Spinner of Lies frotg-1 Read online

  But the image blurred away, leaving him alone.

  A shattering crash broke his paralysis. He launched out of his room and down the hall, holding Exorcessum before him. The enigmatic runes, scarlet down one side, porcelain on the other, gleamed with secret magic he hadn’t quite puzzled out. But some visceral part of him recognized the touch of the hilt and the sword’s balance. Dangerous, wild, uncontrollable joy filled him again as he returned to the fray.

  A tangle of mist curled up and out of the hole in the ceiling. It could have been the scarlet-nailed vampire or the one Riltana had bested while he’d been gone, because the one wearing yellow had disappeared; only two foes remained.

  One was the hulking genasi vampire wielding a hammer of black iron. The other was little more than a child, darting in and out of range of Riltana’s knife and whirling a short sword.

  “Riltana, why’re there vampires in my home?”

  She said, voice tight, “They’re just stray dogs. Followed me here.” Then she fended off a hissing attack from the smaller one. Riltana was dressed in the black leather and face mask she wore to hide her identity and provide protection while she acquired things that didn’t belong to her.

  “So you’re filching from vampires now?” he asked.

  Before Riltana could answer, the large one came at Demascus with a swiftness that belied its hulking frame. It’d probably been an earthsoul before undeath lightened its skin to a shade nearly as stark as the deva’s own. The hammer came around, scribing an arc that would connect with his head. He brought up his sword and deflected the strike, but the impact nearly ripped Exorcessum from his hands. The thing was strong, even for an already preternaturally powerful vampire.

  The deva considered his options … which felt an awful lot like grasping at straws blowing in the wind. It was at times like these that he wished, more than ever, he had the artifact called the Whorl of Ioun. It was the key to recovering his true powers. For instance, he knew he could call forth divine radiance; he’d just blown the one in the hallway to tatters. But as he reached for that same divine brightness again, he found only a void. What the Hells?

  “So,” he said instead, “Riltana, why don’t you just give back whatever you stole, and maybe they’ll leave?”

  The windsoul shook her head and frowned. “Hey! I didn’t take anything! I just peeked at some artwork in their private gallery. Who knew they’d get so upset over a drop-in art critic?”

  The small one hissed, “She’s a thief! She must die for her trespass.”

  Riltana chose that moment to execute a pirouette, extending her sword high and steel-toed boot low. The vampire wisely ducked the sword, so the windsoul’s boot swept the little thing’s feet. Only its supernatural reflexes saved it from falling flat on its back.

  Part of him wanted to chastise the windsoul for bringing the attack on herself, and by extension his home. But most of him was glad he had something to kill, to take his mind off … things. And if anything needs killing, he thought, it’s vampires. Killing again, anyway.

  The big one whirled his hammer over his head, then changed the weapon’s trajectory mid-swing, again showing off immense strength. The hammer came straight down and caught Demascus by surprise, clipping his right shoulder. The pain was shattering.

  Something woke to the agony, rising up from a hidden reserve of his soul. A scarlet sun rose over the horizon of his consciousness, and everything was different. He forgot about Riltana, about whether or not she’d taken something from these vampires, and about his own lack of culpability. He felt bathed in purpose. He wanted to move. To act. To slay.

  He grinned at the hulking creature of the night before him. Of its own volition, one hand relinquished Exorcessum’s hilt, gathered a clot of shadow from thin air, and threw it like a dart into the vampire’s forehead. The creature shivered, then ceased to move as it strained against the immaterial barb pinning it to the air.

  Demascus laughed. With the casual ease of an executioner, he lopped the vampire’s head from its shoulders. The creature withered to impotent mist and dispersed. His glee redoubled, as if he’d downed a couple of fiery shots of whiskey and anticipated a couple more. The sound of heavenly horns sounded distantly in his mind.

  He turned his gaze to the last visible foe. It had scuttled away from Riltana and clung like a spider to the living room ceiling at the lip of the shattered skylight. The thief had apparently missed its departure, because she was casting about for her foe behind the remnants of living room furnishings.

