Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  “But—what?” Shadowbane shook his head.

  “Most things I’ve learned over my long life have been lies, but I know this much: there are few things one will not do for love.” He glanced at the lanceboard. “Few indeed.”

  “You—I—” Shadowbane threw up his hands. “No more of this. I am sick unto death of the lies. I quit you—all of you. The Eye of Justice, Westgate, all of it.”

  Lilten shrugged. “Sweet water and light laughter, then,” he said in Elvish.

  Shadowbane offered only a perplexed stare. No doubt he spoke Elvish, owing to his heritage, but the words would have taken him by surprise. He did not, after all, see Lilten as an elf. His small mind proved easy prey to Lilten’s illusory magic, and so he saw exactly what he wanted to—or else what Lilten wanted.

  “Among the People,” Lilten said, “it means piss right off.”

  The young man stared at him a breath, then turned and strode to the door of his chamber.

  “He will need you before the end,” Lilten said. “Or would you abandon him?”

  Shadowbane paused at the door, just as though Lilten had driven a knife into the small of his back. He hesitated only a breath before he left and slammed the door behind him.

  Lilten’s eye fell on the lanceboard again, specifically on the black reaver piece.

  “Few things, indeed.”

  MORNING, SHIELDMEET

  MYRIN AWOKE THE FOLLOWING DAY TO ITCHING PAIN ALL up her bandaged right hand and the Mother Mystra of all headaches. She groaned when she tried to move, then lay back on the pillow and gazed up at an unfamiliar timber ceiling. Sunlight streamed in the small, half-shuttered window beside the bed.

  The sound drew the attention of Ilira, who was sitting beside Myrin, her knees drawn up to her chin. She wore the same sort of outfit she had donned to go to the Lair of the Night Masks, plus a veil over her face. She was taking no chances Myrin might touch her skin. Her gold eyes were unmistakable through the gauzy mask.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  “I am,” Myrin said. “Have you been watching over me all night? Did you sleep?”

  “Elves don’t sleep.” Despite this protest, Ilira sounded tired. Also, she cringed away when Myrin shifted closer.

  “It’s all right. I don’t plan on touching you again.” Myrin held up her bandaged hand, which was soggy and smelled rancid. “Or possibly touching anything ever.”

  She’d meant it for a jest, but Myrin could tell by the way Ilira turned away that she’d taken it as anything but. “Brace was able to keep you from succumbing. That voice of his … His magic takes an odd form, but he is as adept a healer as any bard.”

  Myrin remembered some of the gnome’s colorful insults, and particularly the way she had taken his magic and used it herself. “He told me his father said he was a natural.”

  “He is.” Ilira removed her veil, which made Myrin feel better. “He refused payment above whatever you pay him for his services. Although he accepted my offer of a favor.”

  “A favor, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Ilira smiled, which made the world seem a touch brighter.

  The tiny chamber once more drew Myrin’s attention. The room was sparsely furnished and utilitarian with little more than a cot, work desk, and standing wardrobe.

  “Where are we? Why didn’t you take me back to the manor?”

  “The gate only opens for a wakeful Darkdance, and you were not awake,” Ilira said. “We spent the night in a modest set of chambers I keep over Dawn’s—a small salon I own not too far from the manor. You can see it from here, in fact—”

  She leaned over the bed, taking great care not to touch Myrin, and pushed open the closed window shutter. Sunlight streamed in, and Myrin saw it was a beautiful Westgate day.

  Myrin’s eyes were less upon the scenic cityscape and more upon Ilira’s lithe form. She could reach out and touch her with the tiniest motion, and possibly absorb more memories that way. The blue fire inside burned to touch her again—that, and the lump in her throat.

  “Er.” Distracted, Myrin clawed at something to say, remembered something she’d read, and ran with it. “You mean Silks at Dawn: Dresses and Fashions? You’re not … the Dawn?”

  Myrin had heard of Westgate’s most fashionable stylist: one of the interminable invitations she’d received over the past days had been to a reception at Dawn’s shop. And although she’d found the concept of new dresses appealing, she’d not yet made the connection between Dawn and Ilira. Now that the elf had said it, Myrin thought the conclusion obvious.

