27 KYTHORN (EARLY
MORNING)
GRAY CLOUDS BOILED UP IN THE NIGHT SKY, BLOTTING OUT Selûne and her tears. Already the clammy, sticky rain of summer had begun to fall. A storm was coming to Luskan, and it would grow far worse before it grew better.
Later that night, after plans had been made, Kalen stood in the dark and drizzle of the old Yewblood yard, a block off Aldever’s Street northeast of the Drowned Rat. From here, he could see lights flickering in the tavern, suggesting a flurry of activity to match the orders he—the new king—had given.
In the little graveyard, however—so overgrown and stained with graffiti as to elude the memory of most natives—Kalen found a certain measure of tranquility. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but here he could breathe easier. He had spent most of the night burying Toytere. No one else seemed inclined to do it and he felt he owed the halfling that much. Enemies though they might have been in the end, Kalen had once counted Toytere his friend.
Now, hours later, he stared at another grave, marked with what in happier times had been a crude nymph dancing among river stones. He remembered it as it had been, fifteen years past, before vandals defiled it. Now, time and weather had worn away the headstone’s inscription to a single word: Dren.
He could not say how he detected the beggar—perhaps a slight rustle or the feel of the air he breathed. His senses had grown sharper since he’d come to Luskan and he trusted them more and more each day. Regardless, he knew he was not alone in the graveyard.
“You’re Dren’s boy, right?”
Kalen turned. Where he sat, the beggar became just a part of the scenery, easily overlooked and even more easily ignored.
“Kalen, methink?” The beggar coughed, his yellow teeth catching the moonlight. “You’ve grown, for true, but I knows you still. All on the street knows you.”
Kalen nodded.
“Godsdamned shame, what it is,” the man said. “She were so beautiful.”
The wind rose, whipping Kalen’s tattered cloak against his legs. Still, he was silent.
“Pretty Drenny—bestest face in the city, never aged, never caught the pox. Even that crazy chit of a daughter she had—even that don’t ruin her. The right best of us.”
“Not that I remember,” Kalen said.
“Heh, aye, but—” The man pushed himself clumsily up. Kalen watched, impassive. Coughing, shuddering, the ancient beggar managed his feet, wobbled a bit, then stepped toward him. “You weren’t to birth until after,” the beggar said. “After that damned Silverymoon dandy done broke her heart. She weren’t the same after him. Thought it would all be well—a lord of Luruar come to save us poor tluiners, but he were just like all the others: blaggard, turncoat, oathbreaker.” The beggar hacked and shook his head. “Me apologies. He’s your father, I suppose.”
“Don’t apologize,” Kalen said. “I had a father—and it wasn’t him.”
The beggar grunted.
They stood there, in the silence and greasy rain, as the moment stretched. Kalen knew he had been injured and should be in pain, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.
“A’ times it’s Tymora,” said the beggar with a sigh, “a’ times it’s Beshaba.”
“What?” Kalen said, not turning.
“What I mean is,” he said, “no matter if you a bright angel or a filthy devil, fortune will sway as it do. Foul fates for good folk, fair for evil.”
“Foul fates for good,” Kalen echoed, “fair for evil.”
“Speaking of.” The beggar extended a hand.
Kalen looked into the man’s greasy palm, then up into his face. The scamp’s eyes gleamed with a golden glint in the moonlight.
Fifteen years dissolved. He saw again a shadow standing over him. His cheek exploded in pain where he’d been struck. He heard the ringing sound Vindicator had made when it struck the grime-coated cobblestones. “Never beg again,” Gedrin had said.
The beggar waited. Kalen drew a gold coin out of his sleeve and set it in his hand. It was more coin than the old codger would likely ever see at one time. It wasn’t even the tiniest bit of what Kalen owed to this city—this world.
The man gave a toothy smile. “You’re a good man, Kalen Dren.”
They stood, silent again, as the night waned.
“There you are, Saer Shadowbane.”
Rhett and Myrin stood a dozen paces away, at the edge of the graveyard. The boy, his wounds bandaged, gave him a nod. Myrin refused to meet his eye. He could sense her anguish. “Don’t mind the—” Kalen turned to point out the beggar, but the man had vanished into the night. He wondered if the beggar had really been there or if he just needed sleep.
“Preparations are under way,” Rhett said. “It looks like the Rats mean to fight a war starting tomorrow.”
“They will,” Kalen said.
“And what would you have of us?” Rhett asked. “Myrin and I can—”
“I need you to leave,” Kalen said.
“Hold just a moment—” Rhett said.
Myrin shrugged and said simply, “Very well.”
“Very well?” The young guardsman stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She crossed her arms. “Shall I leave in the morning or on the instant?”
