Downshadow (13 page)

“And that is enough,” he whispered. “For you, I mean.”

“Kalen.” She caressed his cheek, but he could not feel her fingers. He saw her hand move, but felt nothing. “Is it not the same for you?”

Kalen looked away.

“You are a good man, Kalen Dren—but sometimes…” She trailed off with a sigh. Then she smiled sadly. “If you want to save someone, why not start with yourself?”

“I don’t need saving,” he said.

“We’ll see.” Leleera embraced him and pressed her lips to his. He felt only coldness.

She left him and lay down across her divan. Setting aside the Lascivities, she opened Fox Among the Uthgardt to the last few pages and began to read silently. Aloud, she murmured, “Oh, Kalen—oh, yes—ooh!”

Among other skills, being a celebrant of Sune required subsrantial acting talent.

Kalen bowed his head to her and she winked.

“Oh, yes—right—there!”She flipped a page.

As Leleera moaned, squealed, and read, Kalen donned his helm and opened the shutters. He looked back at Leleera—who writhed in feigned passion as she flipped another page.

Then, without further hesitation, Shadowbane swung out the window into the night.

Just below, watching invisibly from an alley just across Marlar’s Lane, Fayne smiled.

“I see you, Sir Dren,” she murmured. She pinched her nose. “And smell you, too—do you ever wash that cloak?”

With that bit of spying managed, she turned her thoughts to the tale she was writing for the Minstrel. The life of a scandal-smith was so demanding!

She slipped away, thinking of the japes she’d use. Ooh, she’d prayed for the day she could burn Araezra Hondyl. And it had arrived, with the blessings of the sun god.

Later—perhaps three bells later—Bors Jarthay listened at Leleera’s door to a long and loud chorus of her moans. “Yes!” Leleera cried from within. “Oh, Kalen!”

Bors grinned. “That’s my boy.”

As he made his way down the curling staircase into the garden in the entry hall, he scowled out the misty front windows at the sea fog that had rolled in. “Damn that man—is he ever wrong?”

He whistled a tune as he left, bound for home.

fT he city stood hidden in gray night. Selune had retreated behind deep 1 clouds that threatened rain but did not let it fall. A slight breeze came from the sea to the west and broke against the buildings.

Conditions were perfect for the sea fog that rolled through the streets.

Waterdhavians rarely braved such nights, when the fog hid deeds both noble and vile. On a night like that, the creatures of Downshadow would stay below in their holes, denied the clear sky and Sehine’s tears.

Wearing the black leathers and gray cloak of Shadowbane, Kalen perched atop Gilliam’s haberdashery. He had not come for battle—for such, he’d descend to Downshadow—but rather for freedom in the surface world. Every tenday or so, if clouds hid the moon, he took time from his task to remind himself of that which he defended: a city he could see but not feel.

“Why not start with myself,” he murmured.

Were he a man who could feel as other men did, he mighr have enjoyed the embrace of so wise a woman as Leleera. He might have tried anyway, were it not for his consranr fear of being too rough without knowing it—without feeling it. Even had the spellplague not stolen his senses in exchange for strength, he was a man of action. Violence was no more easy to leave behind him than was the mask of Shadowbane.

Enough self-pity. It did not become a servant of justice.

“I don’t need saving,” he repeated.

He and Leleera were both crusaders. But while she served a gentle goddess who craved only her happiness, he obeyed the will of a dead god who demanded action.

He slid off the roof into the night and ran along the rooftops.

A hundred years ago, before the Spellplague had rebuilt the world, the god called Helm was the patron of guardians and the vigilant— an eternal watcher, who once slew a goddess he loved rather than forsake his duty. Then, because of a mad god’s trickery, he had foughr with Tyr, the blind Lord of Justice, and fallen under the eyeless one’s blade.

The night of Helm’s death, in a city called Westgate, a boy named Gedrin dreamed of the duel. Helm perished, but his divine essence lingered. The gods’ symbols merged: the eye of Helm etched itself onto Tyr’s breastplate with its scales of justice. The blind god’s eye glowed, and his sight returned. When Gedrin awoke, he held Vindicator, Helm’s sword in the dream.

And thus had begun the heresy of the church known as the Eye of Justice.

