Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  She pulled him into a deep kiss.

  At midnight, the Trickster found the damned monk lounging on a rumpled bed in a seedy dive in Tidetown. He was naked, which was not a total loss, but there desire ended and distaste began. His fatuous smile made him particularly repulsive.

  “Truly? Her? Ugh. Just when I thought you couldn’t make yourself less appealing.”

  “Ah, my little Trickster—jealous?” He indicated the bed beside him with a languorous wave. “It’s still quite warm if you care to join me.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, shade—that your bed would ever be warm.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” His yellow eyes grew luminous. “And how has your seduction gone, or did you pick the wrong form for the Darkdance girl? I’ll never understand why you picked that. It’s just so … so blank.” He looked her over. “I don’t understand the white and purple. And that name—Rujia? So uninteresting.”

  “You have a small mind, monk, but this does not surprise me,” the Trickster said. “Seduction is hardly a matter of sweat and desire, but giving the mark what he or she wants.”

  “That’s a surprisingly mature attitude, from what I’ve heard of you.”

  “We all grow up, don’t we?”

  “So you’re saying what Myrin wants is an ageless, serene, perfect creature of mystery?” Hessar stretched across the bed he had shared not a song’s length before. “Ah yes, but I’ve answered my own question. I’ve just described the Shadowfox, have I not? Your worst enemy.”

  The Trickster glared. “It doesn’t matter. Myrin sees through my disguise. She knows me for who—if not what—I am.”

  “Shame,” Hessar said. “The master will not like this development. And yet you come to me.” He rose, making no effort to draw the blankets around himself. “You knew I would find out on my own, so you came here to purchase my allegiance and silence, no? With that … thing?” He appraised her body with distaste.

  “Don’t misunderstand.” The Trickster averted her eyes as the monk touched her chin with his fingers. “Myrin will keep my secret. I am not compromised. I can go back.”

  “Oh? Why would she not go immediately to her shadowy mistress and tell all?”

  “She won’t.” The Trickster could not give him a better answer.

  “Imagine that. You have genuine feelings for the Darkdance lass, don’t you?”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  “Perhaps you’d rather switch targets? The Shadowfox has lost none of her tricks, for a century of rare usage. I’m sure you could craft a disguise she’d find … appealing.”

  Revulsion filled the Trickster and she wrenched herself away from the monk. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t ever. If you knew what that woman has done to me—what she took from me—”

  The monk spread his hands. “A jest, merely. Don’t bleed your feminine sentimentally all over the room.” He turned away and donned a robe hanging from a peg on the wall. “Your misfortune is fortunately timed, and soon it will not matter if you can serve as a snake in Lady Darkdance’s bedclothes. The game is nearly ended.”

  “Our … patron is moving? At last?”

  “Indeed. You are almost free of this—if you behave yourself.”

  The Trickster gritted her teeth. She hated and feared Kirenkirsalai, but she truly dreaded the day when her father discovered her misstep. The sooner she could escape the vampire, the better. “I know that.”

  “Do you?” Hessar fixed her with his yellow eyes. “I want to ensure that your head—not your heart—is in this. You’ll have your revenge, but on his terms, not yours. Acceptable?”

  “Yes.”

  The Trickster nodded, although she felt far less resolved than she put on. She could not forget what Myrin had said to her. The woman had called her a friend, and now she was about to betray her trust. When in her life had trust ever mattered?

  “There will be blood,” she said. “Enough for both of us.”

  In the early hours of the morning, Myrin awoke from her troubled sleep to find her rented room at the Blue Banner grown wintry cold. She thought at first that she must have left the window open, but she saw the dark shape of Ilira framed in the moonlight. She sat on the windowsill, her knees pulled up to her chin.

  “You came back,” Myrin said. “I … I thought that might be our farewell.”

  Ilira drew herself down from the window and perched on the edge of the bed. After a heartbeat, she drew out a cloth-wrapped item from an inner pocket and offered it to Myrin. The wizard looked at her questioningly, but Ilira merely nodded.

