Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  “Which we finally did,” said Chant. “Lucky for you.”

  Riltana raised a finger. “You know what’s really strange? Kalkan didn’t just hire me a couple days ago; he hired me four years ago.”

  “So?” said Chant.

  “Think about it. Kalkan knew to the moment when Demascus would emerge from your shop with the scarf.”

  “Oh … oh!” said the pawnbroker, sitting straighter. “That’s quite a prediction. Especially since Demascus himself didn’t know he’d be in my shop two days ago.”

  A chill brushed Demascus’s spine. So fine a detail divined so far into the future just wasn’t possible. He said, “It wasn’t a prediction; it was foreknowledge.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Certainty washed through him like a winter wind. He said, “Anyone can predict what might happen a song from now, or an hour, and sometimes even up to a tenday from now. Magic or divine intervention can help narrow the focus on the cloud of branching possibilities. But seeing the future accurately is a devilishly difficult task, one that even eludes the gods. Anyone who possesses such a refined ability would be dangerous beyond compare.”

  “Kalkan knew,” said Riltana. Her eyes narrowed. “But maybe it’s not such a miracle. Maybe you and he set this up ahead of time, to draw me into some kind of crazy scheme all of you prepared!” She pushed her chair back, crossed her arms, and glared at them.

  Chant raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know this Kalkan,” said Demascus.

  “And how do I know if you’re being honest with me?”

  He sighed and decided to tell the thief the whole truth. “In fact, I don’t even know who I am. I woke up two days ago without any memory except a few tattered fragments. One of my reclaimed memories is of … this scarf.”

  “That’s it?” said the thief, her manner still suspicious.

  “No, there’s more.” Demascus then related how he’d survived being the guest of honor at some kind of demon summoning ritual put on by the Firestorm Cabal, how he’d found his way to Airspur, and how he and Chant had tried to learn more of his past by visiting the Motherhouse. When he told her about facing Chevesh, she whistled and murmured, “You broke into the fire mage’s tower? Maybe you’re both escapees from a nutter’s house.” He concluded by describing how, upon returning from Chevesh’s tower, they found the Motherhouse in ruins.

  “All right,” Riltana said finally, raising her hands as if in surrender, “That all sounds too crazy to be anything but the truth.”

  “Why’s that?” said Demascus.

  “Lies need to be simple, so you can remember them,” offered Chant.

  “Exactly,” said Riltana. “So how’d you find me?”

  Demascus glanced at the pawnbroker, recalling how Carmenere didn’t want to be mentioned.

  Chant said, “We found the note you left in your loft.”

  Demascus glanced down, uncomfortable with the falsehood. But they’d promised.

  “Was anyone there? At my loft?” said Riltana.

  “No, it was empty.”

  The thief frowned, then she shook her head. “Well, thanks again for pulling me out of there—even if you did bring that demon with you.”

  The cat padded back to them, and wound around the thief’s ankles. She studied Fable a moment, then lifted the cat.

  “Careful!” said Chant. “Fable only likes to be petted on the head. She’s a bit temperamental.”

  The cat settled into a purring puddle in Riltana’s lap. She stroked down the cat’s head and back. The pawnbroker shook his head. “She’s just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

  “Don’t worry. I know cats. I used to have one when I was small.”

  “Tell me more about Kalkan,” said Demascus. “He tried to take the Veil from you without paying your fee?”

  The thief looked up from Fable. “Yeah … well, no, he didn’t try to take the scarf from me. He said he didn’t actually want it. What he wanted was to deprive you of it at that particular time and place. Then he dumped the Akanawater on me.”

  “Extreme,” said Chant. “It doesn’t make sense though.”

  “I don’t think he counted on me surviving,” volunteered Riltana. “Once he saw I’d taken the wrap on schedule, he told me my ‘eternal silence’ was required. Or something like that.”

  “But here you are,” said Chant.

  “Right, here I am, angry as a hive of bees knocked out of a tree. I’m not going to let this go. Kalkan just made himself an enemy.”

