Prince of Lies (8 page)

“Of course.”

“And of unfairly sentencing souls to the Wall of the Faithless?”

Cyric snorted. “You were there, Torm.”

“And of continuing work on your infernal book, intending to use it to undermine all other faiths in Faerun?”

“Didn’t I just tell you I admit to everything you can charge me with, you dimwitted tin warrior? The real question is, what can any of you do about it?” Cyric rolled his eyes in disgust and faced Mystra. “He’s almost as dull as Kelemvor, eh Midnight?”

The goddess returned Cyric’s cold gaze evenly. “What about the death of Leira?” she asked tonelessly. “Do you admit to that?”

One eyebrow arched, the Lord of the Dead leaned back against a table. “Upon whose testimony are you accusing me of harming the elusive Lady of the Mists? As I remember, the Circle of Greater Powers cannot try me for a crime without testimony or evidence.”

“We have only our suspicions,” Mystra said calmly, “but I’ve demanded the Circle call upon Lord Ao and ask him where Leira is. Do you have any objections? Actually, they don’t matter, so don’t bother voicing them.”

The Lord of the Dead and the Goddess of Magic stared at one another. The twitch in Cyric’s left eye told of barely subdued rage, while the hard line of Mystra’s mouth, the tension in her limbs, revealed an overwhelming revulsion for the creature of darkness she had once called friend.

Cyric closed his hand tightly around the hilt of his sword. The gesture’s meaning was not lost on Mystra; that blade had nearly drained her life atop Blackstaff Tower, after Cyric had used it to kill Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He would repay her for humiliating him before the Circle. Godsbane would taste her blood again.

“We yet await Mask’s arrival,” Tyr announced. “Only then may we summon Ao.”

“Don’t delay on my account,” said a smooth whisper. The words hissed like a black silk cloth polishing a sharp blade. “I’ve been here for quite some time.”

As one, the gods turned to find Mask standing at the very edge of the pavilion. Darkness clung to him in thin wisps, passing over his bright robe of magic like clouds over a full moon. Black gloves covered his hands, and a loose-fitting mask concealed his features. Only his eyes were visible, twin pools of red flashing and ebbing as he spoke.

“Should I join my fellow conspirator?” he asked glibly. Without waiting for a reply, the Lord of Shadows slid with feline grace past Mystra to stand beside Cyric.

“Hear our plea, great and wise overlord,” Tyr began without prelude. “We seek your wisdom.”

The other gods picked up the evocation, repeating it over and over. Their voices grew louder, the words more strident. They called until they howled like mad things - all save Cyric, who stood mute and sullen in the midst of the riot.

Mystra winced at the discord, yet some part of her reveled in the painful cacophony and drew strength from it. She screamed along with the others until she saw that the Pavilion of Cynosure was trembling. The laboratory her mind had cast as a facade over the place warped, then unraveled like a worn tapestry. The tables melted, then the ceiling and walls. The floor went last, wafting away in a haze of unreality.

The gods found themselves surrounded by a vast sea of emptiness. The prayers of Mystra’s worshipers faded in her mind to distant, feeble cries as more and more of her consciousness was drawn into the void. The mortal world became a desert oasis seen through a heat haze, faint and shifting, more ghostly than real. Then, suddenly, the sea of emptiness transformed into a night sky filled with a million stars. And from each pinpoint of light radiated a spectrum of subtle, unearthly hues and a chorus of terrifying heavenly voices.

Keepers of the Balance, you have summoned me needlessly.

The words insinuated themselves into Mystra’s mind, demanding the attention of every facet of her divine intellect. She reeled at the force of the million stern voices rebuking her, the myriad angry flashes filling the darkness around her.

Know you now that Cyric and Mask did murder Leira, Ao boomed. Yet they have done nothing that is outside their natures. Cyric is Lord of Murder, so he should strive to blot out even the lives of gods. Mask is Lord of Intrigue, so he should strive to conceal such deeds.

The facade of a wizard’s laboratory began to reappear before Mystra’s eyes, and the voices of her faithful grew stronger. The stars faded, leaving phantom afterimages burned into her mind. Ao offered a final warning, full of dark portents: It is your responsibility to stand against Cyric - just as it is his to destroy you if you fail. Such is the way of the Balance. Mystra knew the words were meant for her more than any of the others in the pantheon.

In the center of the pavilion, Cyric crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there anything else?” he asked smugly.

