CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

THE CONVEYANCE’S EXTERIOR TRIM WAS GILT, AND THE INTERIOR was plush with green and yellow cushions, witchlights for illumination, and red felt lining. A door on either side, and a window in back—but the pane of glass was too narrow, Demascus noted, for an enemy to get a shot through. The side windows on either door were a different matter entirely, but they allowed him to see out at least as well as any theoretical foe could see in.

“I could get used to this,” said Chant, who lounged across from Carmenere.

Riltana reclined next to Carmenere, opposite Demascus. She said, “Better enjoy it. Court conveyances aren’t lent out often. Even to people secretly related to the queen. This is the first time I’ve gotten to ride in one.”

Carmenere’s lips thinned. She said, “Thanks to your antics, Rilta, the palace guards know what you look like. The only way past the perimeter is to bypass it entirely. Only people the Crown trusts implicitly can call one of these coaches. I didn’t know until this morning if one would come if I called; I’ve never tried before. Anyway, it’ll see us past all the external security.”

“How interesting,” said Chant. He sat up straighter in his seat, the wheels in his mind obviously spinning. Demascus trusted that the human was his ally, but he wondered if Carmenere should be more careful around someone who professed to be a broker of illicit information.

Riltana studied Chant. She was probably thinking the same thing.

“Security’s a funny thing,” said Chant. “It can be hardened beyond all hope of penetration. But if you can find a way to get around—”

Riltana leaned forward and put a hand on the human’s shoulder. She said, “Word to the wise: anyone who enters the palace in a coach must still deal with the queen’s elite bodyguard.”

Chant jumped ever so slightly at the contact. He answered, “Ah, of course.”

Silence inside the coach seemed to grow heavier the longer it stretched. Without knowing exactly what he was going to say, Demascus opened his mouth and started talking. He said, “I don’t know much about, uh, Queen Arathane. Is she … well-loved by the people?”

He knew the question was stupid the moment it escaped his lips. Of course Carmenere would think her aunt was well-loved, and who in the coach would gainsay the royal niece?

Chant chuckled. He said, “She’s got a reputation for being fair, but strong. A pretty good combination, though I think her mother, Queen Cyndra, was more ‘loved.’ No offense,” he said to the silverstar.

“None taken,” responded Carmenere, with a faint smile. “My aunt is good at her job, whatever the nobles sometimes like to pretend. Even the poorest among the genasi can expect shelter and food.”

“And despite the roadblocks the Court of Majesty has thrown in her way,” said Chant, his tone making the statement more of a question than declaration.

“The Court of Majesty?” said Demascus. “I thought the Court and the queen were one and the same.”

“The court is a location,” said Carmenere. “It is where a conclave of five that includes the queen and the Four Stewards meet to decide policy. The stewards are the queen’s councilors, and they hold important positions of their own as well. But if they all decide as one, they can block Arathane’s decrees.” A hint of bitterness had crept into her voice.

“Which is why,” said Riltana, “the queen sometimes goes around the Court when she needs to get things done quick. She’s particularly fond of the Firestorm Cabal when it comes to such endeavors. Or so I’ve heard.”

Carmenere gave the thief a heated look and said, “Rumors can be had for coin and a wink; doesn’t make them true.”

“My source was pretty close to the queen, once upon a time,” said the thief, her tone vaguely accusatory.

“If you think—” began Carmenere.

“I don’t care what—” said Riltana simultaneously.

“Hey,” yelled Demascus, so loud he startled even himself. Everyone in the coach looked at him. Then Chant leaned back and studied the ceiling, as if suddenly very interested in the pattern on the red felt lining.

“Riltana, please don’t bait your friend,” said Demascus, feeling his own face grow warm. “We need her help. I thought you were sorry for whatever it is you did. You’re not acting like it.”

“I …” began Riltana in a heated tone. Then she sighed. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Her tone contrite, Riltana said, “Carmenere, if you’d just let me make it up to you. It just … makes me so angry that you won’t give me a chance. I swear I didn’t mean for things to turn out like they did.”

The silverstar exhaled. She said, “I know. But what you meant doesn’t matter. It’s what you did, and what happened afterward. The Four Stewards are always looking for … little ways to gain leverage over the queen. Even the questionable associations of a niece can put the queen in a bad light. Especially if one of those associations steals a crown treasure.”

Riltana’s head jerked. “A steward contacted you?”