  Ilira shook her head. “Not the original Dawn, but we were friends. She did me a great kindness once, in teaching me to sew in her shop. For the first time in a long time, I occupied my hands with something other than blades. And for that, I honor her.”

  “When was that? That she taught you to make dresses?”

  “A century and a score of years ago, give or take. The last time I lived in Westgate.”

  Myrin considered. “I’ve never seen you with a blade. You don’t seem the sort.”

  Ilira’s expression turned sly. “You’d be surprised.”

  More questions arose in Myrin: a dozen spawned about yestereve, but one in particular climbed to her lips. The elf seemed to sense the question coming, and her body tensed in preparation, bracing as though for the thrust of a knife. “Ilira. Am I—?”

  The door opened, and Rujia stood over the threshold. Her presence was so surprising that Myrin trailed off. She bore in her arms a fresh towel and bandages. “You’re awake,” she said.

  “Yes.” Myrin frowned. “Why is everyone saying that?”

  “Fresh bandages,” Ilira said. “Good.”

  The deva’s unflappable gaze fell upon the elf, and there arose an instant friction between the two women. They were communicating silently in a language Myrin could not understand. With what she had seen beneath Rujia’s mask, however … Myrin understood why Rujia, at least, did not seem comfortable around them. Perhaps Ilira sensed this as well. Why, then, had Rujia returned? Granted, she didn’t know what Myrin had seen, or know for sure that she had seen anything. Gods, it all seemed so complicated just at the moment, and Myrin’s head was beginning to ache.

  Ilira hesitated, then pressed her gloved hand to Myrin’s shoulder. “Can you eat?”

  “I—I think so. I’ll try.” Indeed, the wizard was famished.

  “I’ll bring some morningfeast. We have much to discuss, and you’ll need your strength.” Ilira left, pointedly avoiding Rujia’s eyes.

  Although Myrin dearly wanted answers—the memory she’d absorbed from Ilira loomed large in her mind—her questions could wait. For now, Rujia took up her attention.

  “You’re still here,” Myrin said.

  Rujia crossed to Myrin and sat beside the bed. She took the wizard’s hand with surprising gentleness and unwound the bandages. The wizard was momentarily concerned, but she saw the deva wore leather gloves, so there was no danger of her spellscar activating.

  Rujia bent to the task of changing the bandages. “Look if you want.”

  Myrin gazed in fascination at her hand, which was red and scarred but still looked reassuringly like a hand. Somehow, she had expected a burned, skeletal husk. Blood oozed, but it was a clean feeling—purifying.

  “Brace couldn’t have healed all of that,” Myrin said.

  Rujia pursed her lips. “The elf did not tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “There was another healer. When Brace’s words proved insufficient, the elf took you in her arms and shadowdanced away. You were gone for a long while, but when you returned, your hand was bandaged and you slept comfortably.”

  Myrin frowned. Where else would Ilira have taken her? And why keep it a secret?

  “Whoever it was, though, he did well,” she said finally. “It itches but doesn’t hurt.”

  It was true. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of Kalen’s spellscar, but Myrin felt merely a little tired. Her ha
nd looked awful, but not as bad as she had thought it would, and it only tingled faintly.

  “You should recover fully in a few tendays,” Rujia said. “Although no doubt she left her scar on you.”

  The dialogue comprised more words than Myrin had ever heard the deva utter at once, and the venom that infused the reference to Ilira gave her pause. She said nothing, however, and only watched Rujia’s face as she gently wrapped her hand.

  Myrin came to a decision then, regardless—or perhaps because of—what she had seen beneath Rujia’s guise. “Thank you,” she said when the deva was done.

  The deva looked at her oddly, as though she had not expected this. “You have helped me on several occasions. I am repaying the favor.”

  “You’re my friend.” Myrin laid her good hand on Rujia’s wrist. “That’s what friends do for one another.”

  Rujia stared at her, troubled. Then, as though without meaning to do so, she said: “She stole something.”

  “What?”

  Before Rujia spoke another word, the door opened and Brace bounded in. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed.

