Prince of Lies (28 page)

Cyric merely smiled at the barb. “Where did you get the spell that allowed you to capture him so easily? Such enchantments are far beyond your ken, Shadowlord.”

“From my library,” Oghma sighed.

“So you were his accomplice, as well,” the Prince of Lies hissed. Tell me, what has Kezef to do with knowledge, Binder? Are you as guilty of overstepping your office as Midnight?”

“The knowledge contained in my library is available to all the gods,” Oghma said. His voice thundered with menace, like the martial songs written by the necromancers of Thay. “Mask borrowed the information from me. In return for this service, the borrower often provides a bit of lost history to include in my books.”

“So you would have given me the spell, had I traded you some suitable fragment of lore?” Cyric asked slyly.

“Of course. Knowledge must be free to travel where it is desired.”

The Lord of the Dead nodded slowly. “I’ll remember that, Binder.”

“Enough, Cyric,” Tyr said. “It should be no surprise to you that there are many of us who stand against you-“

“But I should only expect opposition from any of you when my plans threaten your office,” the Prince of Lies said. “That is Ao’s law, is it not?”

Oghma stood and moved to Tyr’s side, then whispered into the old judge’s ear. “Yes,” the God of Justice said, “given the nature of the conflict, a compromise might be in order.”

Tyr faced the gathered throng once more, stiff and regal. “Because both the accuser and the accused are unique amongst us, having risen from the mortal realms to their positions of power, we can excuse this lapse in judgment on both their parts. Cyric, you will be required to participate in all meetings of the Circle and abide by all its decisions…”

“If I am allowed to pursue my office without unfair hindrance-“

“Without condition,” Tyr said firmly. “It should be clear from this proceeding the Circle can police its own.”

“Of course,” Cyric said, though he hid his distaste at the concession rather badly.

“As for you, Mystra,” Tyr added. “You must give up this vendetta against the Lord of the Dead. We will drop the charges against you, but you must allow Cyric the use of magic. He must be allowed the power to which his title grants him right.”

“And if I don’t give him access to the weave?”

“It will be as Oghma said - total sanctions against your mortal worshipers until you comply.”

Cyric threaded his way through the spectators and strolled across the pavilion’s floor. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, standing less than an arm’s length in front of Mystra. “My realm requires the attention I’ve focused on this gathering…”

Mystra bowed her head to hide the angry tears welling in her eyes.

It required no more than a thought from the Goddess of Magic to reconnect Cyric with the magical weave. As the energy flowed around him, the death god threw back his head and shouted. The sound of his joyful triumph tore into Mystra’s soul, leaving a scar that would never truly heal.

Cyric transformed, the seared features and blasted flesh replaced by the dashing facade of a lean, hawk-nosed Zhentish nobleman. “Your pain is enough of a reward for enduring this tedious business,” the Prince of Lies murmured so only Mystra could hear. He spun around and bowed toward Tyr and Oghma. “I thank the court for its wisdom. And now, I will take my inquisitors and go.”

The Prince of Lies paused long enough to gift Mystra with another gloating smile before walking to the cages. The inquisitors, still encased in their golden shells, bowed their heads to their master.

Mask caught Mystra’s eye then, and nodded toward the gathered knights of Hades. There was an instant connection between the god and goddess, born of a shared foe and common goal. The Lady of Mysteries shouted a single command word, triggering a special mechanism Gond had built into the cages. The bars on two sides of each cage slammed together, crushing the inquisitor inside like a hawk caught between a cloud giant’s palms. Gears and shards of metal and the shredded soul-stuff that had animated the armor spilled into the floor in a noisy cascade.

“The verdict said nothing about returning those monstrosities to you,” Mystra said when Cyric turned to face her.

The shocked silence in the pavilion told the Prince of Lies that his old adversary had managed some small victory out of this, after all. “Very well,” Cyric said. “Gond can make others.”

“He won’t,” Mask noted snidely. “Not after he’s proven these work. There’s no gain in it.”

Cyric locked eyes with his old ally for an instant. “The shadows cannot hide you from me forever, Mask. One day I’ll drag you into the light and give Godsbane a taste of your blood.”

“I doubt that very much,” the God of Intrigue smirked. “But don’t worry, when the threat doesn’t come true, you can always claim you were lying.”

