Prince of Lies (13 page)

After what seemed like an eternity, Cyric took the blade away. Please, my love, Godsbane purred. He has betrayed your trust. He does not deserve to live.

“Enough,” Cyric said. He sheathed the sword and raised Jergal to face him. The seneschal’s yellow eyes were dim, the gray skin on his skull mottled with festering blotches of purple. “Remember this pain. If you fail me again, I will make it last forever.”

The phantasmal creature nodded weakly. I exist only to serve you, Your Magnificence.

Rubbing bony hands together, Cyric paced to his throne. He shifted his robe and settled into the ghastly chair. “They need to fear me. That’s the heart of this problem, I think.”

All living creatures fear you, Jergal said from the foot of the throne. He gestured to the trophies of pain and suffering displayed about the room. You dwell in the darkness of men’s souls.

“Not mortals,” Cyric corrected. “The denizens.” Impatience flashed across his blasted, hellish features. They’ve lived too long in this city believing themselves safe from my wrath.”

They fear your tortures, Jergal offered.

“But torture is finite. Utter destruction is a different matter entirely. The False and the Faithless may welcome oblivion, but not the denizens. This is their heaven, after all. Why leave it?” Cyric ran one finger along Godsbane’s red blade. “For a moment, when the sword had her fangs in you, you thought yourself doomed.”

Jergal shuddered. Yes.

“I think it made you see the error of your ways, did it not?”

Of course, Your Magnificence. I’ll not fail you again.

“And neither will the denizens, if we give them a glimpse of oblivion.” Cyric steepled his fingers before his mouth and tapped his thumbnails on his chipped teeth. “They cannot truly fear me unless they know the price of failure is destruction. And if they do not fear me, they are useless as servants.”

There is the matter of the pact, Jergal said quietly. Your faithful are supposed to be safe from destruction, so long as they continue to worship you.

Cyric looked up at Jergal, surprise in his red-rimmed eyes. “Are you suggesting I cannot do with the citizens of my city as I please?”

“No,” the seneschal replied. “Merely reminding you that the laws of the realm-“

“I’ve sent denizens to their doom from the first day of my reign,” Cyric drawled. The hour in which I ratified that foolish pact I also condemned a dozen to become part of the Night Serpent’s levy.”

They had broken from worshiping you, Jergal offered.

“Ah, but who is to say what I consider true worship?” Cyric asked. Today I’ve decided that the hunt for Kelemvor is a holy quest, so from this moment on, all who fail in that quest are traitors.” He studied his seneschal for a moment. “Perhaps this devotion you have to law is blinding you to your duties.”

Jergal looked into his master’s eyes. It is part of my nature, Your Magnificence. When I was created to oversee the castle, I was given that trait so I could be trusted to uphold my obligation. I am faithful to the Lord of the Dead even before myself.

“Once you were loyal to Myrkul,” Cyric noted.

Yes.

“And now you’re loyal to me?”

You are the rightful lord of Bone Castle, Jergal replied evenly. And as long as you are, I will do anything you ask - except betray you.

“Then I wish you to break the pact with the denizens,” Cyric said, searching for some sign of displeasure in Jergal’s dull yellow eyes. “Have one thousand of them publicly tortured, then give them to the Night Serpent or bathe them in water from the River Slith. Either way, they’ll be destroyed.” He drummed his fingers anxiously on the arms of the throne then murmured, “That isn’t enough.”

Destroy one for each hour that passes without Kelemvor being found, Godsbane suggested darkly.

Cyric giggled like a madman. “Better still, destroy one of the spineless curs for each minute that goes by without the holy quest being fulfilled.” He curled his bony fingers around the sword’s pommel. “That will set them on his trail like hounds, eh?”

Like Kezef himself, Jergal offered.

Cyric paused then a sick smile crept across his lips. “Kezef,” he murmured. “Of course.”

The Circle of Greater Powers has forbidden traffic with Kezef, Godsbane warned, trepidation in her voice.

“Since when have you cared what the Circle proclaims?” Cyric snapped. “Have they not broken their own laws by denying me magic?”

Godsbane did not reply, but Jergal said, “Of course, my lord. You are above their laws. You have every right to unleash the Chaos Hound.”

“My cup,” said Cyric, the smile still creasing his seared lips. “Then arrange for my passage to Pandemonium.”

