Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  The words resonated in Kalen’s bones. Of course he trusted Myrin. They had fought and bled together so much over the past few tendays that he well knew her value and ability. That wasn’t what this was about. Ilira endangered her. She was working some angle that would get Myrin hurt in the end—or worse. He just wanted Myrin safe.

  As though she could read his thoughts and knew when to interrupt them, Ilira spoke: “Is there anything I might say to convince you of my noble intentions?”

  It finally dawned on Kalen, then, that this went deeper. Even if he had concrete proof that Ilira meant only good for Myrin, he would still oppose her. Because—

  “No,” he said. “There is nothing you can say.”

  If, however, Myrin honestly told him that the elf was what she wanted—and not him …

  “Will you kill me, then?” Ilira stepped forward into the reach of Kalen’s axe. “You could have killed me on that rooftop, but you did not. Will you end it now, to protect her? Myrin?”

  That was all he wanted—to protect Myrin. From herself, if necessary.

  “I do not wish to,” Kalen said. “But if that is what it takes, then so be it. She is my friend, and I will not let you stand between us.”

  Ilira stood right before him now, their faces close indeed. She looked into his eyes for a breath or two, then glanced over her shoulder. “Satisfied?”

  Kalen was confused, but then Myrin shimmered into view behind Ilira’s shoulder. Kalen realized what he’d not seen before on Ilira’s wrist: her star-sapphire pendant decorated Myrin’s neck instead. That was how she had blocked Kalen’s mark, and that was why Kalen could be in the same room as Myrin and not feel her soothing presence. The amulet prevented it.

  “Oh, Kalen.” Myrin’s lips quivered. “I never wanted to be your friend, but I was content to do so, if that was my only choice. Now … now I don’t even want to be that.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Listen—”

  “Sorry, but it’s too late.” Myrin looked away. “You cannot respect my choices, no matter how hard you try. Whatever there might have been between us, it’s too late.”

  “Myrin—” He stepped forward, but Ilira blocked his path. Angry heat filled his belly, though he knew the elf was right. Not that he would forgive her. “Is this truly what you want?”

  Myrin turned back to him, seemingly having reached a decision. “We can part amiably, at least.” She put out her hand.

  He considered this for a long time. “Myrin, I—”

  She shook her head. “Farewell.”

  His spellscar did nothing to numb the pain of that word.

  He took her hand, and arcane runes glowed on her skin. The room grew hazy. His legs felt as if they were slipping through the floor. He thought he might faint. “Myrin?”

  Then he slipped into darkness.

  One of my own making, he thought at the last.

  As Kalen collapsed onto the Calishite rug, Myrin half caught him and buckled under his dead weight. “Help me, would you?” she said. “He’s heavy.”

  “Myrin!” Ilira said, shock slipping her usual serenity.

  “Don’t give me that look,” she said. “Your plan was just to hit him over the head.”

  They deposited the sleeping Kalen among the pillows. Ilira stared at Myrin.

  “What?” Myrin asked.

  “What you said to him—are you sure he isn’t your man?”

  “There’s a great deal between Kalen and me, but we don’t have the time to deal with it all now. He knows that.” Myrin shrugged. “Or, at least, he’ll figure it out when he’s slept on it.”

  “Very well, then.” Ilira sighed. “Although now we have a hulk of unconscious manflesh that weighs as much as the two of us combined to carry out of here.”

  Myrin drew a flat circle with her orb, sculpting a disk of golden force in the air. It hovered next to Kalen, then waited as she shoved him over onto it. The disk sagged a bit but remained floating, and Kalen continued to snore.

  “Wizards,” Ilira said.

  “Thieves!” Myrin smiled. “You do seem to know your way around this place. Broken into Castle Thalavar before?”

  “Once recently,” she said. “To see what I could steal to offer the Fire Knives for their non-interference. I found Vindicator. Not that I stole it just then, mind, but I recognized it from Gedrin’s hand a long time ago, and knew it was what I needed.”

  “You—” Myrin frowned. Vindicator hadn’t been in the castle until recently. How could Ilira have seen it? “You’re sure it was the same sword?”

  “Hand-and-a-half sword, burns with gray fire? Hard to mistake that.”

