Eric De Bie - Shadowbane

“No fear.” Sithe shook her head. “Only the weak fear to remember what is past. Only the guilty are ashamed of it. I am neither.”

“It is not weakness to run from a memory that is painful,” Myrin said. “And it is not shame to let yourself hurt.”

“So you say,” Sithe said.

Determined, Myrin reached out and took the genasi’s hands. Sithe flinched away, but Myrin held them securely. She needed no magic to feel the woman’s pain.

“You don’t have to be empty to be strong,” Myrin said.

The genasi, her black eyes wide and staring, nodded slowly. The lines of power along her skin grew darker-their blackness deepening in intensity-almost like a human might flush. As Myrin watched, the darkness blurred in her eyes, swelling around the bottom, then it abruptly leaked down her cheeks. Tears.

“It’s well.” Myrin scooted forward and put her arms around Sithe, pressing her head into the woman’s shoulder. “It’s all well. You’re safe now.”

The genasi at first sat rigidly, then returned the embrace fully. Her silent tears became sobs and she let Myrin hold her as her body shook.

“I heard their voices,” Sithe said. “I heard them, in the darkness, as they chewed my flesh-as they drank of my soul. They said ‘come with us, Sister- feast with us.’ ”

“That’s not right,” Myrin said. “You are not like them.”

“Am I not?” Sithe glared into Myrin’s face. “My father was a demon who raped my mother and left her for dead. I was born with darkness in my soul. How can you say I am not one of them?” She clasped her hands to her stomach. “Every one of them was a little bit of me-every one bore the same inner void, the same awful hunger.” She shivered. “I can feel them now, in my head. Their hunger is inside of me. Their rage.”

“You are not like them,” Myrin repeated.

“Look!” Sithe threw off the blanket and tore free the tatters of her bodice. “See!”

Myrin’s eyes widened. Bites rose on Sithe’s chest, angry and red. And-Myrin saw with dawning horror-they bore traces of crimson crystal.

“The Fury,” Myrin said. “You carry it.”

The genasi nodded. She looked past Myrin at the red dress that lay on the broken bed. Myrin thought she saw longing in that look.

“You will keep my secret?” Sithe stood.

“If you wish,” Myrin said.

“When the time comes”-the genasi tightened the blanket around her body-“I will ask Kalen Shadowbane to kill me.”

Myrin opened her mouth to protest, then nodded solemnly. “Why him?” Myrin asked. “Why did you spend all that time teaching him?”

Sithe met her gaze levelly. “Because he can be better than he is.”

“Are you”-Myrin clenched her hands very tight-“are you in love with him?”

Sithe looked past her, at the red dress, and her gaze seemed nostalgic and a little sad. It was, Myrin thought, as though the genasi mourned-in that moment-for a life she had never had. Sithe shook her head.

“That is why you love him, is it not?” Sithe asked. “Because he can be better?”

Myrin wanted to deny that-both parts of it-but the words wouldn’t come. She nodded slightly, her eyes damp.

“He is who and what he is,” Sithe said. “But he is a better man than you think.”

“No,” Myrin said. “No, that-that isn’t possible.”

Sithe nodded in silent understanding.

Myrin sniffed, wiped her nose, and stood. “Shall we see if the menfolk have decided anything?” She paused. “Well, after we get you some clothes.”

“Scour.” The image that flashed into Kalen’s mind was of dust borne upon a wind. Dust that whipped so hard it tore the flesh from bones, turning it to red mist. “It fits.”

“Indeed,” Lilten replied. “Scour is the consciousness that drives the hordes of Luskan, but it is no black wizard or mortal villain. Scour is a demon-a source of evil so powerful I, for one, have rarely seen its match.”

“Is that impressive?” Kalen asked. “Do you know evil well?”

Lilten smirked. “I do not believe Scour thinks the way you might understand thoughts, but it causes chaos the way you or I might breathe. It follows no set pattern, killing by instinct where it will cause terror. This goes on, folk disappear, tempers grow, violence flourishes, and the demon gets what it wants. Or”-Lilten waved his glass-“it infects its victims with the Fury and forces them to fight in their madness.”

“So where does it come from?” Kalen asked.

Lilten shrugged. “That knowledge would go no small way to defeating it, but alas, I do not know,” he said. “I had hoped you would find more on the derelict, but now it rests in burnt cinders at the bottom of the bay.”

“It was you,” Kalen said. “You were the man without his own face, who sent Myrin and Rhett to the ghost ship.”

“Without his own face-I rather like that.” Lilten raised his glass. “All I know of Scour encompasses what it is and the fact that it is very powerful. Oh”-he waved his finger to indicate a point-“and I have some sense of where it lairs.”

“Where it lairs,” Kalen said. “You could take me there?”

“I suppose,” Lilten said. “Not that I have any suggestions about what to do once you find it. You’re the hero here.” He drained the last of his wine.

“We fight it,” Kalen said.

“Well, you fight it.” Lilten tapped the starburst-shaped hilt of his rapier. “I have a few tricks of my own, but again, you’re the warrior, not I.”

“You called it off.”

“A trick that may or may not work again,” Lilten said. “Would you trust to luck?”

Kalen shrugged. “At this point, what else is there?”

Lilten’s eyes sparkled at that. “What else indeed.”

The sun elf rose and traced his fingers idly across the table. He was deciding something.

“Well,” he said at length. “Come nightfall, we go to the main hive in the sewers.”

Kalen caught his arm. “A considerable coincidence,” he said, “that you appear only when needed. First you steer Myrin to the derelict, then you heal me, and now you would help us against this Scour . Quite fortunate.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Lilten looked down at the hand on his arm, then gave Kalen a broad smile. “I must say, it is indeed very suspicious, and yet, what choices have you?”

In a flash, Kalen drew his dagger and stabbed it into the table between Lilten’s thumb and forefinger.

“Interesting,” the elf said.

“Explain,” Kalen said. “You serve another purpose here. Tell me what it is.”

“Such a suspicious lad.” Lilten drew his hand away from the dagger and inspected his thumb-specifically, the tiny rent Kalen’s blade had left in the glove. He looked Kalen in the eye. “Trust me if you will; do not if you will not. But think of what will happen to your beloved Luskan on the morrow, when the demon hungers again.”

“It is not my city,” Kalen said.

“No? You fight quite hard to save it, King Shadowbane. Or rather”-Lilten glanced over Kalen’s shoulder, toward the stairs-“something in it?”

Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention-Sithe and Myrin descending slowly. When he looked back, Lilten was gone. That also reminded him of someone and this time he did remember. Speaking in riddles, far too beautiful for his-or her-own good? A name floated in his mind, but he dared not voice it.

“What happened to our guest?” Myrin asked.

“He was never staying.” Kalen regarded Sithe, who wore traveling clothes borrowed from Myrin. With her black skin and steady gaze, she looked far more threatening in that attire than Myrin ever could. The two of them exchanged a nod. “Flick,” Kalen called. “Zzar?”