  Myrin unwrapped the parcel, revealing a silver ring that picked up the glint of moonlight. The image upon it was scratched out, but when she touched the ring with her bare flesh, a sigil appeared of a bird crafted of black flames. The phoenix sigil tickled at her mind until she realized where she had seen it—engraved in the cover of the Darkdance family histories, the most recent of which lay open on her bedside table.

  This was her family’s signet ring—the mark of Darkdance.

  “I thought as much,” Ilira murmured.

  “What does this mean?” Myrin asked.

  “It means I am sorry,” Ilira said. “My words earlier were untrue and ill-advised.”

  “Accepted.” Myrin laid the ring on the blankets, but the sigil did not disappear. Instead, it started to waver, as though it would fade over time.

  “Sorry, also”—Ilira gave her a sidelong glance—“for kissing your man.”

  That clutched at Myrin’s attention. “What? Kalen’s not—” She trailed off when Ilira gave her a dubious look, and heat flared in her cheeks. “Aye, mayhap he is. Although he … I don’t know what’s going through his head. He thinks you’re a danger to me.”

  Ilira’s eyes gleamed brightly. “Do you think I am?”

  “No.” Myrin shook her head. “But I need to know. Are these my parents? Is this me?”

  She showed Ilira the book again, still open to that page. Tears dotted the parchment where she had cried herself to sleep reading it again and again, searching for clues in the few words. Those same tears welled anew in her eyes.

  “Just tell me it’s true, or that it’s a lie—a sick jest at my expense,” she said. “Please. You must know. You must know who I am.”

  Ilira gazed at her a breath, then nodded. Slowly, she traced her finger through the book’s shadow, scooping up a blob of the inky darkness. Then she put her finger to the book and traced a new word beneath the portrait: “Myrin.”

  It was not the word itself that made Myrin go weak but rather that the delicate script matched the other entries perfectly.

  “It—it was you?” Myrin asked. “You penned this? All of this?” She marveled at the care that had gone into the portraits. “You didn’t kill them.”

  “I’ve killed many people, but I would never hurt them,” Ilira said. “Your parents were like family to me. I am sorry I could not save them. It is a pain I have borne for a century.”

  “My parents,” Myrin said. “So it’s true.”

  Ilira nodded, her eyes bright. “You are Neveren and Shalis’s daughter, without a doubt. You have Nev’s wits and courage and Shalis’s beauty and strength.”

  Myrin’s eyes welled with tears.

  “I am sorry to have kept the truth from you so long. I just—I wanted to be sure, before I told you. Now I am.” Ilira took Myrin’s hand. “And you are not a simulacrum, a wraith, or anything like that. You are exactly the woman you seem to be: Maerlyn Darkdance.”

  Myrin had a sudden memory of a year ago, when she had first met Cellica, Kalen’s adopted sister. The halfling had asked her name and she, barely remembering, had started “Mare, mere—” to which Cellica had said, “Myrin?” She had nodded.

  “The ring proves it,” Ilira said. “Neveren had that ring specially enchanted, so that only an heir of his blood could awaken the sigil. It was precious to him, so I hid it where no thief would steal it—among the treasures of thieves. Among the Night Masks.�
�

  “My father was a Night Mask?”

  “As was I, but that is a tale for another day.”

  “But—” Myrin said. “But how is that possible? That was over a century ago. How—?”

  “How could you have seen a hundred winters and not look a day over twenty?” Ilira shrugged. “Magic can do many things—your spellscar, a portal, something altogether different.”

  “My spellscar?” Myrin asked. “According to your records, I would have been seven and twenty when the Spellplague fell. Am I frozen at that age?”

  “Perhaps. A dear friend of mine was trapped in the body of a beautiful young woman who never aged, but was condemned never to sing again. And she had the most beautiful voice.” Ilira shook her head. “Your spellscar is powerful, but I do not think it is so mighty.”

  “It doesn’t seem so,” Myrin said. “My spellscar is only for stealing magic—”

  “As you took mine?” Ilira asked, her words a touch bitter.

