Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

  “About Kalen?”

  Myrin grimaced. “Aye, we can talk about tall, dark, and dour if you like.”

  At this point, he had either to ask or leave, and Rhett was no coward.

  “Lady Darkdance,” he said. “Did-on the ship, were you-?”

  “Was I bitten?” Myrin supplied. “Kalen told you to ask, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Rhett blew out a sigh.

  “I knew it.” Myrin slumped. “I suppose it’s too much to hope Kalen could trust me. We’ve been apart for a year, and he just doesn’t know me anymore.”

  “It’s not that,” Rhett said. “It’s-he didn’t explain why, but I got the sense it had to do with the halfling. Perhaps-”

  “Perhaps I’m sick and thus not thinking clearly.” Myrin stood and faced Rhett in the small room, her arms crossed. “Do you think that?”

  Rhett shook his head. “No, but he wants me to find out.”

  Myrin sighed. “Well, thank you for being honest. You could have gone about this so poorly. By sending someone else, for instance.”

  “My lady, that’s-” Rhett’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  Wordlessly, Myrin set her fingers to work unlacing her bodice. A hand sculpted of blue light manifested to help with the process. It took only a breath. Freed, she undid the ties of her undershirt.

  “I don’t-lady, that isn’t necessary,” Rhett said.

  “Rhett,” Myrin said. “Is there any romantic attachment between us?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  “Good,” Myrin said. “I want you to see for yourself. Then you can assure Kalen that I bear no bites where I could have caught the Fury.” Her face was set in lines of determination. “I can see no reason not to do this.”

  “But-” Rhett trailed off. “You know? Neither can I. Carry on.”

  There, in her chamber, Myrin stripped. Her golden-brown skin sparkled, and she seemed very dark in the dim light of her magic. Markings rose livid in her flesh, but they were not the welts Kalen had described to him. Instead, she bore a number of graceful black tattoos that shimmered with azure light. Rhett had seen such lights manifest momentarily on her skin as she cast her spells, but he’d not realized she had permanent ones as well. She bore large tattoos-about the size of fists-connected by faint trails of arcane runes.

  All but bare, Myrin turned in place. “Satisfied?” she asked.

  Rhett swallowed a lump in his throat, not sure he’d ever be satisfied. He realized he was staring, so he turned his eyes to the floor. “They’re lovely,” he said. “Your tattoos, I mean.” Among other things, he didn’t say.

  “You think so?” Finally seeming self-conscious, Myrin crossed her arms behind her back, held one elbow, and ground her toe into the floorboards.

  “Very much so.” Without thinking, he stepped forward. She did not retreat. “What do they mean?”

  “They’re my spells. I-here.” She closed the distance between them, seized his hand, and touched it to the tattoo on her right forearm. “My thunder blast. See?”

  The rune vaguely resembled a storm cloud, now that he looked at it. A line of runes ran up her arm to a larger tattoo on the outside of her biceps.

  Myrin guided his hand to this higher mark. “My fireball. See the little tails?”

  He traced his fingers around the tattoo, feeling her flesh under his touch. Now that she’d said that, he did see the pattern. “Right,” he said.

  Myrin guided his touch up her arm and over to her right shoulder, where a rune seemed to spin like a whirring blade, trailing flames. “The firescythe,” she said. “It’s a similar spell to the fireball, though easier to cast and not as powerful.”

  “It seemed powerful enough.” Rhett recalled the scythe spinning out over the sea with a shiver. How mighty was this woman, with her magic and tattoos?

  Myrin turned a little, exposing her bare back. “My shield, on my left shoulder.”

  He traced the line of runes to a symbol where she indicated. It looked faintly like a kite shield. He touched it lightly and she shivered. Her magelight, as though it languished without her concentration, began to dim.

  “I have more,” she whispered. “Not many, but they’re appearing all the time. With greater frequency, as I learn more.” She clenched her fists. “I need to learn more.”

  Rhett was hardly listening. He traced the runes leading up and over her shoulder, stepping around her. Myrin watched his hand, rapt. Rhett followed the path down her chest to a little portal of darkness. It seemed it might lead into her heart.

