“Everyone inside,” the deva whispered. No one argued.
Chant found himself in a room with a hard floor, not a web, thank Waukeen’s stingy mercies! The air was musty, like a damp basement that had suffered several floods. The sunrod’s light had noticeably dimmed, as if it was working twice as hard to shed even half the amount of light it was normally able to …
Demascus slammed the door on the webbed corridors. The moment it closed, the door melted into the wall and was gone. Or maybe disappeared into the inky shadows.
“Where are we?” said Jaul.
“Shh,” said Demascus. The deva laid his head against the wall to listen where the door had been. Why was it so dark? Chant stepped closer to one wall, and was barely able to tell that it was painted a dreary gray and decorated with chipped and peeling wainscoting. Two exits were visible.
“I feel like I’ve gone blind,” murmured Jaul. He rubbed at his eyes. Chant felt the same-it was almost as if a grainy film covered everything.
Demascus flashed the kid a look, then motioned to Chant. The pawnbroker brought the rod closer. He saw the door hadn’t exactly disappeared, though it had suffered some kind of transformation. A line drawing defaced the wall and wainscoting, penned by a quill dipped in charcoal ink, and traced a square only half as large as the opening they’d come through. The line wasn’t even particularly neat or straight-it looked like it had been scrawled by a determined though not particularly talented child.
“Can we get back through?” he whispered to Demascus.
“Hope so. Now’s not the time to test it. We wouldn’t want to step through into our pursuer’s laps. I can hear their screams on the other side, faintly. They sound angry.” Chant shuddered.
“I don’t think we’re in Faerun anymore; the light falls differently,” said Demascus. “So we shouldn’t stray too far from this entrance. Who knows what kind of place this is? On the other hand, if our pursuers look through from the other side, I’d rather they not immediately see us camped here.”
The deva approached one paneled door hanging ajar on the opposite wall. Chant followed, holding the sunrod at head height in one hand and his crossbow in the other.
The room beyond contained torn and rotting divans. Deep claw marks scored the hardwood furniture. Two walls were wainscoted and held a door apiece, but the longest wall was a mortared, slightly curved expanse of stone. Snuffed candles littered the floor near a fallen candelabra. Faint sparks glittered through a single narrow aperture in the curved wall.
“Arrow slit?” Chant said, pointing. When Demascus shrugged, he advanced and looked through the vertical opening. It was night. And-
“We’re in a tower!” he said. They were in one of several turreted fingers rising from a labyrinthine castle that sprawled across the slope of a mountain range. Only a handful of stars burned red in the night sky, barely bright enough to illuminate the tallest mountain peaks. His breath steamed as it escaped out the gap. Out on the battlements, things fluttered just at the edge of perception, whispering and creeping, waiting to pounce on anyone foolish enough to go out into that endless night …
“We’re in some kind of old fortress,” he announced, his voice hoarse. “One larger than I’ve ever heard tell of. And it looks … haunted.” The others crowded around to see. Chant stepped away and closed his eyes. Seeing those unfamiliar stars … it viscerally shook him in a way that the deva’s declaration, that they had left behind the world he knew, had not.
He looked down at the golden yellow light of the sunrod and drank it in for solace. He needed it. Fear had taken root. Fear for his son and, indeed, for himself. A pack of vampires had chased them into a web of portals and from there into the first side-exit they’d found, which resembled a deformed echo of the real world-a practice model that’d been tossed aside but not completely destroyed by the lords of creation. A failed attempt that lingered in some forgotten corner of existence, attracting ghosts, vengeful vampires, and foolish creatures like Chant Morven, who should have stayed home selling pawned silver.