  Myrin was puzzled. “When was this?”

  “A tenday past, or so,” she said. “Two days before I ran into you in the market, actually.”

  “Two days before?” That was even more troubling. That day in the market had been their first in Westgate, so they must have still been on the road from Luskan two days before. How could Ilira have seen Vindicator in Castle Thalavar before they even arrived, much less went to the castle? Until that last day on the road, when Kalen insisted on using his amulet, the sword had been stored safe in her deep-pocketed belt pouch. Hadn’t it? And where was it now? Kalen should have been carrying it. Unless—

  Footsteps in the outer hallway drew their attention, and the two women looked to one another. Ilira could hide, certainly, but Myrin had no second invisibility spell, nor another sleep spell. Myrin pressed herself back against the wall and drew out her orb.

  Ilira made no move to hide. Instead, she winced and furrowed her brow.

  “What is it?” Myrin asked.

  “I have an ache,” Ilira said, touching her head. “A very familiar one.”

  The door opened to admit two individuals: Levia and a middle-aged man. He had a fine build as of a lifelong warrior, and his hair had gone mostly to gray. But despite his age, his eyes were surprisingly lively. He was the High Seer Uthias Darkwell, based on Ilira’s description.

  Levia was rubbing sleep from her eyes, as though she had just woken up. “He went this way, and—” Her words cut off as she saw them waiting.

  Myrin expected Ilira to spring upon them, but instead she stood staring at Uthias. “You.”

  What was she doing? She had betrayed any hope of an ambush.

  Uthias looked up at her with nothing like surprise on his face. For all Myrin could tell, he’d expected them. Levia, on the other hand, cried out in alarm and reached for her mace.

  “Kalen!” Levia pointed to where the man floated, unconscious, then pointed at Ilira. “What have you done, you gold-eyed whore?”

  Ilira bristled.

  “Stand down, Sister Levia.” Uthias laid a hand on her shoulder. “I assure you, these beauteous ladies mean me no harm. They are my guests.”

  “What?” Myrin and Levia said at once. Myrin drew her orb as Levia unbuckled her mace, and they glared at one another.

  “You may go.” Uthias stepped in front of Levia, and his hand dropped to the starburst hilt of a rapier at his belt. “Or do you think me incapable?”

  “But Lord—”

  “I said you may go, so—” His voice took on a tone of magical command. “Go.”

  Levia staggered away from him, and her expression took on a dreamy confusion. She was struggling against his magic. “But Kalen—” She reached vaguely toward him.

  “All will be well.” Uthias’s words took on a singsong quality. “I suggest you return to your chambers and rest. Forget all about this.”

  The magic caught her entirely this time, sublimating her will to his. Levia dropped her mace on the floor, turned, and strode from the room.

  Uthias sighed. “I should have specified that she take the mace with her. Alas.”

  Myrin took the opportunity to look over at Ilira, who was regarding Uthias with one of those unreadable expressions she often wore. “What is this? Do you know Uthias?”

  “Not Uthias, no.” Ilira shook her head. “But I know hi
m.”

  “What?” The wizard squinted hard at Uthias, and found that scrutiny of his features gave her a faint headache. He seemed at once Uthias and also another, very different man. He had two different images in the same shape. It reminded her of a man she had met in Luskan, who had worn illusions to hide his true face.

  Myrin had the same instinct she knew Kalen would have had: that this was a trap.

  She raised her orb, a slaying spell on her lips, but Uthias extended his hand and the orb wrenched itself from Myrin’s fingers and flew to him. He caught it, and lightning shot from the orb to strike his arms and body. Magic fell around him, boiled away by the lightning, and the image of Uthias shattered, replaced by the man himself. He was an elf with gold skin and eyes, impossibly handsome and ageless. The only blemishes upon his otherwise perfect face were two tiny creases in his cheek, as if from a long-ago wound. He wore fashionable attire in the loud colors of a dandy, from his boots to his gloves to his fantastic hat.

  And Myrin knew him. They’d met in Luskan, when the elf had led Kalen and Myrin into the sewers to confront a demon. And he’d delivered a bloody bag of sword shards. “Lilten?”