  Myrin looked down at her hands. “I am sorry. By the time I realized it had happened, it was too late.”

  “I do not begrudge you—indeed, I thank you.”

  “Because of Kalen?” Myrin sniffled and wiped her nose. “He does kiss well, doesn’t he?”

  “Quite well, but that isn’t what I meant,” she said. “Even if you did it accidentally, you were still trying to aid me, and that is a gesture of love.”

  Myrin was overwhelmed and speechless. Tears filled her eyes and she pushed herself into Ilira’s embrace. She had so many questions, but sleep was closing in on her—the exhaustion of the last few days finally taking its toll.

  “I will tell you more when there is time, but for now, you must rest.” Ilira pulled away and pressed her gloved hand to Myrin’s cheek. “You’ll be seeing Saer Shadow again sooner than you think, and you’ll need your strength.”

  “What do you mean?” Myrin wiped at her eyes. “Do you fear another attack?”

  “Tomorrow, we go on the offensive.” She smiled slyly. “Tomorrow, we steal him back.”

  LONGSUN, 2 ELEASIS

  MYRIN STOOD GRASPING HER ELBOW BEHIND HER BACK A block away from Castle Thalavar. She caught herself and chided herself for the nervous gesture. This was no time to be tentative.

  This late in the day—before dusk, as the sun dipped toward twilight—long shadows ran down Silverpiece Way, giving Ilira plenty of places to shadowdance without being seen. Myrin could faintly detect her, the same way she had the previous night. Fascinating.

  Myrin turned as Ilira danced back into the alley. “Well?”

  The elf looked surprised. She must have expected she would take Myrin by surprise. “As I thought, there’s little enough activity during the day. The Night Masks were a nocturnal order, and it’s good to see traditions continue, even over a century.”

  “The Eye of Justice, born of the Night Masks,” Myrin said. “It seems impossible.”

  “I knew Gedrin and what he crafted, but little of that remains in the order today,” Ilira said. “There are rumors that some of them hold close to the old ways indeed.”

  “What do you mean?” Myrin’s eyes widened. “Vampires?”

  “So the rumors say. Not in the daylight hours, though.” Ilira turned away and drummed her fingers on her lips in thought. “I’ve been considering how best to get us in. I can move unseen on my own, but you are less stealthy. There is a servant’s entrance in the back, a trapdoor on the roof, and there’s always the sewers …”

  Myrin drew out her orb. “What about the front door?”

  She murmured an invisibility spell and faded from view.

  Ilira looked at first surprised, then smiled slyly. “Try to keep up, then.”

  Kalen awoke late in the day, awareness blooming before feeling, as ever.

  He’d had to sleep a great deal recently to give his body time to recover, always under Levia’s scrutiny. Under her aegis, he felt secure enough to sleep a night through for the first time in three years. It was ironic, as his performance before the Vigilant Seers yestereve had no doubt earned him dozens of enemies with knives, but his teacher still made him feel safe.

  This time, however, he awoke to a rhythmic hum in his head, almost like a chant he could not quite hear. It was the song of the mark he’d placed on Lady Ilira. She was here, in the castle.

  She’d blocked the connection before, but now he could feel the mark calling to him. To Kalen, this signaled a trap, of course, but she had come to his house, where she would be disadvantaged. Perhaps she meant only to talk. Either way, he would go prepared.

  Levia had fallen asleep at the table, her head nestled on her papers. Perhaps this was for the best. His mentor absolutely hated the elf, and having her there would complicate the issue. No doubt she would want to arrest or attack Ilira rather than … what? Kalen wasn’t sure what he would say or do, but he needed to see the elf—and not at the end of his blade.

  He kept thinking about that soul-rending kiss, but he pushed the memory away.

  He waited, teeth grinding, as sensation crept back into his disused body, then he rose quietly and did a quick self-assessment. His arm seemed fine after Levia’s healing magic had set and repaired the break. His other superficial wounds had faded to scars.

  Kalen dressed quietly, but even so, Levia stirred. “Time for you to sleep, I think,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve had your bed long enough.”

