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:

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:

“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:

“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:

“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 gone 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.”

Demascus paused. He shook his head and said, “But I’ve been in Airspur. I remember genasi. I was in your shop.”

“Yeah, four years ago. And the scarf says you had some kind of clever plan. No doubt that’s why you left it with me. You probably died … that day.”

Demascus studied his hands. Chant noticed how smooth and scar-free they were; odd for a warrior. Unless that warrior had only worn his flesh for a few days …

Chant shivered.

Demascus said, “Burning dominions … chances are, you’re right. Gods, I’m having difficultly keeping all of this in my head at one time.”

Riltana said, “Not to pile on, but why did you ask the Veil if you were a divinely sanctioned killer anyway?”

“I asked it that because … I remember talking to an avatar of Oghma.”

This was becoming too much. “The Lord of Knowledge?” said Chant. “You remember talking to him? He’s a god. That can’t be right.”

“I said an avatar, not the actual deity. And to the extent I can trust any of my memories, I’m sure it is right. He wanted me to … deal with somebody. And though the avatar didn’t specify, I got the impression he wanted me to do so with extreme prejudice. And it was pretty clear Oghma’s commission wasn’t the first of that sort I’d taken from, uh, highly placed divine intermediaries.” Demascus ran a hand through his hair. He looked resigned when his fingers failed to brush against anything but hair.

“Well, backstab me and call me a rat’s aunt,” said the thief. “You’re claiming you’re some kind of assassin of the gods?”

“I suppose I am. Or, I was. And I’m not sure that’s an identity I want to reclaim. Some of the things that I can recall are not—”

“Have you considered the other possibility?”

“What?”

“That you’ve escaped from the Healing House after being knocked on the head too hard.”

Demascus opened his mouth as if to offer a hot retort. Then his mouth quirked, and he began laughing.

Chant joined in, and Riltana smiled. The pressure of all the revelations and guesses abated somewhat. The thief is more politic than I guessed, Chant thought.

Finally Demascus answered her, “The evidence suggests something less prosaic, though I am beginning to wish otherwise.”

Riltana nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s unlikely you’re merely a nutter with a wild hallucination to share. The Veil saved my life down in the labyrinth. It’s no mere conjurer’s prop. They don’t just give scarfs like that out on street corners.” Her eyes settled on the cloth and glittered.

Given her history with it, Chant was pretty sure the glint was mere reflexive desire, not contemplative avarice. She’d have to be pretty bumbling to steal it again, now that they knew her interest in it. And Riltana did not strike Chant as the least bit stupid.

Demascus said, “Regardless of what I was before, it’s not who I am now.”

“But maybe you can be so again,” said Chant. “If you find your sword. It’s either that, or … you could turn your back on it all, and start fresh. Throw away the Veil, leave Airspur, and never look back.”

“But then I’ll never really know who I was,” protested Demascus.

Riltana leaned forward. “Or figure out what the Veil meant by you falling into sin. What’d you get up to?”

Demascus rubbed his brow as if trying to massage away an incipient headache. He said, “In my very first memory, I was strangling a priest with the Veil. A priest whose name was Tarsis, I think. A priest of Oghma.”

“Oh,” said Riltana.

Chant asked, “Was this Tarsis the one the avatar wanted you to dispatch?”

“No. Tarsis was the one who introduced me to the avatar. The name the avatar gave me to deal with was Undryl Yannathar. Who also means nothing to me.”

Chant shrugged and Riltana said, “Never heard it before either.”

Quiet again descended on the shop. Chant didn’t know what else to say, so he just studied … the deva.

Demascus stood up suddenly. “I should go.”

“Go where?” said Chant.

“Away from here, until I can figure out what’s going on. I feel as if my head’s in danger of exploding. And I shouldn’t drag either of you into my problems.”

“I dragged myself into it by stealing your scarf, you idiot,” said Riltana. “And then Kalkan tried to kill me. No one puts a hit on me and gets away with it. In my line of work, you can’t let people walk over you. And I bet you he’s your nemesis too! Don’t walk away from help I’m happy to give you free of charge.”

“And I,” said Chant, “have far too much to gain, in knowledge alone, to not help you figure out what it’s all about.” On the other hand, he didn’t say, I hope that your mysterious nemesis doesn’t decide to even the odds by taking out your newest associates first. I’ve got enough people scheming for my skin.

Riltana snorted and said, “Not to mention the prestige you’d gain for palling around with a divine assassin.”

“What’re you talking about?” Chant frowned at the woman.

“I know the circles you run in, Morven. People you interact with make my petty thievery look like child’s play.”

His face felt warm. But he didn’t gainsay Riltana. Instead, he stared at Demascus and said, “So it looks like you’ve got some allies in this. If you really want to untangle your past, you’ll manage it quicker and easier with our aid.”

Demascus blew out a long breath. He finally said, “You’re right. Thank you.”

“Good, now sit down,” said Riltana. “Because I want to know what that four-armed creature was that attacked us after you found me in the caves.”

Demascus shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Chant didn’t want to tell Demascus or Riltana about his own troubles; it was none of their business! But he’d been bitten enough to know holding secrets too tightly from friends was asking for it. He said, “Listen. I’ve made a few enemies myself. One so fierce you could call him my nemesis.”

“Really,” said Riltana, but in a way that suggested she wasn’t the least surprised.

“But they’re mostly street thugs, not monsters like what came after us. Not that I think that’s relevant to the demon that ambushed us. I think we have to assume it was something meant to find and dispatch Demascus.”

Demascus said, “The thing in the Sepulcher was like a more powerful version of the thing that attacked me when I woke up at the shrine. It even croaked something out about the Elder Elemental Eye when it attacked us, and we know the Cabal was involved with that.”

She nodded, then mused, “It’s still hard to believe the Cabal Motherhouse is destroyed.”

“Saw it with my own two eyes,” said Chant. “Anyhow, if the Cabal was somehow involved with the Cult of the Elder Elemental Eye, then perhaps it’s no wonder. The Elder Elemental Eye is nothing to trifle with, no matter how bat-crap crazy you are.”

“And now,” said Riltana, “your Veil has apparently exhausted its ability to communicate. We’re out of leads. Until the next demon shows up and tries to kill us again.”

Chant’s brows suddenly furrowed in thought. Right before they’d arrived at the Cabal headquarters …

“What?” said Demascus.

“Remember we saw that black chariot in front of the Motherhouse? It was pulling away when we got there?”

Demascus nodded.

“Someone at court knows about the Cabal’s involvement. At the very least, they know about the demonic incursions, according to Lieutenant Leheren.”

“A black chariot?” said Riltana.

“Yes. Chased with silver like ice.”

Riltana breathed in. “Only the queen uses that coach,” she said.

“Are you sure?” replied Chant, looking at her quizzically. “I thought it might be an envoy of the Crown.”

“Well … I used to know someone who is close to the queen. Arathane reserves that conveyance for herself.”

Chant goggled. He said, “You know the queen? Extraordinary! Can you set up some sort of meeting?” He smiled, imagining himself talking with Queen Arathane.

“I didn’t say I know the queen—I know an associate of the queen!”

“Who?”

The woman looked uncertain, which Chant decided Riltana was not used to.

“Now’s not the time to be shy,” he wheedled. “If we’re going to get to the bottom of this before someone sends another monster after Demascus, we need to utilize all our resources, call in all our favors.”

Riltana said, “I know the queen’s niece.”

“Ho ho!” he crowed. “Right to the top! If it gets out I am a sometimes-confidant of the queen—”

“But … she hates me. I don’t even know if she would agree to see me, let alone try to set up a meeting.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name is Carmenere.”