Rujia had risen, pulling herself up the black altar. The deva gave Myrin a cool nod.
The danger passed, Ilira pushed herself up and crawled over to the altar.
“What are you about, lady?” Brace asked.
“We’ve shared enough peril that you should call me Ilira,” the elf said. “And if it isn’t obvious, I’m looking for something.”
With the dust blown away in the storm of power, Myrin could see the fine polish of the basalt altar. Only one piece of a candle remained, and the withered remains of a book of some kind. Myrin looked for the shard of porcelain or bone or whatever it was she’d seen earlier, but there was no sign of it.
“This is what we came for,” Ilira said.
She examined the altar about halfway from the floor. Ilira brushed away the last of the dust and pressed her fingers into a depression in the stone, revealing a secret compartment.
“How did you know that was there?” Brace asked.
“Because I left it there.” Ilira reached into its dark depths and drew out—nothing. “Damn,” she said. “I suppose ninety years is a long time for something to stay hidden.”
As she spoke, Ilira moved her hand ever so slightly. The movement was so subtle, Myrin might have imagined it. But sure enough, the elf had slipped something into her belt pouch.
The elf gave Myrin an unreadable look. Did she know the wizard had seen her?
“Well, at least we can leave this awful place,” Brace said. “Please?”
JUST BEFORE DAWN, MIDSUMMER
DID YOU GET IT?” HESSAR ASKED. “THE ARTIFACT WE DISCUSSED?”
“Stay and belt up a moment.” The Trickster stepped past him into the back room at the Bent Mermaid—their agreed-upon meeting place—and slumped gratefully into a pillowed chair. Two tankards of ale sat on the table, but she touched neither. She didn’t trust the monk nearly that well.
By Beshaba, she was tired. The Trickster had hardly had a moment to catch her breath after the events in the lair of the Night Masters. The crystal trap had shaken her so badly that she was still trembling, even into the early hours of the morning. Her limbs fit poorly, bone grinding on bone with every tiny movement.
The monk’s beady yellow eyes stared through her. “Are you well, my dear?”
The Trickster stiffened at those words. Betraying weakness to him would be a terrible idea, so she exercised her strong will to keep her face free of pain.
“It was simple enough.” She slipped a wrapped parcel from her pocket. Even removed from the whole, she could feel the magic of the object tingling in her fingers. How powerful it must have been at one time. “That girl makes a fine distraction.”
“That she does.” The monk extended his hand.
She hesitated, turning the prize between her fingers. It was a shard of dragonbone, slightly curved as though it had come from a goblet. Two little rubies gleamed in its outer surface, like drops of blood. “Why would our mutual master want this?”
“He simply means to avoid interference from the Fire Knives or the old Night King.”
“The Night King.” She shivered. “This was his, wasn’t it?”
Hessar stared at her silently.
“Did you think I wouldn’t do my research? Orbakh bore three great artifacts in the world before: a rod of great power called the Maguscepter, a magic double-bladed dagger called the Flying Fangs, and this.” She held up the piece of bone. “A cup of blood called the Argraal.”
“The Regalia of the Night King.” Hessar made a rolling gesture with his hand as though to bid her continue.
“The scepter I could understand, but what use would you have for the Argraal? Surely you don’t mean to bring back the Night Masters of old Westgate. Or do you?”
“Do what is asked of you, and all will be well.” He laid his hand on her arm. “No horrors of the night to disturb your peace.”
“What need have I of fresh horrors”—she glanced at his hand, then up at his face—“when the memory of you serves well enough?”
“Remember that we are allies.” Hessar gave her a cool smile. “You rely upon me, and I upon you—for help, for healing when dealing with the Darkdance girl proves perilous, and for more pleasurable companionship if you wish.” He inspected her slim form, looking pleased.
The Trickster felt nauseated. “I would need to be on death’s threshold and turned away by Kelemvor himself before I would even consider your bed, shade.” She gestured down to herself. “And would the god of the dead turn down a body like this? I think not.”
Hessar’s smile widened to show his gray teeth.
