Eric De Bie - Shadowbane

“You have no idea.” Kalen nodded. “And he still wields Vindicator?”

“That was what won him Levia’s ear. Still-” Myrin bit her lip.

“Speak,” Kalen said. “What is it?”

“The sword chose you,” Myrin said. “You cannot simply abandon its call.”

Kalen shook his head. She didn’t understand-couldn’t understand. What the sword asked of him … It was not something he could give. Would she even want him to accept it, if she knew what she asked?

“Kalen, I-” Myrin looked sullen, any hint of former mirth fled. “I have to tell you something. About Rhett.”

Unease flickered in his stomach, but he suppressed it. “Can it wait?” he asked. “If it’s important, I don’t trust our new friend where he can overhear.”

A barmaid and one of the handsomer Dead Rats had wandered over to Lilten, where he seemed to be wooing them with some jest or another. He winked at Kalen, perhaps in response to the scrutiny, or perhaps because he overheard his name.

“Very well-it can wait.” Myrin sighed. “I’m still furious at you, you know.”

“Furious?” Kalen hadn’t expected that. “Why?”

Myrin blinked, startled. “You-you still don’t know?” She turned red. “I can’t believe you, Kalen Dren! One of these days, you’ll see how hard it is to-to-ahh!”

She stomped up the stairs, then paused on the first landing. She made an effort to compose herself, turned, and addressed him icily.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve wasted the last tenday doing, but I’ve just been hiking through the Shadowfell all that time without rest, and I’m very tired. Excuse me.”

She went up to her room and slammed the door.

“Troubles?”

Lilten lounged in his seat, one leg tossed over the table. His fawning adherents had gone off hand-in-hand toward the broom closet at the end of Flick’s bar. It seemed the mere presence of this elf aroused warm, sweaty feelings.

Lilten sipped at a delicate glass of blue wine-such a thing as Kalen had never seen outside the richest taverns of Waterdeep. Where had he gotten that?

Kalen wandered back to the table, his world spinning slightly. Everything felt numb, not just his body. “I think,” he said, sinking into his seat. “I think she hates me.”

“More’s the pity you think that,” Lilten said. “But to business. I find that the women we love often cloud the issue unnecessarily. Agreed?”

Kalen nodded dumbly, though he had no idea what the elf had just said. He’d thought he and Myrin had dealt with the tension between them, but now, with the last words she’d said to him, he wasn’t so sure. He remembered a tenday past, when she had slapped him. Kalen noted two creases on the elf’s otherwise perfect cheek, like ancient scars. Had those come about in the same fashion?

“For now,” Lilten said, “I think you wish to hear of Scour. ”

Hot tears started rolling down her cheeks as soon as she closed the door behind her. She slumped back against it, beating her fists against the grimy wood.

She’d come back to Luskan prepared to rage at Kalen for sending her away. Then-of all things-he had thanked her for coming back. She’d ended up raging at him anyway. And what she’d said-or, rather, almost said to him … Gods !

It was all so frustrating! If only she had more power-if only she could remember when she had wielded more! Then Kalen wouldn’t doubt her. Then-

Myrin felt like screaming, but that would draw attention, which would be worse. She grabbed her grimoire, flipped it open to a simple silencing incantation, and intoned the ritual. A hazy blue glow filtered over her door and walls, ensuring her privacy. Perfect.

Her wand flashed into her hand and she slashed it at the bed. A wave of thunder streaked forth, sending the bed shattering against the wall. Her pack burst open in a rain of colorful garments. She blasted one out of the air with a conjured arrow of force, sending scraps of fabric sailing in all directions, then whirled and sent forth a burst of flame to consume a fluttering white shift. The destruction was petty but it relieved her.

She turned her wand toward another garment, then stopped. The slinky red dress hung where it had caught on a broken bedpost, swinging like a hapless doll. Somehow, this image got the better of Myrin and she dropped her wand. More tears came. She didn’t fight them.

“Lady Darkdance.” Sithe stood at the door, dressed in her ruined fighting clothes. She spoke in words that barely rose above a whisper. “You are well?”

“Yes.” Embarrassment seized Myrin and she wiped her nose. “Yes, I’m well.”

Sithe hesitated on the threshold. Myrin wondered if she’d ever actually shared more than a dozen words with the genasi at any one time.

“You do battle?” The dark woman glanced around Myrin’s ruined room.

“Only against myself, I suppose,” Myrin said. “Please-come in, if you like.”

Slouched and shivering, Sithe entered. The swarm demon’s assault had torn her clothes to little more than ribbons. The tatters hid little enough that Myrin blushed to look at her. Lilten’s song had healed her wounds, but Myrin knew the genasi had been grievously hurt in the battle.

“That can’t be warm enough,” Myrin said. “Let me find you something else.”

Sithe adjusted her cloak self-consciously. “No need.”

“Please,” Myrin said. “I must have something you can wear. Here”-she pulled down the red dress from where it hung-“it’s not much, but-what?”

Sithe stared blankly at the dress.

“You think it won’t fit? We’re of a size, you and I-mostly.” The genasi was a bit broader than Myrin, but not by much. Amazing, how so much warrior fit into so little body.

“I-” Sithe said. “I cannot wear that.”

“Why not?” Myrin asked. “The color doesn’t flatter your inner darkness?”

From the way Sithe stared at her, she’d not taken the jest.

“Very well-I’ll get the blanket. Sorry about it being blasted in half.”

Myrin fumbled for the covering, which she wrapped around Sithe’s frail body. The genasi seemed so thin and weak. She had not brought her axe to Myrin’s room. Before she had been a force of death, but in that moment, Sithe seemed suddenly a woman. They sat on the floor together.

“Why, um,” Myrin said. “Why are you here? Don’t misunderstand-I don’t mind. But I never got the sense you even noticed me, much less-”

“I attempted to defeat you and was defeated,” Sithe said. “My life is yours.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” Myrin said. “It really isn’t necessary, you know. I appreciate your honor, but I’d much rather your life be your own. Mine’s complicated enough as it is.”

Sithe offered her a studious look with no reaction one way or the other. “You make war against yourself,” the genasi said, gesturing around the room. “You wish to forget?”

Myrin shook her head. “The opposite, in fact,” she said. “My whole life, I–I cannot remember the slightest moment of it. Only bits and pieces I take from other minds when I touch them. I take their memories for my own.”

“When you touch them,” Sithe said. “As you did with me.”

Myrin remembered then-the night Toytere had betrayed them, Sithe had gone mad. She’d only stopped when Myrin stole her powers. What had happened to the genasi in that moment?

“Yes,” Myrin said finally. “When I touch them.”

The genasi extended one torn and swollen hand-an offer.

“No, it-Sithe, it only works if you’ve met me before,” she said.

The hand withdrew and the genasi looked haunted.

“I’m sorry,” Myrin said. “Here I want to remember … and you want to forget.”