Kalen hadn’t expected such immediate agreement, but he wouldn’t refuse it. “Either,” he said. “Can you walk out of Luskan by magic?”
“Yes,” she said. “One of Umbra’s memories contained me, walking through shadows, across vast distances. I think I can reason out the ritual.”
Her face had a harried look. She grasped the elbow of one arm behind her back and ground her toe into the floor. Kalen realized the meaning of this posture: unassuming, tentative. She had something to say, but feared it. Also, from the way she pressed her nails into her palms, she was angry.
He stepped toward her. “Myrin, I need you to go.”
She made no sign of backing down. “And I agreed. What of it?”
“ ‘What of it’?” Anger flared in the pit of Kalen’s stomach, too hot to ignore. He grabbed her arm. “Can’t you see I want to protect you? Can’t you just—for once—listen?”
“No, you listen,” Myrin said through gritted teeth. “I thought you could change. But then I saw you and Toytere—the way you just cut into him without a moment’s pause.”
“He was dying, Myrin,” Kalen said. “I gave him mercy.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Myrin said. “I know what you are—I’ve always known. I just … I just wanted you to see me for what I am. I’m not a child. I can make my own godsdamned decisions. I don’t need you making them for me.”
“But—”
“My words, your ears, Kalen!”
He shut his mouth.
Myrin pressed her face close to his. “You need me,” she said. “I thought everything I’d done in this city had proved that, but in case you need further verbal rhetoric, here it is: no one else in Luskan can do what I do. No one except for a necromancer who likes speaking through dead people and, apparently, your own insane, one-eyed sister. So you may not like it, but I’m all you’ve got.” She looked down at his hand on her wrist.
Kalen released her and flexed his numb fingers.
Myrin stepped away and crossed her arms. “You need me here, even if you’re too blind to see it,” she said. “But if you ask me to leave, then I’ll leave. Just don’t pretend that you’re doing it to protect me.”
“But I am,” he said. “I need you safe. Whatever I have to keep you from—”
Myrin did something that surprised him—something he would never have expected of her. She wound her hand back and slapped him across the face, so hard and so suddenly it sent him back a pace.
“Gods burn you, Kalen!” she said, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare say you’re keeping me from being hurt! What do you think it does to me to see you hurt!”
Stunned, Kalen tried to speak, but Myrin’s vehemence was such that he could not. He had never seen her quite so passionate, her lip trembling with words she could not say, her eyes brimming with hot, angry tears.
She visibly composed herself and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “Was there aught else?” she asked. “Or shall I storm away now?”
He didn’t like any of this, but what choice did he have? He had already committed to this course and he didn’t want Myrin to see it. He neither wanted her endangered, nor did he want her to see what would become of him.
“I need you to take something back,” Kalen said. “Something I have of yours.”
Myrin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You don’t have anything of mine,” she said.
“Just take it back,” Kalen said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Take what back?”
“This.” Kalen forced his numb fingers into a pocket inside his cloak and pulled out a slip of paper—creased, water-damaged, and showing signs of many readings. The note she’d left him. He unfolded it and showed it to her. “What you wrote here. This.”
The letter bore her neat, sharp script and was signed at the bottom. He didn’t show her that side, however, but rather the back—the postscript she’d left for him. It said she’d taken some of his sickness—given some of her life in exchange for his.
Myrin looked from the note to Kalen’s face, recognition dawning in her eyes. “That’s why you came,” she said. “What I wrote.”
“It is.”
Myrin took the note, holding it loosely between her fingers. She read it over, her eyes moving fast. What Kalen had done for her and what she had taken from him—what she’d taken from him in exchange. “Only”—she said, her voice barely a whisper—“only that?”
Kalen frowned. “What else?”
“Shame.” Myrin tore the note in two. “So much and all for nothing.”
“What?” Kalen started. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Myrin shook her head, smiling helplessly. “Perhaps. I’ve always been the smarter of us, but you’re not stupid. Only self-blinding.”
“Myrin—”
“I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll leave here for Westgate. Or Waterdeep or Shadowdale or the Great Glacier or wherever you want. And I won’t come back.” She raised her chin. “If that’s what you want.”
Kalen looked down and away. His spellscar pulled toward her, wanting to embrace her. Through sheer strength of will, he kept it in check.
“Very well.” Myrin turned and, without saying farewell, walked away.
In the silence of her wake, Rhett and Kalen stared after her until she vanished back down the street toward the Drowned Rat.
“What was that all about?” Rhett asked.
Kalen shook his head, but he knew very well. For Myrin, seeing him put Toytere out of his misery had been a stark reminder of Waterdeep and Rath—the old, vengeful Shadowbane. They’d shared something deep in the void, but he’d pushed her away. He did not blame her for being so upset. What had she meant—all for nothing?