  “Face me,” Demascus intoned, his voice resonant with power. He pointed Exorcessum at his adversary.

  The vampire’s head swiveled all the way around to stare directly down at him. Its eyes sought to burrow into the deva’s mind. This time Demascus didn’t look away. The compulsion in the white-eyed stare broke on his mind like a straw of sugar fluff. This sniveling child-monster was a joke for someone like him-he was the Sword of the Gods!

  He stared back at the vampire and said, “You should never have come here. You’ve sealed your fate.” He flicked the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge. Its parchment-pale length unfurled with a snap, and the far end wrapped around the vampire’s left foot. The small creature shrieked as Demascus yanked it off the ceiling. Its right arm snapped when it hit the ground at the deva’s feet. He stomped a boot down on the broken arm, riveting the creature in place. It was a child, in truth-a firesoul boy aged about thirteen winters-turned to undeath. He had become an abomination. He snarled and tried to scramble away, but Demascus just pressed harder. Surprise, quickly replaced by abject fear, washed across the creature’s face as it realized something more than the deva’s weight trapped it. Demascus was actively preventing it from turning into escaping mist with his stare alone.

  “You see?” Demascus said. “I am fate’s agent. You can’t elude me. Because your thread ends now.” He dragged his sword through the creature’s body, releasing a pulse of the same light that illuminates the heavenly domains. The vampire burned to a human-shaped silhouette of ash in a heartbeat. No hint of grave vapor remained.

  “Who’s next?” Demascus asked, and his gaze fixed on the only remaining person in the room.

  The windsoul’s eyes widened. She raised a hand and said, “Hey! Wake up, idiot! Remember me? Your friend, Riltana, the friendly genasi?”

  What was the windsoul going on about? Of course he knew who she … oh. The red glaze of murderous euphoria leaked away like steam off a too-hot mug of tea. With it went his momentary familiarity with a staggering suite of avenging prayers and assassin’s tricks. In the absence of his manic rapture, the room seemed duller, cluttered, and all too real. Is this how he normally lived in the world? And his shoulder still hurt where the vampire had bit him. He rubbed it and winced.

  “What just happened?” he said. Events of the previous few moments were foggy and disconnected, like a dream. Hopefully he hadn’t done anything too embarrassing. But as he let the tip of his sword fall, he guessed that was a forlorn hope.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry-I’m me again.”

  Riltana laughed, somewhat nervously, and said “Demascus … sometimes you scare the living shit out of me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL

  16 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Riltana rubbed her chin and studied Demascus.

  Was he still possessed by the memory of killer incarnations, or was he back in the land of the sane? Shadow had swirled around him like dark wings while his eyes had become two radiant stars, the shape of peril personified.

  Demascus had destroyed the last two vampires with no more effort than she would’ve needed to swat flies, while exhibiting palpable joy. A moment earlier, he’d barely been able to stand toe-to-toe with these creatures. He’d obviously touched a fragment of his previous self, however briefly. She’d seen him do it only twice before. He only ever managed it by accident. But when he was able to call it up, the visage o
f the Sword of the Gods was terrifying. When his attention had fallen on her like a coffin weighted with bricks, she’d considered fleeing. Then the shadow had dispersed and the celestial glow of his eyes dulled to nothing, revealing the man-actually, the deva-she’d come to know the last several months as her friend.

  “Back to being not entirely crazed?” she asked, forcing a certain casual lassitude into her voice.

  He blinked a few times, then said in a deadpan tone. “Riltana, I told you last time; if you’re going to stop by unannounced, the least you could do is bring dinner, too.”

  She laughed, louder than she’d intended. That was the Demascus she knew. She righted a side table and said, “I owe you for more than a few dishes this time.”

  “Yeah. You’re moving into the territory of real coin.” He fumbled with his sword, trying to sheath it in a half scabbard strapped to his back. Finally he snorted and laid it on the floor. He draped his wrap in a casual loop around his neck, letting both ends hang low.

