Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  “Smoked fish—maybe it’s mermaid, or sea elf,” she said. “I don’t want to accidentally eat some sea elf’s child caught in a fishing net, you know?”

  Chant stared at the thief a little longer, then just shook his head.

  Demascus ate more cheese.

  Chewing, he watched Carmenere and Riltana. The thief remained on edge, but wasn’t as apprehensive as the previous night. For the moment, anyway, the two seemed as if they’d mended their fences.

  “So,” said Chant, finally pushing away his platter, “are we ready to go?”

  Carmenere drew in a breath, and expelled it. “Yes. I have arranged for a meeting, and a conveyance with a diplomatic flag. Better that we arrive with the seeming of importance. That way we can ignore a lot of bureaucratic nonsense.”

  The pawnbroker popped a piece of bread into his mouth and nodded. He mumbled around the half-chewed food, “Thank you again for helping.”

  Carmenere let a violet plum roll back and forth across her palm as she said, “As a silverstar of Selûne, could I do less?”

  “She’s always going out of her way to help people,” said Riltana, smiling.

  Carmenere said, “Even when people repay my friendship with …” Carmenere looked down at the table, her face twisted.

  Riltana’s smile froze, then she slumped slightly, like a wax candle left in the window too long.

  Demascus coughed. So much for mended fences. An uncomfortable tension descended over the room.

  That wouldn’t do. Into the silence he ventured, “Carmenere, tell me about your link to Selûne. How closely do you serve the Moonmaiden? Does she ever talk to you?”

  Carmenere slowly looked up, and she nodded. Her features untwisted, and she said, “That’d be incredible and wonderful. But no. I do her bidding without that grace. I walk where the moonlight leads, like all silverstars. Stories tell of such things; gods and mortals speaking and interacting, but I doubt it actually happens often. The gods have many cares across this world, and others.”

  Demascus managed to nod, though his mind’s eye flashed back to his visit with an avatar of Oghma, when he’d accepting a tiny charm from the avatar’s hand.

  Except he didn’t have that scroll-shaped charm any longer, or any of the charms his fragmented memory hinted at. He only had imperfect recollections and the claim of a cryptic piece of fabric that seemed best suited to strangling people.

  He said, “If your god never interacts with you, how can you be sure that what you do is right?”

  Carmenere said, “How can it not be? Selûne’s power fills me when I ask her for strength. My prayers are answered in the form of divine magic. If she were displeased with me, my ability to heal and render aid would almost certainly fail.”

  You’d be surprised, he wanted to say. He recalled again the avatar’s commission to deal with Undryl Yannathar. The avatar had told him, “That which I am but the smallest part of cannot touch Undryl, for he believes he does right.” Whoever this Undryl had been, he had apparently believed he was serving Oghma’s interests, and had apparently never lost whatever power he wielded in the name of the Binder.

  Bells chimed at the front of the house.

  “The coach is here,” said Carmenere. “It’s time to go meet the queen.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THE CONVEYANCE’S EXTERIOR TRIM WAS GILT, AND THE INTERIOR was plush with green and yellow cushions, witchlights for illumination, and red felt lining. A door on either side, and a window in back—but the pane of glass was too narrow, Demascus noted, for an enemy to get a shot through. The side windows on either door were a different matter entirely, but they allowed him to see out at least as well as any theoretical foe could see in.

  “I could get used to this,” said Chant, who lounged across from Carmenere.

  Riltana reclined next to Carmenere, opposite Demascus. She said, “Better enjoy it. Court conveyances aren’t lent out often. Even to people secretly related to the queen. This is the first time I’ve gotten to ride in one.”

  Carmenere’s lips thinned. She said, “Thanks to your antics, Rilta, the palace guards know what you look like. The only way past the perimeter is to bypass it entirely. Only people the Crown trusts implicitly can call one of these coaches. I didn’t know until this morning if one would come if I called; I’ve never tried before. Anyway, it’ll see us past all the external security.”

