Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (9 page)

“He’s back.” The priest sounded more relieved than I.

I noticed that the subtle stench I had smelled outside the gate had become stronger, though its source was not in this ward.

Ulraunt’s face appeared above mine. “Don’t do that again.” I could not tell whether the Keeper was speaking to me or the priest. “I need to hear more about this meeting with Cyric.”

“As you wish, Learned One,” said the priest.

“How is it that you survived?” Ulraunt demanded.

“Not by my own doing, I assure you.” As at the Low Gate, I was entirely truthful in this matter. “When Cyric could not find what he sought, he grew tired of his game and left me to suffer.”

Ulraunt’s eyes grew narrow. “And what he was seeking?”

I glanced at Pelias. Being much practiced in the appearance of madness, I knew it would be better to seem reluctant.

“Go ahead,” Pelias urged. “Ulraunt can be trusted.”

Though I already knew better than this, I nodded. I glanced around the throng and frowned, as though reluctant to talk before so many ears, then motioned for the Keeper to lower his ear to my lips. He did so, and I spoke thus: “He desires my dagger.”

“Your dagger?” Ulraunt backed away from my litter.

“There’s nothing to fear, Keeper,” said Pelias. “He’s given the knife to me for safekeeping.”

Ulraunt scowled, and I saw that Pelias had made a foolish error in pointing out his superior’s fear. From this time forward, my friend’s life at Candlekeep would be difficult indeed.

The Keeper stepped back to my side, and when he spoke, his tone made it apparent that he had lost all interest in my story. “Now, why would a god want a beggar’s dagger?”

I knew then I would be allowed to stay the night, as Ulraunt considered me a worthless beggar and would not trouble his men to open the gates and throw me out. Eager to reinforce this impression, I glanced at all the people around the litter, then motioned again for the Keeper to bring his ear near.

He was done with bowing and would not bend down. “You can speak freely. We’re among friends.”

I scowled once more, but Pelias nodded. So I said softly, “The dagger is magical. When you hold it, the gods speak to you.”

The throng chuckled at this, but nervously. They knew the eyes of the gods were upon this place and that gods worked in strange ways. It was not beyond question that a deity would speak through a mad beggar’s dagger. Ulraunt cast an eye upon Pelias and raised a brow.

“It-uh-hasn’t worked for me, Keeper.”

“Well, then.” Ulraunt turned back to me. “If Cyric wanted the dagger, how did a simple beggar keep him from taking it?”

“I hid it.” Truly, things were going as well as I could hope. “In my robe.”

“And that fooled Cyric?”

“It did,” I replied. “That was when he left me alone.”

“I see.” Ulraunt rolled his eyes, then scowled at Pelias. “Next time, Brother, do not be so naive.”

“He isn’t, Keeper,” said the priest. “Being naive, I mean. Whatever happened to this beggar, he is telling the truth about his injuries.”

“What?” It was the guardian of the Cyrinishad who asked this, and with remarkable swiftness he stood across the litter from the priest. “What do you mean?”

“Look here.” The priest pointed at my stomach. Though my tunic was still torn and bloodied, the terrible hole in my flesh had been closed by his magic. “This wound was the worst by far, but it healed almost completely. Oghma’s magic did nothing for these others.”

“May the Binder protect us!” hissed Ulraunt. The Keeper retreated several steps, as did the rest of the throng, save only Tethtoril and the priest, the warrior and the Harper, and my litter bearers, who looked very worried indeed. “He was Touched?”

Touched?” asked the Harper. “What do you mean?”

“I am close enough to Oghma that my hands have attained a certain … potency,” explained the priest. “I could bring this man back from the dead, but I can’t heal those wounds. He has been Touched by something very powerful-and very corrupt. That’s why the Binder’s magic struck him as it did.”

That, and because he is one of Cyric’s!” The guardian of the Cyrinishad grasped my waist and lifted me from the litter. “We must be rid of him at once!”

He ducked through the wicket door, and seeing what he meant to do, I twisted about and grasped the sides of the portal and would not let go, though the fingernails tore from my hands.

“Most Merciful Keeper, I beg you, don’t let him throw me from the eyrie!”

