CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE FINAL STAND (1475 DR)

DEMASCUS SNATCHED THE MAP FROM LANDREW’S TOPPLING body before the spurting scarlet touched it. The corpse thudded to the boards.

He sheathed Exorcessum and heaved the loose form of Tarsis back onto his shoulders. He closed Landrew’s door behind him, then swiftly carried his burden to Tarsis’s cabin. He laid the man out on the cot, and closed his bulging eyes with gentle fingertips.

“If Oghma wills, your sacrifice will see you back into the realm of life, my friend. If not, your reward will be great in whatever life waits for you beyond this one.”

A reward forever denied me, he thought. When death claims me again, no matter my deeds, I’ll just pop up again somewhere else, almost completely ignorant of my past unless I take pains to prepare for the transition …

Which he should probably do. Because he shouldn’t have slain Landrew. In doing so, he’d given all the more impetus to a metaphorical ore cart rushing down the tracks. Things were accelerating out of control … A familiar feeling.

Demascus left Tarsis’s cabin and secured the door behind him as he’d done to Landrew’s. The ship was chartered by the Orthodox Church out of Procampur, and the captain had worked with Oghmanytes in the past, and was a trusted ally. But Demascus didn’t know how he would react upon finding two of his four passengers slain.

He let himself into his own cabin. He sat down at the small table and set the map he’d retrieved from Landrew before him. With a flicker of concentration, he lit a candle and studied the map until he had the landmarks memorized. Then he fed it to the candle flame.

Demascus went to his chest. He pulled from it a small strongbox of dull metal. It was decorated with a relief sculpture of skulls and flower petals, and he wasn’t sure of its provenance. However, it was a uniquely secure coffer, and had a knack for turning up again even after apparently being lost beyond all hope for recovery.

The deva slipped off his golden thumb ring and placed it into the strongbox. Then all his charms, untangled from his braids one by one, went into the cavity. All except for the scroll-shaped charm he’d received from Oghma’s avatar. It seemed fitting that it, of all his collected charms, should remain with him, regardless of the risk to himself. On the other hand, the Whorl of Ioun he wore on his thumb was the most important relic to keep safe—all the others were mere decoration compared to its function. Though each of his deaths might rob him of the specifics of each job he completed, the Whorl of Ioun kept safe the continuity of his abilities. Each time he retrieved it, the full weight and knowledge of all his fantastic power became his to wield again.

He deposited a few oddments of less importance, but that could also serve as minor remembrances, into the strongbox, then closed it. The eyes on the skulls glowed a moment, then lapsed back into somnolence. Then the coffer faded from the world.

Other than Oghma’s symbol, he had kept only the Veil and Exorcessum.

If everything went well and he concluded his contract over the next few days, he’d return to the ship and retrieve everything. If the worst happened, then this odd strongbox should one day find his next incarnation. He’d reclaim his set-aside treasures, as he’d always done, and so return to him all he had once been.

Next he penned a quick note to the captain of the chartered ship. The document explained that an assassin had come aboard, and killed two priests before Demascus had become aware of the intrusion. He described how he’d chased the assassin away, and now went to track the killer down.

The note was terse and not especially informative—about right for someone in a hurry to go after a killer, Demascus judged. He sealed the note, quit his cabin, and gave the message to the first crewperson he saw, with instructions to deliver it to the captain straightaway.

That’s when he remembered Brenwin. What would the lone remaining priest think when she discovered her compatriots murdered and himself missing? He didn’t have time to explain to the woman what had happened, nor was she likely to understand anyway. She would have to fend for herself, and Demascus would take care of Kalkan, and any other traitors to Oghma’s faith, alone.

He disembarked, and entered the city of Airspur.

As he trudged the steep switchback streets of Airspur, the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge glittered a rare command; it called on Demascus to set it aside for safekeeping before continuing on his way. The hair on his forearms stood on end as cool certainty washed through him—the Veil suspected his current incarnation was near the end of its thread. Whatever the situation was at the old shrine, it was more dangerous than he’d prepared for.

Wordlessly, he turned into a plaza he’d almost passed, and spied a pawnshop. He entered, and arranged for the portly shopkeep to hold his “scarf” in safekeeping until Demascus returned for it. He’d either be back for it in a few days … or maybe much longer.