Carmenere said. “Tradrem Kethtrod.”

“The Steward of Earth!” exclaimed Chant. Both women shot him an irritated glance.

“Sorry,” mumbled the human. Demascus studiously kept a smile off his face.

Carmenere continued, “Tradrem didn’t contact me directly. But his informants looked into the matter of a certain stolen painting. They were close to discovering how the thief got into the palace in the first place, and that thief’s connection to someone in the queen’s family. It was only luck that connection wasn’t made, though I suppose they still could.”

“Tradrem Kethtrod operates a spy network,” Chant whsipered. “But I thought he mostly employed it outside of Akanûl’s borders.”

Demascus nodded, and returned to listening in.

Carmenere was saying, “Even if I were tempted to forgive you, I can’t. You’re too unpredictable. I know you mean well, but I can’t have someone close to me whose next well-meaning stunt could end up weakening Arathane’s reign!”

Riltana said, “I … I see,” and turned her gaze out the window.

Demascus’s mouth twisted. The atmosphere inside the conveyance had gone from oppressive to merciless. He wondered if he’d ever done something so stupid it’d cost him a dear friendship. Given how swiftly his heart was beating, maybe his body remembered something he did not. He wished he’d just let the original silence hang.

The pawnbroker coughed and gestured through the window on his side. He said, “We’re almost there.”

The coach drew across a sweeping bridge high over the rippling bay.

At the end of the bridge brooded a massive chunk of unsupported earth encrusted with the queen’s palace.

A small earthmote hung over the palace. A spiraling, free-hanging stair reached up from the highest palace spire to the mote, which was bedecked with banners and gleaming crystals.

Chant pointed at it and said, “The Court of Majesty.”

Demascus eyed the free-hanging spiral stair. Vertigo feathered the base of his spine as he imagined ascending those steps.

“We won’t be going up there,” said Carmenere. “The Court of Majesty only convenes once a tenday, barring emergencies. Besides, we’re going to meet with the queen alone.”

The coach slipped off the end of the bridge and under a white arch that pierced the outer wall of the palace. Genasi soldiers in bulky armor and weapons, conveyances of every color, and dozens of floating balls of magical fire were arrayed on the palace grounds.

“What’re those?” said Chant, pointing at the fire spheres.

“Animated wards,” said Carmenere. “They’re only barely intelligent, but very loyal. If we were marked as enemies, they would converge and explode.”

“Oh.”

The coach passed through several more gates, then came to a stop at the edge of a small walled garden nestled along the inner palace walls.

The driver jumped from his seat and opened the coach door.

They emerged into a cloud of lilac and jasmine that grew thick along the garden wall. Past the wall, a river of blue flowers flowed beside a cobbled path, swept beneath a bridge, and upended over a fall of forget-me-nots, bluebells, and irises.

The path continued straight into a silvery bower planted with white lilies. The petals blended into a fluttering pale gown, sewn along the hem with glimmers of blue and red.

Demascus drew in a surprised breath when he realized Arathane wore the gown.

Who else but the queen could wear something so magnificent with such royal certitude? The garment’s faultless lines draped a queen and a woman, revealing strength and beauty in equal measure. Her arms and shoulders were bare, and her lavender skin made the surrounding blooms seem almost lifeless. Silvery lines like intricate tattoos traced her arms, throat, and spiraled upon her cheeks.

Arathane’s hair was a bundle of braids composed of crystalline silver, and over them rested a white circlet whose flawless lines bespoke faultless craftsmanship. A faint glimmer of radiance played through the circlet, like the light of a distant storm cloud on the horizon. Her eyes seemed to faintly echo that light as they stared directly back into his.

Demascus’s composure fled like a startled flock of shrieking jays. He’d rarely, or perhaps never, seen a woman so beguiling as Queen Arathane.

His legs didn’t so much lose their strength as become unmoored from the ground.

“Merciful gods,” he muttered.

Carmenere strode into the bower. She occluded Demascus’s view of the queen, and the world came back. He sucked in a breath as if surfacing in deep water.

The silverstar clasped hands with the queen. Chant inched ahead and stood at the entrance. Riltana remained where she was, as did Demascus. The thief was looking at him.

She said in a low voice, “Are you feeling well?”

Demascus said, “Yes. I … Uh. I see the queen is a stormsoul.”

Riltana suppressed a grin. She said, “She can have that effect on some people. Come on, let’s meet her before she decides you’re a simpleton.”