The priest and his assistant rushed to my aid, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me back toward the ward, though my attacker retained his grasp on my legs and remained determined to drag me through the doorway.

“Gwydion!” cried Tethtoril. “Stop that-now!”

“This beggar has tried to steal the book once already!”

“Book?” I yelled. “I cannot even read!”

Pelias grabbed Gwydion’s thumb and gave a twist, and at once the warrior’s hand came free. The priest and his assistant fell upon the ground and I on top of them, and we all lay there while Tethtoril and Pelias interposed themselves between the guardian and myself.

“Gwydion, you are a guest here,” said the First Reader. “If you cannot remember that, you will be asked to leave!”

Ulraunt, always quick to guard the prerogatives of his office, stepped forward. “That is for me to decide.”

“I apologize.” Tethtoril made room for Ulraunt but continued to stare at Gwydion. “I was merely stressing this to Gwydion, before he takes it upon himself to throw Mukhtar off the eyrie and deprive you of your interview.” Ulraunt scowled. “Interview?”

“You’ve been right all along, as this beggar’s wounds prove,” Tethtoril replied. “Cyric is out there, and only Mukhtar can tell us what he’s doing.”

My heart sank in my chest, for I had already told them as much of Cyric as I cared to, and it was said that Ulraunt’s jealous mind made him a careful inquisitor. He nodded gravely at Tethtoril’s advice and turned to look at me, and I saw at once I would pass the whole night in the Keeper’s company and have no chance to search for the Cyrinishad.

It is fortunate that the Caliph suffers the mad to live in the streets of his city. On many occasions I have observed them and noted their strange habits-especially in the matter of fits, which can come upon some with the slightest provocation. Their eyes roll back in their heads until only the whites show, their limbs grow as stiff as clubs and shake and thrash about, they bite their own tongues and froth at the mouth, and when they are in this state, nothing in the world can reach them, whether they are tempted with beautiful women or burned with red-hot irons.

All this I did, even to the biting of my own tongue so blood would spray from my mouth in equal parts to spittle. I rolled about with no regard as to what I hit, and even crashed into Gwydion’s legs so no one would think I had control over my movements. All the while I babbled in a strange gurgling tongue no man has ever spoken. I smashed my head upon the ground until it was covered with lumps and scraped my face over the stones until it bled. The pain this caused me only fed my peculiar strength, and my frenzy never wavered. Surely no man could have looked upon the spectacle and thought I was anything but mad.

After a time, I allowed Pelias and three others to seize my limbs and hold me splayed in the air. I continued to twitch and froth and babble, lest they think the fit had passed. The priest wedged a piece of wood between my jaws and bound it there with a leather strap, while Tethtoril pulled back the lid of my good eye.

“What has happened to him?” asked the Harper in the veil. She came and looked down upon my face, and in her dusky eyes I saw again the hippogriff’s outstretched wings wheeling across the sun. “He looks like a camel dying of thirst.”

“Then we should put him out of his misery,” said Gwydion.

“No!” commanded Ulraunt. “Not until I’ve interrogated him.”

“How can you?” Gwydion demanded. “Cyric has claimed him.”

“This is not possession,” said the priest. “It is a fit, caused by your attempt to kill the poor fellow. He will recover.”

“When?” The question was Ulraunt’s.

“Only the Binder knows,” replied the priest. “The fit is already passing. After that, hell sleep for a time. You can talk to him when he wakes. He’ll have a throbbing head, but he should be able to answer your questions.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“You saw what my last spell did,” answered the priest. “Another could kill him, especially if this fit has anything to do with Cyric.”

The Keeper was silent for a moment, then asked, “What would his chances be?”

I bit the wood so hard that the blood in my mouth rushed up through my nose and spewed out my nostrils. In the same instant, I jerked three of my limbs free, dropped to the ground, and lay thrashing in mad abandon.

“Not good, I would say!” The priest tried to grasp my foot, which act I repaid with a wild kick that bloodied his lip. “Help me, someone! He’ll hurt himself!”

“If he needs sleep, Loremaster, I can help.”