Tyr took a step toward the Lord of the Dead, his fist raised before him. “There will be justice done for this crime.”

“Didn’t you hear Ao?” Cyric scoffed. “There was no crime. Leira died because I willed it.” He drew Godsbane and leveled the blade at the God of Justice. “Any of you could be next. That’s my place in the Balance: To weed out the weak from this pathetic pantheon.”

Dutifully Torm stepped between Godsbane and his patron. A sword appeared in his hand, gleaming silver and edged sharply enough to slice a rainbow into separate bands of color. He tapped the blade in warning against Godsbane then planted his feet in a practiced fighting stance. “We will not fall as easily as Leira.”

Mask flinched as the gods flicked the tips of their swords together. “This isn’t the time, Cyric,” he counseled, “not in the open, not when there are so many against you.”

“Spoken like a true coward,” Torm snarled. “You might as well try your luck now, Mask. From this day forward we’ll remain vigilant against your treachery.”

Lowering his pen and parchment to the table before him, Oghma raised empty hands to both Cyric and Torm. “We cannot bring Leira back, but perhaps we can reach some agreement. Release the souls unfairly imprisoned, and we-“

Cyric laughed bitterly. “I will do with Gwydion the Quick as I wish. I may release him; I may torture him forever.” He slowly lowered Godsbane and sheathed her. “But none of you will influence his fate. Until now, I have occasionally welcomed you or your envoys into my domain. No longer. As of this moment, the City of Strife is completely closed to the pantheon.”

“You asked before what we could do against you because of your crimes,” Mystra said. Her words were edged sharper than Torm’s sword. “I have your answer - and yours as well, Mask. As Goddess of Magic, I forbid you both from drawing on the magical weave.”

“What!” Cyric shrieked. “You can’t deny me magic. I must answer the prayers of my faithful. And the City of Strife-“

“Is not my concern,” Mystra interrupted. “Your minions may still use magic, and your worshipers will be granted spells, but you, Cyric cannot draw the magic for a single cantrip.”

Mask bowed his head, hiding his glowing red eyes from Mystra. “I acted only by my cursed nature, Lady. I can do little but plot intrigues and further the place of thieves in the world. Is there no way I can escape this punishment?”

“Forswear any alliances with Cyric,” Mystra said without pause. “Swear that you will not aid him again.”

The Lord of Shadows replied just as quickly. “Of course, Lady.”

“You cowardly bastard,” Cyric shouted.

He started toward Mask, but Mystra gestured grandly. A shimmering wall of force blocked his path. The Lord of the Dead struck the wall, and the robe of magic he wore began to fade. The brilliance drained from the raiments like water. The cast-off magic pooled on the pavilion’s floor before vanishing, evaporating into the air like summer rain.

Cyric clutched his head and screamed in impotent rage. His features blurred, and three dozen faces appeared on his head - shouting vile curses, answering his minions’ questions, stalking the nightmares of men and women across Faerun. Stunned in his sudden loss of power, the Lord of the Dead had lost all control of his myriad selves. They sprouted from his body like cancerous growths, swearing dark oaths, shrieking their displeasure.

For a time the rest of the pantheon watched in fascinated horror as Cyric fought to regain control. When finally he managed to subdue the warring facets of his mind, he no longer appeared as the lean, hawk-nosed mortal Mystra had known during their quest for the Tablets of Fate. His skin had blistered and hardened into a smooth red hide. His muscles rippled on his thin frame, bands of steel corded beneath his flesh. From his gaunt, almost skeletal face, eyes like dark suns burned with unending malice.

“Without magic, all your incarnations will share this hideous face,” Mystra said. “Submit to the Circle’s will, and you will be allowed to heal yourself.”

“Submit to the Circle?” Cyric repeated, his voice sepulchral. “The Cyrinishad will bring this entire pantheon to its knees.” He smiled viciously and leveled a gnarled finger at Mystra. “But while I wait for my mortal minions to complete my book, I’ll search for the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane. His suffering will be your particular reward, Midnight.”

The Lord of the Dead patted the rose-hued sword at his side and chuckled. “You’re leaving me Godsbane? That’s surprisingly kind of you.”

“I won’t destroy something wrought from the weave simply because you own it. Besides, you’d be hard-pressed to stand against a seasoned mortal soldier without something to protect you.” She returned his cruel smile. “Now, if you ask nicely enough, I’m certain one of the other powers would be kind enough to transport you back to the Realm of the Dead - unless you plan to walk.”