Demascus nodded, but let Riltana and Chant precede him into the bower. Then they all bowed, more or less in unison.

Queen Arathane said, “We’re not in court; please don’t waste time on formalities. I get enough of that every day. So … Carmenere said you had something urgent to explain? But tell me your names first.” Her voice was pleasant but firm.

Carmenere said, “Arathane, you remember Riltana?”

The queen nodded at the thief. “Of course. It’s good to see you again.”

Riltana seemed perfectly at ease as she nodded back, but Demascus saw the tension in her shoulders.

“And this,” said Carmenere as she gestured at the pawnbroker, “is Chant Morven. He runs a shop in Airspur.”

“Among other things,” Riltana murmured to Demascus.

“Your Majesty,” said Chant, who made as if to bow again, then obviously remembered what the queen had just asked, and ended up performing an odd little head motion.

The queen had the grace not to notice. Her eyes fixed on Demascus.

The funny feeling in his knees returned.

“This is Demascus,” said Carmenere.

“Thanks for agreeing to see us so quickly,” he said. He thought his voice came out normal, thank the gods.

“Demascus; that’s an odd name,” said Arathane. “You must come from across the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

Was she asking him a question? He didn’t want to bumble through explaining his missing mind, and all the rest. It would only complicate things.

He settled on, “I do, Your Majesty.” It was even the truth, sort of. He came from across the sea, all right, way across and beyond the confines of Faerûn itself.

She cocked one eyebrow and smiled at him. “Mysterious. When time permits, I’d like to hear more of your homeland, Demascus.”

His brain seemed to fuzz. He swallowed with relief when her regard left him again. What was wrong with him?

The queen motioned to the pillow-strewn benches that lined the open-air structure. “Please sit, all of you, and we’ll talk.”

The earthsoul sat down next to Arathane. Demascus followed Carmenere’s lead and lowered himself onto the broad seat across from the monarch. Chant positioned himself on Arathane’s other side, but left a respectful distance. Instead of sitting on the bench, Riltana plopped down on the floor with her legs stuck out. Demascus wondered if Arathane thought it a disrespectful pose. Probably not; the bower lent the meeting a surreal informality. Most royals didn’t interact with those below their station as Arathane was with them.

Was Carmenere so important a figure in Akanûl that informality accorded to her was extended to her friends, or was it just the queen’s way?

The woman’s presence was intoxicating. Combine that with how gracious she seemed and … Demascus blinked. Don’t even go there, he told himself. The version of himself that had met the avatar of the God of Knowledge had done so with aplomb, without becoming overawed. Then again, Oghma’s avatar hadn’t been mortal, female, or as bewitching as this violet-hued stormsoul …

Demascus realized everyone was looking at him.

He coughed. Enough foolishness. Time to concentrate on why he was there. He said, “Queen Arathane, thank you again for making time for us, and I hope you’ll agree our problem is something that requires immediate attention. You see, we’ve stumbled upon a cult operating secretly in the city. A cult that professes to worship some kind of chaos demon called the Elder Elemental Eye.” To his own ears, his words sounded a little rushed.

Arathane’s eyes narrowed.

He continued, concentrating on clarity, “As it happens, we gained the attention of this cult thanks to our meddling. They’ve tried to dispatch us once already.”

The queen glanced at Carmenere, a line of worry creasing her brow.

The silverstar said, “This was before they came to me, don’t worry, Aunt.”

“Anyhow,” said Demascus, “Evidence suggests that the cult might actually be headquartered out of the Firestorm Cabal. The only problem is—”

“Explain that last statement,” said the queen. All hint of a smile was gone from her features. The silvery lines of her szuldar sparked to life.

Chant interrupted, “Your Majesty, Demascus and I took a commission from Lieutenant Leheren to look for cult activity in the tower of Chevesh, the fire mage. What we found there convinced us that, though Chevesh is definitely a crazy lunatic who bears watching and probably investigation by the peacemakers, he has nothing to do with the cult. In fact, a lead we gained there sent us back to the Motherhouse. But when we returned, we found the structure entirely destroyed.”

Demascus noticed the queen’s posture stiffen ever so slightly.

“That news is well-known,” she said. “It is a great loss.”

