Jaul collapsed. The deva remained poised for a long moment in the quiet cellar, his Veil-enhanced senses alert to every possible threat. But none remained, save maybe for the painting …
He flipped the cover over the fractured visage. The shards of Fossil were devoid of any lingering power. Jaul was halfdead with the strain imposed by the angel’s supernatural strength being ripped away, though the deva judged he’d probably live. The heap of earth glimmered with a threat returning to full strength. And Madri …
Well, she was gone. Back to the dust she’d been for a century or more. The guise of the Sword whispered away.
Demascus cried out and shuddered. He removed the scarf from his eyes and glanced around the room lit by failing lamplight.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Madri.” She’d saved him. She’d sacrificed herself and saved him. “I didn’t deserve you,” he told the blank spot of earth where she’d last stood. Misery reached for him. He pushed it away as best he could. There’d be time for that. First …
Demascus retrieved the damos. His lip curled at a hint of something vile smelling. He secured it to his belt.
He turned his attention to the pile of dirt. With bare hands he began uncovering a corpse. A corpse that was becoming a bit less dead each day.
EPILOGUE
CITY OF AIRSPUR
25 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
So I quit,” said Chant, finishing his story. He held out his mug to Riltana for a refill.
The thief poured ale from a clay jug. She and Chant had appeared at Demascus’s door at dusk. She’d wanted to celebrate. Chant wanted to air some grievances. Both were concerned about how he was doing.
Demascus sipped his own ale. It was lighter than he preferred. But drinking beer-flavored water with friends was a damn sight better than what he’d originally planned for the evening-morbidly watching the pile of dirt he’d transferred from Kalkan’s manor anddumped in a hastily constructed vault beneath his home.
“I’m going to reopen the pawnshop,” said Chant. “That, and disentangle my secrets network from Master Raneger’s. And make certain that crazy fire mage Chevesh has forgotten all about-”
“And what about Jaul?” prompted Riltana.
Chant paused, then shook his head. “I don’t know. The reason I took up at Raneger’s in the first place was so I could pry that bastard’s hooks out of my son. But I did exactly the opposite. I need to try a different tack.”
“Jaul lied to you-to all of us-and tried to steal the Necromancer for that fat watersoul,” said Riltana.
The human pinched the arch of his nose.
Demascus hadn’t wanted to tell Chant about finding Jaul with the Whispering Child. But he owed his friend the truth. He had refrained from explaining how Jaul had apparently relished his betrayal, how he’d seized on the strength offered by Fossil as an excuse. Instead, Demascus had spun the truth and explained that Jaul had hosted a possessing spirit named Fossil. He’d said that Jaul couldn’t help doing the things he did while he wore the mask.
Demascus wondered if he should tell the whole story. But when the kid regained consciousness, he claimed ignorance of the previous twenty-four hours. Perhaps Fossil’s presence proved so traumatic Jaul’s memory failed. It must be true, because Demascus’s lie-sensing charm hadn’t indicated otherwise. On the other hand, the angel had been a servant of the Prince of Lies, and Jaul had borrowed that power. If anyone could lie well enough to befuddle Oghma’s charm, it was someone touched by Cyric’s power.
Chant shook his head, bewildered. “Jaul’s wild. The more I try to build bridges, the farther I push him away. I think the best I can do is to leave him alone and let him find his own way.”
“He’ll come around,” said Demascus. Or he might not, he didn’t say. He knew families sometimes came apart at the seams for less. Whatever happened …
Demascus realized he’d never trust Jaul again. He decided not to tell Chant that, either. Instead, he reached out and scratched Fable under the ears. The cat responded by redoubling its contented purr. He wondered if Chant would ask for his pet back once his shop opened. Probably. The thought of losing his house companion wasn’t a happy one.
“So you finally returned the painting to House Norjah?” said Riltana, turning to Demascus. By her tone, he knew she was feigning disinterest.
“Yeah. I’m no genius, but why make a clan of vampires mad at you. Better they owe us a favor.”
“That seems at odds with your normal approach,” said Riltana.
“What’s that?”
“Falling face-first into the shit, making it worse by doing exactly the wrong thing, then getting out of it by swinging around your stupidly large sword. Well, right after a nap, of course.”
He laughed. Good friends were a treasure, and Riltana and Chant were worth more than gold. He was lucky they were part of his life. Though the painting was still on his mind, despite the fact that he’d returned it to Kasdrian Norjah. He couldn’t untangle the significance between the Whispering Children, Oghma, Cyric, and himself. He knew he probably wouldn’t like it if he ever managed to figure it out. But so far Oghma remained mute and unreachable on that topic, and every other.
He supposed it could be a coincidence. People tended to remember unlikely co-occurrences and forget every other moment of their lives, which were far more numerous but didn’t involve any kind of coincidence. But as Sword of the Gods and an “agent of fate,” he’d come to see nearly everything as having some sort of deeper connection. Maybe that outlook was a liability he’d have to overcome. Sometimes bad things just happened in life. What was important was what you did next.
“And what about your friend, the one you had the queen write to?” Chant asked the windsoul. “Good news?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Riltana’s skin reddened and the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Something like that,” she said. She brushed back the crystalline strands of her hair, looking embarrassed.
“Oh-ho, come on, you’re holding out on us!” accused Chant.
“Carmenere wrote me. She said she got the queen’s letter and that she’s been doing some thinking. And she said … that she missed me.” Riltana smiled, and Demascus couldn’t help echoing her expression.
“Good for you!” he said. “This time, amaze her with a whole new you, one that doesn’t steal every interesting painting she sees.” The moment the words left his mouth, Demascus regretted them. If anyone could take some ribbing, it was Riltana. Under normal circumstances. But by the way her eyes narrowed and her nose pinched, he knew he’d hit her where she was still vulnerable.
“Sorry,” he said, “That was meant to be funny.”
Riltana shrugged it off and took another drink. “I know. Sorry. You’d think I could learn a lesson. First, the queen mother’s portrait. Then a talking burglar that led to a piece that looked like it was painted with a torturer’s cast-off scraps. If you hear me start talking about portraits again in any context, slap me.”
Demascus nodded. “Count on it.”
They all chuckled.
“And promise you’ll do the same for me if I suddenly start telling you about some new heinous crime I only just remembered.”