Later, plagued by guilt and shame, Tyr fell to the demon prince Orcus, but his powers—and those of Helm—had passed to Torm, god of duty. Gedrin dreamed a second time, and watched the three gods become one. The heretical church he had built began to follow Torm, whom they took to calling the threefold god.

Many years after these dreams—almost eighty years later—in the cesspool of Luskan, a famous knight called Gedrin Shadowbane gave a beggar boy three things: a knight’s sword, Vindicator; a message, never ro beg again; and a cuff on the ear, that he might remember it.

That boy had been Kalen Dren, the second Shadowbane. And his first vow had been never to beg for anything, ever again.

And how sorely rhat vow had been tested, so many times.

A cough formed in his chest, and he fought it down. His illness—though he pretended it was worse than it was, in truth— would always haunt him. He had the spellplague to thank for that. From birth, Kalen had borne the spellplague’s mark: a spellscar, the priests called it—a different blessing and curse for every poor soul who earned or inherited one. For Kalen, it was toughened flesh and resistance to pain. Any warrior would wish for such a thing but for its accompanying curse: a body increasingly losing feeling, one that would eventually perish.

Justice for the sins of a poorly spent youth, he mused.

He watched as the sea fog shifted, taking on color, radiance, and form. Like much of the spellplague’s legacy, this was a rare and unexplained occurrence. Soon, the glowing fog would take on shapes and tell a story, though none could say why.

Kalen eased himself away from the banner pole arop Gilliam’s and half-ran, half-slid down the domed roof. Using his momentum, he bent low and sprang from the edge. The magic in his boots—one of the few items he’d managed to bring from Westgate—carried him across the alley and up to the roof of the next building, a tallhouse.

He ran along the crenellated edge, leaping over potted plants and a few squatters who sheltered in the corners of the roofs. Running the rooftops was safer than the street. A seagull, borne on the lazy breezes, matched him, and he balanced on the ledge beside it.

He remembered running the roofs of Westgate with his teacher in the church of the Eye: the half-elf Levia, old enough to have borne him, but who looked as young as he. Her skill was not martial in nature, but divine—priestly magic. Healing and the like.

Kalen knew little of such magic. Aside from his healing touch and the protection given a paladin, he asked little of his threefold god—and begged for nothing. He’d once broken a man’s nose for calling Levia a spell-beggar, but he was not sure if he’d done it for her honor or his.

He wished Levia had come to Waterdeep. She was family, Kalen thought. Levia, the only mother he’d ever known—and Cellica, his sister in spirit if not in blood.

Not like the resr of their wayward faith. Kalen did not consider such fools to be his kin.

Gedrin had created the Eye, bringing crusaders from the ranks of the Night Masks—a powerful thieves’ guild at the time, ruled by a vampire called the Night King. Gedrin had burst forth from the Masks like a hero digging out of the belly of a beast, and aided in ousting the dark masters of Westgate. Thereafter, they had set out to cleanse the world of evil in all its forms. Gedrin was a zealot, and his faith inspired hundreds to worship the threefold god.

But in time, the purity of the Eye faded, its quest tainted by flawed men in the church—men who used their thiefly skills for personal

gain, rather than justice. Gedrin left the Eye, after spending so much of his life in the doomed church, and Kalen, years later, had followed in his footsteps. Both had taken Vindicator, hoping ro put its power to use elsewhere.

Kalen felt lost without the sword. It had set him on Gedrin’s quest ro redeem the world. And though a part of him needed it back, another large part of him approved of its loss. If he had not been worthy of it, was it not the threefold god’s will that it choose another wielder?

A low sound perked up his ears. Kalen caught a spire, whirled, and pressed himself flat against the stone, closing his eyes. He heard it again: sobbing. A female voice—somewhere near.

He looked and saw a cloud of mists that glowed blue. That was odd—he had seen colors and distortions in the sea fog before, but never blue. And he recognized the hue—a sickly yet powerful azure, like the inner shade of a flame just before it turned white hot. It was spellplague blue, he realized, just like the spellplague that had changed him.

Unease crept into his fingers, but he heard the sob—more like a plea for aid—again and leaped from the roof. If the Eye would claim him this night, then so be it.

