Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  Ilira broke the silence. “Apologies for my escort. Vharan can be very protective.”

  “I know the sort,” Myrin said, thinking of Kalen. He would want her to be observant, so Myrin applied the full weight of her perception upon the elf, both to anticipate an attack and because she was just fascinating.

  “You have the advantage of me, Lady Darkdance. You know my given name, but I do not know yours.” A smile quirked at the edge of her lips, and Myrin thought knowing less than someone was not a common experience for Ilira to have.

  “Oh, it’s Myrin,” she said. “Myrin Darkdance.”

  “Myrin,” Ilira said. “Not—?”

  She trailed off and held her wine glass to her lips, inhaling the aroma while scrutinizing every bit of Myrin. The wizard found her piercing gaze a touch unnerving, but also exciting.

  Finally, Ilira nodded. “You’re wearing me.”

  “What?” That, Myrin had not expected.

  “The gown helps me remember you.” Ilira gestured to Myrin’s red dress. “That’s one of mine, no? You purchased it a year ago at the Menagerie in Waterdeep? I see it’s held up well.”

  “Oh.” Myrin felt at the hem. The dress had served her well for a year, both for utility and for remembrance. “I like it. Rather a lot.”

  “How do you like the secret pocket in the bodice? I thought that quite clever.”

  Myrin nodded. “What’s it for?”

  “Love notes, trinkets, the like—small blades. I call it the murder pocket.” Ilira narrowed her eyes. “Wasn’t that the dress you were wearing in the market yesterday?”

  Myrin flushed. “I don’t have anything else, actually—any more dresses, I mean.”

  Ilira nodded in easy acceptance, as though she’d known that already. “I’ll have to make you another,” she said. “One that’s in better condition and more suited to a wizard.”

  “My thanks,” Myrin said. “I can pay. I mean, I have the coin—”

  Ilira waved such a concern away. “I heard someone had moved back into the manor house,” she said. “I am … an old friend of the Darkdance family, from long ago. I didn’t know Nev had any living descendents, but you certainly have his look.”

  “Nev?” Myrin asked blankly.

  “Neveren Darkdance. Apparently, your great—great?—grandfather.” Myrin could tell Ilira was guessing at her age—something Myrin herself did not know. “He was my teacher once, until he died in the Year of Shadows.” She set down her goblet, only barely tasted. “That was a score and a century ago. Can it have been so long?”

  Myrin had read her share of history, and knew the Year of Shadows: 1358 by Dalereckoning, the year the gods had taken mortal form and waged war upon the land. She marveled that Lady Ilira, who looked no older than a human woman of thirty winters or so, could have lived so long. A tiny flicker of jealousy stirred in her breast.

  “You seemed to recognize Elevar, and he, you,” she said. “You’ve met before?”

  “Yes.” Ilira smiled. “He was seneschal when I was here. He seemed old even then.”

  Myrin marveled. She’d known Elevar was old, but could he be that old?

  “I made my home in Westgate under Neveren’s tutelage, and I had the honor to stay here in the manor with him and his wife, Shalis of Mulhorand, the land that is now High Imaskar. They were like a father and mother to me, when I had none.” She gestured to Myrin. “I suppose that’s where you get your dark skin and fey features: Nev was a half-elf, Shalis a Mulan human. Their blood runs true, it seems.”

  “They’re my ancestors?” Myrin asked.

  “You sound surprised. You knew none of this?”

  “I—” Myrin hesitated to tell Ilira of her blank memory. In her head, she heard Kalen telling her to be cautious. She knew nothing of this elf but what she claimed. “I think you said a hundred and twenty years.”

  If Ilira noticed her pause, she made no sign. “You are a perceptive woman.”

  “My thanks,” Myrin said, a bit surprised. Kalen would never praise her like that.

  “I can tell you seek to develop your perception,” Ilira said. “Someone has taught you how to read the bodies of foes, to predict their next moves. Is this not true?”

  “Yes.” She particularly liked reading Kalen’s body during their lessons.