  “That’s,” she said in a dreamy voice. She wet her lips. “That’s the shadow door-the one I learned from Methrammar’s memory. I-”

  Rhett leaned in and kissed her. A shiver ran through her as her whole body relaxed into his embrace. For a heartbeat, they kissed like lovers in a bard’s romance.

  Myrin’s lips parted and she murmured a name: “Kalen-”

  Rhett pulled away, but with surprising speed Myrin caught his hand and they stood together, holding hands in the chamber.

  Then Myrin’s eyes widened and she came fully awake. Her magelight brightened fully.

  “Well-” Myrin released his hand self-consciously. “My memories won’t order themselves.”

  Rhett may not have been the sharpest sword in Faerun, but this he understood. He had extended her an offer and she hadn’t taken it.

  He turned politely away as Myrin slid her clothes back on. Their intimate moment had passed, shattered by what Myrin had said without thinking. It filled Rhett with equal parts frustration and sadness, but not for himself. This should have been Kalen’s moment, not his. Myrin wanted that and Rhett thought Kalen did as well. It seemed obvious to Rhett, who knew this dance well, but neither Myrin nor Kalen seemed to see it. Or if they did, they stubbornly would not act on it.

  Well, if neither of them could do it on their own, he would just have to help. His Guard duty kept him to Torm’s path, but he could do some of Sune’s work too.

  “I should go find Saer Shadowbane.” Rhett made the suggestion subtle.

  “What?” Myrin said as she laced up her bodice. “Oh. Yes. I suppose.”

  “Last I saw him, he was off with Sithe, doing whatever they go do.”

  “Hmm,” Myrin said. “Well-that can’t be going well.”

  “Oh?” Rhett paused at the door. Perhaps he could plant a seed of jealousy that would bear fruit. “I don’t know. They keep absconding to parts unknown, like something out of a copper-nib chapbook? They always look so … intense.”

  “Oh, trust me-they’re not making love.”

  “Oh.” She was very frank, this woman. “How-I mean, how do you know? I saw the look they shared. It was a very significant look.”

  Myrin smiled just a little. “Call it intuition.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  24 KYTHORN (DAWN)

  Crash.

  Kalen skidded back with a bone-jarring thump against the crenellations at the edge of the roof. Sour water splashed in Kalen’s wake as he came to rest in a small puddle. The greasy wood groaned under his weight, but held.

  Rain battered Luskan, stripping yet another layer of wood and thatch from already battered buildings. The streets were empty-even the most desperate of thieves avoided such miserable nights. Only the man of shadow and the woman of darkness braved the oily deluge.

  Fighting the dull ache in his chest, Kalen forced his empty limbs to move. Equally numb fingers scrabbled through the water and muck for Vindicator’s hilt. He found it, then slammed the sword down on the rooftop with a growl of frustration.

  “You fear.” Sithe stood a short distance away, shaking the tension from her arms. Her axe gleamed in the moonlight. “You cannot defeat what you fear.”

  “As I told you”-Kalen fought down a rising cough-“I fear nothing.”

  “I am nothing,” she said. She raised her axe in a high guard.

  Kalen stood, leveled Vindicator, and ran forward to oblige her.
>
  This third pass fared no better than the first two did. He used every bit of sword-training and every trick at his disposal-feints, misdirection, varying time. None of it penetrated her defenses. She threw herself wholly into every attack, fearless of counters or ripostes. Her body seemed to anticipate his every strike, as though some greater force guided her movements. Her muscles hardly seemed capable of lifting the great headsman’s axe, and yet she fought brilliantly with little effort.

  They broke apart for a moment, Kalen panting heavily. “You don’t feel like nothing.”

  He struck again, but Sithe smashed his attack aside and kicked him in the chest. He staggered back and adjusted his stance for a new angle. Vindicator burned dully in his hand as he weighed her stance. Her grace was matchless-her skill far beyond his.

  “The boy believes you a demon,” Kalen said. “Are you?”

  “No,” Sithe said so quickly he doubted its truth.

