Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  He wove a counterspell. “So your erstwhile mother’s vengeance waits for another night.”

  Fayne shimmered into being in the middle of the room, stunned. Her shocked expression told him what had happened. Cloaked in illusion magic, she’d ventured up to Lord Darkwell’s chambers to steal something (and he had a good idea what). She’d expected to go undetected by the dozing lord in the chair, and she certainly had not expected him to dispel her invisibility. She wore a disguise, of course, although exactly which face she’d chosen took him somewhat by surprise: Levia Shadewalker.

  She stood up straight in a passable imitation of the repressed priestess. Truly, Lilten would have been impressed by her pluck had he not been in such a foul mood. “Lord Darkwell,” she said. “I was worried. You had not—”

  Lilten had a theory, and he tested it. He assumed a predatory expression. “Hail, servant mine,” he said, in a pitch-perfect imitation of Kirenkirsalai, his old friend and enemy. “Come to take what I already possess, is it?”

  Fayne visibly calmed. “Master,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here. How did you penetrate the Eye of Justice? Don’t they have wards against—?” Then her eyes widened. “Gods. Father?”

  “I am disappointed, child.” Lilten sighed. “You’ve as much as told me you were working for my adversary, and I hardly had to deceive you. Very disappointed.”

  He rose from his seat and casually threw the desk aside with a flick of his left arm.

  Startled, Fayne raised her sword by instinct to ward him off, but Lilten called upon the curse of Beshaba and in response Fayne slashed open her own throat with the blade. She fell to her knees, her hands pressed over the spurting wound.

  “My, what terrible luck.” Lilten strolled toward her, his momentary anger vanished. “Swords are such dreadfully dangerous things. So sharp.”

  He ran one finger through the air right by her cheek, and his invisible claw split her skin open, leaving a trail of blood. She was not the only one who concealed a dark heritage.

  “Father …” Fayne took one hand away from her throat to paw at him. “Please …”

  Lilten brushed off her pawing hand and she sank into a spreading pool of blood.

  He let her choke a few breaths, then sighed. “At least take off that awful face when you speak to me,” he said. “Levia Shadewalker is so ugly, even for a half-elf.”

  “But—” Fayne said.

  “I would do it quickly, ’ere you run out of blood and breath.”

  With whatever will she could muster, Fayne dispelled her disguise. She became herself, although it did nothing to fix the gaping wound in her throat. “Heal … me …”

  “I hesitate to do so, child,” Lilten said. “After all, you’ve betrayed me.”

  “No choice,” she managed. “Threatened me … Vampire—”

  “Oh, no—you misunderstand.” Lilten kneeled down, putting his face in hers. “I understand entirely why you would work for Kirenkirsalai. Indeed, why do you think I brought you to Westgate? I knew he would seek to turn you or manipulate you, and so he has done. You are my cat’s paw in his ranks—my own little spy. No, that isn’t why I’m angry.”

  He grasped her wrist, and it was clear his superior strength could wrench her hand in a heartbeat and she would die on his floor. Her terrified eyes shot to his.

  “Did I not forbid you to attack Ilira Nathalan?” Lilten said. “Did I not?”

  “But—” Fayne’s words broke. “I don’t … What is she to you?”

  “Far more than your mother, that is for certain.”

  The veins standing out in her forehead, her eyes stormy, Fayne looked so upset that she almost pulled her hand away and died just for spite. Lilten held her hand in place, however—he wasn’t finished with her.

  “What now?” Fayne had grown pale. She gasped and choked on her words. Blood leaked from her mouth. “You’ll kill me … because I betrayed you? Father?”

  At length, Lilten shook his head. “Such punishments are the mark of a small mind.”

  He spoke a melodious phrase in ancient Elvish, and the wound in her throat closed. Fayne coughed and gagged on the floor, but at least she would not die.

  “Always remember, you are my daughter, and I love you.” He ran his hand over her red-pink hair. “But do that again, and I will not save you from yourself. Understood?”

  She nodded weakly. “Thank—thank you.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t revive you out of pity,” he said, “but because I need you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “For—for what?”

  “To do what I always do when I’m losing the game,” Lilten said. “Change the rules.”

