7 FLAMERULE (NIGHT)

THE CONSTANT DRONE OF THE SWARM DEMON WAS GIVING Myrin the great goddess of all headaches. The pains of her beating from Eden had faded—thanks to the spell she’d borrowed from the Coin Priest and to Lilten’s magic—but the ceaseless hum seeped into every pore. Once, it seemed to grow louder and her heart thundered a dozen times before she recognized it as the rattle of her own teeth.

Gods. If they didn’t find either death or escape soon, she would go mad.

The passages, lit only by Kalen’s flickering torch, were treacherous. More than once, they slipped on mounds of things better left unidentified. They saw claw marks on the stone and gnawed bits of wood and rubble, but not a single living creature. Luskan’s sewers had become crypts, devoid of life. Perhaps Scour had subsumed it all—or devoured it.

Lilten led them through a crumbling archway, down a tunnel deeper into the earth. It grew oppressively warm as they descended and Myrin’s thoughts grew heady in the thick air. It wasn’t just the orb, which pulsed warmly in her belt pouch as she walked. Dull heat spread through her body, making her anxious and fidgety. She found her eye drawn to her companions. She watched how they moved in the torchlit darkness—the curves of their bodies—and a hunger descended upon her: the hunger to take and possess.

“Be wary, hero.” Lilten touched Kalen on the shoulder with his lithe, gloved hand. “The magic of dark and alluring rituals lingers about this place.”

Myrin—who had found herself picturing Kalen and Lilten in quite the same pose with many fewer clothes—knew exactly what he meant. When Kalen turned to her, she looked down and away, less ashamed of what she might see in his eyes than afraid. Instead, she saw Sithe walking beside her and found herself rather appreciating the genasi’s body. Those black lips looked rather tempting of a sudden.

“Focus,” Myrin told herself. “Remember the imminent death.”

That helped.

The chambers through which they strode showed signs of violence. Moldering skeletons were strewn throughout the halls, fallen in battle many years past. The party picked its way among the detritus of an old compound of some sort—complete with a barracks, dining hall, and a midden for residents to relieve themselves. Only bones attended the chamber.

The tunnel opened into what might once have been a bedchamber. Rot had claimed most of the furnishings, but Kalen recognized the remnants of a bed covered in dusty, mold-blackened blankets. The walls abounded with manacles on chains, all of which hung open. A great black stain marred the floor, as of long-dried blood.

The chamber seemed familiar to Myrin, like a dark dream recalled from long ago. “I know this place,” she said.

“Do you, my lady?” Lilten looked at her, unsettled. “I think you must be mistaken.”

“No,” Myrin said, staring down at the black stain. “No, I’m sure of it.”

She closed her eyes and focused. At her bidding, the dust rose from the floor and collected itself into swirling blue-white images: a man stood between two arguing women. A spell struck down the man and a crossbow bolt burst through the heart of one woman, who fell in the center of the chamber—right over the dark stain. She twitched and finally went still.

She remembered them: A demon cultist—the elf Cythara—and her brother—Yldar. The one who had come between them was Lady Ilira, though Yldar had called her something else. And where was Fayne, whose eyes had been the vantage point of the memory. She concentrated, willing more magic to come—

Suddenly, her magic fell apart, quite as thought it had never been. She lost her focus and the dust fell to the floor. “Huh,” she said. “What—?”

“Fascinating,” Lilten said. “To my considerable knowledge, Lady Myrin has never been in this chamber. I believe you both know several folk who have, however.”

He whistled and the dust that had formed Myrin’s players swirled again. Figures reformed, taking on a crimson cast, chained to the walls. Five of them materialized: a dwarf, an elf, a human, and two halflings. The last two were alike in size and in face.

Kalen abruptly rounded on Lilten. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Kalen, calm—” Myrin said, but stopped when he turned to her, his eyes blazing.

“This is the cult—the demon cult that—” he said, words falling madly from his lips. “Cellica—Toytere, too!” Kalen motioned to the wall. “They were tortured here.”

Myrin’s face felt cold. “Gods,” she said. “I—I didn’t know—”

“Talk, trickster.” Kalen released the torch and drew and pointed with a dagger. “Who are you? Is this some game?”

Lilten stared at him, unconcerned. “I assure you, this is no game,” he said. “I have not lied to you about my intentions or my desires. I want you to kill Scour.”

“And have it return the favor and kill us, is that it?” Kalen looked down at the package Lilten carried. “Enough of your secrets.”

“Kalen, wait!” Myrin said.

Heedless, he snatched up the ugly parcel and tore it open. Then he stood a long time, staring into the contents. Slowly, he raised incredulous eyes to Lilten.

“What is it?” Myrin asked, trying to peek over his shoulder. She made out the writing on the torn paper—“SHADOWBANE,” in big red letters.

Abruptly Kalen dropped the package and lunged. The sun elf managed to put his hand on his rapier before Kalen grasped his wrist and slammed him against the moldering wall. Lilten—looking surprised as anyone—opened his mouth to protest, but Kalen punched him across the face with his free hand.

“What are you doing?” Myrin’s heart pounded. “Stop it!”

She looked to Sithe, who only shrugged.

“I had nothing to do with that package.” Lilten’s usual charming ease wavered on something sharper. “I am merely the messenger.”