The seneschal held out his hands, and an ornate silver chalice appeared, encrusted with hundreds of tiny rubies, each in the shape of a sundered heart. The ever-full cup contained the tears of disillusioned dreamers and brokenhearted lovers. The drink was bitter, but to Cyric it tasted like a priceless wine, aged to perfection.

“To oblivion,” the Prince of Lies offered solemnly, “and to Kezef.” He lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

Dawn in Zhentil Keep. Rinda made her way through squalid alleys, her hands cramped from taking notes for hours on end, her vision blurred from lack of sleep. She welcomed the chill morning with its bite of sleet in the air. It kept her from completely losing track of her surroundings.

This street was wider than most, which meant a clear path through the offal and garbage dumped from the buildings’ upper floors. Ragged refugees slept in every open doorway, the detritus of Zhentish society. Most of them came here to die, in places the dawn never seemed to touch with its healing light and soothing warmth.

Rinda glanced up only to find the rising sun hidden behind the huge spires of Cyric’s temple. They loomed, black and twisted, like blind giants standing watch over the city. No, the scribe reminded herself, not blind. The Church of Cyric has a thousand ways of seeing into the hearts and minds of the Zhentish.

“Help me, missy. In the name of Ilmater.”

The man sprawled against the Serpent’s Eye. His haggard face and scraggly beard were limned with frost. His nose was blue from cold. Holding shaky hands out to Rinda, he pleaded, “A copper, missy. Anything.”

The scribe stopped and crouched before him. “I’ve got no money, but I can bring some clothes here for you.” She glanced up through the tavern’s windows. Dark. “Will you stay here for a while? The Serpent’s closed, so they won’t chase you away.”

Slowly the man nodded. “You have anything for me to drink till you get back, missy?” He reached under his tattered tunic and pulled out an empty bottle. “That’ll keep me warm as any rags…”

“No,” she said firmly. Rinda stood and turned away. “I’ll send someone with the clothes as soon as I can.”

It never helped to get angry with the poor wretches - not when gin was cheaper than food and more plentiful than clean water - but Rinda always found herself railing inwardly whenever she came across someone crippled by drink. Without hope, they drowned the sting of each passing day with a ten-copper bottle. Hodur had been like that when Rinda first found him, but the dwarf had managed to pull himself out of the gutter. Maybe this old man could, too.

The swell of hope washed against the events of the night before and dissipated. Rinda closed her eyes for an instant, willing the dark monolith of despair to crumble. It wouldn’t. As large and as immovable as the black spires of Cyric’s temple, the tower of hopelessness dominated her thoughts; the Prince of Lies had taken control of her life, at least until this damned book of his was done.

No, she chided herself sharply. He’ll take control of my life only if I let him.

After all, she wasn’t being held prisoner - despite what Patriarch Mirrormane had suggested. If she arranged her time carefully enough, there might still be a few hours a day to devote to the unfortunates. And there were always men and women who needed her help…

When she finally arrived home, Rinda found the door hanging open slightly. More from habit than concern, she scanned the alley, looking in the doorways and windows of the surrounding buildings for signs of trouble. If robbers or ruffians were waiting in the house, there’d be a lookout posted - someone like the unshaven man watching her from the second-story window across the street. Scowling, Rinda moved away from the door. No sense in walking into a trap alone when she could muster a few friends to help out.

“Hey, Rin! Where you going?”

Hodur’s gruff voice stopped the scribe short. She turned to find the dwarf standing in the doorway, his beefy hands planted on his hips. “I was getting worried. It ain’t like you to stay out all night.”

Rinda sighed in relief. “You shouldn’t leave the door open like that,” she said. “Not even when you’re around. You never know who might wander in.”

Just before she followed her friend inside, Rinda looked up at the window across the way. The unshaven man was still there. One elbow planted on the sill, he cupped his chin in his hand. Brazenly he returned the scribe’s gaze, with eyes that betrayed more intelligence than his demeanor suggested. He lowered his arm, revealing the grinning white holy symbol of Cyric on his purple clerical robes.

“So you’re not a prisoner, hmmm?” Rinda muttered to herself and slammed the door closed behind her.

Hodur had already dropped into his chair by the door, though he didn’t plant his feet on the table as he usually did. The stained and scarred tabletop was crammed with bowls and mugs. He’d only cleared one small circle, at the center of which squatted a leather cup full of dice.