  The scarf-the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge-was how she’d first met Demascus. She’d stolen it from him in front of Chant’s curio shop. Demascus and Chant tracked her down to get it back. A lucky thing, or she’d probably be dead in the caverns below Akanawater Falls.

  Little seemed to get Demascus down for long, even his own absent past. His unflagging humor made it easy to call him a friend. That and the sad fact that with Carmenere gone, Riltana could count on one hand the number of people who’d put up with her. Though he sometimes frightened her so badly she thought she would pee her leathers, she knew she could count on him in a tight spot.

  “Well?” he said. “Are you going to explain why rain is falling into my living room? I liked that skylight.”

  On the other hand, even the most accepting friend eventually finds a limit.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” she began, then stopped as a yawn caught her mid-sentence. Gods, it was late. She wanted to collapse into a senseless heap. But Demascus deserved an answer. Just maybe not the whole answer …

  “What it looks like,” Demascus said, “is vampires. Where in the name of all the gods of shadow did you find bloodsuckers in Airspur?” As he talked, he carefully rubbed one shoulder, which was spattered with blood, and winced.

  “I had no idea they were vampires, I swear! I thought I was visiting some prissy noble’s home.”

  “Visiting? Or something else?”

  She gave an exasperated shake of her head. “All right, yeah, I was sneaking in. I got a lead. Do you remember the painting of Queen Cyndra that went missing?”

  “I might be able to bring it to mind,” he replied dryly.

  Of course. She’d related the story every time she had a little too much to drink. She’d wanted to surprise her friend, Carmenere, by commissioning new paintings in the same style as the famous portrait of Queen Cyndra. Cyndra was the first queen of Akanul and mother of Queen Arathane, Carmenere’s royal aunt. This had required that she borrow the Cyndra painting for a few days as reference for the artist she’d hired. It would’ve been perfect. It should’ve been. Carmenere should have been thrilled beyond words …

  But it hadn’t gone down like that. Her leech-fondling “friend” Threneth ran off with the canvas, leaving her in the lurch! Instead of presenting Carmenere with a gift that would’ve blown the woman’s stockings off, Riltana had come off as complicit in the theft of a one-of-a-kind painting of a beloved regent of Akanul.

  Carmenere hadn’t believed her protests of innocence.

  The worst thing was, had she been in Carmenere’s place, she doubted she would’ve acted any differently.

  “Well,” she finally continued, “like I said, a hot lead fell in my lap. I got a tip the painting was gathering dust in House Norjah here in Airspur. So I went to take a look.”

  “House Norjah?”

  “Kasdrian Norjah is a merchant lord who bought his noble title years ago. Word is he and his house deals mostly in old books and scrolls. And they make out damn well supplying parchment and inks to the Crown, the Bibliotheca, and to a few wizardly guilds that go through that kind of stuff like nobody’s business.”

  “So-you broke into House Norjah. Did you find the painting?”

  “No. Just a bunch of sheep-straddling vampires! Whom I had the misfortune to disturb. I fled, but they followed. And they were fast! All of them, even the ones who didn’t used to be windsouls before they … um …”

  Demascus nodded, and finally let loose with a prodigious yawn of his own. “Well, we beat them for at least a day, assuming they can make it back to the grave dirt that spawned them before sunup.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He nodded, “Just one of the few fragments I do remember.” He shrugged.

  “Good. Let’s hope they lose their way home, then,” she said. “Anyway, it’s time for me to go. I’m sorry-”

  “If they recognized you, they probably sent someone to your loft. No, safer if you stay here tonight. I have a guest room that’s not smashed up, unless you were here earlier and I didn’t notice.” He smiled. “Plus, I want your help cleaning up this mess tomorrow.”

  She almost told him everything then. But she was tired. And after all, that could wait until morning, too.

  “All right,” she said, “And thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said. His gaze fell to the shoulder he was still massaging, where he’d been wounded. “I’m sort of worried about this bite-do you think I’ll wake up a vampire?”

