Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  The elf followed her into the back. Brace sought to follow them, but they both cut him off with a look. He pretended to be interested in a set of satyr’s pipes on a display next to him.

  “The gnome is a fool.” Rujia stood near Myrin, testing the weight of swords of various shapes and sizes. The one she held just at the moment was shaped like a crescent—more like a sickle than a sword.

  Myrin stepped closer to her. “Because he’s a moth and she’s a flame—literally?”

  “He is a fool,” the deva said, “because she means to betray us.”

  “But—Ilira?” Myrin furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Consider,” Rujia said. “She stopped you from learning from the crystal in the sewer.”

  “She stopped it from killing us,” Myrin corrected. “And Ilira led us there in the first place. We wouldn’t even have found the crystal without her.”

  “Because she wanted something in the lair,” Rujia said. “She stole something from the altar. Did you know that?”

  Myrin remembered Rujia had said something to that effect, but she’d quite forgotten it in the bustle of Shieldmeet. “What did she take?”

  Rujia shrugged. “Ask her,” she said. “I imagine she’ll lie to you.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Myrin said.

  “Is it?” Rujia asked. “She claimed to know your family, but has she given you clear answers to all your questions? Has she sat you down and revealed all?”

  “No, but—” Myrin trailed off.

  She and Ilira had spent days together, but the elf always seemed to disappear before they got a chance to talk, or else fate intervened and prevented the truth telling. Just that morn, Myrin had wanted to ask about her vision from the previous night, but Ilira had taken them out before she got a chance. Brace seemed to have suggested that outing, but perhaps Ilira had manipulated him in that direction. Or had Myrin suggested it herself? It was all muddied up in her head.

  The Calishite man by the hookahs gave Myrin a friendly smile, but she looked away.

  Gods, maybe Kalen was right, and Ilira had indeed put some spell on her. She wanted to ask Ilira questions but kept failing to do so. If only she didn’t feel so strange around her—awkward and yet comfortable at the same time, for all the sense that made.

  Myrin was growing tired: her day out in Westgate, with all the Shieldmeet festivities, seemed to have worn her down. Her hand ached.

  “Make no mistake.” Rujia stood very close to her now. “Her actions serve only one person: herself. You are simply her dupe.”

  “But—” Myrin shook her head. “Gods, why do you hate her so much?”

  Real emotion crossed Rujia’s face for the first time since Myrin had known her, as though the question had broken through a shield she’d crafted for just that purpose.

  “It’s time for you to back off,” Myrin said. “I’ve had enough of this from Kalen. I don’t need you doing it as well. She’s hardly the only one with secrets.”

  Rujia suddenly looked dangerously suspicious. “What secrets?”

  Myrin instantly felt uneasy. In her exasperation, she’d let slip something she wasn’t ready to say. She couldn’t confront Rujia here, where so many innocents could be caught in a possible duel. Myrin swallowed her impulse to throw the truth in the deva’s face.

  “I wouldn’t tell my secrets to someone who obviously hated me, either,” Myrin said. “The enemy of my friend is my enemy. If you mean to hurt her, you’ll have to deal with me.”

  Rujia tensed. “You don’t understand. I—”

  “Ah, the beauty returns!” Brace said. “All is well in the world of mortals once more.”

  Ilira and Aurora had reappeared at the rear of the shop, speaking quietly. Aurora smiled at the gnome’s ostentatious greeting, while Ilira looked serenely bemused.

  Myrin felt Rujia’s hand on her hip, and she stiffened. The deva pressed herself against Myrin’s side, much as she had in the lair of the Night Masters.

  “Easy.” The deva slipped something heavy into Myrin’s hand, then leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Open it when you’re alone. You’ll see she’s not your friend.”

  Then she stepped away.

  Cold fear curled around the base of Myrin’s spine in the wake of Rujia’s words. She’d brushed it off when Kalen had said something similar to her the previous night, but hearing Rujia say it as well, she started to see evidence. Ilira had indeed brushed off her questions. She’d vanished immediately after she’d absorbed the memories from the crystal ball. Myrin had seen her take something from the sewers, although she didn’t know what. And after the night before, when Myrin had absorbed a memory from Ilira that suggested a new, true name—Maerlyn—events had transpired so that Myrin couldn’t ask any questions. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  If Ilira could tell Myrin so much about her past, why hadn’t she? Surely there’d been time. Accident seemed like purpose. To what end was she stringing Myrin along?