Rhett remained, watching Kalen silently. He was waiting for an answer.
“You need to go with her,” Kalen said. “I have unfinished business here, and if I have to worry about either of you, then I cannot do what must be done. Whatever comes to pass in Luskan, she is not a part of it and neither are you.”
Neither, he thought, is this going to be the place for you. Not after tomorrow.
Rhett did not budge.
“Am I unclear?” he asked. “I need you to go with Myrin. Protect her.”
“Oh, I understand. Saer.” Rhett glared at him.
“If you’ve something to say”—Kalen crossed his arms, resting his hands near the hilts of his daggers—“then say it.”
Rhett met the challenge, his hand on Vindicator’s hilt at his belt. “Tell me this isn’t about her,” he said. “Just—tell me that.”
Kalen shook his head. “Of course this is about her.”
Rhett stiffened, then looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, Kalen.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he said. “I want you to be wary.”
“No. I mean—” Rhett met his gaze once more, fire in his eyes. “The reason you’re sending me away—it isn’t about her. Myrin doesn’t need my protection any more than she needs yours. You’re sending me away because of me.”
Kalen paused a breath—too long. “I’m not worried about you.”
“Oh?” Rhett said. “Then what happened to Vaelis?”
“He was your apprentice, right?” Rhett raised his chin. “Before all went to the Nine Hells, Valabrar Hondyl said, ‘what happened to Vaelis was not your fault.’ So.” Rhett raised his chin. “What happened to Vaelis?”
Turning back, Kalen stared at Rhett, but the boy didn’t seem about to back down. Lightning flashed, and Kalen put his hands on his dagger hilts. “Draw,” he said.
“What?” Rhett tightened his grip on Vindicator. “For true?”
“Draw.” Kalen stepped forward. “I’ll show you what happened to Vaelis.”
The boy cast a glance back toward Myrin, but she had disappeared. The two of them were alone in the yard. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Rhett said.
“Too late for that.” Kalen drew his blades and broke into a quick step.
Rhett drew Vindicator with a warning cry.
The sword flashed in the night and Kalen caught it on his two blades. He twisted one blade over Vindicator, trapping it between the hilts of his daggers. The fiery blade, secured between the two men, hung just below their eyes.
“Now look,” Kalen said. “Not at me—at the blade. Look closely.”
Rhett did. Then his eyes widened. “Gods.”
Kalen knew what had prompted this reaction—the long black crack that ran through Vindicator’s otherwise smooth steel. A flaw and a failure.
“Vaelis was my apprentice—a poor broadcryer from the streets of Waterdeep.” Kalen eased his daggers away from Vindicator, loosing his hold on the blade. “I took him to apprentice a year ago, right after Myrin left. I thought I could train him to take my place. Then I could follow her. But no—I did not train him well enough.”
“Oh.” Rhett bowed his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“I swore an oath I would take no other squire,” Kalen said. “That I would bear Vindicator until the day I fell, even if I was no longer worthy of it. The sword, however, keeps its own council.” He met Rhett’s eyes. “It is yours now.”
“Mine?” The youth looked stunned. “But—but you haven’t trained me.”
“No,” Kalen said. “Gedrin did not train me, yet I am his legacy. Now it falls to you.” He touched Rhett’s hand on Vindicator’s hilt. “Carry the sword well and honor it. Do not try to run from it, as I did. Swear it.”
“I so swear. But—” Rhett flinched back when Kalen struck him hard across the face with the butt of his dagger. “Ow! What the Nine Hells?”
“So you remember your oath,” Kalen said. “Seek out Levia in Westgate. She trained me in the ways of the Eye of Justice. She’ll train you.”
“Westgate, right,” Rhett said. “But in the story Myrin told me, Gedrin gave you the sword shortly before he—” His face went pale. “You don’t mean to survive what’s coming.”
“Someone must continue the quest, even if it is endless.” Kalen put his hand on Rhett’s shoulder. “I’ll do what I must here. If Tymora smiles, we will meet again.”
“Right.” Rhett gave him a bright, hopeful look. ““Farewell, master. Even if you would not teach me, I did learn much from you.”
Kalen smiled wanly.
Rhett gave him a smart salute and took his leave.
Myrin waited in what must have been the Drowned Rat’s stables back when horses served a purpose in Luskan other than food. Now, the area was a storage shed where the Dead Rats crammed broken pottery, blunted weapons, and scraps of leather—all sorts of useless bits the man-rodents couldn’t bring themselves to throw out.
She sat in the middle of the room, her hands gripping the tome spread open on her lap. Rhett heard her first, rather than saw her. He recognized the sniffling she made all too well. Tears gleamed on her cheeks with a blue light all their own.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not at all.” Myrin wiped her eyes and turned a page. “I’m almost ready.”
