Shadowbane tap-4

by Eric Scott De Bie

“Did you bring a game to play?” he asked. “There must be a game.”

  “The lord would know what tribute you offer,” Kasi translated.

  “Tribute?” Myrin said. “We don’t have-”

  Kalen nodded to Sithe. “This woman,” he said. “Sithe, First Blade of the Dead Rats and your sworn enemy. I renounce her into your custody, if you can take her.”

  Myrin gasped. “Kalen!” she said. “What are you-?”

  “Treachery, Kalen Shadowbane?” Sithe asked.

  The Dragonbloods reached for their steel, even as Sithe struck like a snake. She lunged at the first guard, whose eyes widened. She slapped his warding hands away and sent him staggering in the same smooth motion, then grasped a second ’Blood to use as a shield.

  Through it all, the doppelganger stared at Myrin. His eyes suggested a certain familiarity that she did not share. Nothing about him ignited her memory.

  Unarmed, Sithe stood hardly a chance against a dozen Dragonbloods led by Kasi and her two blades. Ultimately, the genasi eased her prisoner to the floor and raised her hands. Kasi slammed the pommel of one of her blades into the genasi’s face. After what seemed a heartbeat’s hesitation, Sithe dropped into a heap.

  “Kalen!” Myrin hissed as they began to carry the genasi away. “She’s our fr-”

  “She is the servant of Toytere and no friend of ours.” Kalen kept his eyes on the throne. “Is this tribute sufficient, Lord Dragon?”

  The doppelganger considered his fingers. “I played a game with my friends, long ago,” he said. “I won and they never spoke to me again.”

  “Er,” Kalen said. “My lord-”

  Without pause, the doppelganger turned, surprisingly, to Myrin. “Speak, Lady Witch-Queen, Heir of Seven Stars. Do you wish to game with me?”

  Myrin was so startled she almost forgot how to speak. “Me?”

  “You are mightiest of us all.” The doppelganger inclined his head.

  Kalen cleared his throat. “May we have a moment, Lord Dragon, by your leave?”

  The Dragon was too busy staring at Myrin to notice Kalen. Kasi bowed slightly to him. “Confer,” she said.

  “My thanks.” He turned to Rhett and Myrin, drawing them close in a circle.

  “Kalen!” Myrin hissed. “What are you about-?”

  “Berate me later,” Kalen said. “Do you remember meeting this man before?”

  “I’ll berate you right now, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Kalen’s pale eyes would brook no argument. “Just answer.”

  Myrin sighed. “No,” she said. “I don’t remember ever meeting a doppelganger, much less this one. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t met him.”

  “He seems to know you,” Kalen said.

  “Or he’s just mad,” Rhett said.

  Myrin shrugged. “Well, no more mad than I.”

  Kalen shook his head. Rhett cleared his throat.

  “Oh, very nice,” Myrin said. “He does seem to be damaged in some way. I don’t think he can control the faces he takes.”

  “And the way he speaks,” Rhett pointed out.

  Myrin furrowed her brow. “What’s wrong with the way he speaks?”

  “Oh come now. Riddles? Gibberish?” He traced a circle near his ear with his finger.

  Myrin put her hands on her hips. “Just because you lack the mental prowess to understand doesn’t mean he doesn’t make sense,” she said. “He asked for tribute. Then he said it was well and good. That bit about the game? He approves of treachery.”

  Rhett shivered.

  “Very well,” Kalen said. “You talk to him. We’ll get this done faster that way.”

  “We?” Myrin stepped up to him and thrust her face into his. “You just betrayed Sithe to her death. Do you think either of us apt to trust you?”

  “Give it a moment,” Kalen said. “We have perhaps a fifty-count. Talk to him.”

  “You don’t give me orders,” Myrin said. “Especially not when you turn traitor-”

  “Wait,” Rhett said. “No, I think I get it. Just-just talk to him, Myrin. It’ll be well.”

  She recognized the understanding that passed between the two. “This is one of those schemes I wouldn’t understand, is it?” Myrin asked. “Because I wasn’t in the Guard, or because I’m just-?”

  “Nothing like that.” Kalen laid his hand on her wrist. “You want me to trust you? Trust me.”

