Prince of Lies (30 page)

“You’re mad,” Oghma snapped, closing the book with more force than he would have liked. The ancient binding cracked, and flakes of parchment puffed into the air. “If the Realm of the Dead revolts and Cyric is overthrown, the mortal realms will be driven into chaos.”

“Unless a new Lord of the Dead arrives to take control of Bone Castle before the chaos spreads,” the Shadowlord corrected. “I’m certain Godsbane would invite me in to help put down the unruly denizens - after Cyric is overthrown, of course.”

“Why should we help you take Cyric’s crown?” Mystra asked.

“Because I’m not nearly so mad as the Prince of Lies,” Mask replied flatly. “Because both of you need to stop Cyric very soon, before he finds Kelemvor’s soul or finishes his Cyrinishad. I’m offering you a clear plan, which has a very good chance of succeeding. Can either of you improve upon it?”

Mystra returned to pacing before the fire. The low-burning flames cast huge shadow-images of the goddess on the opposite wall. “We’ll need someone to lead the revolt,” she said after a time. “What about the inquisitors?”

“Ready-made revolutionaries,” Mask said wryly. “From the look of that armor, I’ll bet the souls pinned inside will be sporting quite a grudge against Cyric. The trick will be countermanding the orders they were given.”

“The inquisitors?” Oghma asked. “But you destroyed them.”

“Appeared to destroy them,” Mystra corrected. “I didn’t want to annihilate the poor shades trapped in the armor, but I wasn’t about to let Cyric take the suits back to Hades.”

“Again, I must admit to helping the lady with her deception. Rather clever, no?” Mask asked coyly “Just don’t tell the rest of the Circle they’ve been hoodwinked.”

The God of Knowledge scowled. He’d already been drawn into the Shadowlord’s plans more than he would have liked. Yet with a renewed command of magic, Cyric would certainly discover the conspirators. To protect the cause of knowledge in the mortal realms, Oghma had no choice but to go along with the intrigue.

Or was it simply that the other options had become less expedient?

The image of his library, always so clear and comforting, faded for an instant in Oghma’s mind. A void welled up in its place, gray and cold and infinite. Panicked, the Binder focused much of his vast consciousness on recovering the lost image. The sense of purpose, of security, returned quickly enough, but with it came a gnawing dread.

Mask’s intrigues and the battle with Cyric had brought Oghma unknowingly to the limits of his domain, to a place where decisions about art and knowledge in the mortal realms couldn’t be made with any surety. One wrong step, one act that destroyed more knowledge than it preserved, and he would step across the brink. And from the void that lay beyond, there would be no return, not even for a god.

From the back alleys of Zhentil Keep, harsh words being spoken to another of Oghma’s incarnations rippled across his consciousness. His mind latched onto the admonitions, drawing back from the void. Here, at least, was a problem he could solve…

Rinda rocked back and forth, her arms clasped firmly around her knees, her head bowed. She’d been perched in the same position for hours now, though the ache in her back and the cramps in her legs didn’t seem to register in her fear-clouded mind. “No hope,” she whispered. “No hope.”

Her house had become a prison, the only place her patron had deemed safe from Cyric’s inquisitors. Apart from the times the Lord of the Dead summoned her to the parchmenter’s shop to work on his book, she stayed at home, under the magical shield erected to hide The True life of Cyric from the death god. Rarely eating, never sleeping for more than an hour at a time, Rinda had become a gaunt shadow of her former self.

They’ve been captured, came a familiar voice. The inquisitors will stalk the Keep no longer.

The harmony in the multitoned words was meant to be comforting, but Rinda found no solace in the sounds. She turned green eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, toward the ceiling. “Did you do it?” she asked.

No. It was one of the other gods. Cyric has many enemies.

“I should’ve figured you wouldn’t do anything so direct.” The scribe rested her head on her arms, listening to the cold wind whistle through the cracks in the walls. “Who’s left?” she murmured after a time.

Fzoul Chembryl and General Vrakk. And you, of course.

Rinda sighed. So Ivlisar was gone now, too. She’d thought as much. The elf hadn’t come to see her in days, almost since Hodur’s murder. “Will Fzoul or Vrakk be coming to meet with me again?”

