Shadowbane

“You are so strange,” Myrin said. “These aren’t my memories, of course. I have none of my own from more than a year ago, but sometimes when I touch someone, I absorb any memories they have of me.”

“Really?” Rhett said.

She looked frustrated. “Yes, really. Why would I lie about this?”

“I mean, go on.”

“If I knew the proper order of these memories, they might give me some clue as to myself. How old I am, for example.”

“You don’t know how old you are?”

Myrin looked at him. “Guess.”

Rhett thought about it. “Twenty? Twenty-two?”

“As I said, I don’t know.” Myrin shrugged. “I could as easily be far older. Some wizards use magic to slow their aging.”

“Really?” Rhett had heard of liches-spellcasters who embraced undeath rather than succumb to mortality- but he’d never heard of a lovely young woman lich, let alone one who worked even mightier magic. He found the thought unsettling.

“To account for magic of that sort,” Myrin said, “what I need are memories of me over a period of time, to see myself age. Unfortunately, every memory I’ve acquired thus far seems to be a single moment.”

“Er, right.”

“Some of them teach me spells,” Myrin continued. “If I see myself casting a spell, I remember how to do it. This one, for instance.” Myrin indicated the image of herself in the red dress against a starry night. “This memory taught me my shadow door.”

Rhett examined the image of Myrin offering a cryptic smile with her blue-painted lips. She looked very lovely and considerably more powerful. Again, an uneasy feeling crept into his stomach.

“We’re not seeing through your eyes,” Rhett said.

“No, we aren’t.” Myrin shook her head. “Memories are tainted by all manner of things. Sentiment, time, and the like-see how my lips are so full in this image? Methrammar Aerasume had a fixation with my lips, I think.”

“Methrammar-the lord of Silverymoon?”

“Obviously in the memory, he was very much in love with me,” Myrin said. “See the darkness behind me in this image? That’s the spell.”

“You were in love with the lord of Silverymoon,” Rhett said. “The ancient lord of Silverymoon?”

“Love knows neither age nor death,” Myrin said.

“That’s …” Rhett nodded. “That’s beautiful.”

“It’s poetry-something by Thann, I believe,” she said. “And I said he was in love with me, not the inverse. I have no way of knowing how I felt. This”-she indicated the Myrin with the emotionless face, bound in an aura of blue fire-“I got when Fayne kissed me.”

“Someone kissed you?” he asked. “Someone not Saer Shadowbane?”

Again, Myrin gave him that odd expression, as if considering whether he was mocking her. “Yes,” she said patiently. “An odious creature, but very sad. Broken by tragedy. I never really liked her, but I felt for her.”

“Wait.” Rhett considered. “Her? A lass kissed you.”

“Is that shocking?”

“No,” Rhett said. “I’m merely imagining. One moment.”

“Imagine away.” Myrin turned back to her images. She put a few in a different order, considered them again, then reversed them.

Rhett noticed an image near her right hand: Myrin floating in a dark alley, clad only in fire and thousands of those blue runes that appeared on her skin when she cast magic. “What’s this one?”

“Ah!” Myrin waved her hand and all the images disappeared, replaced by a softly glowing ball of magelight. “That was from a year ago, when I first met Kalen. I don’t remember it, but he does.”

“Did you get those memories from a kiss as well?”

“No,” Myrin said hesitantly. “Well, yes, but-that’s not relevant.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

They regarded each other, the woman sitting cross-legged on her bed, the man standing at her side. She studied him, quite as though she’d never seen him before. “I want you,” Myrin said.

“Uh. Lady?”

“I want your memories,” Myrin said. “Let me see-”

Closing her eyes, she reached up and pressed her bare fingers to his cheek. Her fingers felt surprisingly warm. They tingled against his skin. He gaped at her, trembling under her touch. “Are you seeing anything?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed. “You’re picturing me without my clothes on.”

“What?” Rhett said. “No, no, I’m not!”

“No.” Myrin smiled and opened her eyes. “But as soon as I said that, you did.”

“Oh, very nice.” Rhett scowled. “You beguiled me!”

Myrin looked amused. “Well, I am the Witch-Queen,” she said. “But alas, if we’ve ever met, you don’t remember me, so you’ve nothing for me to absorb.”

“Oh, I’d remember,” Rhett said. “You’re very distinctive.”

“Am I?”

Myrin was giving him another of those curious, weighing looks, as though trying to read his mind. Could she read his mind? He tried his best to push away the image of Myrin naked and in the heat of passion-or possibly naked and wreathed in arcane fire, like in the image Kalen had apparently seen.

He remembered abruptly why he had come: the question Kalen had sent him to ask. He hadn’t wanted to confront Myrin in the first place and now he felt even less inclined. She had told him Kalen had killed the dwarf Rath, but Kalen had denied it. Then in the boat, the two had argued with few words. He didn’t want to be caught between them, but he had no choice.

Tymora guide me, he prayed silently. He would ease into the subject.

“I-” Rhett said. “This plague. You know, the one woven by a flesh-reaving, bone-cleaning wizard … or whatever he is.”

“Why do you assume it’s a he?” Myrin said, still looking at her images.

“Good point,” he said lightly. “Could be a she.”

Myrin frowned at his jest.

“A blue-haired she.”

Myrin continued to frown.

“A blue-haired-you. Could be you.”

“Oh, I understood,” Myrin said. “I’m just deeply hurt you think of me so: that I’m some terrible spellslayer who wants nothing more than to destroy this city.”

“Ha,” Rhett said. “Now you’re mocking me … right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you’re next.”

“Gah!” Rhett stepped back.

“Mystra, that was easy.” Myrin gave him a brilliant smile.

Rhett breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was in good humor-for now.

“Out of curiosity, do you have a glass or a tankard of some kind?” Myrin asked. “Just so happens that I have this.” A red bottle of wine floated over to her hand. “I found it on the ship. Or would you prefer to drink out of the bottle?”

Rhett had his metal tankard from Flick. Maybe some wine would help … but no. “Kalen told me to guard you,” he said. “Hard to do that from my cups.”

“Pity.” Myrin sent the bottle floating back to the end table. When he started to stand, though, she reached out and touched his arm. “You can still stay and talk to me.”

“About Kalen?”

Myrin grimaced. “Aye, we can talk about tall, dark, and dour if you like.”