  Myrin wanted to argue the point, but ultimately she sighed. “Very well. But after this, there will be words.”

  “Of that,” Kalen said, “I’ve no doubt.”

  The three turned back to the leader of the Dragonbloods. “Lord Dragon,” Myrin said.

  “Umbra,” he said.

  “Umbra?” Myrin lost that one. “Apologies, is that your name?”

  By a palpable effort of will, the doppelganger shifted his face into a nearly featureless white oval with dark eyes and a rise for a nose-much like a man wearing an unadorned mask.

  “It is a good name for that face,” Myrin said.

  A mouth appeared in his face, seemingly for the express purpose of smiling ingratiatingly. “Umbra, I,” he said. “Lady Darkdance, you.”

  That name cemented it in Myrin’s mind. Somehow, this doppelganger knew her-had known her, perhaps around the same time Methrammar had known her. But how did he know her? And what did he know of her?

  “Have we met, Lord Umbra?”

  His mouth curled as though at a jest. “A man and a woman walking in the woods,” Umbra said. “Then shadow. Flame and death.”

  “Hmm.” That wasn’t encouraging, but at least it was interesting. She had no idea what it meant. “Do you know anything about the plague-about the skeletons?”

  Umbra’s brow furrowed … or it might have grown bushier. “The priest,” he said. “The turncoat priest-the turncloak is the one who knows all. No other.”

  “You mean the Coin-Spinners?” Kalen asked. “Their Coin Priest?”

  “A man fails.” Umbra glared at him, as if rebuking him with his eyes for interrupting. “Stallion and mare-nevermore!”

  That one seemed obvious, even if she wasn’t sure what he meant. Myrin blushed slightly. “My lord, I don’t understand-”

  “Nevermore!” Umbra snarled and lunged from the throne. Kalen and Rhett were too slow to stop him. Myrin started to draw back, but Umbra caught her with a grip as strong as iron. “Nevermore, mare! Nevermore!”

  “What do you-?”

  Umbra pressed his lips to hers.

  She felt burning heat as runes rippled across her skin.

  He kissed her then, and she sputtered and pulled away. “Umbra,” she said, her tone curious and questioning at once. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Answering your wish,” he said. “Or was all that flirting a game?”

  “Oh, oh.” The lass with the sweeping blue hair and the inked tattoos on her skin gave him an uncertain smile that he found entirely too alluring. “But what will the others say?” she asked. “Aren’t we on guard?”

  “Galen will handle it-he ever does.” Umbra slipped a hand onto her leg.

  Any other woman might have shivered at his touch-shivered just to look at him-but she did not. When she looked at him, there was only affection in her eyes, not fear or pity. No one else had looked at him like that for years.

  Gods. How he wanted her, as he had wanted none other in his long, strange life. Not his wife, not all his lovers, and not even his dead goddess-the one he sought at all turns to avenge. “I don’t know,” she said, but she didn’t back away. “Not that I’m afraid, mind-”

  “I know,” he said. “You’re the bravest lass of nineteen winters I’ve ever met.”

  “Twenty!” she protested, but he was smiling.

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  “I love you, M-” he started.

  Myrin was wrenched back into the world in the midst of chaos. Kalen shoved Umbra away, breaking the kiss, then dealt him a sharp right hook to the fac
e. Umbra screeched incoherently and tumbled to the floor. His body was shifting, his limbs expanding and straining at his robe. His face roiled, half a dozen mouths screaming. The cry was like nothing human, but more like a dragon’s roar.

  “Uh!” Myrin cried as she fell to her knees. The heat inside her was so intense-the desire and need that had been his-theirs-in her vision.

  Kalen caught her wrists in his hands. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him over the roar in her ears and the fire racing through her body. Gods! She had no idea what was happening to her, but she never wanted it to end.

  “What happened?” Kalen demanded, shaking her.

  Myrin wrapped her hands around Kalen’s face and pressed her body into his. She needed his strong body and weak soul-every inch of it-and she needed it now.

  “Helm’s name,” Kalen said, his eyes wide.

  “Kalen,” she begged, crushing her breasts into his chest. “Kalen-please!”

