Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [56]
Demascus cleared his throat and tried again. “A deva is a being that has given up a divine existence in order to walk in mortal guise, over and over again. But I don’t feel like a ‘fallen angel.’ Or any kind of angel for that matter. I don’t remember having any form other than this one. In fact, I feel all too human to have any angelic heritage. I especially don’t feel like I’m some kind of divine intermediary like the Veil implied … though a couple of my fragment memories do suggest …”
The uncertainty slipped back into Demascus’s expression and posture.
“What’s wrong?” asked Chant.
Demascus threw up his hands. “I’ve just discovered I’ve got some kind of crazy past, and some kind of ‘nemesis’ who remembers me from it. One that’s probably still after me. Whatever plan the previous version of me put together to get me up to speed seems to have fallen apart. And, on top of everything else, I still don’t know why the Cabal tried to sacrifice me to a demon!”
“If you don’t have any memories of anything before the shrine,” said Chant, “maybe they didn’t try to sacrifice you to a demon. Maybe that’s where you … reincarnated … after all the action was over, then jumped to conclusions.”
Demascus paused. He shook his head and said, “But I’ve been in Airspur. I remember genasi. I was in your shop.”
“Yeah, four years ago. And the scarf says you had some kind of clever plan. No doubt that’s why you left it with me. You probably died … that day.”
Demascus studied his hands. Chant noticed how smooth and scar-free they were; odd for a warrior. Unless that warrior had only worn his flesh for a few days …
Chant shivered.
Demascus said, “Burning dominions … chances are, you’re right. Gods, I’m having difficultly keeping all of this in my head at one time.”
Riltana said, “Not to pile on, but why did you ask the Veil if you were a divinely sanctioned killer anyway?”
“I asked it that because … I remember talking to an avatar of Oghma.”
This was becoming too much. “The Lord of Knowledge?” said Chant. “You remember talking to him? He’s a god. That can’t be right.”
“I said an avatar, not the actual deity. And to the extent I can trust any of my memories, I’m sure it is right. He wanted me to … deal with somebody. And though the avatar didn’t specify, I got the impression he wanted me to do so with extreme prejudice. And it was pretty clear Oghma’s commission wasn’t the first of that sort I’d taken from, uh, highly placed divine intermediaries.” Demascus ran a hand through his hair. He looked resigned when his fingers failed to brush against anything but hair.
“Well, backstab me and call me a rat’s aunt,” said the thief. “You’re claiming you’re some kind of assassin of the gods?”
“I suppose I am. Or, I was. And I’m not sure that’s an identity I want to reclaim. Some of the things that I can recall are not—”
“Have you considered the other possibility?”
“What?”
“That you’ve escaped from the Healing House after being knocked on the head too hard.”
Demascus opened his mouth as if to offer a hot retort. Then his mouth quirked, and he began laughing.
Chant joined in, and Riltana smiled. The pressure of all the revelations and guesses abated somewhat. The thief is more politic than I guessed, Chant thought.
Finally Demascus answered her, “The evidence suggests something less prosaic, though I am beginning to wish otherwise.”
Riltana nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s unlikely you’re merely a nutter with a wild hallucination to share. The Veil saved my life down in the labyrinth. It’s no mere conjurer’s prop. They don’t just give scarfs like that out on street corners.” Her eyes settled on the cloth and glittered.
Given her history with it, Chant was pretty sure the glint was mere reflexive desire, not contemplative avarice. She’d have to be pretty bumbling to steal it again, now that they knew her interest in it. And Riltana did not strike