The other gods had begun to disappear from the pavilion. “Hardly a new beginning,” Lathander murmured sadly before he vanished, on his way back to the fertile lands of Elysium.

Oghma, too, was clearly troubled by the trial, and angry at Mystra for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom. The Patron of Bards stared at the goddess for a long time before he left for the security of his library. Then Mystra found herself alone in the wizards’ laboratory with Mask and the shattered remains of the inquisitors.

“Cleverly done,” the Shadowlord offered. He slid forward with feline grace. “All of them believed it - even Cyric, and he was standing close enough to touch them.”

“Enough,” Mystra snapped. “Look, I appreciate your aid, Mask, but I simply don’t trust you.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” the God of Intrigue admitted, far too readily for the goddess’s liking. “Now that I know Cyric’s toy soldiers aren’t really destroyed-“

“I said enough! Can you create a shield to guarantee none of the other gods can interrupt us?”

“No,” Mask said uncomfortably. “You know the pavilion can’t be closed to the pantheon.”

“Which is why I said keep quiet.” Mystra turned back to the cages and the inquisitors. “I’ll take care of them. You can leave any time you want.”

Mask moved close to the Goddess of Magic. “Let’s retire to my domain so we can discuss our mutual foe. It’s time we joined forces, you and I. An alliance could aid us both.”

“You get to foster intrigue,” Mystra said, “and perhaps even gain some of Cyric’s titles if he happens to fall. I get condemned for stopping a mad god from destroying the world. No thanks.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Mask sighed. “There might not be enough in it for you. Still, I can promise one reward for allying with me, Lady, something that might make you change your mind.”

“I can’t think of anything that would, Mask. Stop wasting my time.”

The God of Intrigue settled onto the floor, shadows spreading out from him like a pool of blood from a slashed corpse. “Is Kelemvor’s soul a waste of time?”

The bolt of force struck Mask in the chest, knocking him backward a dragon’s length. “Where is he?” Mystra said. Tell me now.”

“I don’t have possession of him myself,” the Lord of Shadows said, smoothing his charred cloak. “And I don’t want to say more here. Other gods may be listening, remember?”

“All right,” Mystra growled. “We’ll go to my palace in Nirvana.”

“No,” Mask said as he rose ghostlike from the floor. “We’ll go to the City of Shadows. That’s a much more fitting place for this sort of intrigue.” He smiled ferally beneath his mask. “Besides, one of the other gods is already awaiting us there.”

Wherein the God of Knowledge faces three

unpleasant confrontations in three different

planes of existence, all at the same time.

As Oghma left the Pavilion of Cynosure, he sent his consciousness racing off in myriad directions to deal with the moment-to-moment challenges of his office. However, he focused most of his mind in three locations. None of these incarnations were very happy about the tasks facing them, but they didn’t complain. The unpleasant meetings might just yield some unusual bit of knowledge for his library, and in the end, knowledge was all that mattered…

For the moment, the House of Knowledge resembled a monastery, dark and gloomy, with an air of ancient holiness that hung over the place as palpably as the storm clouds choking the sky overhead. Oghma’s faithful went about their duties draped in coarse brown robes, their faces obscured by overlarge hoods. They shuffled through cavernous chambers crammed with tomes of every size. Heavy chains bound each book to its shelf; only the master librarian’s keys could free a volume from its guarded captivity for more careful perusal. Despite these precautions, though, no request for knowledge was ever denied. Such was the nature of the Binder’s domain.

Oghma took on the appearance of a monk as he materialized in his palace’s throne room. His robes were somber, though his hood and draped sleeves were lined with ermine, his sandals shod with dragonhide. His dislike of this grim, bookish facade drove the Binder’s mood even closer to the slough of despair - especially after the trial had gone so badly.

The sight of Cyric lounging in the Throne of Knowledge was enough to send Oghma the rest of the way into the mire.

The robe’s a good look for you,” the Prince of Lies noted casually. He’d draped himself over the thick, stiff-backed chair that now passed for Oghma’s throne. As the God of Knowledge approached, Cyric straightened and planted his elbows on the heavy writing desk that stood between them. The place suits you, too.”