  “I can teach you more,” she said. “Would you like to read a woman’s intentions on her face—hear her thoughts between her words? Determine if she lies or speaks the truth?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sometimes.” Ilira raised one hand and put the tip of her forefinger and thumb together. “It helps to have a focus. It sharpens the mind, even as it allows one’s perception to expand.”

  “Fascinating,” Myrin said. “A hundred twenty years. Has no one lived here that long?”

  “And you persist.” Ilira smiled. “Even when I try to distract you.”

  “Indeed.” Myrin burned with curiosity. It didn’t seem possible. After all, in the first memory she had absorbed from Elevar, he had been holding her as a babe, and that couldn’t have been more than thirty years ago, at the very most.

  “I couldn’t say for certain,” Ilira said at length. “I was away from Westgate for many years, and only returned last spring, after—” Her words trailed off and her face grew dark.

  “After Waterdeep.” Myrin remembered the foul murder of Ilira’s companion, Lady Dawnbringer, at the hands of Rath, the dwarf assassin. “I’m so sorry.”

  Ilira’s gold eyes searched her face. “My thanks.”

  Myrin remembered the broadsheets that had appeared the following day, accusing Ilira of the murder and of a dark, violent history. She knew Ilira was innocent of her friend’s blood, but as to the rest … Regardless, dangerous as she might be, Ilira might prove a font of the information Myrin so desperately craved. Or would they all be lies? Was this a trick?

  The uncertainty must have showed on Myrin’s face, because Ilira nodded smoothly. “You’re wondering if it’s true,” she said, her voice as serene as ever. “If I really knew your family, or I was ever here, or any of this.”

  “A bit,” Myrin said. “I’m sorry, lady, it’s just—”

  Ilira rose fluidly, and—heedless of Myrin’s surprise—crossed to the center of the marble platform, not a pace from where Myrin sat. She held out her gloved hand, which Myrin took. The elf drew her to her feet. Then she spoke, her voice clear and crisp: “Zhavaht.”

  At first, Myrin thought the word gibberish, but it awakened a long dormant memory in her mind, of a language much like Elvish but far darker. This language was made for twisting tunnels and deep, shadowy holes in the earth. It was, she realized, an old dialect spoken by the drow in their lightless cities. And, moreover, she knew what it meant: “rise.”

  The marble platform gave a shuddering sigh and pulled loose from the captivity of the floor and floated into the air, obeying Ilira’s command. Now Myrin understood the purpose of the great opening in the ceiling, through which the platform slowly rose. Shouts of folk in the streets rose and horses whinnied as Westgate spread out around them in all its fantastic squalor. Finally, Ilira spoke another word, and the platform stopped.

  “They took to calling these earthmotes after the Spellplague,” she said. “But Neveren had this stone enchanted even before the Time of Troubles, to serve as a romantic escape for himself and whomever he brought up here.” She smiled in reminiscence. “Of course, he married Shalis soon after, so I suppose that was decided.”

  “Amazing.” Myrin marveled at the viewing platform. It rested ten paces above the manor house, and she really did feel cut away from the rest of the world on an island with only Ilira. No doubt Kalen would have gone mad over the risk she was taking with the unknown elf, but Myrin found it exhilarating.

  “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.” The elf looked away, grasping one wrist in front of her. “But somehow, I feel I can trust you. As though—ah, gods, I cannot explain it.”

  Myrin
reached for Ilira’s face. She couldn’t say exactly why she did it—perhaps it was to seek more memories, or perhaps she wanted something else. There was a heat between them that she didn’t quite understand, and Ilira seemed to feel it, too. Something deep inside her burned with curiosity, yearning to touch the woman’s skin and—

  A commotion below drew their attention to the front door, startling Ilira from her stupor. She saw Myrin’s hand coming toward her face and caught her wrist deftly. Her gold eyes were unreadable, but the expression on her face was one of horror. The shadows at her feet writhed.

  Instantly, Myrin felt her cheeks redden. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s well.” Ilira released Myrin’s hand. “It’s not you, it’s me.” She stepped away, mindful of the marble’s edge. “Dhoraht,” she said, and the platform sank back toward the floor.

  “Those words,” Myrin said. “They are High Drow, are they not?”