  Perhaps Rujia and Kalen were right, and Ilira was using her as part of some nefarious scheme. But she felt such an immediate connection to Ilira, one that ran deeper than friendship.

  What was she supposed to do?

  Confused, the wizard felt around at the object Rujia had given her: a thin, rectangular parcel wrapped in fabric. Ilira was coming, and Myrin had a sudden fear that she would see. She slipped the object into her deep-pocket belt pouch.

  “Are you well?” Ilira stepped close to her. “You seem troubled.”

  “No,” Myrin said, shivering. With what Rujia had told her, suddenly Ilira’s attention to Myrin’s well-being seemed vaguely sinister. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

  The elf smiled thinly. “Back to the manor, then.”

  “So I tell Kalen, ‘it was very diplomatic,’ ” Myrin said that evening, as they passed through the gates of Darkdance Manor. “ ‘Not at all violent. Promise!’ ”

  Brace laughed loudly while Rujia stared at her, perplexed. Ilira just gave one of her enigmatic smiles.

  It was not as easy a moment as it seemed. Myrin’s anxiety had been growing since her near confrontation with Rujia, and Ilira had no doubt picked up on it. It was all so complicated: the shadowy elf who eluded her questions, the deva who wasn’t what she seemed, Myrin herself with suspicions she couldn’t voice. Brace was the only one of them who made sense, and he was obviously a few arrows short of a full quiver.

  So preoccupied was Myrin that when she noticed the gate didn’t respond to her the way it normally did—in fact, the magic seemed entirely absent—she completely ignored her misgivings. The gate’s magic was old and ill-used—perhaps it had simply faded. There were boot prints in the mud, but those she could explain away as well. Kalen practicing, no doubt.

  When they entered the manor proper, the hall was dark, which didn’t surprise Myrin. Elevar was blind, after all, and had neglected to light the lamps for over a century. He’d not greeted them at the door as usual, but this, too, she brushed off. The manor was a big place for one dwarf, and Myrin made a mental note to hire additional servants at the first opportunity. Oh, and fix the magic on the gate. It was almost as though someone had dispelled it …

  Myrin stopped short, however, when she saw what awaited them in the open-air garden in the center of the hall. Elevar hung limply on his knees before a woman who held him up by the collar. Her other hand held a flanged mace, which pulsed with magic. The woman had a plain face with angular, half-elf features, forgettable but for a heartless expression that chilled Myrin to the tips of her fingers. This woman was a cold killer and would tolerate no nonsense.

  “Myrin Darkdance,” she said. “I am Levia Shadewalker of the Eye of Justice. We—”

  “Out of my house!” A word of power fell from Myrin’s lips, and a bolt manifested in her hand as a dart of golden light with streaks of blue flame. She hurled the magic at the woman, but a shadowy shield appeared between them and absorbed it in a storm of decaying light.

  A ma
n appeared near her—the same dark-skinned Calishite she had glimpsed in Aurora’s shop. From the way he traced his hand through the air, Myrin knew he had cast the shielding spell. He offered her a condescending smile.

  “My associate, Hessar,” Levia continued. “And as I was saying, we’re not here for you, but rather for her.” She pointed her mace at Ilira. “Lady Ilira Nathalan, also called the Fox-at-Twilight, I hereby bind you in accordance with Westgate’s law for theft, assault, conspiracy, kidnapping, and the murders of many goodly folk, including Lorien Dawnbringer, Neveren Darkdance, and Shalis Ptolexis.”

  Shock gripped Myrin, as every bit of anxiety about the few last days returned. Ilira had killed not only Neveren but Shalis as well? Myrin thought of the memory of yestereve—in which Shalis shared her last words with Ilira—but she had not seen what came to pass just before. Had Ilira been the one who left Shalis in that state? Her entire interpretation of the memory shook.

  Ilira seemed unfazed by Levia’s accusations. “You had best leave, child, ’ere threats have to be made, or violence ensues. Stand down.”

  “My apologies,” Levia said. “Did you think we came alone?”