  “Indeed,” Myrin said with a sigh.

  Ilira, who had padded in behind the gnome, rolled her eyes.

  Brace looked positively ecstatic, and he nearly spilled Myrin’s morningfeast all over both her and Rujia. Fortunately, Myrin conjured a floating hand of magic, which caught the tray and delivered it safely to her lap. The food looked positively wonderful.

  “It pleasures me no end to see you awake, my lady,” Brace said. “After your travails of yestereve, I permitted myself a momentary worry, but I know that you are possessed of great endurance and strength of will rivaling that of the greatest heroes of our time and all times past and, like as not, all times to come. Ever.”

  “Um, thanks?” Myrin smiled at his courtly babble, particularly the words over which he occasionally stumbled. It was difficult not to laugh, so she stuffed her mouth full of food whenever he spoke.

  “And in that state, I would ask a boon of you, if you would be so inclined and able,” he said. “Although I hesitate to voice it, as I’d not wish to impose—”

  “What is it?”

  Brace’s eyes flicked toward Ilira. “Lady Nathalan consented to my request to escort her through Westgate for Shieldmeet today, but insisted that she would not leave your side,” he said. “I believe that if you were to come along, then she would be able to resolve said paradox.”

  “Really.” Slyly, Myrin glanced at Ilira, who avoided her eyes. The elf looked as though she might be blushing, if such a thing was possible.

  Considering how badly Myrin wanted to know about Kalen, about the vision, about everything, the gnome’s request seemed ridiculous. But on second thought, perhaps that was exactly what Myrin needed: a chance to let go of all her worries from the previous days. Also, if she was going to pry out any answers from Ilira, she needed to find a time when Brace wasn’t attached to her hip. She suspected that if she refused him this jaunt, he would want to stay with her and Ilira all day.

  Also, she needed a rest. Life thus far in Westgate had proved nothing if not exhausting.

  “When do we leave?” Myrin asked.

  They spent the remainder of the day walking the streets of Westgate. A windy morning had cleared away the haze that swept in with the tide, setting the stage for a clear, beautiful day. As they wandered the thoroughfares, Myrin could count the clouds in the sky on one hand. The weather reminded her that life didn’t have to be a succession of magical cataclysms and pain.

  Shieldmeet, it seemed, was a festival day held every four years the night after Midsummer. Having little memory of anything before about a year past, Myrin found her first such festival a welcome surprise. The folk of Westgate hung out banners—some old and worn, some new and shining—and everyone went around dressed in the attire of heroes. It was not like the masked ball back in Waterdeep on Greengrass night—where attendees had dressed as particular figures of myth and legend—but rather a chance for the young people of the city to create their own crusaders and wizards that they might build their own legends. In the outfits they had worn into the lair of the Night Masters, the four of them fit in perfectly.

  Strolling through the market, Myrin realized Brace had no intention of letting her have a moment alone with Ilira. The gnome proved as garrulous as the day they’d first met, with every word directed at Ilira, and he followed her without swerving. Even Myrin—hardly an expert on the permutations of male behavior—could not help but imagine a lovesick puppy. Ilira seemed indifferent to his attentions, but her assumed smile warmed until it became almost genuine.

  Brace paused at a fruit stand to amuse them with a feat of apple juggling, at which Ilira and Myrin laughed while Rujia glowered from afar. When the gnome progressed to knives, however, Ilira interceded and took them deftly from his hands. Using the techniques of observation Ilira herself had taught her, Myrin saw the way Brace had engineered the mishap to lure Ilira into touching him. They laughed together, and the fey sound soothed Myrin’s heart.

  Rujia stood aloof, her arms crossed. The deva looked a bit like an angel that sat in judgment, although her glare at Ilira was very mortal and sullen.

  “She didn’t have to come along,” Myrin said to Ilira as they admired jewelry laid out on a silk curtain. “She just wanted to come and demonstrate how much she dislikes you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain,” Ilira whispered in return. “You’ve been watching faces closely, as I suggested?”

  “Aye,” Myrin said. “And she seems to loathe you quite a bit.”