  “How’d you survive drowning?” said Chant.

  “It was the scarf. Good thing I had it …” Riltana trailed off, then gave a self-deprecating grin. “It guided me out of the deeps.”

  “How?” said Demascus. He ran a finger along the fabric.

  Riltana said, “It shone like a lantern. It pointed the way back to the surface after a torrent washed me into deep tunnels. It named itself the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, and said it knew what was recorded, and that it witnessed those who were fated to die.”

  Demascus looked from her back to the wrap. He’d heard something like that once … but the effort to remember was like trying to catch campfire embers blowing in the wind.

  Riltana said, “It agreed to help me, but only if I returned it to the Sword.”

  “The sword?” said Chant.

  “The Sword,” corrected Riltana. “Some sort of really powerful blade I guess.”

  “More and more fascinating,” said Chant. “Any of this ring any bells, Demascus?”

  Demascus gave an ambivalent nod. The Sword. The name’s significance was on the tip of his tongue. But it refused to resolve. Was the “Sword” the blade he remembered carrying in his memory fragments? It seemed a distinct possibility; the weapon had looked like an extraordinary piece of hardware.

  Demascus scratched his chin and let his gaze drift to the rafters. They reminded him of massive parallel beams he’d once seen in a shining temple of light.

  The memory washed over him suddenly and completely, and he saw creatures of perfect feature and form standing in small groups beneath a massive vault.

  He was among them, in gleaming finery of white silk and gold. His greatsword was on his back, the Veil was wrapped around the hilt. Charms hung in his braided hair, and his ring hummed to itself on his thumb.

  A man standing next to Demascus clapped him on the shoulder. The man was of middle height, with kind eyes, and sandy hair worn long. He was attired in priestly garb, and he was smiling, but it was a nervous smile. He said, “Are you ready?”

  Demascus nodded and said, “Yes, Tarsis. It’s time to speak with the avatar.”

  “You seem amazingly calm for where we are, and what we are about to do,” said the priest.

  “I’ve done this before.”

  The priest wiped at his brow. He obviously had not.

  They walked the length of the temple, to the far end, where a nondescript man sat on a stool against the wall. He wore a silver breastplate, and a golden scrollcase hung on his belt.

  The man strummed a lyre, and though he played no song, the chords hung in the air like living creatures of glowing gold. The sounds didn’t so much fade as escape into the world as if born.

  Tarsis fell to his knee in an elaborate genuflection. Demascus performed a respectful bow.

  The man set aside his instrument and rose. He said, “Demascus, I greet thee. I suppose the whispers of Fate cannot be ignored, even for one such as me.”

  Demascus said, “Binder, I go where Fate points me.”

  The man smiled, and the light in the temple brightened. He said, “Of course. And I would be foolish to stand in the way of gears that transcend even this world. I, if anyone, know this to be true.”

  “You are the Binder of All Knowledge,” said Demascus. “I’m sure you understand it all far better than I.”

  The man sighed. “Yes. Though sometimes I like to pretend otherwise. But let’s take care of business
first, shall we? After that, I want to learn more about the place from where you come. It is not every epoch that a flesh-and-blood opportunity to expand my knowledge comes calling.”

  Demascus said, “I’m afraid I can’t speak of anything previous to this moment; your pardon. All I require is a token, and a name.” He reached up and loosed the Veil from the hilt of his sword.

  The man said, “Undryl Yannathar. You can find his most dangerous agents in the nation of Akanûl.”

  The name spoken appeared across the Veil’s length, picked out in red lines, then faded.

  Demascus nodded. He’d never yet seen the Veil not accept a divine commission, but he supposed it could happen one day. The Veil was Fate’s filter. Or at least, that was how he liked to think about it. Something had dragged him out of his own world and dropped him into Toril. The Veil had seemed to know about it ahead of time, and what but destiny itself had the power to breach parallel continuums?