  Eyes puffy with tears and hair plastered slick to her head with rain, Myrin had been searching for Ilira for hours. Her flight spell had expired around midnight, and she’d contented herself wandering the streets. She couldn’t go back to the Blue Banner—not with the Eye of Justice soldiers searching it—and she had tried the Purple Lady Festhall, Silks at Dawn, and even Aurora’s Emporium, all to no avail.

  No one accosted her during her search. No one dared cross the wild-eyed, blue-haired wizard woman glowing with runes.

  Surely Ilira would find her later, but Myrin had to search, if only so she didn’t have to think about what happened on that rooftop. What Kalen and Rhett had said … She shivered.

  The rain ended shortly before dawn, and Myrin finally returned to Darkdance Manor, sure that Ilira would not have gone back there but unable to give up. She hadn’t yet had a chance to repair the wards on the gates, so they were still open. Just inside she noticed drops of bright blood on the stones in the courtyard garden.

  With her heart beating in her throat, Myrin hurried inside only to find a gore-smeared Ilira meditating in the garden in the center of the chamber. The magic of the place kept the rain from falling through the open ceiling, but Ilira’s hair and clothes were plastered to her wiry body with sticky blood. The elf sat with her legs crossed on the marble platform, and in her lap was Brace’s torn and crumpled corpse.

  “Thank you, Elevar,” she said as she accepted a crystal goblet of wine.

  Myrin hadn’t even noticed her dwarf seneschal, next to the spectacle of Ilira. Ever dutiful, the blind mute bowed to Ilira, then to the newly arrived Myrin, then went on his way.

  “What—?” Myrin asked. “What are you doing?”

  Ilira traced her bare hand down Brace’s cheek—there was no burning, of course, as he was very dead. “I knew him only a little, but he was kind to me,” she said, “Many men are, of course, although when they find out what I am, their kindness inevitably wavers. Not him. If anything, learning of my curse only increased his affection. He should not be forgotten.”

  She brushed at the tears on Brace’s cheeks—her own tears, Myrin realized. Then she closed her eyes, leaned down, and embraced the gnome tightly.

  Ilira sang dark words in her beautiful elf voice—the closing refrains of a ritual Myrin was only seeing at the very end. As she watched, Brace’s body blurred and grew indistinct. He turned to what looked like black liquid and ran down through her embrace until he pooled on the marble beneath her. He became a shadow cast by the moon. Ilira’s shadow.

  Myrin saw Brace’s name appear down Ilira’s left arm. This time, the tattoo took the form of flowing Espruar letters, the Elvish script, rather than the rougher syllables of Dwarvish Dethek she had worn on her breastbone. Even in death, the gnome clung to her joyfully.

  “There,” Ilira said, eyes still shut. “I feel much better. Almost ready, in fact.”

  “Ready for what?” Myrin asked, trembling.

  Ilira’s eyes opened wide and black. “To kill Kalen Dren.”

  The rain lessened and finally stopped just before dawn. Sunlight burned the distant horizon, chasing the clouds away.

  It was then that Levia finally found Kalen on the rooftop where he had fallen. He lay partially submerged in muddy rainwater, the vicious black axe discarded a few paces away.
His right hand reached toward the edge of the roof, the fingers curling helplessly into the air. His eyes stared blankly up at the lightening sky.

  Levia had seen many corpses in her day, but none struck her as this did. The world slowed, and she could feel every beat of her heart like a hammer’s blow upon her chest. Something inside her was breaking, and she fell to her knees over Kalen.

  She pounded on his chest although he did not flinch, cried his name although he showed no sign of having heard. She could not tell if he was dead, or locked so deep in his spellscar that he could see and hear but not respond. And she was not sure which would be worse.

  She prayed to Torm—to the Threefold God—to any god who would give her the power to heal him, and poured her magic into his limp body. Over and over again she cast healing spells, begging him to wake, then begging without words. She kissed him over and over. She slapped him across the face. She screamed her outrage to the heavens.

  Finally, she collapsed onto him, covered her face, and wept.

  She could not say how long she stayed with him, crying as she had not let herself cry in the three years since their parting. She wept until there were no tears left, then wept anew.

  The sun was rising. Westgate was waking.

  Levia felt broken, leather wrapped fingers on her cheek. She sniffed.

  “I was wrong,” Kalen said. “I have always been wrong.”

  Then tears welled in his eyes, and Levia cradled his head against her breast as he wept.