“How so?” Oghma asked flatly, trying in vain to hide his anger from the death god.

Cyric sneered. “Musty and humorless. Your servants all fled when I arrived. All except one little pest. By the by, she tried to stop me from sitting here. I sent her to the Nine Hells.”

“I know,” the Binder rumbled. “I heard her scream.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll make it back sooner or later - unless she crosses paths with one of the greater baatezu.

Quite a nasty lot, the baatezu.” Cyric let a facade of mock concern drop over his features. “I wouldn’t have been so harsh, but I find it troubling when a lackey breaches godly etiquette…”

“Like sitting in a seat that doesn’t belong to him,” Oghma countered. The rumble in his multitoned voice had hardened into the ringing of steel against steel.

“I said lackey, not superior,” Cyric corrected, but he stood nonetheless. “Please, Binder, sit. It’s rather sad to find you elder powers tire so easily.”

“At the moment I’m tired only of you,” Oghma said. He pushed past the Lord of the Dead, threw his hood back from his dark handsome face, and settled into his throne. “Do you have business with me, or are you here to be an annoyance?”

Cyric sat on the edge of the desk. His crimson tunic and crushed velvet cloak made him stand out in the silent, solemn throne room-library like a jester at a funeral. “I come seeking knowledge, Binder.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re going to provide me with a solution to an old problem,” the Prince of Lies said, toying with the quill pen on the desk. He casually dipped the pen into an inkwell and scrawled a vile obscenity across a folio of sacred verse. “I really wish I’d thought of coming here before. Luckily, the trial reminded me that magical knowledge finds its way to you, too.”

Oghma erased the ink with a wave of his hand. “Don’t play the fool with me, Cyric. I know you better than that”

“You know everything, is that it?” The death god dropped the pen. “Fine. I want to know how I can find the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.”

Oghma’s laughter filled the room. The chuckling drowned out the mournful sounds floating in from the antechamber, where bards and priests sang dirges to lost knowledge. “Why, in Ao’s name, should I help you?” the Binder managed at last.

Cyric matched the smile on Oghma’s face. “This fine library is open to everyone, is it not? You said so at the trial.”

“I did.” The mirth fled Oghma’s voice. The Binder stood, his cool gaze locked on the death god’s lifeless eyes.

Then you have no choice but to give me the information I need - unless, of course, you can tell me where Kelemvor is hidden.” Cyric leaned forward. “Is that bit of trivia in one of your books?”

“No,” Oghma replied. “And I have no knowledge that will guarantee his discovery.”

“Well played, Binder - trying to refuse my request by splitting verbal hairs.” The Prince of Lies gestured vaguely to the volumes lining the shelves around the room. “I’m not looking for guarantees, though. Just give me the tome that will tell me how best to find the errant soul.”

The God of Knowledge held his hands forward, palms up, and a massive book appeared in them. The parchment, older than the pyramids of ancient Mulhorand, had begun to yellow long before Cormyr had crowned its first king. The pages cracked and flaked as Oghma opened the book. “You may read these pages, but do not touch them.”

Cyric scanned the lines of cramped magical script, penned by a long-forgotten evil god named Gargauth. The cryptic text alluded to primordial battles between the greater powers and weird beings more mighty even than Ao. In the midst of this strange history were the necessary preparations for an enchantment to break through all divine barriers, see through all godly deceptions. The words were difficult to read since the enchantment had been written in reverse script, the gray ink trailing like shadows across the darker ebon of the main text. Yet Cyric focused a small part of his mind on the task, and soon the knowledge was his.

“I will show this book to Lady Mystra right away,” Oghma noted as he gently closed the tome. “She may find Kelemvor’s soul before you.”

Cyric leaped from the desk, animated by a wild excitement. “Go ahead, Binder, but you know as well as I that she’ll never force her faithful to make the blood sacrifices the enchantment demands - whereas I most certainly will…” And with a flourish of his cloak, the Prince of Lies was gone.

Tucking Gargauth’s journal beneath his arm, Oghma readied for his trip across the planes. He paused, though, and reconsidered the wisdom of tempting the Goddess of Magic with such dangerous knowledge; she’d proved capable of endangering the Balance in pursuit of Cyric. What might she do to save her lover?