  Demascus shook his head and declared, “It is met. Undryl Yannathar has been marked. I shall find him, and deal with him and his agents.”

  The man said, “That of which I am but the smallest part cannot touch Undryl, for he believes he does right. But he has been led astray in a manner that threatens to completely fracture my church.”

  “Which is why I am here.” I do the dirty work of the gods, he wanted to say, so the gods can keep their hands clean.

  The man pressed a small metallic charm into Demascus’s hands. The charm was in the shape of a blank scroll. He said, “With this token, you may call upon a sliver of Oghma’s power when you need it most.”

  Demascus wound it into his hair with all the others already there. “I know,” he said. Then, “Payment is accepted.”

  Tarsis led him away from the man, who returned to his stool and idle strumming.

  “That went well,” observed the priest, and grinned at Demascus.

  Demascus smiled back.

  The memory faded, and he found himself still staring at the rafters in Chant’s dingy pawnshop.

  It felt like he couldn’t breathe. A coughing fit racked him, and he pushed away from the counter.

  “Are you ill?” said Chant, rising.

  Demascus shook his head. The man, Tarsis, who had directed him into the presence of a divine avatar …

  Tarsis was the man he remembered strangling to death.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  CHANT BROUGHT DEMASCUS A GOBLET FILLED WITH WATER. The tattooed man sipped, and nodded gratefully.

  “What happened?” Chant asked. “Did you choke on a carrot?” He glanced at the dregs of stew on the counter. Fable, still in Riltana’s lap, twitched her ears in interest, perhaps thinking she was about to be fed the leavings. Chant hoped it hadn’t been a cat hair that—

  “I remembered something,” Demascus said. He set down his goblet and took up the length of fabric again.

  “Riltana says you’re the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge,” Demascus said to the scarf.

  The scene struck Chant somewhat ridiculous, but Demascus continued in an earnest tone, “I remember you, but only in broken fragments. The same way I remember my past; it’s like looking into a shattered mirror, one with most of the pieces missing. Why can’t I remember anything? Who am I? Am I a … divinely sanctioned killer?”

  Riltana made a sound of surprise simultaneous to Chant’s own. Demascus didn’t pay them any attention; his eyes remained focused on the parchment-colored cloth. A divinely sanctioned killer? wondered Chant. What in the name of the King of Coins was his guest talking about?

  “Answer me! My name is Demascus, and if you are bound to me, help me!”

  The Veil twitched in the man’s hands, suddenly supple. When Demascus dropped it, the scarf unrolled across the counter, winding like a snake to avoid the carrypot of stew. Words faded into view on its surface:

  You were bound to the world to wage endless war against darkness. Born and reborn to mortal life, death can’t permanently claim you. With each new incarnation, you lose all of what you were except for a smattering of memories. You are the newest incarnation.

  The message faded as if sinking beneath the surface of a milky pool.

  Demascus whispered, “Merciful gods.”

  Chant put a hand on Demascus’s shoulder as the man swayed slightly, because it looked like he might fall over. He wished someone would do the same for him! Because, the words implied …

  “You were dead?” said Chant.

  “Many times, sounds like,” said Riltana. “It’s like something out of a story. A sort of a resurrection blessing. Or … a resurrection curse?” The thief looked at him as if to gauge his reaction.

  Demascus mopped his brow with his jacket sleeve. He said, “No, that’s crazy. I don’t … I don’t know how that could be true. But …”

  More words formed on the wrap:

  Others like you exist, angels who traded divine existence for mortal flesh. But you have attained a greater continuity between incarnations. Your implements are anchors of memory and purpose. I, the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, am one such implement. You are, as you have been before, called Demascus.

  “See?” said Riltana. “The Veil of Wrath and Knowledge; that’s what it called itself last time.”

  Fable focused with single-minded fascination on the changing words dancing across the wrap. The cat raised herself from Riltana’s lap until her hindquarters were higher than her forepaws, as if she was about to pounce.