It’s unlikely, Rinda. Cyric has regained the use of magic, so I must focus my power on maintaining the shell around this dwelling. You must be protected-

“This isn’t about me,” the scribe said bitterly. “It’s about the book. You just want to be sure it stays hidden from Cyric. If I happen to live here, it’s just my good fortune.”

She stood and stalked to a large knothole in the wall. From there she gazed out at the street. Snow fell in great white flakes, covering the grimy buildings and the frozen street in a shroud of alabaster lace. A woman, bent nearly double by age or sickness or both, shuffled along, a shawl clutched about her shoulders. A pack of ragged children charged past her. The boys split into two uneven groups and began pelting each other with snowballs; the smaller gang, which was quickly overwhelmed by a hail of snowy missiles, shouted their surrender then dashed off again. They left one small child bloody and crying in their wake.

Rinda fought back the urge to go out and help the child, to stanch his bleeding and still his sobs.

It would be best for you to stay inside, the god said. Though the inquisitors are gone, Cyric will be undoubtedly unleash new terrors on the city to search for traitors.

“Get out of my head,” Rinda snapped. She focused her thoughts on the most sacrilegious, profane things she could imagine, just in case he had lingered there.

Fzoul and Vrakk have found a way to go about their lives, Rinda. You should strive to do the same.

“Oh really?” She planted her hands on her hips. “They became part of this plot willingly. I didn’t. Both you and Cyric simply strolled in and demanded my cooperation.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Finally, the voice spoke: I’m doing this for you and all the other mortals who would suffer under Cyric’s rule.

“So you say,” Rinda murmured, her voice as cold as the winter twilight settling over the Keep. “But I’ve got no reason to believe you, not when you won’t even tell me who you are.”

That knowledge would be dangerous for you. If Cyric discovered your duplicity-

“Stop it. If Cyric discovers The True Life, he’ll drag me off to Hades whether I know who I’m working for or not.” She ran a hand through her dark curls, trying to rein in her growing fury. “And you wouldn’t lift a celestial finger to help me, would you? Of course not. Then you’d be on the front lines, instead of skulking around behind the scenes.”

Enough, Rinda. You’re becoming irrational.

“Why shouldn’t I be irrational?” she shouted then laughed hysterically. “I’m being volleyed between gods like a shuttlecock! And no matter who wins the match, I’ll be the one punished for it!” Rinda picked up a mug and dashed it against the wall. “That’s it. I’m not going to play at this any longer…”

The scribe hurried to the desk where she worked on The True Life of Cyric. She scattered the books she’d stacked atop the pages then shredded the silk wrappings that guarded the priceless gatherings. Before she could tear the parchment, though, a dark-skinned hand grasped her wrists.

“Enough,” the god said. He gently turned the scribe to face him. “I cannot let you destroy that knowledge.”

Rinda stared at the avatar. His slight frame was draped in a monkish robe, austere save for the ermine trim on the hood and sleeves. Dark eyes full of infinite wisdom returned her gaze. There was something else in those eyes, too, a powerful sadness. She felt an urge to bow, but her anger dispelled the inclination before she had a chance to act on it.

“I am Oghma,” the god said, “Patron of Bards, God of Knowledge. The other powers call me Binder, though I rather dislike the name. It makes me sound too rigid, too unyielding.”

Rinda’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then the question finally found its way from her throat. “Why?”

“As I said, I’m doing this to protect the mortal realms from Cyric. His book would sow ignorance, spread it like a plague to everyone who reads the lies you have penned in his name.”

“No,” the scribe said. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Why reveal yourself to me?”

Oghma smiled. “Because you reminded me that sometimes the best path to travel may not necessarily be the safest, especially if one intends to be true to oneself.” At the confusion in Rinda’s eyes, the Binder pointed to the stack of parchment. “You knew that being trapped in this intrigue was denying your calling, and you would have destroyed these pages to set yourself free. It would have been a mistake, but a rather heroic one, all things considered.”

The God of Knowledge patted her hand. “Mortals understand that better than we gods - making choices, I mean.”

“I thought you meant mistakes.”

They’re the same thing.” Oghma said. “At least in part. Anyway, you have questions about our plans, and it’s time I guided you to the knowledge you seek… After you see to the child, of course. He still needs your help, and I know how pointless it would be to try to detain you.”

Rinda had already tossed her cloak over her shoulders and opened the front door.