Another man - or, more precisely, an elf - sat across from Hodur. He watched Rinda enter, his back painfully straight, his shoulders set squarely, in military fashion. A neat gray tunic draped his thin frame. The material was clean, though a few stubborn bloodstains marred the sleeves. In one hand he held a deep-sided bowl. Carefully, with long, thin fingers, he drew a wriggling beetle from the dish and popped it into his mouth.

“Ivlisar,” Rinda greeted stiffly.

The elf nodded, crunching the beetle. A smile stretched across his narrow face as he held the bowl out to the scribe. “I only take ‘em from the graves of the bright blokes I dig up. The way I figure it, if they eat the brains of the stiffs, and then I eat ‘em-“

“No,” Rinda snapped, holding a hand out to ward off the bowlful of beetles. She moved to a neat pile of clothes on the floor and grabbed two tunics she’d taken from the rubbish heap outside a Zhentilar garrison. “Hodur, I need you to take these over to an old man outside the Serpent’s Eye. He’ll freeze to death if he doesn’t put something between him and the wind.”

“Later,” the dwarf replied. “We need to talk.”

“Talk,” she scoffed. “You have dicing to do, you mean. Look, it won’t take very long. And I’m sure Ivlisar would be happy to go for a walk with you.” She gave the elf a stern look. “Don’t give the old man anything to drink. If I find out you did, you’re not welcome here again.”

“A bit of the blue ruin never hurt nobody,” Ivlisar said defensively. ‘“Sides, Hodur isn’t pulling your leg. We’re set to have a bit of a parley, dear lady.”

“Ilmater give me strength,” Rinda hissed. She tucked the clothes under her arm and headed for the door to the back room. “Fine, then. I’ll go myself. Did you put those spare gloves back here?”

Panicked, Hodur leaped to his feet. “Rin, wait! There’s-“

Rinda couldn’t hold back her gasp of surprise when she saw what lay beyond the door.

An orc in leather Zhentilar armor lounged on her bed, his muddy feet propped on her pillow. He turned his gray-green face to the scribe and wrinkled his piggish snout disdainfully. Another man, clad in stylish clothes and a rich, double-lined cloak stood before the chest where Rinda kept her few belongings. In his hands was her most treasured possession - a globe of enchanted glass. Locked within the glass was a panoramic view of a lovely, verdant hillside in the Moonshaes.

“Get out!” she roared. “Now!”

The shouted command startled the orc enough for him to roll to his feet. The other man turned slowly to Rinda then held out the glass globe to her. “These are quite rare,” he said. “And quite beautiful. Your taste is to be applauded.”

“Quite a compliment coming from you, Lord Fzoul,” Rinda said coldly, recognizing the man at last.

When Rinda didn’t take the globe, the red-haired man gently replaced it in the chest then bowed formally. “My reputation precedes me,” he said archly, “and from the tone of your voice, it has not presented my best face.”

“You got more’n one?” the orc grunted. He shrugged and turned to Rinda. “This her? She don’t look like much.”

Fzoul rolled his eyes. “As you will find, Rinda, General Vrakk prides himself on being blunt. It might appear that he is quite stupid, but don’t let him fool you.”

“Me get commendation from King Ak-soon himself for fighting Horde,” Vrakk crowed. He slapped his broad chest and grinned, an act that made the sizable incisors jutting from his lower lip almost touch his snout. “Big hero in crusade.”

“If you two are here to arrest me,” Rinda said, “get it over with. If not, get out. I won’t have soldiers or Zhentarim scum - no matter how well-mannered - in my home.”

A large hand pressed against Rinda’s back. They’re here to help, Rin,” Hodur murmured solemnly. “We all are.”

“Help what?” the scribe said. “Ruin my reputation with the neighbors? Their kind isn’t well liked around here, you know.” She crumpled the tunics into a tight ball.

Fzoul stepped gracefully around Vrakk. “I assure you, Rinda. No one saw us enter. No one will see us leave.”

She took a step back from Fzoul, bulling Hodur out of the way. “What about the church watchdog across the street-or did you miss him? Or maybe he’s one of your lackeys…”

“Hardly,” Fzoul said. He paced Rinda carefully, keeping close to her as she backed across the room. He took his eyes off the scribe once, and then only to nod to Ivlisar. “I’m afraid we can’t let you leave just yet,” the Zhentarim agent noted as she got close to the door.

Glancing over her shoulder, Rinda found the elf blocking her way. He leaned against the door, munching on beetles and smiling fatuously. “No walking until you hear what we have to parley about,” Ivlisar said, then used a long fingernail to dislodge a stray leg from between his teeth.