  “Stop that,” said Chant. He released Demascus’s shoulder and leaned over to grab his cat. Fable struggled to be put down, and he hastily let her down on the floor. Crazy animal, he thought.

  Demascus watched the cat bound into a corner, but his gaze seemed unfocused. Chant could imagine why. What the magic scarf suggested seemed farcical.

  On the other hand … it explained the fragmentary nature of Demascus’s memories, and perhaps, the grandeur of them. He was, a what, a fallen spirit? An angel bound to live over and over again?

  “To what purpose are these … lives?” Demascus asked the Veil.

  Another collection of words appeared, though these were fainter than before, and blurrier:

  Beware, Demascus. Your last incarnation overreached himself to draw out your nemesis, and so fell closer to sin. Find your ring, if you can; it possesses the bulk of what you sacrificed so much to discover, but if not your ring, take up your sword.

  “My nemesis?” said Demascus, his voice loud in surprise. “Who’s that? And why don’t you just tell me what I need to know?”

  More words appeared, these even fainter; they were hardly decipherable for their blurriness:

  I wasn’t with you when you died last; your sword was. You set me aside before your death, so I could begin the process of reminding your new incarnation of yourself outside your regularly established method. With your sword, perhaps you can find your ring, and from that, all the rest. But I am done. As Fate’s banner, I must abide by grievous limits. And I have exceeded them.

  “Just tell me where to find my sword then!” Demascus yelled.

  But the Veil dulled and fell like a shed length of snakeskin.

  Demascus pounded his fist down on the counter. The carrypot and silverware jumped.

  Oh, no, thought Chant. I hope this isn’t where we find out our friend is prone to going shark-starving crazy.

  “Did both of you see that?” Demascus demanded, holding the scarf at arm’s length as if reluctant to touch it.

  Chant nodded. He said, “I did, and it’s … incredible. You know, I’ve heard stories about beings, once divine, who have come into the world—”

  “Yeah, they’re called fallen angels,” said Riltana. She peered warily at Demascus.

  “No,” said Chant. Was Riltana purposefully trying to wind Demascus up? “An angel who willingly gives up its divine form …”

  “Is called a deva,” supplied Demascus, all anger gon
e from his voice, leaving behind mere tranquility of tone. “It just came to me. It’s what I am.”

  The whirling uncertainty behind Demascus’s eyes fluttered to stillness. The blot of doubt and insecurity that bent his shoulders lifted.

  “I am a deva. I’ve lived before. I can remember bits and pieces of those lives. But never enough …”

  Chant studied Demascus, wondering if some visible manifestation would accompany the memory, like wings sprouting from his back or holy fire erupting from his head. Or …

  “What’s a deva?” he blurted.

  Demascus stared at Chant, began speaking, then fell silent, as if he couldn’t quite put into words the images flickering before his mind’s eye. Riltana flashed an interrogative glance at Chant. He gave a slight shake of his head in return. He didn’t know where this was going.

  Demascus cleared his throat and tried again. “A deva is a being that has given up a divine existence in order to walk in mortal guise, over and over again. But I don’t feel like a ‘fallen angel.’ Or any kind of angel for that matter. I don’t remember having any form other than this one. In fact, I feel all too human to have any angelic heritage. I especially don’t feel like I’m some kind of divine intermediary like the Veil implied … though a couple of my fragment memories do suggest …”

  The uncertainty slipped back into Demascus’s expression and posture.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Chant.

  Demascus threw up his hands. “I’ve just discovered I’ve got some kind of crazy past, and some kind of ‘nemesis’ who remembers me from it. One that’s probably still after me. Whatever plan the previous version of me put together to get me up to speed seems to have fallen apart. And, on top of everything else, I still don’t know why the Cabal tried to sacrifice me to a demon!”

  “If you don’t have any memories of anything before the shrine,” said Chant, “maybe they didn’t try to sacrifice you to a demon. Maybe that’s where you … reincarnated … after all the action was over, then jumped to conclusions.”