  “Myrin said you are a genasi.” The word seemed to strike Sithe-she actually met his gaze. “You are like no genasi I have ever met. You’ve neither fire nor lightning, earth nor water, nor-”

  “I am born of the nothing between light and shadow,” Sithe said. “My soul is of the void-the wind through darkness.”

  “A cryptic answer,” Kalen said. “And not one that instills confidence.”

  “Confidence?” she asked. “You wear your fear for all to see.” Sithe gestured contemptuously at him. “If you fear neither pain nor death, why do you wear armor? If you don’t fear defeat, why carry a sword into battle? And these-pain, death, defeat-these are the least of your fears.” She looked away. “Speak not to me of confidence, when you fear so many things but do not know it.”

  “The wise man,” Kalen said, “claims to know nothing.”

  “Then the wise man,” Sithe replied, “is an idiot.”

  She had just spoken more words to him than he had heard her string together at once. During her diatribe-if such it could be called-her voice had risen ever so slightly. He heard anger and thought he had touched her with the word “demon.”

  “You flee your fears, but they will find you. You take refuge in them, but they will not shield you,” Sithe said. “You will learn nothing from me if you fight because of fear.”

  “Are you saying I fear to face you?”

  “You fear not to face me,” Sithe said. “You face me to escape what you fear you’ll become, the boy you fear to teach, and the woman you fear to touch.”

  Kalen lunged without thinking. Surprised, Sithe was only able to raise the axe halfway to block and Vindicator cut at her face. A shroud of darkness appeared around her, absorbing the blade’s impact. Kalen shivered in the sudden rush of deathly chill.

  The haft of Sithe’s axe swung around and struck him on the right ear.

  Reeling, Kalen fought for his senses. He lurched half a dozen steps to the side and fell to one knee, spitting blood. When he could see clearly again, Sithe stood unperturbed-waiting. Once again, Kalen slammed Vindicator against the rooftop in his frustration.

  “Better.” Sithe stood over him, her axe raised high. “Again.”

  Kalen wasn’t about to let her provoke him again. Instead, he tried the opposite.

  “You speak of my fears, but you’re the one with the axe,” he said. “If my sword and armor are my crutch, what of yours?”

  Sithe considered this. Then she dropped her axe to clatter on the withered boards of the roof. She stood waiting, unarmed and unarmored, arms limp at her sides. “Strike then,” she said.

  He strode forward, his blade held high. She made no move, even when he cut down at her head. He stayed his slash at the last, turning to strike her with the flat.

  Sithe caught his attack, one hand on either side of Vindicator.

  “You should have struck fully,” she said. “I might not have caught it.”

  Kalen strained, but he could not move the frozen sword. “You’d be dead.”

  “I have faith in your weakness.”

  Darkness flared around her and struck him like a fist. He fell back half a dozen paces, disarmed. Vindicator remained between her hands, as if she were praying around it. She tossed the blade in his direction and it skittered to his feet.

  “Your ignorance makes you helpless as a child,” Sithe said.

  Kalen’s anger burned at the weakness coursing through him. He climbed shakily to his feet. “If you know all,” he said, “then I am glad you are teaching me.”

  The woman’s black eyes narrowed. She caught the haft of her axe under one toe and kicked the weapon up into her hands.

  He had only an instant to react before she was on him, her axe chopping down like a bolt of lightning. Kalen leaped back, but Sithe pressed forward, her axe lashing up and across. The axe hit him so hard he flew back, clearing the side of the building and tumbling through the open air. He glanced around wildly as he toppled back, only to crash on the rooftop of the next building. He stumbled to one knee and looked up. Sithe swooped down toward him, her axe held high.

  He dodged the chop that might have cut him in two, but Sithe adjusted in midair, smashing the haft of the axe into Kalen’s face. Roiling light replaced the world and Kalen toppled back, parrying wildly. Sithe’s axe smashed into the flailing Vindicator once-twice-then a third time, sending it sailing out of Kalen’s hand.

  Blinded and unarmed, he fell back, curling himself as small as he could and trusted to his other senses to let him dodge her strikes. Miraculously, he moved correctly and the axe whirred past his ear. He knew he couldn’t last long-not unarmed-particularly not when he had backed into the wall of the little room that housed the staircase. He had nowhere to run.

