“Why would they take a ship when all they have to do is reach the mouth of the Demonweb?” asked Riltana.
The queen gave a curt nod. “Right. We could still conceivably stop them there …”
Arathane’s was staring at a stranger who’d walked up the deck to stand with them. A human woman in green gowns with eyes nearly as tumultuous as the queen’s. Her perfume preceded her: orange rind with a hint of something sharper. Chant wondered if Captain Thoster had other paying charters on his ship.
“I know you,” Arathane said to the woman. “You were outside Demascus’s home. You’re his householder? But that doesn’t make any sense …”
“I told you then I was not his householder. That hasn’t changed.”
“Then who are you?” the queen asked.
“My name is Madri. Listen-time is short,” the woman in green said. “If you want to save your friend, you have a splinter of a chance. But he’ll certainly pass from this life if you fritter away the time with pointless questions.”
“What?” said Chant. “Are you talking about Demascus? He’s alive? Who are you?”
“He was alive, but he’s buried in a tiny tomb of fallen stones. His air is going bad. If someone doesn’t get him out in the next hour, he’ll die.”
“You’re the ghost!” said Riltana suddenly. “The one who lured me into House Norjah, so you could steal that painting! I owe you payback for that deception.”
The woman in green shrugged. “You can try. But as you say, I’ve already lost my life. Though it might be interesting to find out the limits of my existence in this realm.”
A hundred questions occurred to Chant-what was Madri talking about? Was she a ghost, or wasn’t she?
But the queen spoke. “You were with Demascus?”
Madri nodded. “Moments ago. We shared a tender moment of reflection concerning times long gone.”
Arathane frowned.
Chant broke in. “There’s no way we can get back to the island in an hour, let alone dig him out. We already tried and failed.”
“Then he’s dead after all,” said Madri. “As I told him.”
“Wait,” said Riltana. “If you were just there, could you go back again?”
“I’ve said my good-byes.”
“Even if by going back, you could save him?”
Madri glared at the thief as if the windsoul had just uttered the most shocking profanity.
“When I … flicker between destinations, I am unable to carry another being with me. Anyway, I’ll not save the one who killed me.”
“Then why’re you here?” said Chant. “If it’s his death you want, you have a damn odd way of showing it.”
Madri shared her glare with him, too. When her eyes flashed at him, it was all he could do not to look away.
Riltana snapped her fingers. With a mage’s flourish, she produced a small yellow sphere. She held it out to Madri. “Give this to Demascus. Tell him to recite what’s inscribed on it. It might get him out. If it doesn’t work, tell him … Riltana says sorry.”
Madri looked at the marble as if it was a poisoned candy.
“Take it,” urged Queen Arathane, her voice regal with command. “Save Demascus.”
Madri scowled at the ruler of Akanul, but snatched the stone from Riltana. The ghost said, “I do this for me, not because you command it or because the rakshasa desires the opposite. If the future spirals into unknowable chaos, where no prophecy remains true, what do I care?”
“Rakshasa?” said Chant. “You mean Kalkan?” The pitch of his voice went up with surprise.
Madri ignored his question. “Demascus may follow directives, even those a child would think better of. I, though, will go my own way. And achieve my own ends. Although, if this does save him, tell him to look me up, won’t you? Tell him to come by the Copperhead and ask for me.”
Then Madri was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SEA OF FALLEN STARS
21 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
The water washed the grit from Demascus’s mouth and soothed the raw ache of his throat. It was sweet as anything he’d ever tasted.
“Easy. Don’t drink too much at once,” said Chant.
The deva stopped gulping liquid only when a cough racked him.
The pawnbroker clapped Demascus on the back, which sent the skiff rocking. “I told you!”
“Yeah.” Demascus shook his head. Relief still made him giddy. His escape from the rockfall had been nothing less than magical. He’d been gasping on the last of his stale air when a pebble dropped on his head. He figured it was the beginning of a fresh cave-in, until he saw the flash of yellow. He’d picked up the stone, saw a cramped message inscribed across its diameter, and muttered it. Then the boulder at his back slipped aside as if on greased rollers. He’d slid dozens of yards along a dirt chute. Up the chute, which was confirmation enough he was hallucinating. The earth shuddered and groaned as if all the spirits of stone and earth were trying to crush him. Delirious with lack of air, he blacked out.
The next thing he remembered was being pulled from the mine depot on the surface of Ithimir Isle by his friends.
The thief had plucked a gold-colored globe from his belt loop just before they pulled him aboard the skiff. He’d been too confused to make anything of it then, but … it finally occurred to him what it must have been.
“Riltana, how’d I end up with your Prisoner’s Stone?”
The windsoul darted a guilty look at Chant.
Demascus turned to the pawnbroker. “Well?”
“It was Madri. She brought you the stone; I gave it to her.”
“What?” He cocked his head, certain he’d misheard. “She told me she wanted to see me die!”
“She must’ve changed her mind,” said Chant.
Demascus swallowed. Sudden grief clutched him. That Madri or her ghost would save him, despite that she thought he’d killed her … it was overwhelming. She was a far, far better person than he. If their places were reversed, would he be so forgiving?
“Who is this Madri, and how’s she entangled with you?” asked the queen. “You must’ve done something terrible for her to hate you so. Yet you had something more, didn’t you?”
“I … We had a relationship,” he admitted. “A previous version of me did.” He was tired of making that distinction, between whom he was now and who his shards of memory suggested he’d been before. It was beginning to sound like a pretext, even to his own ears.
“You were lovers,” said the queen, more as a statement than a question.
“Yeah. And for some reason I can’t remember, my previous incarnation took a contract to end her life. She committed a crime the gods of Toril couldn’t forgive.”
Arathane’s eyes widened.
It occurred to him how difficult it was to surprise a monarch. But he’d managed it. Shame pierced Demascus. “I only claim a few oddments of memory and a few possessions from the one called Sword of the Gods. I didn’t kill Madri; he did. As Madri must have finally realized was true. Why else would she change her mind and save me?
The queen shrugged and gazed across the water. “Perhaps she has a more disagreeable surprise for you later.”
Green Siren II rolled along the Sea of Fallen Stars, making for the Bay of Airspur. Demascus savored the spray on his face, the cool wind, and the brine tang of the air. Unfortunately his physical relief at escaping the death trap under Ithimir Isle couldn’t wipe away his worry over what Madri was up to. Chant had told him that his “old flame” was somehow involved with the rakshasa Kalkan. Who should still be dead! Even if rakshasas reincarnated after each death, it was too soon for the tiger-headed monstrosity to trouble Demascus again. Or so he’d assumed …
Six months ago when he’d defeated Kalkan Sword-breaker, he’d sworn to be prepared for Kalkan’s return; that he’d take charge of his own destiny before his destiny took charge of him; that he’d try to reformulate his old identity by finding and taking up the Whorl of Ioun. He’d failed to even begin that process. Of course, he’d thought there was still time enough to start; only a quarter of the time span he’d arbitrarily decided it would take for Kalkan to return had elapsed. Still, nothing like waiting to the last moment before executing on a deadline …