Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [115]
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
BURNING DOMINIONS!” DEMASCUS YELLED INTO THE tatters of the dissolving vision. His shout bounced between the close walls of the mausoleum. His mausoleum, according to the fragment memory of Oghma’s charm. In the years since Demascus had come to Faerûn, more than one incarnation’s body had apparently washed up in this silent tomb.
“What?” said Chant, his voice tight with concern. The man was a few steps farther away than when Demascus had taken up the sword.
An image of himself stripping his hair of all the godly tokens came unbidden, and an unsettling thought chilled him: Serial killers keep trophies. What were all those tokens of payment from the gods if not that?
He bent over, afraid he might suddenly be sick.
Riltana said, “What … what do you remember?” Her voice trembled with as much anxiety as the pawnbroker’s. Or perhaps it was fear, that he’d become someone different upon discovering his previous self. But he wasn’t any different. He’d only recovered a shard, albeit a large one …
Demascus straightened and rubbed his eyes. He said, “I remember Kalkan. He truly is my nemesis. He’s killed me many times over. I’m the first to realize it, thanks to Oghma.” He rubbed the scroll charm between his thumb and forefinger. It flashed yellow in the magical candlelight.
“The first?” asked Chant.
“The first incarnation of myself. Apparently, I stored my … continuity in a relic called the Whorl of Ioun. Except every time Kalkan killed me, that particular memory failed to be specifically imprinted. None of the previous versions of myself knew anyone was stalking them. Despite that they possessed the strength of lifetimes worth of knowledge and god-given relics …”
“Sharkbite,” commented Chant.
“The last me managed to turn the tables and kill Kalkan four years ago, but one of his underlings murdered me before I’d gotten