CHAPTER ELEVEN

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

THEY WERE FILTHY AND EXHAUSTED. CHANT SUGGESTED THEY talk back at his shop, but after a stop at a bathhouse on the way. Demascus paid for the visit from the shrinking stash of coins he’d recovered from the shrine.

Bathed, laundered, and refreshed somewhat in mind as well as body, they met in the courtyard outside the pawnshop an hour later. Despite her promise to reappear, Demascus wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed to see the thief had kept the rendezvous. She could have as easily fled, and left him in the dark regarding the nature of her employer.

Demascus checked the scarf for the hundredth time. It was wound round and round his left arm, where it tenaciously clung of its own accord like a fighter’s wrap. Soon, he thought, you’ll give up your secrets.… But am I ready to know them?

Chant pressed a coin into the palm of a loitering youth with instructions to return with a carrypot of stew and a couple loaves of bread from the Lantern.

The pawnbroker unlocked the door and ushered them in. Riltana looked around with a half smile at the mundane, the bizarre castoffs, and cherished treasures.

Chant pulled a chair, a stool, and a chest from his collection and arranged them around the main counter. He took down a silver platter setting and arranged bowls and spoons for three. “We can talk as we eat,” he said.

The food arrived a few moments later, and they set to.

“I should have had the lad bring a pitcher of ale across too,” mused Chant.

Demascus was too busy slurping soup to answer, but he nodded. An ale would have been nice to help settle his nerves.

He jumped when the cat meowed. Fable had appeared on the countertop, her tail straight up with unwavering confidence. Chant didn’t even look up as he shooed the cat back down. Fable meowed once more, obviously reproachful, then jumped into her crate to study them with sphinxlike disdain.

Riltana pushed her bowl away first. She watched him finish his own helping, then said, “I apologize for taking your wrap. And … thank you for showing up when you did, and reviving me. Why’d you do that? Most folks are less gracious when they corner someone who’s made off with their property.”

Demascus wiped his mouth and hands on the linen napkins Chant had provided. He nodded and said, “We’ve been looking for you ever since you took it.”

“Is it sentient?”

“What do you mean?” said Chant, leaning forward.

Riltana said, “Is it invested with so much magic that it has a kind of awareness? It called itself the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge.”

“Aloud?” said Demascus. His throat grew taut. This is it, he thought. This is where I find my memories again …

“Words appeared in the weave.”

Demascus unwound the scarf from his arm and laid it out on the counter. Everyone slid back in their chairs, as if afraid it might suddenly rise up like a rearing snake.

That name, the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge … He knew it. But the context refused to come clear.

He sighed and said, “All right, who hired you to take it from me?”

Riltana said, “Someone called Kalkan. I never got a good look at his face. I’m not sure he was a genasi. His breath smelled like … rotting meat. Maybe he was a half-orc.”

“You never met him before he hired you?” said Demascus.

“No. I have something of a freelance career in, ah, acquisitions. It’s not unusual for people to hire me to find things for them.”

“I see.” Demascus tried not to freight his voice with condemnation, despite the fact that the woman had just admitted to a life of larceny.

Riltana leaned forward, “But this job was odd in every detail. Normally, I don’t snatch purses or articles of dress. But Kalkan explained that’s exactly what this job required. He specified when and where you’d appear. And that when I saw you, I was to grab the scarf and bring it to him.”

“That strikes me as purposefully provocative,” said Chant.

“It sure got my attention,” agreed Demascus.

“You’re right,” said Riltana, blinking. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s like Kalkan wanted you to track me down …”

“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.