Talos took a tentative step forward, looking to Mystra for some sign of approval. The Goddess of Magic nodded, and the Destroyer took Cyric’s arm and disappeared.

“You cannot maintain this ban for long, Lady,” Oghma whispered as soon as Cyric had departed. “If he should lose control of the Realm of the Dead…”

Mystra turned to the God of Knowledge. “That’s why I left him the sword,” she said distractedly. “He can maintain his power with that, but he shouldn’t be able to harm any of us. That should give us time to shore up our houses against his next onslaught.” The Goddess of Magic bowed hurriedly and excused herself, vanishing from the Pavilion of Cynosure in a burst of blue-white light.

She returned to her throne room, at the heart of her magnificent palace. There Mystra buried her face in her hands, trying to banish a chilling image from her memory. She knew it was futile. For the rest of time, the horrid sight would haunt her.

In the instant before Cyric disappeared from the pavilion, Mystra had slipped into his mind, hoping to catch some glimpse of his twisted perspective. The contact was brief. The ever-vigilant spirit of Godsbane had sensed an intruder and pulsed forward, an amorphous red-hued mass of evil. But before the Goddess of Magic fled, she saw for a moment the world from the eyes of the Lord of the Dead.

A red haze of pain mingled with black clouds of strife and despair. At the center of this roiling chaos stood the Prince of Lies. The Pavilion of Cynosure had no other features, the gods and goddesses no faces or forms. They spoke with Cyric’s own voice, and their words came to him as unruly comments from his own mind. He was utterly alone.

Wherein the Prince of Lies uncovers clues of

many sorts, and Gwydion the Quick learns

that there are things to fear in the

City of Strife, even for a dead man.

Cyric sat brooding in Bone Castle’s immense throne room, continually replaying in his mind his humiliation at Mystra’s hand. Each time he reached the moment when the goddess denied him contact with the weave, Cyric imagined some wildly twisted version of the actual event. In one he shattered Mystra’s arcane shield and struck her down with Godsbane, thus adding God of Magic to his growing list of titles. In another the weave itself revolted against Mystra. Or the gods of chaos rallied and descended on her like a pack of winter-starved wolves. Or Ao himself manifested to prevent her from abusing her power so flagrantly…

The variations were endless, and in certain dark corners of Cyric’s mind, some of them dropped like seeds into the mire of delusion and fantasy. In days or months or years, as time was measured in the mortal realms, these notions would blossom into false memories. The noisome thoughts would vie with the truth, creeping around it with leafy tendrils, draining it of vitality. Then these lies would become Cyric’s only memories of the meeting, transforming it into a triumph.

“Glorious,” Cyric muttered as he envisioned himself dripping to the elbows in Mystra’s blood. He could almost taste the crimson liquid on his lips.

Revenge will be yours, my love, Godsbane purred. The spirit of the sword pulsed inside the swirling chaos of Cyric’s thoughts. Just as soon as you put your plans into motion.

“Eh?” Cyric grunted. “My plans?”

To find Kelemvor. To finish your tome.

The Prince of Lies rubbed the sword’s pommel. “Right now a hundred plots are coming to fruition, a thousand agents are on the move…”

His mind raced as he considered the monstrous assassins he’d sent to stalk Mystra’s clerics in Sembia. They trailed the goddess’s minions from beneath the ground, in the guise of mutated moles, and from the skies as human vultures. Press gangs on the Fugue Plain were also just now grabbing Mystra’s faithful. They would be rushed into the City of Strife before the maruts could escort them to paradise. In Zhentil Keep, the search for his new scribe was almost over. The soldiers had learned the whereabouts of Bevis’s daughter from a parchmenter. In hours, she would be ready to begin the new Cyrinishad. There were other schemes, too - the desecration of Torm’s shrine in Tantras, the disruption of the holy rites of Tyr in Suzail, the betrayal of Mask’s agents in the city watch of Waterdeep…

And in every temple dedicated to Cyric, every coven of worshipers, circles of clerics and powerful mages sought the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.

For a decade, Cyric had turned his worshipers’ magic to the task. He little believed the mortals would find the errant soul, since only a deity had the might to shield Kelemvor for so long. But each oracle and priest scrying for the hidden shade put the deceitful god’s power to the test. Now the number of seekers had been swelled by the faithful of Leira.