “You can’t—Seldarine-in-their-Wisdom, have you tried not burning someone?” he asked, to which she nodded. “What of magical wardings? Surely there is some ritual that could take it away. I mean, just for a limited span of time?” He pursed his lips. “I mean, hypothetically, such as a night? If you take my meaning.”

  Myrin blushed—she took his meaning full well—but Ilira dismissed his nervous suggestion with a wan smile. “I understand, friend gnome, and trust me, if I could find a cure—or even treatment—for this curse, I would certainly have used it by now, and we’d be far too busy with … other matters, to have this conversation.” She gave him a sly wink.

  “Noted, dear lady.” Brace swallowed a sizeable morsel of food. “Noted.”

  “And no,” she said, addressing his unspoken question, “I’m not hungry. Feel free.”

  “Oh.” The gnome slid Ilira’s plate across to himself. He turned his attention to the food, casting Ilira speculative glances every so often.

  Sighing, the elf looked back out the window.

  “Is the spellscar why you came to me?” Myrin asked.

  Ilira regarded her uncertainly. “You feel different to me. Your scar—it’s so much brighter and hotter than mine. I—”

  “You think I can help you control it.”

  “Yes … and no. There is more, but …” Ilira’s eyes sparkled with approaching tears. “I don’t know.”

  Myrin stepped closer to her and took Ilira’s gloved hand in both of hers. “Accept it.”

  Ilira’s eyes widened, weeping forgotten, and she stared at Myrin incredulously. “What?”

  “The first step upon the path of mastering your magic is to accept that it is part of you, forever more,” Myrin said. “Then you can explore—”

  “No.” Ilira pulled her hand away.

  Myrin was stunned. Even Brace looked up from his morningfeast, startled at her sudden vehemence. Ilira’s shadow writhed as if in agony on the floor.

  “Accept that I will never again touch anyone except to do murder? No.” Ilira shook her head. “I never asked for this, I never did anything to deserve this, and I won’t accept it. Ever.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I—”

  Ilira stepped toward her, just as she had that first day in the great hall, and vanished into her shadow. Myrin felt a deep chill, as though winter herself embraced her, but it passed.

  “Is she upset or something?” Brace was almost finished with Ilira’s food.

  Myrin ignored the gnome and looked instead down at her feet. Ilira had vanished without her shadow, which swayed slightly as though in a breeze. It had no eyes, but Myrin could swear it was staring at her. Finally, the shadow flowed toward the door, and Myrin followed.

  “Wait—” Brace looked down at Myrin’s food. “Hmm.”

  Before she left the room, Myrin saw the gnome take her unclaimed plate for himself.

  When Myrin found her, Ilira stood among the overgrown ruin of the courtyard. Elevar had done well maintaining the manor in the intervening years, but he was a dwarf and had no skill for trees or flowers. Ilira kneeled in the dust, heedless of her sleek black dress, and ran her gloved fingers over a cadre of roses that had begun to bloom. Where Myrin had expected to find Ilira angry or in tears, she came upon an unexpectedly peaceful scene, and that gave her pause.

  Ilira spoke without looking at her. “Elf I may be, but I am rubbish with growing things. Even if I weren’t—” She drew off her glove and touched one of the roses, which instantly shriveled away to blue-tinted ash. “This. This is what you want me to accept about myself?”

  Myrin didn’t know what to say. Ilira was in too much pain for any words to be of comfort. Instead, she told her what she did know.

  “My scar absorbs things. Magic, spellplague, anything—memories. I already took one from you, that day in the market.” She remembered being born into chaos. “A dark memory.”

  “I see.” Ilira slid her glove back on so she could caress a rose’s petals. “I would be happy to lend you some more. I have a hundred and eighty-three years worth of dark memories.”

  “You—” Myrin smiled mirthfully. “You don’t look a day over a hundred and fifty.”

  “Flattery. Interesting.”

  Myrin chided herself for her anemic attempt at humor. “The memory I took from you was of me being born. That’s how it works, you see. I absorb memories of myself from another’s eyes. So even if you don’t remember me, you were there when I was born.”

  “Was I?” Ilira’s eyes were closed, but Myrin had the clear sensation that the elf was scrutinizing her in minute detail.

  “My mother called you ‘little fox,’ I think,” Myrin said.

  “Gods above.” Ilira’s eyes opened wide and she stared at Myrin. “Then it is true.”

  “What is?”

  Ilira’s face betrayed nothing concrete, but Myrin had the damnable sense that the elf had realized something about her that
she was not about to share. When Ilira spoke, her voice was soft and thoughtful. “You are thinking that if you took one of my memories, there might be more. But you hesitate, because if you touch me, I’ll burn your flesh to ash.”

  Myrin thought immediately of the memory she’d glimpsed a year ago in Fayne’s mind, which had featured Ilira. Had she already been spellscarred in that vision? She must have been. She had burned Yldar at a touch. Not Fayne, though, so there must be some exceptions.

  “I—that wasn’t why I tried to touch you,” Myrin said truthfully.

  Ilira met her eye. “No?”

  “I’d like—” Myrin set her jaw. “I’d like to try to absorb your scar.”

  “You—” Ilira looked startled. “That’s ridiculous. Even if you could do that, I’d burn your hand off in the process.”

  “I’d like to try anyway,” Myrin said. “It’s worth it, just to give you a chance to touch someone. And who knows? I might be able to help you control it.”

  Ilira looked at her warily. “Why would you do this?”

  “Because—” Myrin hung her head. “Because I know what it is to be alone. And you’ve been alone so much longer than I have. I … I’ll understand, if you say no.”

  Ilira looked at her a long while, her gold eyes unreadable in the growing sunlight. Myrin started to feel self-conscious, as though Ilira could see right through her dress, her flesh, and even her bones. Unconsciously, Myrin reached one hand behind her back to grasp the opposite elbow. It was a nervous habit of hers, but it comforted her.

  Finally, Ilira nodded. “I’ll help you.”

  “Help me?” Myrin asked. “How?”

  “Find your lost memories. That is why you’re in the city, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Myrin thought of the missing Rhett. “Among other things.”

  “Well, I just so happen to specialize in finding lost things.” Ilira smiled mysteriously. “Only one question: your man, this Shadowbane. What of him?”

  Myrin was taken aback. She hadn’t thought about Kalen at all since the previous night. Being near Ilira gave her peace from thoughts about Kalen.