  “Not long enough,” she murmured with a smile. “Always welcome … to it.”

  “I know.”

  He guided her into the bed he had vacated, where she fell back into slumber. Had she been any less than mostly asleep, her suspicious nature might have awakened her fully.

  When he was sure she had gone to sleep, Kalen padded to the door. Sithe’s axe leaned against the wall, and he took that. He didn’t mean to fight, but going unprepared was foolish.

  Out in the corridor, he followed the song of Helm’s mark. In the common hall where an early evenfeast was being served, he passed two Lord Haran loyalists, but gave them no more than an indifferent glance. He felt their eyes following him and heard them whispering, but Kalen paid little attention. If they meant to attack him, then so be it—he had his axe.

  He followed the sensation down the lord’s corridor, toward the chambers of Lord Uthias Darkwell. Once, when House Thalavar had thrived in old Westgate, these rooms had been the domain of Lady Thistle Thalavar and her household, including her young son … Gedrin, who would dream of a god’s death as a boy and go on to challenge the Night King as a man.

  Kalen paused a moment, drawn back to the childhood of a man he had known for only a matter of breaths and yet held in higher esteem than any other. Gedrin Shadowbane had inspired his entire life with those few short words they had shared, that gloomy night on the streets of Luskan nearly twenty years ago. Kalen had a hard time imagining the rough old man as a carefree boy, running and playing in these very chambers. He himself had never done that, and he wondered what the Shadowbane who came after him would be like. The night Kalen had bequeathed Vindicator, he’d taken something of a measure of his would-be heir, and something he’d seen had impressed him. Was this how Gedrin had felt, seeing him as a boy?

  He heard a click as the latch closed on the door to Uthias’s office. He moved in that direction and paused at the door. Why would Ilira be here, in a conference with Uthias?

  Sounding an alarm might have been prudent, but he decided against it. He wanted to do this alone. Kalen eased the door open, then stepped through. He was glad he had brought the axe.

  Uthias’s office was much changed from that night three years ago. Once, neat stacks of parchments had sat on the desk next to balancing scales and an inkpot—everything in its proper place. Now, papers piled high on every scrap of furniture and a dozen platters with scraps of food perched precariously on the desk. The place was a mess, and completely unlike the meticulous Lord Seer of the Eye of Justice.

  And sitting among the
devastation—resting back on her hands, one leg drawn up on the desk while the other dangled—was Ilira Nathalan, dressed all in black leather. She wore no weapon, but she didn’t seem the least bit surprised or uneasy to see him.

  Kalen closed the door behind him. “Well?”

  She blinked. “Yes?”

  “You’re the guest,” he said. “I thought you’d want to speak first.”

  “Very well. You look excellent, Saer Shadow.”

  “And you’re not dead.”

  “You noticed.” She stretched like a lounging cat.

  He peered around the room but could see no one else—no sign of a murdered Uthias, for instance. Good. He might or might not be able to defeat Ilira alone, but he might be able to delay her until the Lord Seer returned from his business of this night. A persistent magic radiance chased most of the shadows from Uthias’s office. He kept it that way purposefully, saying the light bathed the righteous. To Kalen, it meant fewer escape routes for his enemy.

  “Are you here to a purpose?” he asked. “Or do you freely pillage others’ private chambers at whim?”

  “It was like this when I arrived, actually. Your Lord Seer is something of a rat, and this is his nest. I can only imagine how he keeps his bedchamber.” Ilira pushed herself off the desk and sauntered toward him. She held her hands out, palms up, to show him she had no weapon. He raised the axe anyway to ward her off.

  “Stay back,” he said. “I remember those hands—and that kiss of yours.”

  Dutifully, Ilira stopped outside the reach of his axe. “You kiss very well.”

  “You noticed.”

  She glanced sidelong, but Kalen could see no one there. Perhaps Brace lurked, hidden by fey magic, waiting for him to drop his guard.

  “What of Lady Darkdance?” he said. “Have you used her up and disposed of her yet?”

  “You should trust that woman to make her own choices.”