THEY ARRIVED IN WESTGATE JUST BEFORE SUNSET.
The gateway to the Savage Frontier was neither the cosmopolitan wonder of Waterdeep, City of Splendors, nor the ravenous squalor of Luskan, City of Sin. Rather, it fell somewhere between the two—a den of vice and scheming, where hard coin could buy anything and everything. The city displayed its wealth in great edifices and spiraling towers that cut the clouds, sprawling palaces and seemingly endless shipyards, and the unparalleled spectacle of the coliseum. Despite Westgate’s riches, however, beggars and thieves choked the streets, driven into the shadows under the boots or cudgels of merchant bodyguards.
In a way, Kalen found he preferred a city like Luskan, where the folk were scum and didn’t hide it. Even in Waterdeep, light and darkness wore more transparent guises, and he rarely had difficulty separating the just from the corrupt. In Westgate, on the other hand, one could never be certain of anyone or anything. The kindly merchant who offered a free apple by day might deal in slaves by night, and the good-looking stranger in the bar might be searching for a convenient opening to plant a knife in a trusting friend’s gut.
Conversely, Myrin seemed to love the city. She walked with her head high, drinking in every intriguing sound and smell, openly smiling at people on the street. Kalen wondered if she liked cities in general or whether Westgate held some particular appeal. She seemed at home.
“You’re drawing too much attention to us,” he murmured when they stopped at a fruit stand so Myrin could browse the colorful assortment on display.
“Am I?” The wizard selected a blood orange and turned it in her fingers. “Does anyone look the least bit inclined to cross my stern-faced bodyguard?”
That Kalen knew for truth. He did not carry Vindicator, but the black axe he wore on his back encouraged folk to keep their distance.
Still, the second they’d pushed through the eponymous West Gate into the city’s west quarter, he felt decidedly uneasy. He might have preferred to enter through the smaller Mulsantir’s Gate, but fewer travelers passed that way, making it harder for Kalen and Myrin to blend in. He’d also considered circumventing the city to South Gate instead, but that would require passing through the built-up area that was the domain of House Bleth, whose castle provided the bulwark of the new south quarter. He wanted to put off crossing the Fire Knives for as long as possible, and attempting to sneak past them might prove more trouble than it was worth. The River Gate would be even farther, much as he would have preferred the east quarter of the city—anywhere but the west end.
The Eye of Justice was housed so close.
Behind him, Myrin laughed at something the fruit merchant said. Her overt happiness eased his mind. Despite dwarf assassins, Sharran slayers, and demons, she found time to laugh.
“You’re sure I can’t get you something?” Myrin was looking quizzically at her purchase—an orange from the stand.
“No.” Worries about the Eye of Justice had stripped him of any appetite.
“Damn,” she said. “I was hoping you’d eat one of these things and show me how.”
“You don’t remember eating an orange before?”
“Is that what it’s called?” She shook her head. “This is very frustrating, you know—these gaps in my memory.” She considered the orange. “Any suggestions?”
“And spoil my chance to watch you figure it out? Unlikely.”
Hesitantly, Myrin brought the orange to her lips and bit in, rind and all. “Ugh!” she said.
Kalen chuckled. “You have to peel it first.”
“Too late.” Myrin gave him a disapproving look and tossed the orange aside. “We’d best find Rhett quickly. He’d never have let me do that.”
That brought Kalen’s mirth to a dead halt. “Let’s move on.”
They walked east along the King’s March, one of Westgate’s main roads, through the warehouse district. A few city watchmen trooped along both sides of the street—hard-faced men in leather armor with clubs, small blades, and nets to capture disagreeable folk. The tried and true methods of civic defense hadn’t changed much in the three years since he’d left, as he suspected they hadn’t in a century.
A clamor arose among the warehouses to their left. A Tethyrian merchant was arguing prices with a pock-marked, dark-skinned man in the garb of a Calishite. Near the merchant stood two bodyguards wearing the symbol of House Thorsar: a blue hand holding an ear of corn. Hands rested on steel, and if Kalen had to name a winner of the likely fight, he’d put his coin on the warriors from Calimshan with their heavy robes and scimitars.
Such a fight was not to be, however. As Kalen watched, the doors of a nearby fortified keep opened, and four cloaked warriors trooped out. They carried swords, wore studded leather and brigandine armor, and stilled conversations around them. Upon seeing them approach, the merchants arguing in the street concluded their business as quickly and quietly as possible.