  “I see my little bauble has served you well.” The elf lobbed the orb into the air and caught it like an apple. “Apologies that I took it back for a moment, but your power has grown since last we met, and I didn’t fancy tasting it again.”

  He tossed the orb back to Myrin, and she caught it with both hands against her chest. She looked at him, utterly confused. “Why are you here?”

  “I know why he’s here,” Ilira said. “Haven’t you given up yet, Uncle Nemesis?”

  “Your servant, my lady.” The elf gave them a dazzling smile and bowed.

  “He’s your uncle?” Myrin asked.

  “Nay, nay. ’Tis a nickname, and not a kind one, considering,” Lilten said. “All I have done and all I will ever do, I do for you, my love.”

  “Somehow,” Ilira said. “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t understand,” Myrin said. “You were waiting … for her?”

  “Among other things,” he said. “Borrowing the office of the Lord Seer has permitted me a certain freedom to watch events unfold. But now you have come, and that means our game will draw to a close soon. Hence, I’ve shown you my true face. My love, would you present me?”

  “Bastard.” Ilira gritted her teeth and turned to Myrin. “I’d like you to meet Lilianviaten Dlardrageth the Changecloak, last prince of the Daemonfey, High Priest of Beshaba, Masked Lord of Waterdeep … and my husband.”

  Even though she was fully dressed and had clearly been going somewhere she couldn’t remember, Levia felt exhausted and wanted nothing so much as her own bed in her own chambers. She wandered there in a daze, the halls of Castle Thalavar blurring around her. Dimly, she remembered something about Kalen, Lady Darkdance, and that gold-eyed elf, but it seemed like a dream—distant and poorly formed in her mind.

  She came fully awake only when she entered her chamber and found Hessar waiting for her. “Levia, you—” He trailed off, and his eyes flashed yellow. “Shadowfox did this.”

  “What?” Levia focused on Hessar’s yellow eyes. She had just seen another set of those same eyes … another shade … Ilira. “The elf is here. I have to warn—”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Hessar was faster. He lunged across and forced her back against the wall. “I am much stronger. Struggling will only harm you.”

  “What are you doing?” Levia fought against his viselike grasp anyway. “Release me!”

  Hessar ignored Levia’s protests. “Why would she be here? Unless—she cannot mean to ally herself with the Lost Prince, can she? This changes all.”

  The Lost Prince? What was he talking about? Levia remembered going to Lord Uthias’s chamber, and—“Lord Uthias!” She was starting to remember. “I should have known you for a traitor, shade. If you’re here to kill me, you’d best do it quickly, ’ere I get free—”

  “Foolish woman,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. In fact, we’re on the same side.”

  “Which side?” she asked.

  “Shadowbane’s, of course.” His lips quirked. “Now, what to do with you …?”

  Levia sublimated her fear, letting cool reason take over. Hessar had taken her by surprise, and she could not muster an effective defense. She did not even have her mace, for all the good it would have done her. She was going to die unless she gave him a reason to spare her. She sucked in a sharp breath. Then, slowly, she relaxed, showing no sign of aggression.

  The shade seemed pleasantly surprised. “There’s a good wench.”

  Levia suppressed her aggravation at the term. “You are in command, Hessar. Do with me as you wish. But I can help you—you know I can.”

  The monk considered. “I see the time to keep you in shadow is at an end. I shall say this to begin: you have been a good mistress, Levia Shadewalker, but you are not my master.”

  She had figured that out herself. “And neither is Uthias. Do you serve Netheril? Shar?”

  “Neither, but the truth is not for you to know yet,” Hessar replied. “All you need to know is that I have been tasked with watching Kalen Dren, while my other half has his lady companion firmly in hand. Lady Darkdance requires a deft touch to which I am … unsuited.”

  Levia realized she had been an unwitting pawn in the hands of a greater player, and that infuriated her. Outwardly, however, she kept calm.

  “I suppose I am to aid you,” she said, “and that I have no choice.”

  “Just so—not if you want your man to live. My master is not a forgiving one.”

  Levia shivered. Kalen was in an unknown danger, and until she knew the truth of it, she had no choice but to yield. “What must I do?”