The Veil or the skull coffer would find him, if he died and was reborn anew. It had always been thus before. But that was cold comfort. He feared death as much as any mortal. Perhaps more.

Then Demascus was back out into the press of the cliff city. He ascended all the way to the top and reached Airspur’s periphery.

He rented a riding horse from a solicitous stablemaster, then rode west from the city along a road that quickly degenerated into something little better than an animal crossing. If it wasn’t for Landrew’s map, he would’ve been certain he was on the wrong track.

A few hours’ ride put him up into the foothills of the Akanapeaks. He turned once to gaze back the way he’d come. Far behind him, Airspur glittered. From this great distance, the free-floating crystal spires drifting in the high air over the city, refracting the light into vibrant rainbow glows, looked like a crown.

Will I return down this track?

The Veil had thought not. A shudder brushed down his spine, and he turned to face his future. Did oblivion plan once more to send him hurtling down a frayed screaming path into his next life?

Horses hitched to wagons and not a few tents were scattered along the summit of a steep ascent. The sun was setting as Demascus drew closer, and its end-of-day light silhouetted at least a dozen people standing in and around a wide ring of old stone columns. Several obelisks leaned and some lay on their sides.

No one took more than a casual interest in Demascus as he rode up. Apparently, anyone arriving at the shrine was assumed to have received an invitation to do so. He dismounted and gave his horse a light thwack on the rump. It turned and cantered back the way it had come. In due time the horse, at least, would return to the genasi city.

Demascus stood at the edge of the ring and observed the small crowd of celebrants. No more than twenty people of mixed race and gender pressed close around an open-air altar at the circle’s center. Two figures stood at the head of the altar. One wore elaborate robes and a headdress that concealed both head and face. By the figure’s posture and the respect the others around the circle accorded him, Demascus assumed it must be Kalkan.

Demascus blinked—the other figure was the priestess Brenwin! He realized he hadn’t actually seen her on board when he’d left the ship.

The woman’s eyes were wide with fright, and she seemed well out of her depth; she was poised on the edge of flight like a deer surprised at a forest crossing. At least Brenwin wasn’t manacled to the altar. Yet. She must have been lured out there under false pretenses by Kalkan, and didn’t realize what her role was to be.

The hooded figure held up one gloved hand. Something was affixed there; oiled straps secured a pitted metallic disk flush to his skin. The disk contained a cavity, and some sort of dark fluid was visible within. The figure brought the disk close to its hooded face and sniffed.

Everyone murmured as if impressed, though Demascus didn’t see what amazed them so. That the figure hadn’t been overcome by the fumes of whatever was contained in the disk and pitched over dead?

Then the figure began chanting in a loud voice. Something about the Voice of Tomorrow and Oghma’s failures as a pretender-god of knowledge.

Demascus ignored the half-baked liturgy. It didn’t matter what lies Kalkan was spewing. All that mattered was that Demascus fulfill his contract, and if possible, survive it too.

He drew Exorcessum and ghosted over the press along the lane of shadow thrown by the altar itself. There was no clear place to stand, save the altar top, so that’s where he appeared, like an avenging angel.

He was face-to-face with the figure and the daylight illuminated what lay within its hood: a furred mask of hunger that bespoke sin so profound that it forever marked the body.

Shock like a crashing glacier froze Demascus in place, his runesword raised high for the killing stroke that never came.

“You’re a rakshasa!” said Demascus, his voice hoarse with the revelation.

The creature arrayed in priestly garb before him had once been like himself, an angel in mortal guise. But when a deva gives in to iniquity to become a fallen star, its soul is corrupted, forever. Like a deva, a rakshasa is bound to the world, and returns to it after each death, its soul freighted with more evil each time. But unlike a deva, a rakshasa remembers its former lives, branded forever with the knowledge of what it’s done.

Shouts of surprise went up from the surrounding crowd.

Kalkan threw back his headdress and bared his teeth in a horrible tiger grin. He said, “Right on time, Demascus. You’re nothing if not predictable.”

“You know who I am?” Demascus stuttered. “That … that I would come here?”