  “How interesting,” said Chant. He sat up straighter in his seat, the wheels in his mind obviously spinning. Demascus trusted that the human was his ally, but he wondered if Carmenere should be more careful around someone who professed to be a broker of illicit information.

  Riltana studied Chant. She was probably thinking the same thing.

  “Security’s a funny thing,” said Chant. “It can be hardened beyond all hope of penetration. But if you can find a way to get around—”

  Riltana leaned forward and put a hand on the human’s shoulder. She said, “Word to the wise: anyone who enters the palace in a coach must still deal with the queen’s elite bodyguard.”

  Chant jumped ever so slightly at the contact. He answered, “Ah, of course.”

  Silence inside the coach seemed to grow heavier the longer it stretched. Without knowing exactly what he was going to say, Demascus opened his mouth and started talking. He said, “I don’t know much about, uh, Queen Arathane. Is she … well-loved by the people?”

  He knew the question was stupid the moment it escaped his lips. Of course Carmenere would think her aunt was well-loved, and who in the coach would gainsay the royal niece?

  Chant chuckled. He said, “She’s got a reputation for being fair, but strong. A pretty good combination, though I think her mother, Queen Cyndra, was more ‘loved.’ No offense,” he said to the silverstar.

  “None taken,” responded Carmenere, with a faint smile. “My aunt is good at her job, whatever the nobles sometimes like to pretend. Even the poorest among the genasi can expect shelter and food.”

  “And despite the roadblocks the Court of Majesty has thrown in her way,” said Chant, his tone making the statement more of a question than declaration.

  “The Court of Majesty?” said Demascus. “I thought the Court and the queen were one and the same.”

  “The court is a location,” said Carmenere. “It is where a conclave of five that includes the queen and the Four Stewards meet to decide policy. The stewards are the queen’s councilors, and they hold important positions of their own as well. But if they all decide as one, they can block Arathane’s decrees.” A hint of bitterness had crept into her voice.

  “Which is why,” said Riltana, “the queen sometimes goes around the Court when she needs to get things done quick. She’s particularly fond of the Firestorm Cabal when it comes to such endeavors. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Carmenere gave the thief a heated look and said, “Rumors can be had for coin and a wink; doesn’t make them true.”

  “My source was pretty close to the queen, once upon a time,” said the thief, her tone vaguely accusatory.

  “If you think—” began Carmenere.

  “I don’t care what—” said Riltana simultaneously.

  “Hey,” yelled Demascus, so loud he startled even himself. Everyone in the coach looked at him. Then Chant leaned back and studied the ceiling, as if suddenly very interested in the pattern on the red felt lining.

  “Riltana, please don’t bait your friend,” said Demascus, feeling his own face grow warm. “We need her help. I thought you were sorry for whatever it is you did. You’re not acting like it.”

  “I …” began Riltana in a heated tone. Then she sighed. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Her tone contrite, Riltana said, “Carmenere, if you’d just let me make it up to you. It just … makes me so angry that you won’t give me a chance. I swear I didn’t mean for things to turn out like they did.”

  The sil
verstar exhaled. She said, “I know. But what you meant doesn’t matter. It’s what you did, and what happened afterward. The Four Stewards are always looking for … little ways to gain leverage over the queen. Even the questionable associations of a niece can put the queen in a bad light. Especially if one of those associations steals a crown treasure.”

  Riltana’s head jerked. “A steward contacted you?”

  Carmenere said. “Tradrem Kethtrod.”

  “The Steward of Earth!” exclaimed Chant. Both women shot him an irritated glance.

  “Sorry,” mumbled the human. Demascus studiously kept a smile off his face.

  Carmenere continued, “Tradrem didn’t contact me directly. But his informants looked into the matter of a certain stolen painting. They were close to discovering how the thief got into the palace in the first place, and that thief’s connection to someone in the queen’s family. It was only luck that connection wasn’t made, though I suppose they still could.”

  “Tradrem Kethtrod operates a spy network,” Chant whsipered. “But I thought he mostly employed it outside of Akanûl’s borders.”

