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.
TWELVE
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?