  But he shoved her to the ground so he could catch an oncoming Dragonblood and throw the man backward. The maneuver got him stabbed him through the leg with one of the eastern blades, but Kalen balled up a fist and sent the attacker to the floor. He pulled the short sword out and, now armed, parried yet another attack.

  Myrin clutched herself into a ball, crazily riding the maelstrom of her own ecstasy. The world shook, her body tightened and loosened by turns. Gods!

  “Damn and burn!” Rhett stood two paces off, Vindicator blazing in his hands. Somehow, he’d got it back from the Shou guards. “What is wrong with her?”

  “Focus on the fighting!” Kalen shouted. “I’ll handle her.”

  Myrin realized what he had said-saw Kalen fighting back toward her-and it filled her with fear, replacing the pleasure. “No,” she cried. “No, you can’t!”

  Umbra lay at the foot of his throne, dazed-either from the memory she’d drained from him or the punch Kalen had delivered. “Leira, n’maerlyn myl mar’kov,” he murmured in a tongue she did not know. “Maerlyn-”

  She had to know what he was saying. She had to have more.

  “More,” she said.

  She grasped Umbra by his booted heel. The doppelganger sensed her approach and his form swelled and lengthened madly. He seemed older and impossibly weak, as though what she had taken from him had left him depleted. Cracks spread across his white face. He stared up at her with two jet black eyes-like Sithe’s eyes, without pupils-that pleaded with her to leave him be. She saw her face reflected in his eyes, runes blazing on her skin.

  Breath whispered between his cracked lips and he smiled peaceably.

  “Love,” he said. “See.”

  She clasped the sides of his face and Saw.

  She knew herself this time-knew that she was Umbra, staring at his memories of her. He had so many, all of them images so vivid they filled her mind to bursting.

  Myrin laughed at him and his heart swelled.

  Myrin stared quizzically, unable to understand some jest he’d made.

  Myrin swayed, entwined with a dark-skinned half-elf woman, magic burning around them. They saw him watching, and Myrin cast him a smoldering, inviting look.

  Myrin smiled, her hair brilliant green, not blue.

  Gods, the creature was in love with her-this other Myrin that she barely recognized. She had to fight down the swell of sentiment attached to these memories: love, desire, and not a little fear. What had he to fear?

  Myrin strode through a world of shadow, runes covering every inch of her skin.

  Myrin fell to her knees, fighting a hurricane of awful necromantic power that tore at her. A wall of fire surrounded her, its flames dancing on the winds.

  Myrin, a shock wave of black power rushing from her in every direction.

  Myrin, kneeling over him as he lay trembling.

  Myrin, reaching tenderly for his face.

  Myrin.

  But that wasn’t her name. Her name …

  When she woke again, Kalen had a hold on her. Umbra staggered back and fell to his knees. Myrin reached for him, but he flailed away from her.

  A few paces distant, Rhett slashed a silvery circle that kept the Dragonbloods at bay. Sithe was there too, her axe singing its awful song as it ripped through the air.

  “What took you so long?” Rhett was shouting to the genasi.

  “He said not to kill,” Sithe replied. “Killing is faster.”

  The Shou woman, Kasi, was standing near the throne, blood gushing from a wound on her upper arm. She had fallen to one knee and was trying to rouse Umbra, who lay unmoving.

  Desire rose up in Myrin again. It was not the same as before, when she had floated on the storm-tossed sea of pleasure. Then, she had merely wanted the memories. Now she needed them. She longed for more like water for a parched throat. She needed it as she had needed nothing in her life, as she would never need anything ever again.

  “Please!” Myrin struggled against Kalen’s arms. “I need more. Let me have more!”

  “We’re leaving,” Kalen said, dragging her back.

  “Anything you want!” Myrin said. “I’ll do anything-give you anything!”

  Kalen froze, startled. “I-”

  That let her get her wand between them. Kalen looked down with a wince just before a blast of thunder sent him tumbling back. Myrin wobbled on her feet and turned, reaching for Umbra. Kasi tried to bar her path, but Myrin sent her flying with a slash of her wand and another blast of thunder. She grasped at the doppelganger. He looked upon her as upon death, yet there was peace on his face.