  Ilira gave Myrin a bemused look. “I told you Neveren was half an elf, but I neglected to mention what sort of elf, no?”

  Myrin couldn’t quite decide what to think of that. If this Lord Neveren had been a half-drow, did that mean she had the blood of dark elves as well? The very possibility enthralled her.

  There was something odd about Lady Ilira, and as the platform settled, Myrin finally determined what it was. Myrin could not tell for certain, but as Ilira moved, her shadow did not quite match her. The shape was wrong, and it seemed to shift restlessly even when she stood still.

  They heard shouts outside, and Elevar was headed in that direction when the doors flew open and a heavily armored body—Ilira’s guard, Vharan—tumbled through, blazing with gray light. The ancient seneschal hadn’t quite reached the threshold, so he was out of harm’s way, but a piece of wood from the broken latch dashed him senseless to the ground.

  “Elevar!” Myrin cried, and she stumbled off the platform to run to the dwarf.

  Kalen and Brace crossed the threshold, their faces set in the grim lines of battle. Brace had summoned two rapiers from one, but Myrin knew Vindicator—which Kalen held blazing in both hands—had been responsible for sending Vharan through the door and (albeit inadvertently) stunning Elevar. Kalen pointed the burning sword at Ilira, who stepped in front of Myrin. Was the gesture a protective one?

  “Stand away from her,” Kalen said to Ilira.

  Although Ilira herself stood unmoving, Myrin could see her shadow seeming to rage upon the floor stones. This was no dainty elf shadow, but rather that of a hulking man bristling with spikes, shoulders wide as an axe handle.

  “Saer Shadow.” Gone was the serene charm Ilira had used with Myrin. Now, her voice was full of deadly steel. “I hadn’t thought our reunion would come so soon.”

  Kalen stared at Ilira, offering her a silent challenge that she did not hesitate to return. He drew his sword back, ready to lunge toward the elf. Myrin watched the gray flame of his faith flicker around him. He went from simple soft leather clothes to a full suit of armor in a heartbeat.

  “Interesting,” Ilira observed. Myrin saw her eyes had turned utterly black, no longer gold. “I really would like to make you a new dress, my lady. Another time.”

  She put her gloved hand on Myrin’s back, and the wizard stiffened at her touch. Ilira leaned forward, and for a heartbeat, Myrin thought with mingled fear and desire that their lips would meet. Then the elf stepped into her—through her—and vanished into her shadow.

  As though she’d stepped through a door between the two, Ilira appeared out of the shadow of Vharan, who was rising as though to aid her. She wrapped an arm around him and—with a last look at Myrin—they both vanished into the shadows of the nearby wall.

  This time, Ilira did not reappear.

  Kalen stood stunned in the wake of the elf’s shadow magic. When he’d seen the dragonborn in the yard, he’d assumed the worst, and then, to find Myrin in the thrall of a suspected murderess and known fugitive …

  Now they stared at one another, wordless in the great hall. Myrin wore a dreamy sort of expression, as though the encounter had shaken her firm possession of her wits. This only made Kalen burn hotter inside. What had Lady Nathalan done to her?

  “Well, lay me to sleep in Hanali’s bountiful bosom!” Brace said, his voice startlingly loud. “What the Nine Hells was that?” He raised an eyebrow. “And is she coming back?”

  “Shadowdancer,” Kalen said. “And let’s hope not.”

  Seemingly shaken from her daze, Myrin gave Kalen a dark look. She kneeled beside Elevar, who was coughing his way back to his senses. “Are you hurt?”

  The dwarf waved away her attentions and gave her an expression that clearly showed his disinclination to make a fuss. He climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and limped off toward the kitchen. Invariably, he was off to fetch them tea.

  “Myrin.” Kalen crossed to her side. “Are you—?”

  “Of course I’m all right!” Myrin shouted, taking Kalen by surprise. “What were you doing, chasing her away? She knows my family! She—she has memories, Kalen! My memories!”

  Brace looked completely lost. “Memories?”

  “To replace those I’ve lost!” Her face was furious. “And she was telling me all about myself until Kalen, here, barged in like a big dumb oaf and chased her away!”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but that woman is wanted for slitting her best friend’s throat.”

