Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [107]
Demascus gasped and—
The woman was gone, as if someone had pinched a candle flame.
“What is it?” said Chant.
He shook his head, deciding it would be impossible to provide a meaningful explanation. The woman had been a memory fragment, jarred loose when he’d grabbed the sword, was all. He hoped. He gave one last glance at the empty space where she’d just stood, then examined the weapon in his hands more carefully.
A series of alphabet-like runes, blood red down one side, porcelain white down the other, obscured the blade’s shimmering pattern weld. He knew those runes—every time he picked up any sword, an imperfect memory of those runes formed, quasi-real recollections of the real thing he held in his hand.
The sword’s edge was beveled, and its fine edge was free of nicks and notches—the sign of an enchanted blade. Its balance was exquisite; despite his one-handed hold of the massive piece of metal, it seemed no heavier than a sword a quarter its size. The crossguard was an intricate affair of two opposing styles, as if the weaponsmith had managed to forge two weapons into a single whole.
“The Sword of the Gods,” he breathed, and the Veil twitched. Words appeared in its weave:
The blade is Exorcessum. It is not the the Sword of the Gods; you are.
A coin-sized object dislodged from a crossguard. He caught it in his free hand. It was a metallic charm shaped like a scroll. He recognized it immediately—Oghma’s symbol.
The charm flashed, and a new memory unspooled in his mind. Demascus realized he’d been wrong all along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE FINAL STAND (1475 DR)
I’M MISSING SOMETHING IMPORTANT,” DEMASCUS SAID TO Tarsis.
“What do you mean?” asked the sandy-haired priest standing beside him at the ship’s railing. A shadow from a floating earthmote darkened the air between them.
“I’ve read all the scrolls provided by your temple. I’ve scanned the tomes. I’ve even consulted the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge. But I’m afraid I still don’t understand Akanûl. So … tell me something pertinent about this place all those matter-of-fact documents left out.”
Tarsis gazed out over the hundreds of watercraft crowding the Bay of Airspur. The man snorted and said, “What makes you think I know? I met exactly two genasi before we sailed here. Moreover, I can barely distinguish an Akanûl merchantman from ships sailing from High Imaskar or Tymanther. Though I recognize the flags of a few.”
The priest pointed to a couple of vessels with square-rigged masts. “All the way from Impiltur. And that one’s from Sembia. That one over there …” He pointed to a triple-masted ship called Green Siren II captained by a fellow in a flamboyant wide-brimmed hat. “Actually, that one, I have no idea.”
“You’re a native here. This place must have some resonance with you.”
“Demascus, I’m a native of Toril. This is the first time I’ve visited the southern coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars. And besides; Akanûl is almost as much a stranger to Faerûn as you are.”
Demascus grinned. “Well, I suppose that’s perfect. If you, a leading disciple of the Binder of Knowledge, haven’t got the first clue why Undryl Yannathar might have come to this far shore, Landrew is probably equally flummoxed.”
“I’d say he’s more than flummoxed; I expect he’s down in his cabin right now casting stones, trying to contact his master, failing to do so, and wondering who’s betraying who.” Tarsis chuckled.
Demascus said, “He’s played the part of a true cleric of his faith perfectly. If the Veil hadn’t revealed his secret allegiance, I’d never have guessed that Landrew answers to Undryl.”
Tarsis’s amused expression faded. He said, “I wouldn’t have guessed it either. I’ve known Landrew for half a