Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [46]
And what if Demascus was also weakened? The two people Demascus spoke with were not of the avenging company that had broken the first circle of cultists that called Murmur and its siblings from their fossil dimension. Perhaps that group was scattered and weakened too?
Murmur noted further that Demascus was attired plainly, compared to the elaborate ensemble he’d sported before. What had become of his keening sword, his undulating veil, his blazing ring, and the god-given icons braided into his hair? Apparently he’d traded it all in for a secondhand noble’s coat and a mercenary’s long sword.
Lips stretched spastically across Murmur’s lower face; a smile.
Maybe, just maybe, Murmur had the upper hand this time around.
The demon dream reached out with its talent. A low trembling shook the floor. Shadows swelled up out of the corners and dim areas of the room like a rising tide of encroaching water. The light around Murmur fell by half, as if night approached. The dimness expanded, and washed over the side of the balcony. It trickled across the cobbles toward the Motherhouse ruins.
None of the onlookers noticed; the shadows were only a side manifestation of Murmur’s talent, and as such, the effect was only visible to itself, and perhaps those with special sensitivity.
Murmur reached into the ruins of the Motherhouse through the conduit of lassitude, and dug beneath the detritus with fingers of immaterial coercion.
It found the creatures it sought. A few that it had already lured from terrified minds, given ectoplasmic flesh, and pledged to the Elder Elemental Eye.
Murmur caressed their minds, pulling their attention from dreams of mayhem and annihilation. Murmur impressed upon one a psychic image of Demascus, and for good measure, an image of the two people Demascus talked with.
“Follow them,” ordered Murmur. It considered asking the monster to bring them back, so it could feed them to the pit.
But no. That would be a complication.
Murmur continued, “When they are alone, kill them. Bring their skins to me; their fluids and organ meat are yours.”
CHAPTER TEN
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
DEMASCUS GAPED. THE MOTHERHOUSE WAS A SHELL OF smoking cinders. Gone, like his expectation that his questions would be answered. The black vapors meandering up into the sky might as well be flags flown at the funeral for his hopes.
Who was responsible for this travesty?
Anger, hot and bitter like a slug of coffee fresh from the pot, kindled. He did not like being denied. Those who crossed him learned the error of their ways, or they died. Died in a—
He blinked, and the anger collapsed before his surprise at his own reaction. Where the Hells had that come from? Demascus pulled at the hem of his coat and swallowed. The intractable fury of a moment earlier was like a residual taste of iron in his mouth. For a moment, he’d been so furious, he could have throttled someone …
Merciful gods, he thought. Is my temper the reason I killed a priest?
A woman interrupted his reverie. He only half heard what she said, but he gratefully seized on the interruption of his own fruitless reverie. Something about …
“Rilta?” he blurted. “Who’s that?”
The genasi glanced at him, looked him up and down, then replied, “It’s Riltana. I used to call her Rilta for short. Why’re you looking for her?” She returned her regard to the pawnbroker.
Chant shook his head. “I don’t know anyone named Riltana,” he said in a weary voice.
The woman—she’d claimed her name was Carmenere—frowned. She said, “You’re Chant Morven? The one asking around about someone answering to Rilta’s description, right?”
Understanding dawned. “The scarf thief!” Demascus said. “You know her?”
Carmenere gave a diffident shrug. “Maybe.”
“Is Riltana a windsoul genasi with a black mask and formfitting leather armor?” Chant asked.
“She’s been known to wear a getup like that,” said Carmenere. “You called her a scarf thief. Did she take—?”
“Yes! My scarf! She yanked it right out of my hands. That scarf was very important to me!”
Demascus glared at the woman.