CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

MORNING’S PALE FINGERS REACHED THROUGH THE WINDOW blinds and nudged Demascus awake.

He lay on the guest bed Carmenere had shown him last night. The coverlets were soft and smelled slightly of gardenias. That reminded him of an emotion. A sensation. Something far from here, having to do with a high crystal spire, a fragrant sunrise that smelled of spring flowers, and a fleet …

He couldn’t place it. All that remained as he breathed in the scent and thought about it was a hollow place in his chest.

Demascus supposed he’d get used to such disconnects. In time. For the moment though, he felt like some kind of invalid, stumbling toward recovery. What if he never got his memories back? Then his life would be just glimpses and half-remembered dreams, and nagging feelings of loss.

But after what had happened with Inakin …

After Demascus found himself used as a body shield, he’d blacked out for an instant. The next thing he knew, he was behind Inakin with his scarf around the genasi’s neck. A thrill of mastery, of power, of … glee rushed through his sinews and tingled across his skin. He reveled in the strength and skill of his body and craft and—

And then he’d come back to himself, with Chant’s pleas in his ears.

After that, he’d felt nothing but shame.

Demascus had suspected that he might not much like the person he used to be. Now he was beginning to fear that it was worse than that. He knew he’d been a killer, but he’d supposed he’d only killed for the highest moral reasons, at the behest of divine beings.

What if he’d enjoyed it?

He felt unwell.

Demascus heaved himself up and went to the clay washbasin beneath a mirror framed in bronze. He splashed water on his face, and saw Inakin again in the reflection, as he whipped the Veil around the vulnerable neck …

No. Think about something else, he told himself. Anything!

Right … After they’d shown up on Carmenere’s patio, she’d proved a gracious host to the two strangers. And to Riltana, who’d clearly wronged the earthsoul. Demascus had the good grace not to inquire what was the matter. It was no business of his. Although based on his own first interaction with Riltana, he could guess well enough.

He found a washcloth and soap.

Riltana was probably lucky Carmenere hadn’t thrown the thief out on her ear.

But the devotee of Selûne wouldn’t hear of them heading back through the city with “Rilta” so recently recovered from her burn, and who knew what other creditors lurking in the streets.

Which had suited him. By the time they’d finished explaining to Carmenere how they thought the Firestorm Cabal was covering up some sort of cult, the night was well advanced. The more they’d described how and why they believed the Firestorm Cabal was involved in something insidious, the more concerned and distressed Carmenere became, though she hadn’t explained why.

Whatever her reason, it apparently convinced the earthsoul to help. Even Riltana, who was the reason they’d intruded on the earthsoul in the first place, looked surprised when Carmenere agreed to send a message to her aunt in the morning.

He dried his hands and face on a towel displaying patterns that reminded him of layered sediments beneath the ground. Then he buckled on his armor and coat.

He took the pale length of the Veil between his hands. “Do you have any direction for me this morning?” he asked.

The scarf didn’t so much as flutter.

He tied it in a knot around his sword hilt, so that two ends fell free, and left his room. He walked the length of a twisting hall.

At the end of the passage he found Chant, Carmenere, and Riltana gathered around a small table beneath a skylight. He automatically took account of each exit and window, and where every person stood in relation to the next …

He blinked, and focused on the pawnbroker. Chant, with all his bulk, seemed uncouth and out of place in the room with such fine matching decor. Not that he seemed to care; the man only had eyes for the repast laid out on the table.

The human had remained visibly upset long after their run-in with the rumormonger. That concern seemed washed away by the aroma of breakfast cakes, and the scatter of crumbs around Chant’s plate told the tale of his unsinkable appetite.

“Eat something,” urged Carmenere. She pointed to a platter of fruit, cheeses, and a pile of steaming flat cakes.

Demascus grabbed a pale oblong fruit and bit into it. It was unexpectedly sweet and firm. He gobbled the entire thing, except for the stem, in moments.

Chant smiled, and tossed him a piece of cheese. “Try the cheese. The silverstar has a discriminating palate!”

Carmenere nodded in thanks at Chant’s compliment.