Myrin pointed out the sigil tooled into the men’s armor. “Is that the symbol of Helm?”
“How did you know that?” Kalen asked.
“It’s the same as the one on your sword.”
“No,” Kalen said. “I mean, how did you know that name, Helm?”
“I’ve been studying,” she said. “Ever since Rhett asked me about that word ‘Mystra’ back in Luskan, I’ve read everything I could find about the dead gods.”
“Reading what—? Ah.” Kalen shook his head. “The gang library. Of course.”
The Dead Rats had resembled their namesakes in more ways than one, and their hoard of useless odds and ends had been impressive. Their library was the envy and jest of uneducated Luskan. No doubt Myrin had raided it for books and scrolls.
“Did you know Mystra was the goddess of magic a hundred years ago? I’ve been swearing on her name this whole time and never thought twice about it. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Kalen found that a touch unnerving, actually, but he nodded anyway. There were plenty of folk who swore on the names of dead gods—if anything, most believed it safer than invoking a living deity like Cyric or Bane and drawing unwanted attention. Kalen, on the other hand, knew that dead gods slept but lightly. Wielding Vindicator had taught him that.
“Those are Knights of the Eye,” he said, indicating the men who had cowed the merchants. “That castle once belonged to House Thalavar, but now it houses the Eye of Justice.”
“The order that trained you?” Myrin asked. “Where you sent Rhett?”
“We have a history, yes,” Kalen said. “And if they recognize me, it wouldn’t go well.”
“Why would it—?”
“They’re coming this way.”
Sure enough, the four knights had seen them and started in their direction. This was exactly what Kalen had hoped to avoid, but he should have known a confrontation would prove inevitable. And in this, the Eye of Justice’s own neighborhood, he could not refuse them a search if they wished to conduct it.
“We need a distraction to avoid them,” Kalen said.
“Why not just talk to them?” Myrin asked. “I can be demure and unassuming.”
“At least one of them will be able to detect magic, so they might find this.” He fingered a sword-shaped medallion around his throat.
“Oh. Well …” Myrin’s fingers twitched. “I could light them all on fire?”
“Don’t think that isn’t tempting,” Kalen said. “We need—”
At that moment, a curious pair appeared between them and the four knights—a noblewoman and her bodyguard, who held a parasol to keep her in shadow. The hired muscle was a dragonborn bedecked in plates of red-dyed steel; his arms and legs looked bigger around than Kalen’s entire body. The woman he escorted was tiny in comparison—thin as a blade and all sharp angles and serene posture. Her summer veil hid her eyes, but Kalen thought she was looking at him.
They appeared around the warehouse at just the wrong moment, so that the lead knight—Kalen recognized him as Jhorak, a Watcher of the Eye—walked right into the dragonborn and fell flat on his backside. A lesser man might have been jostled, but the big bodyguard hardly even staggered. He bobbled the parasol, which narrowly missed his noble charge as she stepped gracefully aside.
“Hey,” said the bodyguard. “Watch yourself, human!”
“Watch yourself, dragonborn!” Jhorak righted himself with the aid of one of his men. “By Torm’s blade! Do you have any idea who we are?”
“Does it look like I give a drop of godsblood?” The bodyguard raised fists that bristled with wickedly barbed gauntlets. A single punch of those could rip a man open.
The Justice Knights drew back, their hands going to their sword hilts.
“Vharan, love.” The noblewoman laid a delicate hand on her bodyguard’s hip. She had an elf’s voice, like a spring breeze over the sea. “ ’Twas an innocent mistake, I am certain.”
Her sweet words drew the attention of all four of the Justice Knights, who looked upon her with awe. She stepped toward Jhorak, speaking too quietly for Kalen to hear.
This was the distraction Kalen had needed. As all eyes went to the exchange—even Myrin watched with rapt attention—Kalen stepped subtly around a set of storage crates. He unclasped and palmed the sword amulet that hung around his neck, hidden under his shirt. It was Cellica’s amulet, in which Vindicator was concealed. Cellica had regularly concealed a crossbow or other blade, and it pleased Kalen to think of the halfling’s guile. Moreover, he had found he could summon the sword out of the amulet without trouble—before he’d confirmed this, he had worried the magics would interfere with one another. He could abandon the sword here and recall it at need.
