Spinner of Lies

If only he had that ring. The twisted band appeared in so many of his past-life flashes of memory. Apparently the Whorl didn’t contain every detail of his life, but it did hold all the Sword’s powers and skills. Discovering why, of all his implements, the ring had failed to show up this time around was something he should probably figure out. Assuming he lived through the next hour. If he didn’t, he’d start back at square one. The thought was almost physically painful.

He grabbed the single visible hilt of Exorcessum and pulled it from the grit. It was the blade with white runes. The runes brightened and lifted slightly from the blade, save for the two that remained dark. Knowledge of where the other blade lay under the detritus seeped into him, becoming a certainty when he dug with his free hand and found the red-runed blade’s hilt. He pulled it free. Demascus crossed the two blades before him so they lightly touched. Then he gazed at each rune in turn on both blades, hoping to understand their significance. A few came clear to him like blurry memories of childhood haunts-the runes of the red blade were chilly spells of sharp death to foes. The remaining white runes were mostly concerned with relieving various hurts of body and soul. None were capable of relieving him of the condition of asphyxiating under a rock fall.

“How about you?” he asked his scarf. The Veil of Wrath and Knowledge retained its ember-like glow. But it did not offer a single word in the threads of its weave. The length of fabric was best used for strangling, not succor.

Strangling … Madri’s final moments swam before him, her eyes wide with hurt betrayal. He hadn’t used the Veil to end her existence, but the Veil’s silent complicity must have urged him onward. The Veil was supposed to give Fate’s sanction to each contract the gods awarded him. Presumably, it had not opposed his previous self when he was contracted to slay Madri … though he had no memory of asking it if Madri was a legitimate target. He couldn’t even recall the crime she’d committed, even though it must have been heinous if a divine being would require her death because of it. Were he put in a similar position in his latest incarnation, would he do it again? Would he, if directed by Oghma or Corellon or some other god of Toril, kill … Arathane?

“No,” he said, and blinked in surprise. He wouldn’t. He knew it with complete certainty. Even if he was caught up in an echo of his former power, he wouldn’t slay a friend. Especially a friend who might one day become something more. But … he’d slain Madri.

And Madri had meant far more to him, his memory fragments hinted, than he could possibly ever hope from a queen of Akanul. What was different between then and now?

The difference was himself. He was changed. It was more than merely a hope. It was the simple truth. After who-knew-how-many lifetimes spent as a vessel of divine revenge, a pitiless enforcer of the gods’ will, had he finally grown a conscience? Yes.

He guessed losing the Whorl of Ioun made that possible. But here he lay, breathing up the last hours of air remaining, on the cusp of losing this life.

Demascus didn’t doubt he’d be reincarnated again, dragged back into bone, flesh, ache, and anxiety, a prisoner on the endless wheel. He’d find himself washed to some new shore, or perhaps his secret mausoleum, several years hence. Probably some subset of his implements would be gathered to him by some ancient congruence he didn’t understand. Perhaps next time around, the golden ring would come back to him, too. And bridge him with all his previous selves, leaving his current existence cut out. The ring wasn’t with him now. It wasn’t able to record even a fraction of his current experience and newfound consciousness. Which meant the “him” thinking these thoughts would be as dead as any mortal being whose memories were ground to dust on eternity’s mill wheel.

Demascus shivered. He wished one of those angels from his unwanted vision would appear. He’d petition it to ferry him to breathable air and a silvery sky. Maybe a former version of him would have even known how to call such an entity. But he was fresh out of recipes for angel bait. His last attempt to contact the divine showed the gods wouldn’t help him, anyway.

With nothing better to do, Demascus toyed with his swords. He scissored the twin blades of Exorcessum so they lined up. Then he released his grip on the hilts. He imagined them falling together, fusing, becoming like the sword it had first-

Exorcessum joined into a single blade with a boom that momentarily deafened him. The blade was identical in size to the massive thing it’d once been. An almost ludicrously large broadsword. He smiled. He wondered how many configurations the sword-

“Demascus,” murmured a woman’s voice at his ear.

“Burning dominions!” he swore, jerking in shock. Pain stabbed him where he knocked his knee on a rock.

Madri was there! The low ceiling didn’t allow her to stand; she lay as if reclining, next to him. Her gown was pristine, as was her hair and skin-unmarred by the grime and dried sweat coating him. Her eyes caught his, and held him motionless for a dozen heartbeats. It took him that long to accept that she was really there with him and not an aberration of his air-starved mind.

Finally he ventured, “You … you’ve come back to haunt me for what I did?”

She raised an eyebrow. Was she a ghost? Or something else entirely? She didn’t seem the least bit ethereal. The air hadn’t chilled with her appearance. He decided to proceed as if she was a rational being, not a grave-born revenant.

“I’m sorry. I would never harm you. I … I’m not the same Demascus you knew,” he said. “In fact, I hardly remember you, only a couple of fragments.”

Her brows drew down and her dark eyes flashed. She said in a throaty, completely unghostly voice, “You killed me, you bottom-feeding louse! For a contract. A damn contract with some god-you chose your office over me. And now you don’t even remember who I am?” She slapped him. His face burned with the unexpected contact.

“What are you?” he said.

“Does it matter? It won’t change what you did, you bastard.”

“I suppose not. I do remember … that. But I’m not the person who took that contract.”

“What kind of dragon dung are you trying to shovel, Demascus? You’ve got the same sword, the same scarf, the same face, even the same eyes.”

“I’ve even got a few of the same memories,” he said. He wiped his face. His stomach roiled, and his voice shook. “But I’m a different incarnation. The me who killed you died, too. I am not the one who betrayed what you had with … the old me.”

As the words passed his lips, he knew what they sounded like: a particularly lame excuse. Nothing better suggested itself, though. Besides, it was the truth. His words to Madri were a variation on what he’d been telling himself. If the blame truly was his, he wouldn’t even try to explain himself. He’d accept her scorn unchallenged.

She laughed. “You’re unbelievable. Here you are, with less than a bell’s worth of air left before you asphyxiate, and you still won’t own up to your crime.”

“I know how it looks. I know you can’t forgive me. And you probably shouldn’t. For what it’s worth … I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do what he did to you.”

“Liar.”

He thought she might slap him again. But she closed her eyes as if surrendering to exhaustion.

What had she been up to? Then he remembered how Kasdrian Norjah had accused Madri of taking the Necromancer. He should ask. The question lay on his tongue like a rotten almond. Instead, he said, “Madri … How can you be here? You’re dead, maybe a century or more in the grave. I don’t understand.”

Her posture softened. She opened her eyes. Some of the hate was gone, replaced by a hint of vulnerability. His hand, almost of its own accord, cupped her face. Her cheek was warm. She leaned her head into his palm and murmured, “I’ve missed you, Demascus.”

He considered replying in kind-but he didn’t recall enough of their relationship for that to be true. This wasn’t the time to start lying, he judged, though her remark screamed for some kind of answer.

Finally she filled the silence. “I don’t know for certain how I’ve returned. You’re partly responsible, or your sword. And your enemies. They’re waiting for you to make a mistake. Or rather, for prophecies to deliver you into their service …”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Demascus tried to pull away, but she clasped his hand. Then she leaned in and kissed him.

The feather warmth of lips transported him. They were like velvet.

He knew her perfume: orange-peach with undertones of cedar. Her scent was a window in his mind. He saw