  At her gesture, half a dozen crossbows cocked, and Myrin saw men step from hiding all around them. They wore dark brigandine and tabards with the same symbol Levia wore: a gauntlet with scales and an eye in its palm. Brace put his hand to the hilt of his rapier. Rujia stared hard at Levia’s Calishite wizard, her sword hand at her belt.

  “There is no need to involve yourself, Lady Darkdance,” Levia said. “Although if you help us subdue her, you will have earned the thanks of the Eye of Justice.”

  Myrin looked to Ilira, who stood straightened to her full height, her fists at her sides. She wore a serene expression as always, but her shadow roiled furiously on the ground.

  “I—” Myrin said. “I can’t do that.”

  Then a last familiar voice shattered her focus, making her heart thunder in her throat.

  “It’s well, Myrin.” Kalen stepped through the doors behind them, Sithe’s axe clutched in his hands. He’d not yet conjured his armor of faith, but gray flames stirred around him.

  Ilira reacted to his presence with cold focus, seeming to forget the other knights. Brace looked increasingly nervous. Rujia was, oddly enough, smiling and shaking her head, as though she had expected all this somehow.

  “What are you doing here?” Myrin asked Kalen, hardly able to speak.

  “I came to talk sense into you if I can, or”—Kalen nodded to Ilira—“or fight her for you, if I must.”

  “Fight her?” Myrin was baffled. “Why would you—what am I, some prize that you have to fight over?”

  “Please,” Kalen said. “You know I’m right. Just listen to me—”

  “Yes.” Myrin shut her eyes. “I know.” Slowly, she drew her orb out of her belt pouch. “I know exactly what to do.”

  Then she opened her eyes and blasted Kalen back with a wave of thunder. He flew five paces through the air before he hit the floor.

  The battle began.

  TWILIGHT, SHIELDMEET

  AS HE PICKED HIMSELF UP OFF THE FLOOR, KALEN CONSIDERED the responses he had expected to his appearance: shock, disbelief, or possibly even acceptance. In all truth, when he saw Myrin send a bolt of magic at Levia, he should have known the wizard would attack, but it still caught him by surprise. Not even in Luskan had he seen Myrin so angry.

  Also, while he had felt the sting of her magic before, there was a big difference between accidental strikes and a purposeful hit. His bones still shook from the blow.

  Crossbows clicked and bolts zipped toward the group. Myrin knocked one aside with her shield spell, which shifted by itself to deflect another. They skipped like stones off her magic. Brace batted a quarrel out of the air, while Rujia grunted as one sank into her leg. Ilira simply swayed aside, her gaze locked firmly on Kalen and his axe. A quarrel skipped across where Kalen had been standing, fired slightly wide of Myrin.

  “Hold your fire, by Torm!” Levia cried. “You’ll hit—”

  Kalen didn’t hear the rest, because at that moment Myrin declaimed words of power, brought her orb around, and traced a curtain of fire between them and the Eye of Justice enforcers. Two more quarrels sizzled and popped like kernels of corn in the roaring crimson flames. The group was protected, at least for the moment—at least, from everyone but Kalen, who yet stood on their side. What was Myrin’s game?

  Taking care to avoid attracting attention, Kalen got his feet under him and stood in a crouch. He closed his fingers around the haft of Sithe’s axe. Helm’s armor formed around him.

  “Do we fight or retreat?” the deva asked Myrin.

  “We fight,” Myrin said. “This is my home, and Elevar is my responsibility.”

  Ilira nodded in approval.

  Brace’s eyes lit up. “I hate to be the one to observe the ridiculously obvious, but retreat was never an option.”

  “Ilira.” Kalen rose up like a vengeful specter, axe in hand. Smoke rose from his armor of faith. “Stand down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  They all turned to look at him, Brace nervous, Myrin aggrieved, Rujia implacable, and Ilira cold as frozen steel. “No fear,” the elf said. “You won’t.”

  Myrin’s flames cast a dangerous gleam across Kalen’s axe and sent shadows dancing across Ilira’s silvery face. On the floor, Ilira’s shadow writhed, preparing for an attack.