  Demascus nodded, and returned to listening in.

  Carmenere was saying, “Even if I were tempted to forgive you, I can’t. You’re too unpredictable. I know you mean well, but I can’t have someone close to me whose next well-meaning stunt could end up weakening Arathane’s reign!”

  Riltana said, “I … I see,” and turned her gaze out the window.

  Demascus’s mouth twisted. The atmosphere inside the conveyance had gone from oppressive to merciless. He wondered if he’d ever done something so stupid it’d cost him a dear friendship. Given how swiftly his heart was beating, maybe his body remembered something he did not. He wished he’d just let the original silence hang.

  The pawnbroker coughed and gestured through the window on his side. He said, “We’re almost there.”

  The coach drew across a sweeping bridge high over the rippling bay.

  At the end of the bridge brooded a massive chunk of unsupported earth encrusted with the queen’s palace.

  A small earthmote hung over the palace. A spiraling, free-hanging stair reached up from the highest palace spire to the mote, which was bedecked with banners and gleaming crystals.

  Chant pointed at it and said, “The Court of Majesty.”

  Demascus eyed the free-hanging spiral stair. Vertigo feathered the base of his spine as he imagined ascending those steps.

  “We won’t be going up there,” said Carmenere. “The Court of Majesty only convenes once a tenday, barring emergencies. Besides, we’re going to meet with the queen alone.”

  The coach slipped off the end of the bridge and under a white arch that pierced the outer wall of the palace. Genasi soldiers in bulky armor and weapons, conveyances of every color, and dozens of floating balls of magical fire were arrayed on the palace grounds.

  “What’re those?” said Chant, pointing at the fire spheres.

  “Animated wards,” said Carmenere. “They’re only barely intelligent, but very loyal. If we were marked as enemies, they would converge and explode.”

  “Oh.”

  The coach passed through several more gates, then came to a stop at the edge of a small walled garden nestled along the inner palace walls.

  The driver jumped from his seat and opened the coach door.

  They emerged into a cloud of lilac and jasmine that grew thick along the garden wall. Past the wall, a river of blue flowers flowed beside a cobbled path, swept beneath a bridge, and upended over a fall of forget-me-nots, bluebells, and irises.

  The path continued straight into a silvery bower planted with white lilies. The petals blended into a fluttering pale gown, sewn along the hem with glimmers of blue and red.

  Demascus drew in a surprised breath when he realized Arathane wore the gown.

  Who else but the queen could wear something so magnificent with such royal certitude? The garment’s faultless lines draped a queen and a woman, revealing strength and beauty in equal measure. Her arms and shoulders were bare, and her lavender skin made the surrounding blooms seem almost lifeless. Silvery lines like intricate tattoos traced her arms, throat, and spiraled upon her cheeks.

  Arathane’s hair was a bundle of braids composed of crystalline silver, and over them rested a white circlet whose flawless lines bespoke faultless craftsmanship. A faint glimmer of radiance played through the circlet, like the light of a distant storm cloud on the horizon. Her eyes seemed to faintly echo that light as they stared directly back into his.

  Demascus’s composure fled like a startled flock of shrieking jays. He’d rarely, or perhaps never, seen a woman so beguiling as Queen Arathane.

  His legs didn’t so much lose their strength as become unmoored from the ground.

  “Merciful gods,” he muttered.

  Carmenere strode into the bower. She occluded Demascus’s view of the queen, and the world came back. He sucked in a breath as if surfacing in deep water.

  The silverstar clasped hands with the queen. Chant inched ahead and stood at the entrance. Riltana remained where she was, as did Demascus. The thief was looking at him.

  She said in a low voice, “Are you feeling well?”

  Demascus said, “Yes. I … Uh. I see the queen is a stormsoul.”

  Riltana suppressed a grin. She said, “She can have that effect on some people. Come on, let’s meet her before she decides you’re a simpleton.”

  Demascus nodded, but let Riltana and Chant precede him into the bower. Then they all bowed, more or less in unison.