Kalen struck again. Lilten managed to twitch his head aside and the fist slammed so hard into the rock it left cracks. The elf writhed, but Kalen held him fast.

“Stop!” Myrin cried. “He’s our friend!”

Kalen got his hands around Lilten’s neck.

“Stop!” Myrin drew the crystal orb with its inner cloud of blue smoke. Lightning pulsed in the tiny cloud—power to match the power flowing down her arm. “Stop now!”

That got Kalen’s attention and he looked levelly at her. If Myrin didn’t know better, she might have thought she saw actual flames in his eyes.

“You should listen to her, hero,” Lilten said. “That lass looks a bit wrathful.”

Kalen let Lilten drop and stepped away, grasping his forehead in his fingers.

“What the Nine Hells, Kalen?” Myrin stepped toward Lilten. “Here, let me help—”

“Nay—’tis well.” The elf eluded her hand and rose with great grace. “I shall forgive this one incident, because of your lad’s grief—but I do not easily forget.”

“His grief,” Myrin said. “What—?”

“Thank you for persuading him of the error of his ways,” Lilten continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “However, I must correct you in one particular: while I may be your ally for the moment, I am not your friend. You should learn the difference.”

Myrin blinked. Until that moment, the elf had seemed friendly if odd. Now absolutely nothing of affability remained in his tone. It was dry as scoured bone and cold as the heart of glaciers. His eyes seemed suddenly red, not gold.

He laughed and his wrath dissolved in an instant. “What was I saying, my dear? Oh yes. If you’ll excuse me, I have certain”—he touched her cheek with his gloved hand—“missteps to correct. I’m sure you understand.”

“I don’t,” she said.

Lilten shrugged. “Well, I’ve been wrong before.”

She realized it was the second time he had touched her, and that only by his own initiative. She had reached for him once before and he had pulled away. Why? Did he have memories she could absorb? Things he didn’t want known?

A dim rumble sounded in the depths and the drone they had followed for the last hour grew louder. That they heard, and the rattle of talons.

“Scour comes,” Lilten said. “Best of luck with it—and with him.”

Without further explanation, he walked away. Sithe stepped aside and let the elf disappear into the darkness. The genasi had plucked up the discarded parcel and was gazing at its contents. She nodded to Myrin and held it out.

“What the Nine Hells is going on, Kalen?” Myrin repeated.

Kalen breathed heavily and rapidly, his shoulders heaving. His mouth worked. “Not—not again,” he said. “Threefold God, no. Not again.”

What could possibly drive him so completely and suddenly mad?

“What?” Myrin asked. “What is it?”

He shook his head and pointed at the package in Sithe’s hands.

Suddenly wary, Myrin crept toward the proffered package that said “SHADOWBANE.” With trembling fingers, she peeled aside the sticky paper. Blood clung to her fingers.

Myrin drew out the contents of the parcel: the hilt and handle of Vindicator, along with a hand’s length of razor-sharp steel. Two other pieces of the beautiful blade lay beneath it. All were slathered in enough blood to drown a man. On the blade, traced out of the blood with a finger, was a single word: “WESTGATE.”

“Gods,” she said. “Rhett.”

“Not again,” Kalen murmured. “I can’t … not again …”

Sithe clutched her head. “I can feel it in my mind. I can hear it screaming—for him.”

For some reason, Myrin didn’t react the way she expected to. She should have gasped and dropped it to the floor. Her heart should be thudding in her throat, her eyes losing their focus. That was how she had heard such things described in the bards’ tales.

Yet no fear, no horror, not even simple distaste compelled her. She felt these things—indeed, they boiled up and threatened to send her weeping to her knees—but she set them aside. Instead, a pervasive cold possessed her. Above that, she was filled with a sense of what needed to be done. She saw things in clear, cold equations, and pushed emotion far, far away.

The drone of the swarm grew louder, along with the clatter of a thousand sharpened legs. Myrin could see a dull red glow down the deeper tunnel. The demon was coming for them. Sithe drew up her axe and stood ready.

“Kalen,” Myrin said.

The man pulled away from her, but she pressed forward. She clasped the sides of his face and drew his gaze to hers.

“I need you,” she said. “I understand that this is awful. We will deal with it, but we can’t deal with it now. We have to focus on what’s in front of us. Can you do that?”

“Not again.” Kalen looked toward the package. “I shouldn’t have left him. I—”

“Kalen!” Myrin snapped and his eyes met hers. “Can you do that?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good,” Myrin said. “I have another matter—something very, very important. And I really need you to hear me. Will you hear me?”

Kalen nodded, more vigorously this time.

Myrin cast a glance back at Sithe. “If I become infected and I lose my mind to the Fury—you have to kill me. Do you understand?”

His eyes widened. “But—”

“You have to promise,” Myrin said. “If I become a monster, you have to kill me. It has to be you. Promise me.”

“I—very well,” Kalen said. “I promise.”

“Well.” Myrin nodded grimly. “We’ll talk about the third matter later, if we live.”

“Third?” Kalen asked.

Myrin pushed herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his. Blue fire sparked as their souls sang to one another. They kissed for a long, long moment before she finally pulled away. He started to speak, but she put a finger to his lips. She drew out Lilten’s crystal sphere.

“Right,” Kalen said. “Later then.”

He drew his daggers.