Demascus chewed on the cheese. It was smooth, nutty, and certainly better than any cheese he could remember eating. Not that that meant much.

He said, “Thanks for putting us up, and feeding us.”

“My pleasure,” the silverstar responded. “If you would like some smoked meat, I have that too. I didn’t put any out because Riltana doesn’t eat meat.”

“You don’t eat … meat?” said Chant, his tone as incredulous as if Carmenere had just revealed that tomorrow the sun would fall to Faerûn.

Riltana said, “I don’t.”

“That can’t be healthy. Are you sick? And, it’s so good!”

The woman sighed. She said, “I don’t like to preach about my habits. But since you asked, I don’t eat the flesh of beasts because they are living beings just like you and me. They have sorrows, joys, and pangs of loss every bit as strong as we do. To me, it’s like cannibalism, and should be avoided.”

Chant shook his head and said, “But it’s the way of things; the wolf eats the rabbit, and we eat the wolf.”

“Oh, for the love of Karshimis—We have a choice; the wolf doesn’t. Except sometimes, the wolf does have a choice. I’ve heard tell of too many talking magical beasts to feel comfortable about biting into a beef sandwich. For all I know, it might be minotaur.”

The human opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Smoked fish—maybe it’s mermaid, or sea elf,” she said. “I don’t want to accidentally eat some sea elf’s child caught in a fishing net, you know?”

Chant stared at the thief a little longer, then just shook his head.

Demascus ate more cheese.

Chewing, he watched Carmenere and Riltana. The thief remained on edge, but wasn’t as apprehensive as the previous night. For the moment, anyway, the two seemed as if they’d mended their fences.

“So,” said Chant, finally pushing away his platter, “are we ready to go?”

Carmenere drew in a breath, and expelled it. “Yes. I have arranged for a meeting, and a conveyance with a diplomatic flag. Better that we arrive with the seeming of importance. That way we can ignore a lot of bureaucratic nonsense.”

The pawnbroker popped a piece of bread into his mouth and nodded. He mumbled around the half-chewed food, “Thank you again for helping.”

Carmenere let a violet plum roll back and forth across her palm as she said, “As a silverstar of Selûne, could I do less?”

“She’s always going out of her way to help people,” said Riltana, smiling.

Carmenere said, “Even when people repay my friendship with …” Carmenere looked down at the table, her face twisted.

Riltana’s smile froze, then she slumped slightly, like a wax candle left in the window too long.

Demascus coughed. So much for mended fences. An uncomfortable tension descended over the room.

That wouldn’t do. Into the silence he ventured, “Carmenere, tell me about your link to Selûne. How closely do you serve the Moonmaiden? Does she ever talk to you?”

Carmenere slowly looked up, and she nodded. Her features untwisted, and she said, “That’d be incredible and wonderful. But no. I do her bidding without that grace. I walk where the moonlight leads, like all silverstars. Stories tell of such things; gods and mortals speaking and interacting, but I doubt it actually happens often. The gods have many cares across this world, and others.”

Demascus managed to nod, though his mind’s eye flashed back to his visit with an avatar of Oghma, when he’d accepting a tiny charm from the avatar’s hand.

Except he didn’t have that scroll-shaped charm any longer, or any of the charms his fragmented memory hinted at. He only had imperfect recollections and the claim of a cryptic piece of fabric that seemed best suited to strangling people.

He said, “If your god never interacts with you, how can you be sure that what you do is right?”

Carmenere said, “How can it not be? Selûne’s power fills me when I ask her for strength. My prayers are answered in the form of divine magic. If she were displeased with me, my ability to heal and render aid would almost certainly fail.”

You’d be surprised, he wanted to say. He recalled again the avatar’s commission to deal with Undryl Yannathar. The avatar had told him, “That which I am but the smallest part of cannot touch Undryl, for he believes he does right.” Whoever this Undryl had been, he had apparently believed he was serving Oghma’s interests, and had apparently never lost whatever power he wielded in the name of the Binder.

Bells chimed at the front of the house.

“The coach is here,” said Carmenere. “It’s time to go meet the queen.”