“Almost ready for what?”
“To cast this.” She indicated a spell in her book. “I saw it in one of Umbra’s memories and I wrote it down.”
“You remember how to cast it?”
“More or less.”
“What does that mean?” Rhett asked. “More or less—as in, ‘this will take a few tries’ or as in ‘O gods, we’re all going to die’?”
Myrin gave him a look that indicated she was having none of his humor just at the moment. “Sorry,” he said. Then, more seriously: “What do we do now? Do we just pretend what happened between us—that kiss—didn’t happen?”
“I don’t know,” she said without looking at him. “Do you want to do it again?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Rhett said. “You clearly want Saer Shadowbane, not—”
“What I want is for people to stop telling me what I want.” Myrin murmured an arcane phrase and dark magic flowed around her, sending a chill through the dusty air.
“What sort of spell is this?” Rhett asked.
“It opens a door to the shadow world,” Myrin said. “Distances are different there. A tenday’s journey might take only a day—walking. I estimate four days to Westgate … or five. Assuming, of course, we don’t get eaten by shadow beasts.”
Rhett shivered, as much at Myrin’s casual assessment as at the way her eyes seemed black in the light of her magic.
Lines of darkness traced themselves across the floor, arcing around Myrin to form a great black rune beneath her. Shadows rose and coalesced into the outline of a dark portal like a mirror that shimmered in the air. Through it, he saw the same stable in which they sat, but it was even shabbier. Through the open stable door, he saw a city in ruins.
“There we are,” Myrin said. “Ready?”
Rhett looked back toward the stable’s door in his own world, hesitating. “Maybe I should stay,” he said. “He needs me.”
“I know the feeling.” Myrin laid a comforting hand on his.
He sighed. “Is it always this hard?”
“With Kalen? Always.” Myrin smiled. “We’ll have another chance.”
He shivered, but perhaps that was only the cold of the shadow door.
“Right,” he said, clutching her hand tight.
They stepped through and were gone from Luskan, into another world entirely.
On the roof of the Drowned Rat, Kalen saw the last flickers of Myrin’s magic whisk her and Rhett away from the city. Part of him was pleased—at least his purpose in coming had been met. Part of him, however, felt like it was being torn away.
He felt that he was not alone and nodded. “Have you come to finish what you started?”
“No purpose.” Sithe slid out of the night to stand beside him. “Toytere is dead. You are my new master.”
“Not Shar?” Kalen asked.
“My goddess stands behind me,” Sithe said. “She does not guide my path.”
Kalen nodded. He could understand that.
“She is gone,” Sithe said. “The wizard.”
Kalen nodded. He felt Myrin’s absence like a severed limb—a tingling nothingness that he could not set aside. “You think I’m wrong in sending her away.”
“Casting aside your most powerful asset, when you need her most?” Sithe shrugged. “I think you fear to tell her the truth more than you fear to endanger her.”
“You say that as though I give a good godsdamn what you think.”
Sithe nodded, as though pleased with that answer.
“Myrin told me something, before she left.” Kalen pulled open the pack at his feet. “ ‘So much, and all for nothing.’ And somehow, you know what she meant.”
“I know something of nothing.” Sithe touched the axe lashed across her shoulder. “But I do not think you want to talk.”
“No.”
Sithe looked at him a long moment. Then, without a word, she drew one arm out of her cloak. “Hold out your arm,” she said.
Kalen did as she asked. Sithe drew off one of her vambraces only to slide it onto Kalen’s arm. At her nod, he presented the other and she girded that one in turn.
“Not armor, but the blessings of power,” she said. “You have earned them.”
Kalen nodded. He felt the wrathful might in the vambraces fueling his arms.
“The storm will begin with first light,” Kalen said. “Whatever has brought this plague—this Fury—to Luskan, it thrives on chaos. It delights in seeing us divided, stealing around nervously, never knowing where and when it might strike.”
“You mean to change this,” Sithe said. It was not a question.
“Where there is order, chaos will starve.”
“Why?” Sithe asked. “Why not go with her? You have no love for this city.” Kalen stretched out his hand and laid his fingers on the object on top of the pack.
“Because I am not a man who can stand by and do nothing,” he said. “Because darkness and shadow must be pursued down every path, no matter how dark.”
“No matter how dark,” Sithe said.
Kalen nodded.
“You said earlier,” he whispered, “that you wanted to meet me.”
“Shadowbane.” Sithe nodded, a gesture almost imperceptible in the darkness.
He raised his prize from the pack—a tarnished helm with slits for eyes.
“Here I stand.”
He donned his helm.