  Demascus, a vampire? A scary thought! “You’re the vampire expert,” she said.

  “Hmm, right.” He thought for a bit, then said, “Well, I’m probably all right. I expect you’d have to be fairly weak-minded to fall under a vampire’s sway with just a single wound.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to put some ointment on the bite,” Riltana said, “or take some healing elixir, if you’ve got any.”

  He nodded. “Good idea.” Then his shoulders slumped. He let out a long breath. “And before I forget, tomorrow I have something I want to … ask you about. Something unpleasant I remembered right before you and your new friends showed up.”

  Morning shrugged off night’s dim embrace. Airspur disgorged a colorful populace across suspended streets and floating plazas. The hooded figure crossing Sapphire Bridge was just one of the many early risers in Airspur. Her stride was confident but not swaggering, determined but not hurried. It wouldn’t do to draw attention, so her hood hid her distinctive features. Her leather armor, scuffed and scarred, looked ordinary enough on casual inspection. She’d furled her cloak and coerced her crystalline spear to the opacity of dull wood. She’d taken one additional step to protect her anonymity. The circle she’d scribed on her forehead with spellbound chalk was enchanted. While it lasted, most simply ignored her, or if they saw her, they soon forgot about it, unless she spoke to them.

  No one who saw her would have any reason to suspect she was their ruler.

  The hardest part had been getting out of the palace without her royal bodyguard. It wasn’t a trick she could pull often, lest it be discovered. The elite detachment of peacemakers assigned as her protectors took their duties seriously. If they discovered she was out and about without them, the individuals stationed outside her door would be punished by their superiors, no matter her royal decree. As long as she was back in her palace rooms before anyone gathered the temerity to check on Queen Arathane, it would be all right. She had some time.

  The home she sought was in a neighborhood high along the cliffs, which meant it was upscale by most standards. It even had a small, attached courtyard shielded from the street by a stone wall and a gate. The gate was not latched. She pushed through and walked the short flagstone path to the front door. The courtyard was littered with pots containing all manner of plants, only a few of which seemed distressed. Someone had a green thumb.

  “Who’re you?” came a soft voice.

  Arathane whirled. The courtyard had been vacant when she entered. Yet a human
woman stood there in swirling green finery with eyes as stormy as any genasi’s. She gave off a scent akin to citrus and cedar.

  Arathane said, “I apologize; I hope I haven’t mistaken the address. I’d heard a man named Demascus had taken residence here. I need to speak with him. Are you the householder?”

  The stranger looked Arathane up and down, suggesting with a curl of her lip that she didn’t much care for what she saw. Arathane was unused to such insolent behavior. She was halftempted to pull her hood down to see what this odd woman thought of her then. Of course, compromising her anonymity to put the woman in her place wouldn’t be wise.

  Instead she said, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re the householder or the gardener. If he’s here, please let Demascus know that an envoy of the Crown has a message for him.”

  The woman laughed, and shook her head as if in wonderment. She said, “I’m not a messenger-or anything-any longer, and certainly not for the likes of you.”

  Arathane frowned, wondering if the woman had pierced her disguise, and if so, what the woman hoped to gain by provoking her. The queen decided not to give the stranger the satisfaction of a response. She turned back to the door, grabbing the brass knocker, and rapped on the plate. When she glanced back to see the woman’s reaction, the stranger was gone.

  Demascus finished sweeping up the last shards of skylight glass. With the broken furniture removed, the living room only looked halfwrecked. The wood floor was still damp, and only two chairs and a coffee table remained intact. Not to mention the gaping hole in the ceiling. He’d have to get someone to fix that before the next storm. Much as he’d enjoyed the extra light from the skylight, maybe the fixture was the wrong choice, given Riltana’s proclivities. He studied the windsoul, the artist of his misfortune. She was wringing towels into a bucket. Riltana’s high-flying style was usually something Demascus appreciated without remorse. But she’d never let vampires into his home before.