  He remembered a horrible scene a year before in Waterdeep—Ilira standing over a crumpled priestess who lay in a pool of her own blood. What Ilira had said afterward—the way the shadows themselves had flared in response to her will … That still haunted him.

  “She murdered her best friend,” Kalen continued, “who was a noblewoman, just like—”

  He couldn’t say it, but in his mind, he saw the murder again, but this time, it was Myrin who lay crumpled and bloodless on the floor.

  “Oh, Cyric’s Piss!” Myrin said. “You know she didn’t do it. Rath did!”

  “I don’t know that.” Kalen shook his head. “I didn’t see what happened. But I do know that innocent women don’t run from justice.”

  “And innocent men do?” she snapped. “What about the Guard chasing you, eh?”

  That cut him deeply. “I’m not innocent,” he said. “But you don’t understand—”

  “No, I don’t understand,” Myrin said. “You deny me the chance to talk to an accused criminal, but you don’t mind me cavorting with a cold-blooded murderer when it’s you.”

  Kalen reeled. They fought often, it was true, but it had never been like Myrin to argue so viciously. Was this anxiety about Rhett? Something more?

  Something Ilira had done to her?

  He looked across toward the kitchen, where Elevar stood with his sightless eyes discreetly averted. No doubt he’d heard arguments before and ignored them with a capable servant’s long-suffering patience, but Kalen thought he looked uneasy even so.

  “Go,” Myrin said, turning her back on him. “Go do something useful. Be Shadowbane—or better yet, find the actual Shadowbane. Find Rhett, godsdamn it!”

  Finally, Kalen could hold his temper no more, and he said something he instantly regretted. Even Brace winced when Kalen spoke those three words. He wasn’t sure he quite believed them, but he’d had enough of her fantasy. If he’d been less angry, he wouldn’t have been as harsh, but there it was. “Rhett’s dead, Myrin.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes flaring with barely contained magic. “You don’t know that,” she said. “You didn’t see it, and right now, I trust what I know more than what you haven’t seen.”

  “Lady,” Brace said, trying to moderate. “Perhaps it’s best that we—”

  “You speak as though you know anything about anything,” Kalen said to Myrin. “As though you remember anything—” That, he realized, was also a mistake, but he had spoken without thinking.

  Myrin gave him a horrified glare. He saw her thoughts clearly on her face, and
was himself startled that he could be so angry as to throw her amnesia in her face.

  “Get out,” she said.

  Kalen wanted to apologize, but anger choked off the words. “Fine,” he said.

  “Good.” Myrin turned, stomped up the stairs, and disappeared through a set of doors that led to the library. The doors slammed shut behind her.

  Elevar gave Kalen and Brace a long, empty look, then shook his head. He carried a tray of steaming tea up the stairs in pursuit of his mistress.

  “Harsh,” Brace observed.

  “Fair.” Kalen stretched his aching legs. He’d come back to tell Myrin about losing to the imposter at the Timeless Blade, but she didn’t feel like talking to him, and he felt the same.

  He looked down at Vindicator, summoned into his hand, and felt faintly ill. He stepped into the garden and set it on the marble platform. Somehow, even though he’d reconstructed the broken blade with his holy power, it still had the long flaw in the steel. Would he ever forget a single one of his mistakes?

  “I’m going now. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He paused at the threshold. “And if you volunteer to ‘comfort’ Myrin while I’m away, I may have to forget that we’re friends.”

  “Not to worry.” Brace’s eyes were fixed upon the shadow into which Lady Ilira had fled. Kalen thought he’d quite forgotten about lovely Lady Darkdance.

  With a sigh, Kalen pushed back out into the dilapidated garden. Storm clouds were brewing over Westgate, plunging the city into a premature darkness, even at highsun.

  “Fitting,” he murmured as he moved off into the streets.

  It began to rain.

  Alone in her chambers, Myrin leaned against the door and waited for her rapid breathing to subside. She hardly knew what had happened. She’d shouted at Kalen, but why had she been so angry? And once she’d provoked him, what he’d said to her … Gods! She pressed one hand to her breast to feel her racing heart.