Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [54]
Demascus said, “I’m afraid I can’t speak of anything previous to this moment; your pardon. All I require is a token, and a name.” He reached up and loosed the Veil from the hilt of his sword.
The man said, “Undryl Yannathar. You can find his most dangerous agents in the nation of Akanûl.”
The name spoken appeared across the Veil’s length, picked out in red lines, then faded.
Demascus nodded. He’d never yet seen the Veil not accept a divine commission, but he supposed it could happen one day. The Veil was Fate’s filter. Or at least, that was how he liked to think about it. Something had dragged him out of his own world and dropped him into Toril. The Veil had seemed to know about it ahead of time, and what but destiny itself had the power to breach parallel continuums?
Demascus shook his head and declared, “It is met. Undryl Yannathar has been marked. I shall find him, and deal with him and his agents.”
The man said, “That of which I am but the smallest part cannot touch Undryl, for he believes he does right. But he has been led astray in a manner that threatens to completely fracture my church.”
“Which is why I am here.” I do the dirty work of the gods, he wanted to say, so the gods can keep their hands clean.
The man pressed a small metallic charm into Demascus’s hands. The charm was in the shape of a blank scroll. He said, “With this token, you may call upon a sliver of Oghma’s power when you need it most.”
Demascus wound it into his hair with all the others already there. “I know,” he said. Then, “Payment is accepted.”
Tarsis led him away from the man, who returned to his stool and idle strumming.
“That went well,” observed the priest, and grinned at Demascus.
Demascus smiled back.
The memory faded, and he found himself still staring at the rafters in Chant’s dingy pawnshop.
It felt like he couldn’t breathe. A coughing fit racked him, and he pushed away from the counter.
“Are you ill?” said Chant, rising.
Demascus shook his head. The man, Tarsis, who had directed him into the presence of a divine avatar …
Tarsis was the man he remembered strangling to death.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
CHANT BROUGHT DEMASCUS A GOBLET FILLED WITH WATER. The tattooed man sipped, and nodded gratefully.
“What happened?” Chant asked. “Did you choke on a carrot?” He glanced at the dregs of stew on the counter. Fable, still in Riltana’s lap, twitched her ears in interest, perhaps thinking she was about to be fed the leavings. Chant hoped it hadn’t been a cat hair that—
“I remembered something,” Demascus said. He set down his goblet and took up the length of fabric again.
“Riltana says you’re the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge,” Demascus said to the scarf.
The scene struck Chant somewhat ridiculous, but Demascus continued in an earnest tone, “I remember you, but only in broken fragments. The same way I remember my past; it’s like looking into a shattered mirror, one with most of the pieces missing. Why can’t I remember anything? Who am I? Am I a … divinely sanctioned killer?”
Riltana made a sound of surprise simultaneous to Chant’s own. Demascus didn’t pay them any attention; his eyes remained focused on the parchment-colored cloth. A divinely sanctioned killer? wondered Chant. What in the name of the King of Coins was his guest talking about?
“Answer me! My name is Demascus, and if you are bound to me, help me!”
The Veil twitched in the man’s hands, suddenly supple. When Demascus dropped it, the scarf unrolled across the counter, winding like a snake to avoid the carrypot of stew. Words faded into view on its surface:
You were bound to the world to wage endless war against darkness. Born and reborn to mortal life, death can’t permanently claim you. With each new incarnation, you lose all of what you were except for a smattering of memories. You are the newest incarnation.
The message faded as if sinking beneath the surface of a milky pool.
Demascus whispered, “Merciful gods.”
Chant put a hand on Demascus’s shoulder as the man swayed slightly, because it looked like