Spinner of Lies

The vampire winked. “In my sixty years of collecting, I’ve hung seven of the paintings in my gallery. Because of Riltana’s break-in a few nights ago, I was down to just five. But since you’ve taken Ascension off my hands and you’ve repatriated the Thief, I’m feeling more positive about things. Despite the fact that I can no longer count the Necromancer as part of my collection.”

“Sorry about that,” said Riltana.

“Which brings me to my last point. Recover my stolen Whispering Child. Do me this favor, and House Norjah will count you as friends, not prey.”

They agreed, of course. They even gave Kasdrian the impression that finding the Necromancer would be their number one priority. Which wasn’t even entirely a lie. If Madri’s spirit was involved, Demascus wanted to know. Moreover, if a vengeful Madri had a painting whose subject was a talkative demigod of death, it was probably in his best interest to deprive her of it, the sooner the better. And … he wanted to see this woman he only remembered in storm-cloud glimpses. A woman so extraordinary that a previous version of himself had loved her. Then betrayed her.

Queen Arathane’s task remained undone, too. Unless she received actionable intelligence to argue against it, the Four Stewards would plunge Akanul into a moronic war with Tymanther, which would only further mask a drow plot that already connected a Demonweb entrance beneath Airspur. He should probably report the portal’s existence to Queen Arathane.

But even before all of those things …

Back at his place, Demascus sniffed his bedroom. Sandalwood, mint, and orange blossom odors curled through the air, though not quite as overwhelmingly strong as he’d been going for. So he added another spoon of incense to the coal pot. The pot sat in the center of a circle he’d created by arranging his scarf on the floor and stretching it out to its full length.

The circle matched a few cryptic instructions from the Veil itself. He’d done something like this in a previous life. That time, he’d been trying to contact a god whose holy symbol was a stylized eye and whose name he could no longer recall.

It didn’t matter. The important thing was, he needed answers from Oghma. Something was very fishy. The god of knowledge hadn’t been entirely honest with the previous version of himself. Oghma had commissioned the deva’s last incarnation to heal the discord in the Binder’s church-a fancy way of requesting the assassination of the leader of a troublesome Oghmanite faction. Demascus hadn’t found the faction leader he was supposed to slay- instead, he’d been led to Kalkan, the “Swordbreaker,” the one who’d been killing each of Demascus’s previous incarnations, one after another down through the decades. Kalkan had managed to remain unnoticed by the Whorl of Ioun, the artifact upon which the deva depended to keep his continuity of ability and identity intact between lives. So Demascus never even realized he was the victim of serial murder.

Except the last time the Swordbreaker ambushed him. Thanks to what the deva had assumed was Oghma’s benevolent eye, Kalkan was finally revealed. Demascus remembered Kalkan despite losing the Whorl … or maybe because he lost it; he wasn’t clear on that point. He sometimes speculated that not finding the Whorl was the best thing that’d ever happened to him. However, he could not recover the bulk of his abilities and identity as the Sword of the Gods, except for brief moments when he could trigger an echo of the Sword’s fantastic but terrifying persona in himself.

Demascus regarded the circle. He breathed in the incense. Oghma hadn’t told him the entire truth. The god was troubled by something at least as bad as a fractious church-the god’s children were trapped in canvas prisons and being exploited by whoever could claim them. Is that really why the Binder of Knowledge had taken Demascus under his wing? To involve him, and by extension Madri, in a self-serving quest to find his Whispering Children? If so, why hadn’t Oghma merely asked the Sword of the Gods to take on that task directly? Maybe because it wasn’t a straightforward assassination … He had to know. And the cagey Veil wouldn’t answer him on the topic.

Demascus laid the bifurcated blades of Exorcessum on the floor so the points of each sword aimed at the incense pot.

And last, but most important … He unwound Oghma’s charm from his hair. He touched it to his forehead, his lips, and then clapped it between his facing palms.

“I invoke thee, by the power of Exorcessum, by the power of the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, by the promise native to the payment you vouchsafed me. Oghma, Binder of Knowledge, I call thee! Answer!”

The daylight through the drawn blinds flickered out. A roseate glow replaced it, emanating from every surface, even his normally milky skin. The house lurched. One corner of the room seemed to drop five feet. Demascus staggered as his boots lost contact with the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, accidentally losing the charm as he scrambled for a stable surface.

The golden scroll fell like a hammer. It splintered the floor. He slapped his palms onto the hardwood planks and dug his toes into the seams. He paid for it with splinters, but avoided pitching out of the circle and into the slewed wall. The coal pot, swords, and scarf didn’t so much as shiver, as if only he was affected by the skewed orientation of reality. The pinkish light in the chamber died away until the only illumination pulsed from the scroll charm, alternating between white and red, fast as a heartbeat.

Demascus focused on the glow. Despite his suddenly rapid breathing, he was elated. All this drama and effect-his plan must be working. The light danced quicker, brighter. He squinted, as if trying to stare down the sunrise. Gradually, it occurred to him that it was more akin to peering through the keyhole into a brilliantly lit chamber. A space with pillars, grand banners, and stirring music.

Then a flutter of metallic wings obscured his image of the divine audience hall, as if something just on the other side of his tiny window had purposefully moved to obscure his view. Annoyance jabbed him.

“I seek an audience with Oghma,” he said.

The reflective feathers fluttered but continued to obstruct his view. A melodic voice echoed off the walls of his bedroom, saying, “What arrogance, world-bound creature, that you demand an audience with a god.”

Surprised tinged Demascus’s response. “I have the right! I have-”

The voice interrupted, “I admit you have a few of the implements and a scatter of memories of the Sword of the Gods. But you are not he. You are the merest shade of your previous selves. Your continuity is broken, perhaps never to be reforged.”

Demascus’s throat tightened as anger kindled. “No, that’s not true. I’m the Sword, or will be again soon. Who are you, angel, to gainsay me? I’m Demascus! And I determine my own fate!” He stopped talking because the charm had ceased glowing. It lay like a piece of faux jewelry on a floor which no longer seemed to tilt and upon which the ordinary light of day now lay in thin slats of dust motes. He blinked a couple of times as realization washed over him. The ritual had failed. Oghma, or an angelic minion, had terminated it before he could ask his questions.

“Burning dominions!” yelled Demascus. “What is this? Have I been denied?”

Yes, he had. His bid to find answers had been unceremoniously nixed.

It … it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair! When the gods needed something, usually something terrible and secret, they contacted him, no matter the issue. Plucking him from wherever he was and whatever he was doing, no matter its importance. To help them. But when he needed help, nothing. A tremor sifted through him.

It wasn’t just. Why did people worship, if not for hope of aid in a time of need? By all that was holy and sovereign, this was his time of need! Damn it all, he couldn’t even figure out how to recharge the dimmed runes on Exorcessum!

Then it came to him why Oghma hadn’t answered his plea.

The god of knowledge-like all the others-considered him a mere tool. Powerful and potent once, but a tool all the same, easy to discard once dulled or broken. And lacking the Whorl of Ioun, this was probably an apt description of his current state.

“I’m more than the Sword,” he whispered, “I’m me. And I’m not a contrivance or a pawn.” The golden scroll in the floor appeared dull and common. He leaned over it. “I’m not a plaything!” he yelled, directing his fury at the trinket. “I’m Demascus!”

He picked it up from the floor with unsteady hands. He should lock it away, throw it into the Sea of Fallen