“Thank you, Sister,” he said. “You may be gone, but you still save us.”
He stuffed the amulet out of sight between two crates and returned to Myrin’s side.
“Mystra, look at her.” Myrin nodded toward the noblewoman, who had thoroughly charmed the Justice Knights. “She has those men begging like hounds for a pat of her hand.”
“They aren’t the only ones.” Kalen coughed when Myrin looked at him sidelong. “They’ll come this way next. Just nod and do whatever they ask.”
The noblewoman had the Justice Knights laughing by the time she took her leave with her bodyguard. The peculiar pair came toward Kalen and Myrin, and Vharan glanced at them and scoffed as they passed. The noblewoman moved in a way Kalen found familiar, and he thought he had recognized her voice. Something about her called to him, although he couldn’t quite name it. Either way, she walked past them with a graceful stride, not sparing them even the slightest glance.
The four Justice Knights talked quietly among themselves. Jhorak cast a fleeting look in Kalen’s direction, but the men seemed to have forgotten them and passed on without incident.
Myrin frowned. “Shame. I was rather looking forward to being demure.”
“You?” Kalen asked. “Demure?”
She nudged him.
They moved on, past the spot where he’d hidden Vindicator. Kalen reached into the niche, but found nothing. He furrowed his brow. Sure enough, the sword-amulet was gone. How could someone have taken it in the thirty-count he’d left it there?
“What’s the matter?” Myrin asked.
“Nothing,” Kalen said.
It was no matter, as he could always summon the sword back into his hand. He wondered, rather, who had taken it and why. Like as not, the theft hadn’t been random. Even if an opportunist had been tailing them since the city gates, the amulet had been hidden under his shirt until just before he hid it. That meant the thief was either very lucky to see the amulet at just the right moment, or he had expected them. If so, said thief might lead him to the man—or woman—who’d sent the blood-scrawled note that had brought Kalen to Westgate.
Moreover, perhaps not having the sword was a blessing in and of itself. Like Myrin’s magic, Vindicator drew attention. He’d felt uncomfortable carrying Vindicator before Luskan, and he’d felt entirely too comfortable with it since. Perhaps he was well rid of it, at least for now. Either way, there was no sense worrying Myrin about it.
The wizard looked to be concentrating hard.
“What troubles?” Kalen asked.
“I know that woman … Did you sense it?”
“She did seem familiar.”
“Not that,” the wizard said. “She’s spellscarred. Can’t you feel it?”
Kalen didn’t feel it. His spellscar practically sang in the presence of Myrin’s powerful mark. His broken soul yearned for Myrin’s, like an unfinished half calling for its remainder. It hadn’t felt the same with the veiled woman, or any other spellscarred people, for that matter.
He began to suspect the woman’s abrupt appearance and the sudden theft of Vindicator were no coincidence. He peered down the King’s March, trying to see where she had gone, but alas, she had vanished. No doubt, if she had taken Vindicator, they would meet again.
“I don’t understand,” Myrin said as they walked. “Why didn’t you welcome those knights with open arms? Didn’t you train with the Eye of Justice? Aren’t they allies?”
“Not quite,” Kalen said. “Whoever killed Rhett—”
“You mean kidnapped him,” Myrin said.
Kalen shrugged. “I think someone in the Eye might be behind this. If we reveal ourselves before we know, it could be dangerous.”
“So we keep a low cloak for now?”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm.” Myrin crossed her arms over her stomach. “That thing I had before—an orange, you said?—that was awful, and now I’m starving. Westgate must have decent food somewhere.”
Kalen smiled.
They put some distance between themselves and Castle Thalavar before Kalen settled on a window booth at the Black Eye for a repast. The tavern stood a block south of the entrance to Tidetown, where steep streets lined with recently built houses led down to the Sea of Fallen Stars, which had been much higher once upon a time. Fare at the Black Eye wasn’t very good and the atmosphere—sweaty dockhands and painted coinlasses and lads—left much to be desired, but Kalen and Myrin were running low on funds.
