Shadowbane

Why would the Horned One, favorite of the Lady, be so adamant Eden not touch this Myrin Darkdance? What power did the girl hold-and how could Eden possess it? How could she use Myrin against the Horned One himself?

It would have worked, and she would have had Myrin, had not a certain halfling decided to kill himself out of misguided nobility.

“Bane’s black balls,” Eden murmured. “You can’t trust anyone these days.”

Well, she’d just have to deal with Kalen’s standing in the way of her next move. And if he met a horrible death in the process, all the better.

She thought of the scroll the Horned One had given her. Yes.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of her advisors-two men, one tall and fat, the other short and precipitously lean, both ugly and odious. She’d never bothered trying to learn their names. The short one spoke.

“Me lady, beloved of Mistress Fortune,” he said. “You summoned us?”

“Yes, yes,” Eden said. “I’ve called you to say that a miracle has come to pass. The Lady provides protection from the Fury.”

The men looked stunned. “Me lady, that’s a blessing for true!” said the short one. “We-we must tell everyone! Immediately! Bring adherents flocking to our-to the Lady’s banner! All will be drawn to this cure!”

“Cure?” Eden let a smile steal across her features. “Ha. I offer no cure, you oafs, but a blessing. It is an assurance that those the Lady favors will go untouched.”

“How is that not a cure, me lady?” asked the short one.

They were growing tiresome, Eden thought. Her head was starting to throb and she would much rather consider how best to move against the Horned One.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

The men quavered a bit at that, but their faces still shone with eagerness. Fools.

Eden reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew the scroll the Horned One had given her. She had mastered the script and could pronounce the letters in her sleep. Still, holding the scroll was key to unlocking its power. Unfurling it across the bed in front of her, she began to read, her voice twisting into the dark and guttural syllables of the Abyssal tongue.

At first, nothing happened and her advisers’ nervousness faded a touch. “I-that is, we,” said the short one, with a nod at his companion. “We don’t feel any different.”

Eden smiled, even as she cursed them mentally. “This plague-the Fury,” she said. “It isn’t a cough or a pox or the like, but rather the gift of something … greater. Something darker. Something that scours.”

As if in response to her words, the room filled suddenly with the sound of rustling and scuttling-thousands of tiny legs tap-tap-tapping on wood and stone. The three humans were far from alone in the chamber.

Blackness seeped out of the walls and floor: a flood of tiny, ferocious bodies, all of their fangs and claws serving Eden’s will. Her advisors cowered back a step.

“Oh, not to worry.” Eden tapped the scroll with one long finger. “With this, I can summon and keep the beast at bay. I extend the Lady’s blessing to any I deem worthy.”

“You,” said the fat one, wiping sweat from his brow. “You mean the goddess-those that she deems worthy.”

“Not actually, no,” said Eden. “For instance, I’m sure the goddess loves you two. I, on the other hand, do not share her opinion.”

With a lazy hand, she indicated her advisors.

The two men screamed as the blackness swarmed over them.

“A single bite leaves the Fury,” Eden explained as they flailed and gibbered, “but a thousand bites leave much less.”

Now that the plague was a weapon rather than a threat, she had only one thing left to take care of: becoming queen of Luskan. Queen of the North would come later.

Her brother and that thrice-damned wizard of his stood in the way, but Eden expected that would resolve itself. Her brother would, after all, fall into darkness-so said Toytere’s last prophecy.

She had to admit-as the demon finished its meal, leaving only bones for later removal by her slaves-that her brother turning into a “champion of ruin” struck her as a delicious concept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

27 KYTHORN (EARLY MORNING)

Gray clouds boiled up in the night sky, blotting out Selune and her tears. Already the clammy, sticky rain of summer had begun to fall. A storm was coming to Luskan, and it would grow far worse before it grew better.

Later that night, after plans had been made, Kalen stood in the dark and drizzle of the old Yewblood yard, a block off Aldever’s Street northeast of the Drowned Rat. From here, he could see lights flickering in the tavern, suggesting a flurry of activity to match the orders he-the new king-had given.

In the little graveyard, however-so overgrown and stained with graffiti as to elude the memory of most natives-Kalen found a certain measure of tranquility. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but here he could breathe easier. He had spent most of the night burying Toytere. No one else seemed inclined to do it and he felt he owed the halfling that much. Enemies though they might have been in the end, Kalen had once counted Toytere his friend.

Now, hours later, he stared at another grave, marked with what in happier times had been a crude nymph dancing among river stones. He remembered it as it had been, fifteen years past, before vandals defiled it. Now, time and weather had worn away the headstone’s inscription to a single word: Dren.

He could not say how he detected the beggar-perhaps a slight rustle or the feel of the air he breathed. His senses had grown sharper since he’d come to Luskan and he trusted them more and more each day. Regardless, he knew he was not alone in the graveyard.

“You’re Dren’s boy, right?”

Kalen turned. Where he sat, the beggar became just a part of the scenery, easily overlooked and even more easily ignored.

“Kalen, methink?” The beggar coughed, his yellow teeth catching the moonlight. “You’ve grown, for true, but I knows you still. All on the street knows you.”

Kalen nodded.

“Godsdamned shame, what it is,” the man said. “She were so beautiful.”

The wind rose, whipping Kalen’s tattered cloak against his legs. Still, he was silent.

“Pretty Drenny-bestest face in the city, never aged, never caught the pox. Even that crazy chit of a daughter she had-even that don’t ruin her. The right best of us.”

“Not that I remember,” Kalen said.

“Heh, aye, but-” The man pushed himself clumsily up. Kalen watched, impassive. Coughing, shuddering, the ancient beggar managed his feet, wobbled a bit, then stepped toward him. “You weren’t to birth until after,” the beggar said. “After that damned Silverymoon dandy done broke her heart. She weren’t the same after him. Thought it would all be well-a lord of Luruar come to save us poor tluiners, but he were just like all the others: blaggard, turncoat, oathbreaker.” The beggar hacked and shook his head. “Me apologies. He’s your father, I suppose.”

“Don’t apologize,” Kalen said. “I had a father-and it wasn’t him.”

The beggar grunted.

They stood there, in the silence and greasy rain, as the moment stretched. Kalen knew he had been injured and should be in pain, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.