Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [113]
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