The central locale did provide Kalen a chance to tell Myrin about the city, particularly which districts would not do for casual exploration. The Eye of Justice operated in the west end, where they had entered. At the east end of Westgate lay the Shou district, claimed by the Nine Golden Swords—a gang of Shou warriors who had grown in power in Westgate recently. First Lord Jaundamicar Bleth counted most of the city south of the Black Eye as his power base, but the east lay beyond his reach, and Tidetown proved a frequent battleground. When Kalen had left Westgate three years ago, a gang war had been brewing, and based on the widened territory markers—the distinctive Shou music and the scripted lanterns that hung on Shou-claimed buildings—it seemed the Nine Golden Swords had made no small gains since his departure.
Myrin listened patiently as Kalen outlined the balance of power in short declarative sentences, but she did not seem to be absorbing the lesson. At one point, she seemed to remember her platter of bread and sea chowder and set to it with zeal. Between bites, she stared out the window at the falling night. Just when Kalen thought she had forgotten about him entirely, she spoke so suddenly it caught him by surprise. “What of the Masks?”
“Masks?” Kalen furrowed his brow.
“Something I remember. Something about a thieves’ guild—the true rulers of Westgate.”
Did she mean the Night Masks? They were a century-old story—a relic of history—but she spoke of them in almost a colloquial tone, as though they were the matter of the day. It disturbed him. “You mean the Fire Knives?”
“No, I don’t—” Myrin’s expression was uncertain. “Perhaps. Tell me of them?”
Kalen leaned closer to her across the table. “The Fire Knives are an assassin’s guild—the hands of House Bleth. Their allegiance to the First Lord is an open secret.”
Myrin looked unconvinced. “Why doesn’t the Watch do something?”
“The council of lords owns the Watch, and the First Lord owns the council. Bleth provides half the warriors on the Watch himself. The Fire Knives are here to stay—for now.” He wondered if the Nine Golden Swords were going to take over Westgate entirely one day.
“No, that sounds wrong.” Myrin went back to looking out the rain-streaked window.
“We should think about where to stay,” Kalen said. “It might not be safe to stay in the city, and I’m not sure we can afford it, anyway.” He rubbed his eyes. “We passed half a dozen inns outside the gate. Perhaps we should try one of those. Attract less notice.”
“I don’t think so.” Myrin’s voice was dreamy. “I think we’ll stay … there.”
She was staring across the street at a decrepit black fortress. Moss encrusted the stone walls, and ivy hung down from spines carved in the shape of black stars. A palatial structure rose in the center of the complex, with a single tower that stood at its westernmost corner. The dark windows and run-down atmosphere gave the impression of having been vacant for decades.
Kalen had passed by that building often enough during his training in Westgate, but to his knowledge no one had lived there for a century, much less rented out rooms to coin-shy travelers. No one climbed behind those walls—not even thieves looking for scraps left by a long-ago lord of the castle. That the place had seen no overt residents was uncommon but not unknown in Westgate, a city built for many more folk than currently huddled behind its walls. One would have expected an enterprising lord to make use of the castle, or at least the land. Perhaps the occasional stories folk told of phantom footsteps and unexplained disturbances kept greedy would-be owners at bay.
“Myrin, that isn’t—” Kalen realized she had left while he was looking out at the building. He glanced around, but she was nowhere to be found, either in their booth or in the Black Eye. Finally, he saw a flash of blue hair outside the greasy window. “Damn.”
He dropped some of their last remaining coins on the table and shoved himself to his feet. The effort made his heart race, but he resolved not to let his spellscar debilitate him—not when Myrin needed him. His legs fought him, but he pushed through the numbness and out into the cloudy Westgate night.
The cold rain cut visibility either way down Silverpiece Way to a daggercast. Clouds blocked the light of the full moon, painting the people around him into bleary shadows, long-faced caricatures of themselves, monsters rather than men or women. But as the spellscar numbed his body and blurred his vision, his other senses sharpened to make up for it. He took in the stale aroma of the docks—spilled beer and spoiled fish, moldy wood and sweaty bodies—mingled with the scents of cruelty beneath—spilled blood, spent bile, and the salt of unanswered tears. Westgate’s vileness was almost palpable in the air—this city that pretended at civilization but was, underneath, as corrupt as Luskan. In the rain, it all seemed rotten.