  Oh, but Kalen would attack. It was bad enough that this woman refused to face justice for her crimes—that she’d stolen away from the Watch of Waterdeep without so much as answering their questions. It was worse that she operated so brazenly in Westgate, laughing behind her anonymous gold eyes at concepts like law and order. But now … now she had turned Myrin—a soul of light and his best friend—against him. What lies must Ilira have told her? What fell magic must she have brought to bear upon his dear friend’s mind?

  He would make it stop.

  The weight of Kalen’s enmity fell upon Ilira: this upstart creature that had eluded justice too long. That ended here, in this hall, tonight. And so he swore to each of the three gods he served that she would fall this night, or he would die in the attempt.

  The elf glared back, her hands curled into fists. The fiery barrier shivered as though under attack and began to wane.

  “They’re dispelling the wall,” Myrin said. “Be ready—”

  Kalen saw Ilira’s attention slip at Myrin’s voice and he charged, his axe trailing flame.

  “Lady!” Brace split his magic rapier into two identical swords and tossed one to Ilira even as Kalen leaped at her.

  She caught the rapier just in time to deflect Kalen’s overhead chop so that it screeched along the blade and slid wide. Riding his momentum, he leaped and kicked her in the center of the chest. Driven by his divine magic, she soared back toward the wall of fire, and he leaped after her without the slightest hesitation. The magic died away just as Kalen felt the heat of the flames, and the two skipped through. Kalen could feel the stunned silence from Levia and the others, but he had eyes only for his sworn foe.

  Just before they landed, Ilira twisted around Kalen’s leg, knocking him off balance. When they slammed into the floor, Kalen tumbled three paces before he staggered to his feet. Ilira landed on her backside as well but rolled to her feet, her rapier in her outstretched hand. They faced one another, in the dead center of the hall, their weapons ready.

  Ten paces away, Levia stepped toward them, but Kalen held up his hand to ward her off. Ilira was his foe alone.

  “You will fall this night,” Kalen assured her. “I will put you down.”

  Darkness pooled in Ilira’s gold eyes, turning them jet black. “You will try,” she said.

  Myrin could not worry about Ilira. Instead, as soon as the wall fell, Myrin charged the nearest pair of crossbowmen, who were busy staring at Kalen’s incredible leap. In their dagger fighting lessons, Kalen had always told her to attack from surprise, and it paid off
. Only one saw her, and only with enough time to widen his eyes and try to aim his weapon. She thrust her orb between the crossbowmen, and a wave of thunder knocked both men sprawling.

  Pain seared into her back, partly absorbed by her gown’s magic, and she fell to one knee. Levia stalked toward her, her mace raised. “Last chance to stand down, Lady Darkdance.”

  Myrin responded with another blast of thunder that sent Levia sailing away.

  “Excellent.” Hessar appeared before her. “I feared you might surrender and spoil this.”

  His fist—blazing with flames—swept up at Myrin’s chest, and she managed to absorb the brunt of it with her wizard’s shield. The force sent her a pace into the air, but even as she flew up, she brought the crystal orb between them to send flame sweeping toward Hessar. He caught the magic with a disc of blackness. She hung in the air as the magics strove against one another: her fires burned hot, but his shield was black nothingness, cold as the void. Her fire wavered.

  Myrin gritted her teeth and saw in her mind the threads of the magic she had cast. She spoke the incantation again, slightly differently, and poured her heart and soul into the power. In response, the flames warped, becoming spellplague blue. Finally, the spells extinguished each other. Myrin’s fire burned itself out and Hessar’s shadowy shield flickered away into the air.

  Myrin floated back to the floor, panting. She grinned at him. “Well?”

  “Impressive,” the monk said.

  Then Hessar whirled, brought around his foot, which was crackling with lightning, and slammed it into her chest. Pain lit in her as Myrin flew back through the air and skidded to the floor. She coughed blood, shook her head, and found herself staring at a pair of familiar crackling boots. Somehow, Hessar had stepped more than five paces in a heartbeat.

  “Not impressive enough, however.”

  Hessar reached down, caught her by the collar, and smashed her head against the floor. The world became a ringing nightmare of blurry forms. His eyes flashed yellow, like those of a wolf—or like Ilira’s eyes.

  Again, it was Myrin’s feyweave gown that saved her, as it had with Phultan in the sewers. It blazed with light, and the man screeched and fell back, clutching at his face.