Jaul looked from Madri to Demascus with fearful eyes. His arm clamped tighter on the painting under his arm. “The painting isn’t hers-she stole it first!”
Tensions in the low-ceilinged chamber were too high for Demascus. He sheathed his sword. “Everyone calm down. Let’s not rush into anything one of us might regret later. I just want a few answers. Starting with you, Madri. The kid’s got a point. You stole that painting from House Norjah.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t really care about the painting, only its knowledge. It knows things things you need to hear, Demascus.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what happened to me, and to you, when I was alive.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“You need to hear it directly from the Necromancer’s lips. That’s why I asked you here. And now this thief is trying to make off with the painting.”
“Well, we did agree to return it to House Norjah,” Demascus admitted. Though he was still confused how Jaul had managed to track down the painting so quickly. It didn’t make any sense.
“How’d you find this place, Jaul?”
Jaul swallowed and glanced around the room as if looking for another exit. An odd reaction, to be sure.
“Jaul, where’s Chant? Is he part of this?”
“ ‘Part of this?’ ” repeated Jaul. The young man’s eyes darted between Demascus and the exit.
“Yeah, returning the Necromancer to Kasdrian. I can’t figure how you beat the rest of us to the painting, but I assume that’s why you’re down here?” He let the question dangle, like a fishing line.
“Right! Right. I was … I just thought I’d get a jump on things, you know?”
The scroll charm braided into Demascus’s hair shivered. Great-a lie. Why was the kid telling tales? They’d already caught him red-handed. Maybe that was all it was-Jaul was worried he’d be reprimanded for acting on his own. It didn’t seem like a nicety the kid would care about, but he’d underestimated Jaul in the past.
“He’s not taking the painting anywhere,” Madri said. “At least … not until the Necromancer tells you what it knows, Demascus.”
“You’ll allow us to take the painting? If I agree to talk to it first?”
Madri slowly nodded. Demascus was surprised. He wondered if the Necromancer itself was a trap Madri had prepared for him. Maybe she’d primed the entity trapped in the canvas to cast a death spell or steal his soul with a whisper. Who knew what was possible for a demigod? Certainly Madri had reason enough to get revenge. It could even be why she’d saved him from the mine collapse-so she could deliver him to her true retribution here in this hidden cellar, in the very house where Kalkan once plotted against him.
“And it’s going to tell me what?” Demascus asked.
“It’s going to tell you how your precious office has been manipulated. How fate itself was denied-altered-for the selfish gain of an evil entity. And how you were the instrument of that alteration.”
Goose bumps swept his arms. That was a considerable claim. “Someone manipulated me? Who? Just tell me!”
“You won’t believe me.” She folded her arms.
Demascus realized he wasn’t going to escape the cellar without speaking to the painting. It might be a setup, sure. But he had to know.
He looked around to Jaul. “Well, how’s that sound? Are you willing to let me have a look at that thing before you cart it back to House Norjah?”
“Yeah, sure. Of course!” Palpable relief loosened the muscles of the young man’s face. He began to set the painting down.
“Get down from that first, why don’t you?” said Madri. “It’s dangerous.” She pointed at the small hillock.
Jaul sidled forward, leaving a clear boot print in the dirt. Demascus wondered what had Madri so spooked about heap of soil. She wasn’t telling him something. Which was worrying. Maybe he’d ask the Necromancer about that, too. A bonus question.
Jaul leaned the painting against the cellar wall. He played with the broken mask in his hands, nervously transferring it from hand to hand. Madri raised a hand and opened her mouth as if to tell Jaul something, but Demascus was already uncovering the canvas. The portrait was made up of disparate scenes stitched together with embalming thread. Each pane was a tiny vista of undeath, agony, and sundered sanity. And the scenes made up a terrible face. Mismatched eyes swiveled to meet his. The painted mouth heaved against the canvas, as if it vainly sought breath in an airless void.
The Necromancer’s regard was a psychic kick, as Madri had warned. Demascus sucked in a breath. He, or at least his former incarnations, had parlayed with avatars of gods, and perhaps even gods themselves. Though the entity staring at him was the scion of the Binder of Knowledge and a demigod, it was trapped in paint. It wouldn’t cow him.
“Necromancer. What does Madri want you to tell me?”
The two-dimensional mouth squirmed. The painting whispered, “… the Sword is vulnerable to those who can bend Fate, or deceive it with a tapestry of interlocking lies …”
“Explain,” he said, annoyed the Necromancer didn’t just get to the point. What was it about artifacts that made them babble most of the time? The painting was hinting at something monstrous, but hints could be interpreted any old way, depending on the desires of the listener.
“… sometimes a lie can shift reality, forcing Fate to adjust, instead of the other way around …”
“Yes, yes. That sounds very fancy. Just tell me: who’s lying?”
“I can tell you that, Demascus,” said a new voice, one whose depth and clarity sent shivers down his spine. “Turn, face me.”
Demascus looked round.
Madri had clapped her hands to her mouth and was pointing at Jaul.
The boy wore the burned half-mask.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL
22 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
"Hello,” Jaul said. “I never get tired of it, how vivid the world is through living, mortal eyes.” The mask’s mouth was moving, but the voice was not Jaul’s.
“Fossil?” said Madri, her voice quavering. “Is that you?”
“Just so,” Jaul’s mouth quirked, in perfect lock step with the half-mask’s rubbery contractions.
Madri whirled to fix a scared gaze on him. “Demascus, the mask was a dead angel; I thought I destroyed it!”
Jaul-no, Fossil-shook its host’s head. “You almost did. But you should have destroyed all the pieces.”
“What’ve you done with Jaul?” Demascus asked. If anything happened to Chant’s son … Demascus didn’t want to think about it. His friend would never forgive him.
“Jaul?” said Fossil. “He’s not far, nor as pure as you assume. I can see right into his mind.” A hand rose and tapped Jaul’s forehead. “In fact, why don’t I let him tell you what he’s been up to?”
Jaul spoke again, but this time in something much closer to his regular voice. “Hey, Demascus. Yeah … I’ve been sort of a bad boy.” Then he giggled.
It sounded like Jaul … but a Jaul hyped up on about five kettles of tea. “Take off the mask!”
“Nah. I don’t think so. I’m seeing things a whole new way.”
“Because you were stupid enough to put an evil relic on your face. It’s messing with your perception. Take it off!”
Madri interrupted, “Jaul, what did Fossil mean when he said you’re not so pure?”
Jaul laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Fossil meant the Necromancer. I wasn’t actually going to return the painting to House Norjah. I just said that because you caught me. No, I’ve been keeping Master Raneger apprised of everything you’ve been up to. See this tattoo?” Jaul pointed with one hand at a tattoo on his opposite wrist, depicting a dagger suspended in a crashing wave. “It’s Raneger’s sign. Means I’m pledged. I told Raneger about the Whispering Children while you were off chasing drow in the Demonweb. He was delighted to learn about the Necromancer. So he sent me to steal it. And you know what? I was happy to do it. Serves the old man right if House Norjah comes looking for him.”