Chant wondered if he’d ever see sunlight again. Waukeen, you have much to answer for. Then he forced a smile for his son and put strength into his voice for Demascus and Riltana. “Let’s try one of these rooms away from the window, what say? I don’t like the cold air it’s letting in.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOMEWHERE IN THE DEMONWEB
18 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
"Rat-snuggler!” hissed Riltana when the door slammed behind her
She spun, all but snuffing the light of the candle she held in one hand. Shadows jumped to malevolent life across the low ceiling. The candle flame stuttered … then shivered back from the brink of extinction. Claw-like shadows shrank back to the corners, where they lurked like vultures. “Fist this,” she muttered, gazing around the room she’d just entered. The wall to her left curved with the outer shell of the tower. It was fitted with leaded glass windows in iron latticework. Rotting chairs and couches were scattered around a bookcase. Two more doors lay on the opposite side of the room.
Why did I volunteer to scout ahead? she thought. Damn Demascus and his stupid ideas! I’m nearly as worn out as he is-we should have sent that kid to look for a place to hunker down! She knew she wasn’t being fair. If vampires came through the portal into this shadowed castlescape, it made sense to leave Demascus on the threshold to hold them back. Which meant sending either her to spy out a few rooms or Chant, who refused to leave Jaul’s side. And Jaul was clearly not the one to send sneaking through these abandoned chambers. She’d seen the sense of it. She’d patted Chant and grinned her I-don’t-give-a-crap grin at Demascus, and set off.
That was then. This is now, she thought. Jaul should have been the one to go. It would be good for the kid. Give him something to think about other than trying to impress her and snub his father. The silence stretched. Riltana convinced herself a draft had slammed the door, not a stalking ghost. She squinted at a bookcase. But the still-guttering candle’s light was too dim for her to make out its contents. She stepped closer and saw that only a few moldering tomes remained on the shelves, but with the way the light from her candle jumped around, it was difficult to see just how many …
Damn. Why the fist had she thought it would be a good idea to save her sunrod for later and use a candle instead? What a terrible light source. It would probably get her killed when some ghoul crept up behind her using her inadequate light as a cloak, and …
“Riltana,” she chided herself, but only after she looked over her shoulder. No ghoul. Another step closer to the shelves and she saw that just two books retained covers. One had an obsidian-black binding and no obvious title. She set the candle down and flipped through the ragged, blank pages until she reached the very last one, which seemed like a title: Tales of Unbecoming. She had a sudden bad feeling about the book, and replaced it on the shelf.
The other book was halfsize, and decorated with a greenish teardrop-like design beneath the title, Final Journal of Delirium: A Book of Poisons, by Tora Kotryl. This one has possibilities, she thought. Instead of dropping it back on the shelf, Riltana closed her hand, folding the book away in the secret space of her gloves. Now I can add “books” to my list of larcenies …
You’re wasting time, she thought. Remember why you’re here? Not to loot abandoned keeps or play hide and hunt with vampires-it’s to find the louts mucking with Akanul’s arambarium supply. Only then will Queen Arathane intercede and send her letter to Carmenere. And then, after Carmenere forgives you, you’ll live merrily ever after. Right. Part of her wondered if she should still believe this dream. Would things really go that smoothly?
Riltana blocked that avenue of thought. With a frown, Riltana approached the two doors on the room’s periphery. The first door opened onto some kind of wizard’s laboratory. Its central feature was a black cauldron filled with a dried mass of something she didn’t want to look at too closely. Benches were heaped with all manner of jars,
vials, and slender glassware. Niches were cut into the curved stone side wall. She edged into the chamber far enough to see an urn in each hollow, and on each urn was a name. She shivered and backed out of the room.
Behind the other door was a bedroom. Three beds with tattered sheets were crowded against a wardrobe and a bureau scattered with combs, pins, and a layer of dust years thick. A barred window over the beds looked out into the lonely night. This was it-the place to rest, despite being next door to the wall of urns. It had a secure window, a heavy door to hold against attackers, and better yet, beds.
She retraced her route through the dark corridors, ignoring what sounded like distant screaming down one hall, and found the closet-like chamber where the others waited.