  The dazzling light faded and he saw Sithe’s axe streaking toward his face. He ducked-barely-and the axe chopped into the wall. Without waiting-without even taking an instant to thank Tymora he hadn’t been beheaded-Kalen bowled forward, his arms wide. Sithe tried to slip free, but he tackled her to the ground. He caught her hands-

  Sithe vanished from under him, pulling him inward as though she had simply imploded into nothing. He slammed face-first into the stained wood and stared blearily around. She might as well not have existed. He knew, however, that she would-

  Sithe reappeared a pace behind him and her axe slashed like a threshing scythe. Without thinking, he moved aside at that exact instant. The air around him was suddenly alive with power of its own-a strength and confidence he had never known filled him.

  The moment passed and he was once again simply an unarmed man fighting a whirlwind. Sithe brought the axe around and thrust the haft horizontally into his chin. He collapsed like a felled tower. She brought her axe flashing around and buried it into the wood where he lay, its jagged blade a hair’s breadth from his neck.

  “You’re so controlled.” Kalen touched his throat, where blood dribbled. “It’s not like you to lose that and actually cut me.”

  The blade made a wrenching groan as Sithe ripped it from the rooftop. She strode back to the edge of the roof to watch the receding darkness.

  Kalen let Vindicator lie where it had fallen and approached Sithe cautiously.

  “That was the moment,” he said. “Armored by faith. Right?”

  She said nothing, but he knew he had spoken true.

  “What is the matter?” he asked. “Why are you so angry?”

  Sithe gazed out toward the horizon. Beyond the black, putrid waters of Luskan’s bay, the sea became blue once more, albeit choked in an ugly haze. The air here tasted of sour smoke and unwashed flesh, but he could remember the sweet air beyond.

  “Again,” Sithe said.

  “Ag-” Kalen had only that small warning before she lashed out with her axe.

  He leaped back, dropped, and rolled to recover Vindicator. Water flew from the blade as he swept it out wide and ready.

  She was on him. They clashed, faster and harder than before.

  Sithe slashed and tore without grace, her movements without art. Now, she was
just trying to kill him-as quickly and with as much blood as possible.

  Fine by him. She was angry, but so was he.

  Slash, counter, parry. He dodged more than he deflected and watched her body as much as her blade. She moved like nothing human, but she’d beat him enough that he had a sense of how she fought.

  He lasted eight moves this time, rather than three.

  He lay groaning on the wet rooftop, his insides burning. Agony built up inside him, the barrier of his numbness worn thin by Sithe’s brutal assault. Breath rippled through lungs clenched tight as though in a vice. It was not as bad as it had once been-never as bad-but gods, how the pain gripped him.

  A cool hand touched Kalen’s fevered brow. Sithe crouched over him.

  “A man walked … Kalen Dren!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face to draw his attention. “Do you hear me, Kalen Dren?”

  “Wh-what?” he groaned. “Dammit-”

  “A man walked across the broken mountains of a dark land,” she said. “He climbed as high as he could and walked until his feet could carry him no farther. When finally he fell to his knees, starving and exhausted, it was at the edge of a great black abyss. He stared out into the darkness-deep, impenetrable, infinite-and his heart delighted.” She leaned forward. “What did he see?”

  Kalen stared into her face. Her black eyes dropped as deep as the void she described, draining his thoughts as he gazed into them. He was the man staring into the infinite darkness.

  “Kalen.” Sithe slapped him on the cheek. “What did he see?”

  Sweat slaked his face. “Nothing,” he said. “Death. I don’t-”

  “ ‘Nothing’ and ‘death’ are not the same,” Sithe said. “What joy did he know?”

  “He had gone mad,” Kalen said, fumbling for the words. “He surrendered.”

  Sithe stared at him a long, long moment. Rain dripped from her axe onto the rooftop by Kalen’s ear. He panted and fought for breath.

  It wasn’t fair. Cruelty raged within him, begging to break through. Kalen Dren was a thin skin stretched painfully over a tempest.

  “No,” Kalen said. “Not … that man …”