  Hessar considered. “If you are under his compulsion, then you must have seen something you should not have seen, and that means Lady Nathalan is here. Rouse yourself, and then we will go to your Lord Uthias’s chambers.” He smiled. “With the whole of the Eye, of course.”

  He released her and vanished out of the chamber to run down the corridor.

  Levia followed slowly, her mind racing. What did she really know about Hessar? She’d thought him a shade on the run, a defector from the empire of Netheril, and an excellent operator. Had he been playing her all the time they had known each other?

  Levia saw only part of the puzzle, and knew only a little of Hessar’s game. The shade had made it clear he was not her ally, but he had also overplayed his hand. There was a conspiracy, and Hessar was part of it. Who were his true masters, and what did they want?

  If she wanted to figure this out, she would have to play along.

  “To arms!” she cried through the hall. “Our master is attacked!”

  Myrin was stunned. “Husband?”

  “It was many years ago,” Lilten said. “I’m amazed my lady even recalls.”

  “Oh, you’re not an easy one to forget,” Ilira said. “Lilten the Changecloak—once high priest of Erevan Ilesere, until he betrayed the Fey Trickster and threw in his lot with Beshaba, Maid of Misfortune. Traitor, heretic, murderer—”

  “I am hardly the only one who has betrayed the Fey Trickster.” Lilten laid his hand on the small of her back, where Myrin had seen a hint of a tattoo. “One might say that my betrayal is the lesser offense.”

  Ilira jerked away as though he had shocked her. “I ought to kill you right now.”

  “I see you’ve lost none of your affection for me, despite our century-long estrangement.”

  “Not long enough.” Ilira crossed her arms.

  “Unseasonably cold in Westgate this day, don’t you think? I hope you’ve brought more clothes than that.” Lilten brushed past her. “Why, Lady Darkdance, you look so lovely today.”

  Like the finest courtier, he took her hand and bowed low to kiss it. His lips stopped short of touching her skin, and she could feel heat tingle between them. His gold eyes were vibrant.

  Myrin wondered wha
t would have happened had he touched her bare skin.

  Then he nodded to Kalen, who lay unmoving on the couch. “And I see you’re attending to the business that lies betwixt yourself and young Master Dren in ruthless fashion,” he said. “My compliments on your technique.”

  “He’s only sleeping,” Myrin said.

  “Well. No one is perfect, I suppose.” He smiled at Myrin, making her knees feel weak.

  “Isn’t she a few centuries too young for you, fey’ri?” Ilira asked.

  “Oh, you wound me, to think of me in such inferior terms.” Lilten smiled, and Myrin could see the faint points of his teeth. “My dear wife, you grow sharp in your middle age. You know I would take none other into my heart than you, were I to live ten thousand more years.”

  “That vow is something we do not have in common, Uncle Nemesis.” Ilira gestured to the lanceboard on his desk. “I shouldn’t be surprised this is all a game to you, but I would have hoped you’d have changed.”

  “Would someone please explain what’s going on?” Myrin gestured to Kalen, who stirred. “Quickly, before my spell wears off?”

  “What is there to be said? He’s a liar and a schemer. He’s been watching us for gods-know how long, playing some game of his. Enough, I say.” Ilira rejoined Myrin. “Let’s go.”

  “Fleeing so soon, my love?” Lilten grinned. “And would you leave me so unsatisfied?”

  Ilira stood firm. “In a heartbeat.”

  “Always so hot,” he said. “Ah, how I have missed it.”

  Myrin heard a clamor of boots out in the corridor, and her stomach lurched. She’d known their entrance could only go unnoticed for so long. She spoke words of magic, and the bar fell across the door just before a great force from the corridor slammed into it. Men grunted and pushed against Myrin’s magical seal. “We should go,” she said. “Ilira?”

  The elves stood locked in a duel of wills, fighting a battle in the depths of their impenetrable gold eyes. Lilten’s burned with an inner fire, while black shadows flickered across Ilira’s. History and the force of animosity hung between them like a raging firestorm.

  Over the past few days, Myrin had learned to look to Ilira’s shadow to know her friend’s heart. Now it cowered on the floor, seeking to put as much distance between itself and Lilten as possible. Myrin knew they were doomed. “Ilira, just leave him be.”