The blue fog was close, only two rooftops away. The near building was a squat noble villa with an open-air garden in the center, and he ran along the wall to stay aloft. Blue fog swirled around him, threatening, and he felt a drive to step forward, to face an unknown peril that might be the end of him. Was it not better to fall now, if Vindicator had abandoned him?

He sprang into the alley, rolling with the fall to come up on his feet, watchsword drawn. It occurred ro him only then that carrying the blade would be damning if any Watchmen were to see him, but too late.

The mists seemed empty, but he heard the sob again. The blue glow crackled, electric, deeper in the alley, and he stalked forward.

The mist took on shapes, and Kalen fell into guard, both hands on his sword.

Ghosrs appeared out of the mist. He saw two figures—slim men

who might have been elves—standing together in a room in some distant land. They were arguing—even fighting, waving misty limbs like blades. Then one vanished into the shadows near a leaning srack of crates. The remaining figure turned to Kalen, smiling.

Another figure appeared out of the mist, this one a woman, her features blurred. The mist man turned to greet her. Without warning, he thrust his fist into her chest and she fell, hands clenched.

Kalen felt a surge of anger, but these were just visions. They meant nothing.

The mist man stared at him. “The sword,” rhe mist man said with a too-wide smile.

Kalen had never heard that the visions of Waterdeep could speak. It chilled him.

Lightning crackled again, blue and vivid, and Kalen turned to search for its source.

When he looked back, both mist men were there, looking at him with hunger. They approached him, hands rising, and he realized they meant to attack. He retreated, but his back was against the wall of the alley.

“Away.” As Levia had taught him, Kalen let the threefold god shine against them. He began to glow, warding off the walking dead. “Away!”

But either his power was too weak or these were not undead, for they came forward. Kalen saw the woman climbing to her feet, a bleeding hole where her hearr should be.

“The sword,” the mist whispered. “The sword that was stolen— the crusader has come!”

Kalen thought, for one horrible moment, that they were talking about him. But these were images of long ago, if not entirely random manifestations.

He struck with his watchsword, but the mortal steel passed clean through them, disturbing the mist with its wind. Their hands passed through his guard and leathers as though they were not there. He felt ice inside his flesh.

“Away,” he tried again, but his voice was hoarse.

Weakness was taking him, and he could not even flee. The woman

in the mist appeared over him, and he thought she was not beautiful but terrible—she was death embodied.

Then the alley was bathed in blue light. Kalen felt the hairs on his neck and arms rise and he threw himself down just as lightning crackled through the air, scorching the stone buildings. A figure stood before him, surrounded in blue electricity and fire. It was the fiery woman he had seen in Downshadow only a few nights before—whose appearance had saved him from death at a half-orgre s gnarled fingers.

He averted his eyes to keep from being blinded, and the mist creatures fell back. He could see them, just vaguely, bowing and scraping like servants, almost… reverent.

Then the light went out, and the woman—no longer flaming but still glowing—stood shakily in the center of the alley. Her dizzy eyes met his, and he saw they were startlingly blue.

“Szasba,” she said in a tongue he did not know. “Araka azzagrazz?” Then she sagged.

Leaving his watchsword on the cobblestones in his lunge, Kalen caught her just before she hit the ground. She was so light, barely more rhan a girl, and little more than skin, bone, and… blood.

His gauntlets came away sticky. The girl was naked but for a slimy coating of what looked like black and green blood. He searched for wounds but could find none. Her hair, plastered in the sickly gore, was blue. Everything about her was blue: hair, lips, even her skin.

Then Kalen realized her skin was not blue, but rather covered in glowing tattoos. Runes, he thought, though he did not know them. Even as he noted them, the tattoos began to fade, shrinking into her deeply tanned flesh like ink on wet parchment. He blinked, watching as lattices of arcane symbols vanished, little by little.

Kalen didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t leave her.

Her arms tightened around his neck and her face pressed into his chest. “Gisz vaz.”

“Very well,” he replied, not having the faintest idea what she’d said.

He took off his cloak and wrapped her in it. Then he held her tightly, looked around for misr figures—the fog had begun to disperse—and started off at a trot.

Cellica’s stew—left to simmer until morningfeast—was bubbling when he returned to the tallhouse.