Demascus looked dead on his feet. Seeing him reminded her of how tired she was. A rest was more than overdue.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve found a place we can hole up for a while.”
No one spoke as she led them back to the bedchamber, though Jaul moaned slightly when they passed the screaming hallway. Chant shoved the wardrobe in front of the door to barricade it. Demascus didn’t argue when she suggested he take one bed. She took another and let Chant and Jaul thumb wrestle over who’d get the third.
The next thing she knew, she was opening her eyes. She’d been dreaming about eating frozen milk-honey and flying over the jubilant lights of Airspur on a spring evening …
Chant’s sunrod was spent, and her candle had burned down, though someone had lit another. Its tentative flame sketched the shape of Chant huddled on the third bed. Jaul lay on the floor with a ratty black blanket covering him. Demascus was sitting up rubbing his temples.
“Can’t sleep?” he whispered.
She shrugged. “Actually, I was out like a snuffed lantern. How much time has passed?”
“Hours. Probably five or six.”
“Feel any better?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I won’t be juggling earthmotes any time soon, like I normally do. But I could probably do apples, or maybe even axes. How about you?”
The image of Demascus juggling axes made her smile. She stretched. “Better.”
“Good. So … Riltana?”
“Yeah?”
“Something’s bothering me, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Have you been entirely truthful about the vampires?”
Oh shit, she thought. He knows! “Truthful?” she said.
“Yeah, you know, when you explained what happened at House Norjah.”
A bouquet of denials rose to her lips. But they didn’t smell sweet. She sighed. “I didn’t lie, Demascus. But I may not have told you absolutely everything.”
“It appears we’ve got a little time on our hands. Maybe if I knew everything, I could make better decisions.”
She nodded. She glanced over at Chant and Jaul. Both were still sleeping. There’d be no help or distraction from them. “All right. It went down like I told you. I got a lead that Cyndra’s painting was in Norjah’s gallery. I snuck in, didn’t find the painting I was looking for, and disturbed a bunch of vampires. They followed me to your place.”
“But?” he prompted.
“But … while they didn’t have the painting I wanted, the gallery certainly contained some interesting artwork.”
“Riltana, did you-”
“There were portraits-about ten, maybe twelve. All disturbing. One was a hooded man with no eyes, another was a soldier missing a hand, a wizard with no mouth … one was really awful, like a person sewed together with dead body parts …” The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she recalled the images on display in that room.
“Disturbing how?”
“It was like all the paintings were alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were talking to each other, well, whispering.”
Demascus shook his head slightly as if to make room for the concept of speaking paintings in his mind.
“What were they saying?” he said.
“I couldn’t make it out, not with all of them talking at once. So, I …”
“Took one,” he finished.
Riltana sighed. She got out of her bed and faced Demascus. She traced a rectangle shape in the air. From glovespace, the painting emerged and became a real weight in her grip. She set it against the wall. The painting was of a figure in a dark cloak and mask that nearly blended into the brick backdrop of the composition. The figure carried a satchel stuffed with gold coins that overflowed from the top.
“Some kind of thief?” said Demascus.
“That’s its name,” she said. “The Thief. It told me. It knows amazing stuff-all about burglary, hiding, getting in and out of secure places-”
“And you stole it,” said Demascus. “Some kind of wizardly artifact, brimming with useful knowledge anyone would value. No wonder House Norjah has sent a hit squad of vampires after you!”
“Yeah.” The eyes behind the painted mask caught Riltana’s. The portrait volunteered in a papery thin voice, “Acquisition of keys is not nearly as important as acquisition of trust. To break into a place of commerce, all that’s required is-”
“Hush, you,” whispered Riltana. She snatched up the painting and folded it away. What did it think of the glovespace, there with her extra rope, sunrod, the Prisoner’s Stone, arambarium chest, book of poisons, and other useful bits?