“I’m not afraid of you, shade. And until I am, I see no reason to give you this”—she put the shard in her pocket—“or anything else you so obviously want. I’ll give this treasure to my patron and no other. And”—she scowled—“and why the stupid smile?”
“Your patron.” He nodded over her shoulder. “He’s already here.”
The Trickster turned, only to have a white hand close around her throat and lift her into the air. Breath fled and she choked for words. She stared up into the creature’s black eyes. Not him. It couldn’t be!
“I’ll take that now.” The master took the shard of the Argraal from her pocket.
Her world was crumbling from lack of air, but her wits remained. She summoned magic and shifted out of his grasp to reappear in the far shadows of the room. She focused wild eyes on the man who had been choking the life from her. He looked like a handsome, dusky-skinned half-elf of middling height and a powerful build. His face gleamed in the moonlight like a blade. But she knew he was far more.
“Kire—Kirenkirsalai,” she said, wheezing.
Unconcerned, Kirenkirsalai turned the shard of the Argraal over in his hands, exploring its contours with his fingers. From his expression, he might have been admiring a beloved treasure he knew from old but had not seen in many years. “I hear Maerlyn destroyed Phultan entirely,” he said. “She’s growing very powerful indeed. Our time grows short.”
“Our time?” the Trickster asked. “No, I’m out of this. This wasn’t the deal. I—”
“You say that”—Kire smiled, revealing long fangs—“as though you have a choice.”
The darkness rippled behind her and her neck prickled. She started to turn, but Kirenkirsalai danced out of the shadows too fast. His cold hand seized her shoulder and bared her throat. His cold tongue caressed her neck.
“You taste of my old friend,” Kire said. “Tell me, was it Lilten you thought you were serving, little lost one? Or did you know the truth all along, and simply refused to admit it?”
Something sharp cut into her, and blood oozed forth. His rough tongue lapped at the wound, caressing and scraping both at once. She shivered, terrified and horribly aroused. She felt warm all over, as though the brush with certain death lit her body with vibrant longing.
He held her a moment, tasting her skin, and she moaned.
“Enough.” Kire hurled the Trickster against the wall, where her head struck with a dull thud. The room swayed up and down, and she collapsed, dazed.
“You’ve had word from the Black Network?” Hessar asked. “Is Manshoon—?”
“Orbakh, you mean,” Kire said. “And no, the once-and-never-again Night King is done with Westgate and has summoned his agents elsewhere. He will take no action as yet. That may change in time, when he learns of our plans, but by then—” He held up the shard of the Argraal. “With this, I can find the whole of the regalia, and then Orbakh’s interference will not matter.” He slipped the shard into his cloak. “What of Gedrin’s heir?”
“I have redirected him, as you commanded. This Kalen Dren is strong of will but weak of mind. He will prove easy enough to mislead.” The shade smiled. “Why face our enemies individually when we can send them to fight one another?”
“Indeed.”
Hessar’s yellow eyes turned to the Trickster. “What of her?”
She wanted nothing more than to melt into the wall and v
anish, but none of her many magical talents were coming to her. Her mind felt far away, and she was just a creature of instinct—paralyzed by fear and the throbbing want, radiating from her neck. Gods—a vampire.
“We’ll need her to get back in Maerlyn’s good graces. She’s too deep in this to be taken out now. Unless the young Darkdance has seen through her guise?”
The Trickster shook her head as best she could. “N-no.”
“Shame.” Kire grinned, exposing razor fangs. “She is too useful yet to drink.”
“Lucky me,” the Trickster murmured.
Hessar chuckled.
She might have summoned the will to move then, but a gloved hand fell on her shoulder. She looked up into a helmed face—a man who wore dark leathers and bore at his side a hand-and-a-half sword wreathed in gray flame. She could not see his face, but she knew those eyes.
“You,” the Trickster said. “No—what are you—? Gods, I understand now. You’re—”
One armored hand found her throat and choked off her next words.
“The bitch is nothing—the pitiful spawn of an even more pitiful race.” Kirenkirsalai waved dismissively. “Release her, Shadowba—”
“Not that name.” He looked to Kirenkirsalai. “Not yet.”