  Queen Arathane said, “We’re not in court; please don’t waste time on formalities. I get enough of that every day. So … Carmenere said you had something urgent to explain? But tell me your names first.” Her voice was pleasant but firm.

  Carmenere said, “Arathane, you remember Riltana?”

  The queen nodded at the thief. “Of course. It’s good to see you again.”

  Riltana seemed perfectly at ease as she nodded back, but Demascus saw the tension in her shoulders.

  “And this,” said Carmenere as she gestured at the pawnbroker, “is Chant Morven. He runs a shop in Airspur.”

  “Among other things,” Riltana murmured to Demascus.

  “Your Majesty,” said Chant, who made as if to bow again, then obviously remembered what the queen had just asked, and ended up performing an odd little head motion.

  The queen had the grace not to notice. Her eyes fixed on Demascus.

  The funny feeling in his knees returned.

  “This is Demascus,” said Carmenere.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us so quickly,” he said. He thought his voice came out normal, thank the gods.

  “Demascus; that’s an odd name,” said Arathane. “You must come from across the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

  Was she asking him a question? He didn’t want to bumble through explaining his missing mind, and all the rest. It would only complicate things.

  He settled on, “I do, Your Majesty.” It was even the truth, sort of. He came from across the sea, all right, way across and beyond the confines of Faerûn itself.

  She cocked one eyebrow and smiled at him. “Mysterious. When time permits, I’d like to hear more of your homeland, Demascus.”

  His brain seemed to fuzz. He swallowed with relief when her regard left him again. What was wrong with him?

  The queen motioned to the pillow-strewn benches that lined the open-air structure. “Please sit, all of you, and we’ll talk.”

  The earthsoul sat down next to Arathane. Demascus followed Carmenere’s lead and lowered himself onto the broad seat across from the monarch. Chant positioned himself on Arathane’s other side, but left a respectful distance. Instead of sitting on the bench, Riltana plopped down on the floor with her legs stuck out. Demascus wondered if Arathane thought it a disrespectful pose. Probably not; the bower lent the meeting a surreal informality. Most royals didn’t interact with those below their station as Arathane w
as with them.

  Was Carmenere so important a figure in Akanûl that informality accorded to her was extended to her friends, or was it just the queen’s way?

  The woman’s presence was intoxicating. Combine that with how gracious she seemed and … Demascus blinked. Don’t even go there, he told himself. The version of himself that had met the avatar of the God of Knowledge had done so with aplomb, without becoming overawed. Then again, Oghma’s avatar hadn’t been mortal, female, or as bewitching as this violet-hued stormsoul …

  Demascus realized everyone was looking at him.

  He coughed. Enough foolishness. Time to concentrate on why he was there. He said, “Queen Arathane, thank you again for making time for us, and I hope you’ll agree our problem is something that requires immediate attention. You see, we’ve stumbled upon a cult operating secretly in the city. A cult that professes to worship some kind of chaos demon called the Elder Elemental Eye.” To his own ears, his words sounded a little rushed.

  Arathane’s eyes narrowed.

  He continued, concentrating on clarity, “As it happens, we gained the attention of this cult thanks to our meddling. They’ve tried to dispatch us once already.”

  The queen glanced at Carmenere, a line of worry creasing her brow.

  The silverstar said, “This was before they came to me, don’t worry, Aunt.”

  “Anyhow,” said Demascus, “Evidence suggests that the cult might actually be headquartered out of the Firestorm Cabal. The only problem is—”

  “Explain that last statement,” said the queen. All hint of a smile was gone from her features. The silvery lines of her szuldar sparked to life.

  Chant interrupted, “Your Majesty, Demascus and I took a commission from Lieutenant Leheren to look for cult activity in the tower of Chevesh, the fire mage. What we found there convinced us that, though Chevesh is definitely a crazy lunatic who bears watching and probably investigation by the peacemakers, he has nothing to do with the cult. In fact, a lead we gained there sent us back to the Motherhouse. But when we returned, we found the structure entirely destroyed.”