  “The priest,” Umbra said. “The turncloak priest …”

  She laid her fingers on his face, expecting more memories. She felt only skin as brittle as dull paper. She pressed harder, desperate for memories. At her touch, he crumbled away to dust.

  She stared, horrified. “No,” she said. “No, I-”

  She was not sure which upset her more, that she had somehow killed a man, or that she could get no more memories from him. That thought cut her to the bone.

  A hand fell on her shoulder and she didn’t bother to fight it off. Kalen slung her over his shoulder and carried her away at a run. She stared back at the human-shaped pile of dust that had been Umbra.

  “The turncloak priest,” she murmured.

  They ran.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  26 KYTHORN (EARLY MORNING)

  Kalen crouched on the edge of a ruined building, his cloak rustling in the cold morning breeze. He wiped his brow, exhausted. In the day and night since they’d returned from Blood Island-indeed for a day and night before that-he had not slept.

  His spellscar ached, as much from lack of rest as separation from Myrin.

  Whatever had happened to Myrin in the audience chamber of the Dragon, she was silent all the way back to the Rat. The wizard had sealed herself in her chamber and would listen to no appeal to open the door. Her silence was a constant source of discouragement to Rhett, who had taken vigil at her door without being asked.

  For his part, Kalen understood. He wished he’d been that upset the first time he’d killed a man-if that’s truly what Myrin had done. Who could say for certain what had come to pass when Myrin had taken the memories from Umbra? Had she drained his life as well?

  Those were questions for another day. For now, he had to focus on the plague and trust Myrin to find her own answers. He wasn’t sure what this “turncloak priest” would have to tell him, but Umbra had seemed insistent they find him. And the Coin-Spinners were the only priests he knew of in Luskan.

  He could see the Clearlight-the old temple of Tymora-down below. To call it a “temple” seemed wrong: it no longer boasted its former statuary and someone had reinforced it considerably in the years he’d been away. The place more resembled a fortress, with high wood walls on all sides and watch fires burning throughout the night. The construction of the temple’s walls and the organization of its defenses were both solid. Just on that basis, Kalen could tell why the Coin Priest commanded
such respect in the city. Possibly the “turncloak priest” was one of them, or the Coin Priest himself. If not, perhaps they would be able to help him find the man.

  All in all, the lead seemed thin. Kalen might have ignored the whole thing were it not for Rhett. The lad had pushed Vindicator on Kalen. “Take it,” he’d said. “Use it and find this priest. Then get us the Nine Hells out of this city.”

  The blade felt entirely too comfortable in his hand. He wondered how badly its hilt burned him even now, but he feared to inspect the wound. No doubt, it would be awful.

  Focus.

  He’d been looking for a way in for hours, but every wall and watchpost was well covered. They changed guard on a random basis, as though dictated by the toss of dice-which, knowing Tymorans, was likely their method. Watchers were also stationed outside the walls, in the surrounding buildings. It was an easy matter to duck them during surveillance, but it would be much harder when the time came to break in. Even when dawn broke, security did not waver.

  All told, he could find no means of entry-none short of killing a good number of men and women with whom he had no quarrel.

  The old Kalen-Little Dren-wouldn’t have hesitated.

  A twinge in his leg drew Kalen’s attention to his bandaged thigh. Mostly, he couldn’t feel the wound-he had barely felt it even when the Shou blade had dealt it-but it had needed tending. Good thing Cellica had taught him to bind wounds. He had to remember not to rely too heavily on that side.

  He found it unsettling, to be a stranger in his own body.

  “Hail, Little Dren,” a voice said behind him.

  “That was impressive,” Kalen said. “I didn’t hear you until you gained the roof.”

  “Aye, then,” said Toytere. “You didn’t think I meant to steal upon you, no? I’d hate to have you think of me that way.”

  “You could dress better.”

  “I rather doubt it.” The halfling smirked. “How’s the leg, incidentally?”

  “How’s the wrist?”

  The halfling sneered. “Aye, you be right. I didn’t care.” The halfling stepped up to Kalen’s side and peered out over the compound. “So that’s where you’d go.”