The vampire lord at first looked startled to be interrupted, then was on him in an instant, reaching for his throat. Shadowbane caught his wrist and held his talons a thumb’s breadth from his helm. He was stronger than he looked. Even Hessar’s eyes widened in surprise.
“You dare?” Kirenkirsalai asked. “Talk back to your master and stand against him?”
Shadowbane glared at him and said nothing.
Slowly, the vampire’s furious expression softened into mirth. “I am pleased that I have trained a wielder with some spirit. And that my blood has strengthened you so. Now release her.”
At length, Shadowbane dropped the Trickster, who fell coughing to her knees.
“Our prisoner attempted to escape again,” Shadowbane said, which perked the Trickster’s ear. Even attempting to hock up a lung, she still had hold of her senses. Prisoner?
“He is not your concern,” Kirenkirsalai said. “I’ve a plan to use him against the true Shadowbane. Kalen Dren is our main task. Simply raising my own wielder of Vindicator is not enough if the old wielder yet fights.”
“I will remedy that,” Shadowbane offered.
“Oh, indeed, Kalen Dren will die, but not by your hand. You have not earned that. And he cannot die yet—he must be defeated first.” Kire appeared on one knee before the Trickster, one clawed finger raising her chin so their eyes met. “You’ll survive this night, little cat’s paw. Only remember who you serve. You do remember, do you not?”
“Y-yes.” The Trickster could barely breathe. “Kirenkirsalai.”
He nodded, as though to express pride at a child’s accomplishment. “Do what I sent you to do. Breathe a single syllable of this to any of them, particularly the girl—”
He nodded to Hessar, and the monk closed his hands around the sides of the Trickster’s head and squeezed.
“Ngh!” Under the pressure, her head exploded in pain. The Trickster’s body tightened and she babbled in agony. “Stop,” she said. “Please—”
“Do well. And perhaps—” He grinned, fangs dripping blood. Her blood. “Perhaps you won’t die shivering.”
Then the three vanished into the shadows as though they had never been there.
“Father,” she murmured. “Oh, Father—what have I done?”
The sun was rising over the Sea of Fallen Stars, banishing the chill of night. The lights inside Darkdance Manor had not dimmed since he’d returned in the early hours, immediately after the fight with the false Shadowbane, and he expected they’d go on burning into the morn.
“Kalen?” Levia asked, stirring him from his reverie.
He couldn’t say exactly how long he’d been perched there on the roof of the Black Eye, watching Darkdance Manor. Nor did he know what he meant to accomplish here—Myrin had been very clear when she’d dismissed him days before. All he could say for certain was that this close to the manor house, he breathed a bit easier. His spellscar hurt less, as though proximity to Myrin eased it. Something about her inner fire drew him and calmed him.
Levia had caught up some time ago, and Kalen had felt her watching him quietly, even as he watched the manor. He knew she was trying to understand, and he wished he could explain it. Finally, she stepped to his side. “No one’s lived in that house for as long as I can remember. Is this ‘Myrin’ an actual heir of the house? Because that would be ironic.”
“Hmm.” Kalen considered her cryptic observation. Irony? “Did you bring it?”
She reached into her haversack and drew out a sheaf of much-read, dog-eared papers. “Everything I could find about this Lady Nathalan.”
“Same old Levia.” Kalen took the collection of reports, log, and sketches. “Follow your instincts, but check your facts.”
She blushed a little. “Hessar deserves some of the credit,” she said. “He has a talent for rooting out skullduggery and rumor.”
“I’m sure he has many talents of which you avail yourself.”
Levia gave him a startled look, and Kalen knew why. The ever-serious youth he had been never would have made a remark like that. “Not with him, but there have been a few particularly cold nights, yes. I assume it has been the same with you?”
“Not recently.” He scanned the pages. “Are you sure about this? Some of the accusations here are particularly … virulent. I knew she was a killer, but—”
She nodded. “Lady Nathalan—or whatever her true name is—hides her tracks well,” she said. “No doubt she’s probably guilty of three times what my sources claim. Still, it is enough for any thinking woman to grow suspicious, if not quit her company altogether.”