Then, “I appreciate you bringing your suspicions to me. I agreed to meet you because I dote on my niece and haven’t seen her in months. But I’ve got my own sources of intelligence, thanks to the Steward of Earth, and I can assure you we’re bending all available resources into determining what happened to the Motherhouse.”

“Then you already know about the Cult of the Elder Elemental Eye?” said Chant.

“I grant you, that name is new to me. You can be sure I shall immediately inform Tradrem of this potential connection.”

Chant leaned forward to speak, but the queen said in a preemptory manner, “I’ve enjoyed meeting all of you. And it’s been especially nice to see you again, Carmenere; you should come around more. But I’m afraid my free time this morning has concluded, much as I regret it.”

Arathane stood, and the rest of them scrambled to follow her lead. She swept to the exit, her gown hem wavering over the ground like a storm cloud.

Demascus said to the woman’s retreating profile, “We saw your carriage outside the Motherhouse the night before it was destroyed. And we know you asked the Cabal to look into monster attacks across Airspur.”

The queen paused at the bower’s edge. She said, “How do you know that?”

“Lieutenant Leheren told us. Before she sent us to spy on the fire mage.”

“That was injudicious of her,” said the queen. “But ultimately irrelevant.”

Demascus threw up his hands and said, “Will you just listen?”

Carmenere shot him a warning glance. Arathane rotated and let the weight of her full regard fall on him.

He swallowed and said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, to raise my voice. But you should know that after we left the Motherhouse to, ah, meet up with Riltana, we were attacked by another of these demonic monsters. It targeted us specifically. And now that I think about it, it probably trailed us from the Firestorm Cabal headquarters! Because it said—”

The queen said, “You really believe the Firestorm Cabal is implicated in the monstrous outbreaks afflicting the city?” She let her head fall to one side as she considered him with flashing eyes.

“Your Majesty,” said Chant, shuffling a pace closer. “We do believe it. The information we gained at Chevesh’s tower isn’t the only strike against the Cabal. When we met Leheren and two other lieutenants, one of them bore a jagged spiral tattoo on his neck. That mark is one of the signs of the Elder Elemental Eye. And … both the beasts we’ve fought, one by Demascus alone, swore allegiance to the same entity; the Elder Elemental Eye!”

The queen peered at Chant, then at Demascus, and finally at Carmenere as if for confirmation.

The silverstar said, “I have no reason to doubt their claims. And it could explain the destruction of the Motherhouse, through some sort of internal strife.”

Arathane lingered in the exit, her face impassive. Demascus noticed for the first time four genasi in palace livery stood within earshot. They scrutinized the queen, as if perhaps waiting for a sign from their sovereign.

Their distance from the bower and from one another, the weapons visible on their belts, and reserves likely nearby, just in case …

The queen said, eyes locked on Chant, “Tell me this; did you come here seeking a reward?”

“No,” said Demascus.

Chant opened his mouth as if to disagree, but Demascus hurtled onward. “Regardless of what you decide, I’m already involved. All of us are, to some extent. Even your niece, now that she’s associated with us. We’ve been marked by this cult. They’re sending killer monsters after us, by all that’s holy! Odds are, they’ll continue to do so until we’re dead. Even if you don’t want or need our assistance, if you have any information at all that would help us, we would be greatly in your debt.”

Arathane didn’t move for several long heartbeats.

Demascus wondered if he should describe his awakening at the shrine, the Veil’s revelation of his past incarnations, and the possibility that some kind of nemesis hunted him. The urge to reveal it all was overpowering. But doing so would just further muddy the waters, or even give the queen pause to wonder about his sanity. He forced himself to watch the monarch in silence as she decided.

Arathane sighed.

“You’re going to let us help!” guessed Riltana. She shot a quick look at Carmenere, then away.

The queen said, “Yes. We can aid each other. If you swear by your names to keep what I am about to tell you confidential to those of us gathered here?”

“I swear on my name,” said Demascus. The oath had tumbled out of his mouth before he quite realized it.

“As do I,” said Carmenere.

Riltana looked around the bower as if looking for some hidden scribe. She said, “I am Riltana; I swear.”

Chant shook his head like a man just informed that his child had a terminal illness. But he said, “I’m Chant Morven; I swear to keep what you tell us here between only the five of us.” The human’s tone was resigned.

Arathane leaned into the bower. She said, her voice lower than before, “The deputy commander of the Cabal is a friend of mine. In an unofficial capacity, the Firestorm Cabal sometimes provides services to the Crown, especially when I don’t want to involve the stewards.”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” said Chant.