  “Indeed, but I think her interest this day falls upon you more than me. Note the way she stares, and how she averts her eyes when you look in her direction.”

  Myrin did so, and sure enough, Rujia looked away.

  “While you were asleep, she watched over you every moment I was not there,” Ilira said. “I suspect you’ve made more of an impression than you believe on our tight-lipped deva.”

  That wasn’t it, Myrin knew—not entirely. Rujia had something to hide, something she suspected Myrin had seen. Should Myrin mention it to Ilira? Did she trust the elf enough?

  Brace interrupted them by hopping up on the display table, much to the consternation of the vendor. The gnome completely ignored him and held an amber necklace up to Ilira’s throat. “Here is the perfect one, I believe,” he said. “It flattens your eyes, my lady.”

  “Flatters, perhaps.” Ilira caught his hand before he could touch her bare skin and took the necklace away. “Thank you, good gnome.” She appraised it in the mirror.

  Myrin thought for sure Ilira would reject the gift. Other than a sapphire bracelet, she’d never seen the elf wear color of any sort. But ultimately, she nodded and accepted the gnome’s offering.

  “I tell you,” Brace said to Myrin. “Were I a taller man, or she a shorter woman—”

  “You know you can’t touch her, right? She’d burn your hand right off.”

  “Aye.” He smiled blithely. “But I’m starting to think it’d be well and truly worth it.”

  The wizard had to smile at that. The gnome’s eternal optimism was contagious.

  “How’s your arm, out of curiosity?” Brace asked.

  “I’m likely to have a scar, but no matter.” The gnome reached for the bandaged limb, but Myrin flinched back before he could touch her. “Still tender.”

  “It warms my heart to have expedited your recovery.”

  “Say,” Myrin said. “You’re able to afford that necklace for Ilira, right? Surely you’re not strictly relying on the retainer’s stipend I paid you.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “And on a completely unrelated note, could I have an advance?”

  They ate a late highsunfeast at an ale garden called the Rosebud, the owner of which—a spritely woman named Dolarune—seemed to be good friends with Ilira, and offered them a free meal. Brace and Ilira jested together in Elvish the whole time, while Myrin and Rujia sat across fr
om one another, not making eye contact. Myrin could see the deva stealing glances at her as the meal progressed, and she tried hard to focus on her leek and potato pie.

  Afterward, they ended up at a place called Aurora’s Emporium, a fashionable curio shop that sold exotic treasures from all sorts of lands unfamiliar to Myrin. Fanciful items like dusty headdresses crafted of coatl feathers from a land called Maztica and coral-carved jewelry from Myth Nantar joined more practical items like sturdy attire from Damara, hooked blades from Var the Drowned, or arrows and a curved Tuigan bow from the Hordelands far to the east. Two Shou boys were looking at this last item with significant interest, and the shopkeeper had to keep shooing them away, lest they pluck up the bow for an improvised demonstration. Nearby, a man with dark skin chuckled and went back to looking at a display of Calishite smoking apparatuses.

  “Unknowable Watching Gods Forefend!” cried the shopkeeper—an elegant, elderly woman in an indigo robe. “Folk across this broad world of ours use these things in everyday life. Have some respect for cultures not your own! Ah, Lady Nathalan!” The shopkeeper swept toward Ilira and her entourage. “What a glorious day. It’s been too long.”

  “Aurora,” Ilira said. “Far too long indeed.”

  They exchanged a kiss of greeting, although they did so without touching one another. Myrin thought this Aurora was well aware of Ilira’s spellscar.

  “Aurora, let me present Lady Myrin Darkdance.”

  “I am honored.” The old woman gave the wizard a cool, appraising glance. Her face was a maze of wrinkles, leading to bright, shining eyes like jewels in the heart of the labyrinth. Myrin thought she was searching her features in minute detail.

  “Have we met, Lady Aurora?” Myrin asked, taking a risk. “You seem very familiar.”

  “I think not, good lady. I would certainly remember one so lovely.” The merchant smiled graciously, then turned to Ilira. “Would you come with me, lady? I received some fabric from Cormanthyr, and naturally I thought of you—”