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 how she’d been, before, as they’d walked the plazas of a faraway place called Halruaa. He’d thrilled at her mastery of a magical metropolis whose architecture equaled divine domains. She’d been a person of importance, someone who’d mattered. And someone who’d taken an interest in him. She was enchanting. He pulled her close. She melted into his arms. She wasn’t anything like a ghost. Madri gazed into his eyes as if searching for something.
“I don’t know how it’s possible you’re here, but … do you believe me? Life’s too short to spend in revenge.”
Madri pulled away. “I don’t know, Demascus. Maybe life’s too short for regular people. But we’re both here, together again. Which means there’s always time for retribution. You killed me. I can’t forget that. So now I’m going to leave you, even though I could probably save you.”
“You can get me out of here?”
“Maybe. But I won’t. I’m leaving you to die. As you killed me … I’m killing you. How does it feel?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ITHIMIR ISLE
21 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
After all they’d gone through together, Chant could scarcely believe Demascus was dead.
The awkward isle protruded from the sea, waves washing against it with mindless regularity. The overcast sky painted everything the color of ash. What was it to the Sea of Fallen Stars, a body of water larger than many nations, that a lone deva had died beneath its surface in a mine collapse? Nothing.
Wasn’t a deva’s death merely a temporary setback? Demascus would return …
Not really, he thought. The person I know is gone. Someone would rise again and take the name Demascus, and probably wield the same implements. He just wouldn’t remember anything of what he’d accomplished and the friends he’d made in Akanul, except as isolated fragments. In a very real sense, the Demascus Chant had called friend was gone forever.
Flakes of paint came away from Green Siren’s railing and crumbled in his palms. Jaul seemed the only one oblivious to the island and unaffected by the death of Demascus; he alternated juggling his knives and throwing them at a mast when the crew wasn’t looking.
Riltana and Queen Arathane were with Chant at the railing, staring at the bleak island. They had spent fruitless hours digging, or trying to dig, but ultimately failing to make real headway, and finally everyone was forced to admit that Demascus was lost beyond recovery beneath the rock fall. After that, escaping the arambarium mine had required hours, as they traced their way out the same way they’d entered. At least the drow and all her minions had suffered the same fate as the deva, Chant hoped. He noticed that tears had made trails in the grime on the windsoul thief’s cheek.
Arathane, though, was still as a statue, majestic and deliberate. It was only the tightness in her neck and the slight quiver of her lip that betrayed her to Chant.
Recognizing the monarch’s sorrow finally broke the pawnbroker’s own reserve. Moisture gathered in his eyes. He dropped his face to his hands. “Demascus, you were a friend,” he whispered. “One of the few I made in this crazy world. Why’d you have to get yourself killed?”
The slap of water against the side of Green Siren was his only answer.
“Hey!” came Captain Thoster’s voice from aft. “What in Umberlee’s name is that?” The captain pointed at the island.
Chant strained to look. Was it Demascus? Had the deva burrowed his way free? At first he didn’t understand what he was seeing. A cloud rose from the island summit, like steam off a teakettle. He squinted. No, it wasn’t vapor-the cloud was composed of spiders. Hundreds of spiders. Each had deployed some kind of wavering filament. Caught by the wind, the strands pulled the creatures en masse into the sky.
The largest ones held ettercaps and undead miners in their eight-fold grips …
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Pretty obvious,” said Riltana. “The drow are evacuating the island.”
A larger shape climbed into the leaden air: A balloon spun of spider silk, shaped like a massive arachnid. Hanging beneath it on a forest of thin webs, and serving as the balloon’s ballast, was a cocoon the size of a small house. A silver sheen glinted dully through a thin section of the cocoon covering.
“That’s the arambarium mother lode,” said the queen. Her voice was weary with disbelief.
Riltana said, “They didn’t use the Demonweb to reach the island-they flew! Those rat-coddling leech-kissers!”
It took only a span of breaths for the soaring spiders and arachnid blimp to ascend into the cloud ceiling.
“Gone,” said Chant. He was having trouble thinking. The image wanted to push everything else out of his head.
“Will they wing directly over the Sea of Fallen Stars?” said Queen Arathane. “Or take a ship from Airspur? If the latter, we may still catch them.”