“And if you know what’s good for you, they’ll stay rumors,” said Carmenere.

“Let the queen continue,” said Demascus.

Arathane’s mouth quirked in what might be a smile. She continued, “I visited the Motherhouse to enlist the Cabal’s aid in the matter of several monstrous rampages. He told me then he’d discovered a secret faction within the Cabal.”

“Ah,” said the silverstar.

“Ah, indeed. The Firestorm Cabal is divided. However, he mentioned nothing about a cult or the Elder Elemental Eye. On the other hand, the deputy commander was concerned this splinter sect might be responsible for the monster attacks around Airspur.”

“Wait, you knew the Firestorm Cabal was involved?” said Chant.

The queen speared the pawnbroker with her gaze. “I just said so, didn’t I?”

The human said, “Pardon, Your Majesty.” His face reddened.

Arathane said, “The deputy commander suspected a few subordinates in particular. He explained he would have his most trustworthy lieutenant look into the matter, and determine if there really was a link between the monsters, the splinter Cabal faction, and the genasi he suspected.”

“Leheren? Was she the one the deputy commander put in charge?” said Demascus. “And did he tell you the names of the ones he suspected?”

“Was it Jett?” said Chant.

“He didn’t provide names; he seemed to have things well enough in hand. But that was before the Motherhouse was destroyed. I haven’t had any contact with the deputy commander since then. I’m afraid that he and many others may have lost their lives in the blaze.”

The stormsoul queen dropped her gaze, and the lights in her circlet dimmed. And was that a sheen of sorrow in her eyes? The queen said the deputy commander was a friend …

Riltana said, “Have you sent a team to investigate the ruins?” The woman seemed completely oblivious to the queen’s mournful attitude.

The queen wiped at her face. That tiny movement was the first time since they’d entered the bower that Arathane seemed the least bit vulnerable. Demascus brushed at his own face as if in unconscious sympathy.

“Officially,” said Arathane, completely in control of herself, “it’s a matter for Magnol’s civic forces. The Steward of Fire has dispatched a special detachment to the ruins to see what can be learned.”

“What’d they find?” asked Riltana.

“Nothing; at least nothing regarding monsters, secret factions, or … cults. Which means the investigation is officially over; it was put down as an accident. Survivors are being located, and Firestorm Cabal lodges in other parts of Akanûl are sending representatives.”

“But?” said Demascus, sensing that Arathane was holding something back.

She nodded and said, “More could possibly be found at the Motherhouse, if the searchers knew where to look. But I can’t ask Magnol to send his team back, because it would alert the stewards to my special knowledge of the Cabal. They’ve heard the same rumors Chant has, I can assure you, and I do not want to give them any further reason to believe I sometimes circumvent the Covenant of Stewardship to safeguard the realm.”

“We can investigate the Motherhouse ruins for you,” said Demascus, “if you tell us what to look for.”

“You’ve guessed my intent, which means you’re intuitive,” said the queen. “By the sound of it, you’ve successfully faced these oddly demonic creatures before, which means you’re also able to handle yourself in a fight.”

If only you knew, he thought. He said, “I am. We all are.”

“And Carmenere, will you accompany Demascus, Riltana, and Chant Morven, as my personal agent in this matter?”

“Hold on,” said Riltana, “this could be dangerous! Carmenere’s not—”

“Not what?” said the earthsoul, one eyebrow arched.

Arathane said, “Carmenere is a silverstar, and one of some ability. She goes with you.”

“Thank you, my queen,” said Carmenere, and smiled.

Chant clapped his hands and said, “Wonderful! We should go right away, before too much more time passes. What should we be looking for, Your Majesty?”

“In the basement levels, look for the sign of the Firestorm Cabal inscribed over the symbol of a cube. You’ll find it inscribed here and there, as if a decorative flourish. But each point where that dual sign is inscribed marks an entrance to the sublevel vault. I want you to enter and see if it was destroyed with the rest of the Motherhouse. If not, see what you can learn.”

Demascus watched the queen walk down the path, one elite bodyguard on each side. She was a vision, no doubt about it. But without her direct presence to focus on, his thoughts spiraled back to the question that had ambushed him earlier.

Will I find a link to my past self—my past selves—in the Motherhouse vault? I might be offered the chance to embrace all I once was … and never be able to escape myself again.