Wherein many strange and supernatural events

trouble the people of Zhentil Keep, the Prince of

Lies musters a powerful army to unify his

holy city, and Thrym the frost giant learns

that not all gods are created equal.

Elusina the Gray dumped a handful of grubby chicken bones from a porcelain bowl and waved her hands slowly over the resulting mess. She murmured a nonsensical string of phrases, half words, half musical notes in a decidedly somber key. The fake incantation complete, she began to sway back and forth violently. In summer she cut this part out of the show; now, in the clutches of Nightal, the activity kept the cold from freezing her old joints solid.

Once she felt sufficiently warmed, the old woman turned bloodshot eyes on the Zhentilar officer sitting across the table from her. “Just as the basilisk’s eye can turn men to stone, their bones can petrify a man’s fate. Here, Sergeant Renaldo -” she gestured to the tangled pile “- here is the shape of your future.”

Rubbing his gloved hands together anxiously, the young officer glanced around the tiny, garishly decorated room, as if someone might sneak in and steal the secret of his future. When finally he looked at the bones, though, disappointment stole across his handsome features. “Oh, that’s it then? What does it, er - what does it mean?”

Elusina held one clawlike hand out, palm up. “It’s dangerous to spy upon the future, Sergeant. For me to risk the wrath of the spirit world, I’ll need more… incentive.”

The Zhentilar cursed vilely. His commander had told him the old woman was a gifted mystic, but these were the tactics of a sideshow huckster. He drew a dagger from his boot top. “If anything from the spirit world drops by to complain,” he said, “I’ll be here to protect you.”

With bony knuckles, Elusina rapped three times on the table. The thick curtain of beads behind her parted, and a brawny man stepped through. He crossed well-muscled arms over his chest and glowered at the soldier. He was as tall as an ogre and just as ugly, with beady eyes and a nose that had been broken three or four times. From the dented and bloodstained cudgel hanging at his belt, he’d clearly repaid the assaults in kind.

“Brok here protects me,” Elusina murmured. “You’re supposed to pay me enough to keep him around.” She extended her hand again, waiting patiently until the soldier dropped a silver piece and a half-dozen copper into her palm.

The old woman cackled and deposited the coins one by one into a strong box at her feet. They jingled against the cache like a gypsy’s tambourine. In troubled times like these, providing glimpses into the future was a profitable business - even for thieves like Elusina, who could no more see a man’s fate than walk through a stone wall.

Still, the old woman provided a bit of a show for the men and women who came seeking her advice. She’d been an actress at one time, a lesser light in a decidedly disreputable troupe that toured the Cormyrian countryside. Elusina’s skills as a pickpocket had been honed vigorously by the master of the ragged band, but she’d managed to acquire a fair sense of the dramatic along the way.

“Oh, there is much danger in store for you, Sergeant,” she began, hovering once more over the chicken bones. “Traitors and heretics lurk everywhere, and it will be your task to route them from the city.”

The Zhentilar scoffed. “Everyone knows what the army’s job’ll be, now that the church is running the Keep. Tell me something you haven’t heard on the street.”

“You will be promoted soon -” Elusina jabbed at two bones set apart from the rest, crossed like blades in a battle “- before the end of the year. You’ve been seeking an important post, and it will soon be yours.”

That claim caught the soldier’s attention, and the look of suspicion began to drop from his features. “How? I mean, what happens to the dolt who’s in that spot now?”

Elusina stared at the bones a moment, formulating an answer clear enough to keep the soldier intrigued, but vague enough to keep hidden the fact she had no idea what post he wanted. Like most military men, the young sergeant was ambitious. She’d recognized that the moment he walked into the parlor, swaggering like a victorious general, or Xeno Mirrormane himself…

“The patterns are not clear,” she murmured, stalling for time. The old woman cursed herself for drinking so heavily at the Serpent’s Eye earlier in the afternoon. The aftereffects of the gin was clouding her thoughts. “Let me look more closely.”

As Elusina ran her withered fingertips over the smooth curves and sharp ends of the scattered bones, her mind suddenly went blank. The parlor fell away, the imitation Shou carpets and tasseled lanterns swathed in red silk fading into mist. In their place she saw only the tangle of chicken bones, as large as Cyric’s temple, glowing more brightly than the morning sun. And for the first time, she recognized a clear meaning in the jumble.