Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [55]
“You were dead?” said Chant.
“Many times, sounds like,” said Riltana. “It’s like something out of a story. A sort of a resurrection blessing. Or … a resurrection curse?” The thief looked at him as if to gauge his reaction.
Demascus mopped his brow with his jacket sleeve. He said, “No, that’s crazy. I don’t … I don’t know how that could be true. But …”
More words formed on the wrap:
Others like you exist, angels who traded divine existence for mortal flesh. But you have attained a greater continuity between incarnations. Your implements are anchors of memory and purpose. I, the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, am one such implement. You are, as you have been before, called Demascus.
“See?” said Riltana. “The Veil of Wrath and Knowledge; that’s what it called itself last time.”
Fable focused with single-minded fascination on the changing words dancing across the wrap. The cat raised herself from Riltana’s lap until her hindquarters were higher than her forepaws, as if she was about to pounce.
“Stop that,” said Chant. He released Demascus’s shoulder and leaned over to grab his cat. Fable struggled to be put down, and he hastily let her down on the floor. Crazy animal, he thought.
Demascus watched the cat bound into a corner, but his gaze seemed unfocused. Chant could imagine why. What the magic scarf suggested seemed farcical.
On the other hand … it explained the fragmentary nature of Demascus’s memories, and perhaps, the grandeur of them. He was, a what, a fallen spirit? An angel bound to live over and over again?
“To what purpose are these … lives?” Demascus asked the Veil.
Another collection of words appeared, though these were fainter than before, and blurrier:
Beware, Demascus. Your last incarnation overreached himself to draw out your nemesis, and so fell closer to sin. Find your ring, if you can; it possesses the bulk of what you sacrificed so much to discover, but if not your ring, take up your sword.
“My nemesis?” said Demascus, his voice loud in surprise. “Who’s that? And why don’t you just tell me what I need to know?”
More words appeared, these even fainter; they were hardly decipherable for their blurriness:
I wasn’t with you when you died last; your sword was. You set me aside before your death, so I could begin the process of reminding your new incarnation of yourself outside your regularly established method. With your sword, perhaps you can find your ring, and from that, all the rest. But I am done. As Fate’s banner, I must abide by grievous limits. And I have exceeded them.
“Just tell me where to find my sword then!” Demascus yelled.
But the Veil dulled and fell like a shed length of snakeskin.
Demascus pounded his fist down on the counter. The carrypot and silverware jumped.
Oh, no, thought Chant. I hope this isn’t where we find out our friend is prone to going shark-starving crazy.
“Did both of you see that?” Demascus demanded, holding the scarf at arm’s length as if reluctant to touch it.
Chant nodded. He said, “I did, and it’s … incredible. You know, I’ve heard stories about beings, once divine, who have come into the world—”
“Yeah, they’re called fallen angels,” said Riltana. She peered warily at Demascus.
“No,” said Chant. Was Riltana purposefully trying to wind Demascus up? “An angel who willingly gives up its divine form …”
“Is called a deva,” supplied Demascus, all anger gone from his voice, leaving behind mere tranquility of tone. “It just came to me. It’s what I am.”
The whirling uncertainty behind Demascus’s eyes fluttered to stillness. The blot of doubt and insecurity that bent his shoulders lifted.
“I am a deva. I’ve lived before. I can remember bits and pieces of those lives. But never enough …”
Chant studied Demascus, wondering if some visible manifestation would accompany the memory, like wings sprouting from his back or holy fire erupting from his head. Or …
“What’s a deva?” he blurted.
Demascus stared at Chant, began speaking, then fell silent, as if he couldn