He opened himself to the hungry curse inside his body and let it reach for Myrin. No other spellscar he had encountered made his scar ache the way hers did. And yearn after her it did, leading him around the ivy-draped wall of the abandoned keep. Beneath a dripping overhang, he saw a heavy iron gate wrought in a series of interlaced black stars, long ago sealed by rain and rust.
Before this gate stood Myrin in her familiar pose: one elbow clasped behind her back, biting her lip, and digging one toe into the ground. Rain plastered her blue hair to her forehead and neck, and her clothes clung to her frame.
“Myrin?” Kalen touched her arm.
The rain eased and died away.
At first, Myrin did not seem to notice his touch, as though she had grown as numb as Kalen. Then she shook off her stupor and met his eyes. “This,” she said. “I know this place.”
“Do you remember this?” Kalen asked. “This manor house?”
“I don’t,” she said. “But Umbra does.”
Kalen remembered the doppelganger king of the Dragonbloods of Luskan. Myrin had absorbed his memories at a touch, drawing so much from him that he turned to dust.
Myrin slowly nodded. “His memories—he remembers coming here with me. We passed this way together. I think …” She stepped toward the gates and raised one hand.
Abruptly, the gate shivered as though to shake off a deep-set sloth. It made a sound simultaneously like that of rusted metal twisting and of a weary man sighing, and the iron curled into something like a human face.
Kalen knew little of magic, but he recognized a gatekeeper ward when he saw it. Myrin’s eyes were wide—her expression amazed.
“Well met, Mistress Darkdance.” The gate twisted itself open with a groan.
Myrin turned an incredulous look to Kalen, who nodded. Even more than the ward keyed to her, the name confirmed it for both of them. He unbuckled his axe and followed at her side.
Inside the courtyard stood an ancient, overgrown garden, its grasses all gone to weeds. Willows hung over the mossy, cobbled path, tracing their fingerlike branches across Kalen and Myrin’s faces and shoulders. Shapes that might have been statues lurked in the shadows of the trees, poised to lunge upon them at the least provocation. If not for the moon filtering dully through the brooding clouds, the courtyard would have been completely dark.
“Easy.” Kalen’s eyes scanned the garden around them.
“I’m not afraid,” Myrin said. “This is my place. I belong here.”
They came to a set of stone steps leading to a very old set of oak doors twice their height. Stone braziers stood outside the doors, caked with dirt and filled with brownish water. Rainwater dripped off the eaves far overhead to spatter the stone at their feet.
“Will someone answer if we knock?” Myrin asked.
“Unlikely.” Kalen saw no lights in the whole of the palace, although he’d heard stories of passersby who’d seen things. He shrugged, then pounded his hand firmly on the oak.
The sound echoed away into nothing, and silence reigned between them. They stood upon the threshold of the closed manor and waited. “Perhaps—” Kalen let the word trail away.
They heard it at the same time—quiet footsteps from inside the door. Kalen tensed and raised the black axe. Myrin, by contrast, only stared.
Finally, wood dragged against stone and one of the oak doors edged open. There was no light inside, but the moonlight filtered down to illuminate a squat figure. An ancient dwarf peered up at them with muddled white eyes. He was blind. Nonetheless, the dwarf turned to Myrin and offered his hand in silence.
“I—” Hardly breathing, Myrin kneeled and put her head under his hand.
His expression seemed at first mournful, then relaxed into contentment. He reached down with heavily wrinkled fingers to brush her cheek. Kalen saw bright azure runes spring into being on her skin and trail down her throat, deep into her road-dusty leathers.
It lasted only three breaths before the contact broke. Myrin’s eyes fluttered and tears traced down her cheeks, parallel to the line of runes on the left side of her face.
“He … He was holding me as a babe. I …” She rose and threw her arms around the dwarf. “This is Elevar, seneschal of my family’s estate—Darkdance Manor. I’m home.”
In the dwarf’s embrace, Myrin shut her eyes tight and sniffed. “I’m home.”
Kalen felt warmth kindle in his chest and a great weight slide from his shoulders. A tenday past, finding the path of Myrin’s memories had seemed so important and so impossible. Now he sighed, and for the first time in more than a month, the sound was peaceful.
He looked up into the dark, cloudy sky and traced shining Selûne’s progress with weary eyes. Finding Myrin’s lost past was of great import, but so was the quest that had brought them to Westgate. An apprentice Kalen had let down. A mistake to be corrected.
He had work to do this night.
