Bruce Cordell: Spinner of Lies

“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.”

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 of 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?”