The Harper stepped over near my head and reached into the sleeve of her robe. I tried to spin away, but Pelias recaptured my arm and pinned it down, stretching me out like an adulterer over an anthill. When the witch withdrew her hand from her sleeve, she had a small amount of yellow sand in her fingers, which she made to sprinkle in my good eye. I snapped the lid shut and turned my head away, but I was too late; the grains had already fallen, and she was already uttering her spell in a voice soft and sultry as a night in my own bed. I sank into a sleep deeper than the crashing sea, untroubled by any thought of my destiny in Kelemvor’s realm or by any memory of the kind prince and my fortune and my wife, or by any dream of the sacred Cyrinishad rustling in its iron box.

A curse upon the Harpers! Why can they not mind their own affairs?

Seven

It is said every merchant has his bane, and this Harper was mine. Her name was Ruha. She had seen my face in a vision, and on that account alone she had sworn to make a hell of my entire life. Born to the desert nomads of Anauroch thirty years before, she had never led an easy or certain life, for her people feared magic and all other things they did not understand, which were many. Because Ruha had visions, her tribe cast her off at a young age and left her to the burning sands. She learned to go without drinking, until even camels craved water more, and discovered how to nourish herself upon anything, be it serpent, thorn, or bone. Seeing what a creature this girl had become, the Goddess of Magic guided her to a far oasis, where there lived an old harpy versed in the strange ways of desert sorcery. This hag taught her to fashion spells from sand, fire, wind, and water. In time, young Ruha could create any kind of magic at all with no more than the dust at her feet or the water in her mouth, and she became a witch in every sense of the word.

The time came when the Zhentarim sent a party to open a trade route through Anauroch. The Harpers, in turn, sent an agent to incite the desert people against this. Ruha glimpsed this man, and from that moment she wanted him. She cast an enchantment to make him love her, but he would not forget his mission and died in battle. Ruha made no lament, for jackals do not mourn the death of any man. Yet, having tasted the fruit of love, she had no wish to return to her oasis and live alone, so she stole the agent’s silver pin and left Anauroch to find others like him.

And that is how Ruha came to the Harpers. What she did during the next few years matters little, save that she journeyed far and wide at the behest of her masters, learning the ways of Faerun and spreading discord and destruction wherever she went. It was she who made Prince Tang renege on his bargain with the Cult of the Dragon, an act that caused the burning of half of Elversult! And it was she who kidnapped Duke Wycliff’s daughter from the hill giants, halting a marriage that would have united two races in blood and kinship.

When word of Candlekeep’s plight reached the city of Waterdeep, Ruha was there, handling a small matter of some children missing in Trollclaw Forest. Upon hearing of the conflict, her sight blurred, and she saw a haggard beggar-me- standing before a great host and reading from a book. Now, Ruha’s visions were such that she never understood their meaning nor knew what to do about them, but she never allowed her ignorance to stop her from meddling. In this way, she was a perfect Harper. Leaving the children for someone else to find, she begged her masters to send her south with Waterdeep’s contingent. So it was that she reached Candlekeep with the hippogriff riders, just as Haroun and Jabbar were about to kill each other.

I recount all this not to excuse what befell me at the High Gate; an apology never alters a thing. I only wish to make clear what a fiend was watching over me while I slept. I floated up from my slumber to discover the stench of corruption thick in my nostrils. At first I wondered if the witch herself or her foul magic were the source, but I soon realized the smell was more pervasive. Perhaps it arose from some infestation, for the odor was accompanied by a strange sound, an inconstant grating like mating insects. This rustling filled my head with such irritation that I thought my skull would burst, and though it seemed familiar, I could not recall hearing such a noise before.

I turned my head, and there above me loomed the kohl-rimmed eyes of the Harper witch. As always, she wore her veil, so all I could see of her face were two pools of fiendish brown. At once, I knew she had been studying me while I slept. My next thought was that she had used her magic to see into my dreams and learn of my secret and my purpose. And though I had never harmed a woman in my life, I knew at once I had to throttle her.

But the witch had anticipated me! My hands scarcely rose an inch before a leather restraint caught my wrists. I raised my head and saw that she had wound three straps across my body, binding me down at my chest, hips, and legs.

“It is for your own good,” said the witch. “We didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Myself?” My speech was thick and no doubt hard to understand, for my tongue was swollen and slow from the bite I had given it. “Why would I hurt myself?”