“Damn the gods, I hate being right.” Kalen nodded grimly. “What did you mean earlier, ‘that would be ironic’?”
“Skip to the last page,” she said.
Kalen did so, and turned to a sketch of a handsome half-elf man with shaded skin to indicate darkness. Something seemed familiar about him, but he could not immediately place it. Then he saw the name beneath the sketch portrait: Neveren Darkdance. Then he read the notes below that, and his expression turned dangerous.
“Why not go in right now?” Levia asked. “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”
Kalen considered. He wanted to respect her wishes and stay away, but he had to warn her somehow. Before, it had been merely suspicion. Now, he knew she was in immediate danger.
“I will speak with her first.”
“Do it soon.” Levia’s face was grim. “If Ilira Nathalan murdered one Darkdance, why not another?”
PART FIVE:
THE DESTROYER’S RAGE
My mother often spoke of a dance called the Destroyer’s Rage, which speaks to the savagery that lies beneath the otherwise civilized state of the orcs of Many-Arrows.
A particular war chief took her and some of her soldiers captive, but instead of torturing or executing them, he stripped them naked and forced them to take part in a violent dance of orgiastic aspect. The dance culminated in bloodletting when the blades came out.
From this, my mother was fortunate to escape with her life.
Rhyn Venkyr
Arya Venkyr, the Lion of Everlund:
A Memoir of My Mother,
Published in the Year of the Secret (1396 DR)
EVENING, MIDSUMMER
MYRIN LOOSENED HER CLOAK AS SHE WALKED DOWN THE southernmost curling lane of the Ssem Spur to the Purple Lady Festhall. The night was a hot one, and folk celebrated the festival day with verve. With every tavern full to bursting on Midsummer, revelers took to the streets.
She had the same feeling of scrutiny that had touched her the last time she’d walked Westgate’s streets by night, and then, as now, it reassured rather than upset her. Kalen was there, watching. Even if recent events had driven a
wedge between them, Myrin felt as though they would find each other again. They had before, after a year’s absence.
She trusted herself and went about her business, confident that all would be well.
The first time she’d made her way to the festhall, three nights before, she’d had Brace and his exhaustive knowledge of the city to guide her path. And while the gnome’s directions had seemed easy enough, there were three parts to the Ssem Spur and she’d spent half an hour wandering the North Spur before realizing she wanted the South. While she had a good head for details and the workings of world-reaving magic, directions remained a mystery to her.
She yawned. The weariness from being up all night and day didn’t help.
Lady Ilira had left her almost as soon as they returned to the mansion from the Lair of Night Masters. One moment, she’d been walking along at Myrin’s side, but the next, she’d vanished. This left Myrin with many questions for the elf but no way to contact her.
Brace had asserted that Ilira must have more information to gather, and wouldn’t everyone be better served, anyway, with some rest until she returned? Whereupon he had promptly flopped into a seat in the interior garden and gone right to sleep.
Rujia had more politely excused herself to attend to her swordplay school, leaving Myrin to her own devices. Like as not, that was for the best—considering what Myrin had seen in the sewers, she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Rujia. Or anyone, for that matter.
Even if Myrin could lie down, sleep wouldn’t find her. As was always the case after she had absorbed new memories, Myrin couldn’t rest, no matter how much her body wanted it. Thus she’d spent the rest of the night and all of Midsummer day combing through the family library for any and all references to the Night Masks and—specifically—the Night King. Sages disagreed on whether to call him Orlak II or Orbakh (as Ilira called him), but the consensus held that he was a vampire crime lord who’d ruled the Night Masks until the Eye of Justice had driven him out nearly ninety years ago, around the Year of the Wrathful Eye, 1391 Dalereckoning. The pertinent question was how Myrin had come to interact with him. Ilira had suggested Orbakh might have survived, but when had Myrin met him? And where? The memory implied it had been Westgate, but how was that possible?
Shadowbane: Eye of Justice Page 19