Demascus scratched his chin. “I don’t want to be the one to tell you your business, Riltana, but … maybe you should give the painting back. Norjah knows who you are, they know who I am, and they’re vampires, or have vampires on call. I doubt they’re going to rest until they kill us. Maybe if we return what you took to the head of the house, we can end this.”
Shame heated her cheeks. Demascus was right. Why was she so damn reckless? Yes, she should return it. She had actually already considered it. But she wanted to pump the arcane artifact for a few tidbits first. She wanted to learn the trick for picking a particular lock mechanism that’d always eluded her, maybe find a recipe for eyeblack that actually worked, and perhaps even the rudiments of breaking encrypted messages …
“Piss,” she whispered loudly. “I wish I’d never heard of House Norjah! If I ever see that bitch who told me Cyndra’s painting was there, she’ll meet the business end of my boot.”
Chant snorted, and Jaul rolled over. Demascus chuckled quietly, one finger up to his lips. “I almost feel sorry for her already. What was her game, I wonder?”
“Who knows? I never met her before. Though she seemed to know me. She was tall and had eyes like the cloudy orbs of a stormsoul. Very striking on a human.”
Demascus blinked. “Wait, what? Your informant was … a tall woman with eyes like storm clouds? Dark hair?”
She nodded. The deva’s mouth was working, as if trying to formulate a sentence after being clubbed in the face.
“Yeah … Hey, are you all right?” she said.
Demascus staggered out of the bed. “Did she have skin like coffee?”
Riltana nodded slowly. “Yes. You know her?”
“It sounds like the … the woman I … the woman a previous incarnation of me killed, the one I told you about. Madri. I saw her when I first reclaimed Exorcessum, and a couple of times since. I assumed it was only a memory so strong I hallucinated her presence. But … lords of light. Has she actually returned?”
“Uh …”
“How could she? She’s human, not bound to the world like me. Unless she’s a spirit … a spirit of vengeance …”
“Wait, you’re saying the woman who told me about Cyndra’s painting is, what? A ghost come to … to have her revenge? Then why’d she approach me with a false lead?”
Demascus shook his head in confusion. His usual halfsmile was gone, replaced by a grim frown. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“I … No. My past is still stalking me. The mistakes, the enemies, and the angry ghosts of those
I’ve wronged. And of all those I’ve forgotten.”
“If it is her,” said Riltana,” then she knows a lot about you and your friends. She knew about my oath to get Cyndra’s painting back.”
Demascus looked glum.
“If you were lovers once, she probably still has a soft spot for you. Maybe next time you see her, you should-”
“What, apologize for killing her?”
“For starters,” Riltana said. “And ask her to explain a few things. Maybe you don’t have to find your missing Whorl of Ioun to learn more about your past. Maybe you just need to find, um, what’s her name?”
“Madri.”
“Find Madri-shouldn’t be too hard. She’s apparently watching you. And me.”
Riltana shivered. She didn’t like the idea of a vengeful ghost from Demascus’s past stalking her, manipulating her. All the more reason the goat-humping deva needed to mend fences with Madri, whatever she was. After that, Riltana had a few questions for the woman herself. Such as, why’d she send Riltana into House Norjah in the first place? Had she wanted the thief to stir up the vampires? It didn’t make any sense. Not to mention how the repercussions of her theft were getting in the way of their main objective.
“Riltana,” Demascus finally said, “I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you’re suggesting. I mean-I killed a person in cold blood, a person who trusted me! She’s not going to just forgive and forget.”
A scream like a cat being flayed burst into the bedchamber.
Chant and Jaul both started awake.
“What was that?” said Jaul.
“The vampires,” Chant said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “They’ve found us.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ITHIMIR ISLE
19 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Lightning sizzled just over Chenraya’s head. The flash nearly blinded her, and she dropped to the ground as her passive-defensive spells channeled away most of the lightning’s charge into so many chasing sparks. But something still got through; it felt like a giant kicked her in the chest.
Spinner of Lies frotg-1 Page 12