Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [53]
“Extreme,” said Chant. “It doesn’t make sense though.”
“I don’t think he counted on me surviving,” volunteered Riltana. “Once he saw I’d taken the wrap on schedule, he told me my ‘eternal silence’ was required. Or something like that.”
“But here you are,” said Chant.
“Right, here I am, angry as a hive of bees knocked out of a tree. I’m not going to let this go. Kalkan just made himself an enemy.”
“How’d you survive drowning?” said Chant.
“It was the scarf. Good thing I had it …” Riltana trailed off, then gave a self-deprecating grin. “It guided me out of the deeps.”
“How?” said Demascus. He ran a finger along the fabric.
Riltana said, “It shone like a lantern. It pointed the way back to the surface after a torrent washed me into deep tunnels. It named itself the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, and said it knew what was recorded, and that it witnessed those who were fated to die.”
Demascus looked from her back to the wrap. He’d heard something like that once … but the effort to remember was like trying to catch campfire embers blowing in the wind.
Riltana said, “It agreed to help me, but only if I returned it to the Sword.”
“The sword?” said Chant.
“The Sword,” corrected Riltana. “Some sort of really powerful blade I guess.”
“More and more fascinating,” said Chant. “Any of this ring any bells, Demascus?”
Demascus gave an ambivalent nod. The Sword. The name’s significance was on the tip of his tongue. But it refused to resolve. Was the “Sword” the blade he remembered carrying in his memory fragments? It seemed a distinct possibility; the weapon had looked like an extraordinary piece of hardware.
Demascus scratched his chin and let his gaze drift to the rafters. They reminded him of massive parallel beams he’d once seen in a shining temple of light.
The memory washed over him suddenly and completely, and he saw creatures of perfect feature and form standing in small groups beneath a massive vault.
He was among them, in gleaming finery of white silk and gold. His greatsword was on his back, the Veil was wrapped around the hilt. Charms hung in his braided hair, and his ring hummed to itself on his thumb.
A man standing next to Demascus clapped him on the shoulder. The man was of middle height, with kind eyes, and sandy hair worn long. He was attired in priestly garb, and he was smiling, but it was a nervous smile. He said, “Are you ready?”
Demascus nodded and said, “Yes, Tarsis. It’s time to speak with the avatar.”
“You seem amazingly calm for where we are, and what we are about to do,” said the priest.
“I’ve done this before.”
The priest wiped at his brow. He obviously had not.
They walked the length of the temple, to the far end, where a nondescript man sat on a stool against the wall. He wore a silver breastplate, and a golden scrollcase hung on his belt.
The man strummed a lyre, and though he played no song, the chords hung in the air like living creatures of glowing gold. The sounds didn’t so much fade as escape into the world as if born.
Tarsis fell to his knee in an elaborate genuflection. Demascus performed a respectful bow.
The man set aside his instrument and rose. He said, “Demascus, I greet thee. I suppose the whispers of Fate cannot be ignored, even for one such as me.”
Demascus said, “Binder, I go where Fate points me.”
The man smiled, and the light in the temple brightened. He said, “Of course. And I would be foolish to stand in the way of gears that transcend even this world. I, if anyone, know this to be true.”
“You are the Binder of All Knowledge,” said Demascus. “I’m sure you understand it all far better than I.”
The man sighed. “Yes. Though sometimes I like to pretend otherwise. But let’s take care of business first, shall we? After that, I want to learn more about the place from where you come. It is not every epoch that a flesh-and-blood opportunity to expand my knowledge comes calling.