He heard the woman walking closer, and another set of footsteps behind her.
“That’s far enough,” Brendis called. “Who are you?”
“My name is Miri,” the woman said.
“And I am Demascus, the Sword of the Gods.” His voice was loud and pure, as much the blast of a trumpet as it was the speech of a man.
“Demascus …” Brendis said.
Nowhere peered around the corner of the wall to see the paladin, whose brow was furrowed. His hand rested idly on the sunburst symbol of Pelor he wore around his neck, and he seemed deep in thought.
Finally Brendis looked up. “Have we met before?” he asked Demascus.
“We have not, but I am known to my confidants as Demas. The urging you are experiencing is the voice of Pelor. Heed it.”
Nowhere still couldn’t see the newcomers, but he watched Brendis bow his head, as if trying to hear a distant voice.
Sherinna stepped up beside the paladin. “We are in a city haunted by devils,” she said. “What assurance can you give that you are not beguiling fiends who read our thoughts and sap our wills?”
Nowhere slid his dagger from his belt in perfect silence and stared at the razor-sharp edge.
“I can give no such assurance,” the man said. “Devils are creatures of deception. There is no truth I can utter that a devil could not feign. You must trust your paladin’s heart if he can listen to the voice of truth whispering in his breast.”
Sherinna looked to Brendis, but the paladin’s eyes were closed, his hand clenched around his holy symbol.
Nowhere padded to the other end of the wall and peered around the corner, trying to get a good look at the man who called himself the “Sword of the Gods.”
Demas’s skin was an unearthly pale, except where it was marked with jagged tattoos of scarlet. He was tall and regal in his bearing, and as Nowhere watched he took a few graceful steps closer to Brendis and Sherinna. He carried a smooth golden staff, but a heavy greatsword hung sheathed on his back.
“What does Pelor tell you, Brendis?” Demas asked.
Brendis opened his eyes, but his brow remained furrowed and his speech was hesitant. “That you are indeed the Sword of the Gods,” he said. “That we share a common purpose in these ruins.” He shook his head. “And that you are chasing your doom.”
For the first time, Demas looked ruffled, and he shot a glance at Miri. “Speak no more of that,” he said. “Ioun has shown me the path I follow.”
Brendis regarded Demas for a moment more, then extended his hand. “I’m glad to find you in this godsforsaken place, friend.”
Demas clasped the paladin’s hand. “Not godsforsaken, paladin. You and I carry their presence with us, even here.”
“My companions,” Brendis said, nodding toward the eladrin. “Sherinna and … Where is he?”
“Behind that wall.” Demas turned and his gaze fell on Nowhere. There wasn’t an instant of searching in his gaze—he’d known exactly where the tiefling was before he even turned.
Nowhere stepped out from his hiding place, stunned. “How long did you know I was there?”
“Nothing hides from the searching gaze of Ioun, my friend.”
Miri, at least, seemed surprised at Nowhere’s sudden appearance. She started when he emerged from his hiding place, and her brow furrowed as she took in his horns, his jagged jawline, the reddish cast of his skin, and the long tail that snaked behind him. He scowled back at her, then turned it on Demas.
“Few call me friend until they’ve proven it,” he said. “The divine whispers that only you two can hear mean nothing to me.”
Miri wheeled on Sherinna. “You accuse us of being devils while keeping company with him? A devil walking in mortal flesh?”
Sherinna shrugged. “I neither know nor care what’s in his heart. He has proven himself reliable and trustworthy. I ask only for similar proof from you.”
Nowhere ignored the twinge in his chest that her words provoked. “I won’t stab you in the back unless you give me a reason to.”
“A reason or an excuse?” Miri asked.
Nowhere took a step toward the half-elf, clutching his dagger tightly. “That depends on how long you continue being an arrogant, self-righteous—”
“That’s enough, Nowhere.” Brendis interposed himself between him and Miri, putting a hand on the tiefling’s chest.
Nowhere batted his hand aside and turned away. “We have more important things to do,” he said. “If the gods want these two to help, let them help. But while we stand here arguing, those cultists are getting closer to opening the Living Gate.”
“Cultists?” Miri asked.
“The ungrateful wretches we helped earlier, no doubt,” Demas said.
Nowhere wheeled back to the newcomers. “You helped them?”
“We helped a group of treasure-hunters who were fighting a pack of devils. We didn’t know … . We still don’t know that they were the cultists you’re looking for.”
“Even with the aid of Ioun’s searching gaze?” Nowhere said.
“The important thing now is to find them,” Brendis said, giving Nowhere a stern look.
Demas nodded. “And keep them from claiming the Staff of Opening.” The self-proclaimed Sword of the Gods closed his eyes and turned away.
Nowhere slid his dagger into its sheath to make sure he didn’t slide it into Demas’s sanctimonious back. Miri and Brendis both had their eyes fixed on Demas as if they expected a divine pronouncement. Sherinna met Nowhere’s glance and rolled her eyes, smiling.
“Follow me,” Demas said, starting to walk back the way he’d come. Nowhere smiled despite himself as he fell into position.
Albric lifted the staff reverently from its cradle on the wall. He slid his dagger from its sheath and used it to cut the strings that suspended the reddish crystal in place at the head of the staff. Cradling it in his hands, he discarded the smooth length of yew, letting it clatter to the floor of the ancient alcove. His three acolytes started with surprise at the sudden racket, but he ignored them, gazing at the crystal.
He studied its complex facets and his broken reflection that stared back at him as his heart hammered in his chest. He held a fragment of the Living Gate, shattered at the dawn of time. More importantly, he held the key to freeing the Elder Elemental Eye, and the surge of joy in his chest was at least partly the fierce joy of his god, about to taste his first breath of freedom in countless ages.
“Now what?” Fargrim rumbled, wrenching Albric’s attention from the crystal.
Albric rose from his crouch to tower over the frowning dwarf, but Fargrim met his eyes without flinching. Albric toyed with the idea of cutting the dwarf’s throat right there—a quick slash of his dagger, faster than Fargrim could even see—but the ritual demanded more hands, not fewer. He fought down the violent impulse.
“Now,” Albric said, “we open a path to the City of Doors, where we’ll find a way to our destination.”
Fargrim crossed his arms, his scowl deepening. “Why not just open a portal directly to our destination?”
The urge to violence welled in Albric’s gut again, and this time he gave in to it. The Eye spoke through his urges, after all, and who was he to deny the will of the Eye? His dagger flashed out and cut across the dwarf ’s throat. The scowl disappeared from Fargrim’s face as his eyes and mouth opened. He choked and tried to cough, spraying blood onto Albric and the crystal. Albric turned away in disgust, using the hem of his cloak to wipe the blood from the shard of the Living Gate.
He glared at Gharik and Haver, who were watching the dwarf die with undisguised horror on their faces. “Opening a portal to the howling wastes of Pandemonium is very difficult, especially in the absence of some object tied to the place. Opening a portal to the City of Doors is almost trivially simple—that’s why they call it the City of Doors. Any other questions?”