“What kind of disciple of the Voice of Tomorrow would I be if I didn’t know you were going to show up to disrupt our ceremony?”

A murmur of appreciation rustled through the gathered celebrants. But …

Oghma’s scroll charm still woven into Demascus’s hair trembled. Kalkan was lying!

That tiny revelation shattered the icy shock that immobilized him upon seeing Kalkan’s nature. The rakshasa knew him, and perhaps even had set a trap for him, despite how inconceivable that seemed. But the lie Kalkan just mouthed revealed that he was capable of being defeated. A lie was a shield used to hide one’s own weakness.

“A god requires your death and I am the Sword,” Demascus said, his voice sharp and loud as a ballista shot. He swept Exorcessum down at an angle that passed in through the rakshasa’s neck, down through his sternum, and out through the creature’s ribs on the opposite side.

Kalkan staggered backward a step and fell to the ground. The celebrants that had gathered close uttered a squall of surprise and distress as they scattered like autumn leaves.

Demascus jumped down. His shadow stretched long over his stricken target.

Kalkan coughed, and blood darkened the fur around his mouth. The rakshasa gasped out, “You surprised me, Demascus. I … didn’t expect you to regain your wits so quickly. I wonder …” He coughed again, then continued, “Was it Oghma’s charm that saved you? The Binder has proved an uncommonly sagacious distraction … Usually it’s all you can do to blink your eyes in stupefaction when you see me. During which time, I spit you like a pig for the fire.”

“Usually?” The world seemed to tilt, and threatened to spill Demascus to the ground next to the dying rakshasa. “What’re you talking about?”

Kalkan’s chuckle was interrupted by another bloody cough. When the fit passed, he rasped out, his vowels bubbling, “Only that I’ve seen you before, Demascus, even though you do not remember. So many times I’ve lured you, hunted you, and achieved my divine directive … so many I’ve lost count. And I’ll see you again.”

Then Kalkan died. The creature’s hood flared with blue light, so bright Demascus was forced to look away. When he looked back, the hood, the odd disk, and Kalkan’s body were all gone. All that remained was a mound of gray ash.

Demascus sank to his knees next to the pile.

Merciful lords, he thought, what has Oghma gotten me into?

No, that wasn’t right—Oghma was only Demascus’s latest divine patron. If Kalkan’s words were true, the rakshasa had hunted Demascus through myriad incarnations. But how could that be? No hint of it had ever reached one of his new incarnations—

Then he understood. Each time the rakshasa had surprised and killed him, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to specifically imprint the memory of the creature into his ring. While the Veil was useful for triggering the odd recollection, and for relating cryptic snippets of fact when it wanted, the banner of Fate fell far short of stitching the continuity of his mind between incarnations. It was his gold ring, the Whorl of Ioun, that preserved the thread of his existence from body to body. The ring had always come back to him, one way or the other. It did not retain the details of the many jobs he’d taken at the behest of the gods, for which he was grateful. But when he specifically imprinted an important memory into it, the Whorl faithfully passed on the memory.

But if a killer came upon him suddenly and slew him, he’d never have the opportunity to fix that particular experience into the golden band. Which meant that while he had a continuity of existence, that weave was interrupted at the end of each life with a blank nothing; a gap.

A gap Kalkan hunted.

But he’d survived this time! He’d turned the tables, thanks to Oghma’s divine payment. When he returned to the ship, and summoned the strongbox containing the Whorl, Kalkan would become part of his continuum of consciousness.

“I’ll never forget you again, you sin-shrouded devil.”

Cool metal transfixed him. Something long and metallic protruded from his chest. Red fluid glittered on its cruel edges.

Damascus fell on his side, next to Kalkan’s dust.

Brenwin had come up behind him. She stood over him as he’d stood over Kalkan. She looked scared but resolute.

“You too, Brenwin?” he said.

The symbol of Oghma chimed like a bell, and a voice like the avatar’s whispered in his mind, The knowledge I give to you is this memory, for know this: your nemesis is a disciple of my nemesis.

Exorcessum groaned as its penultimate purpose was triggered, and Demascus whispered elsewhere. As his spirit fled for its timeless sojourn, his body tumbled into a familiar tomb.