by James Lowder
The facade of foppishness slipped, and the ruler of Zhentil Keep withdrew the handkerchief from his face. “Of course, Your Magnificence,” he murmured.
“Tell me, Chess,” Cyric demanded sharply, “do you still pray to Leira for a way to hide your disgusting gut from your courtesans? Illusions only conceal so much, you know.”
Flushing in embarrassment, Chess straightened his bulk against the crypt’s stone wall. When he looked to Cyric for some sign of approval, he found the god’s avatar had wandered away into the cavernous catacombs, leaving him to wonder just how the Lord of the Dead had intercepted prayers sent to another in the heavens.
The crypts had once held the honored dead of Bane—priests and warriors and accomplished statesmen who had dedicated their lives to the former God of Strife. After the Time of Troubles, when Cyric had taken Bane’s mantle, he directed his minions to plunder the places sacred to the Black Lord. They defaced the beautiful marble statues and tombs before they smashed them to rubble. The remains of Bane’s faithful they dumped unceremoniously into the River Tesh.
The Church of Cyric had yet to create enough of their own martyrs to fill the now-desolate crypts, so the space was used for other purposes. A group of church assassins had taken to meditating amidst the rats and spiders and more chilling creatures that stalked the dark catacombs. Apart from them, and the few church wizards who conducted secret experiments in the crypts, the expanse of vaults and chambers remained empty. They wound unused beneath the vast complex of temples and monasteries dedicated to the Prince of Lies.
Cyric paced uneasily across the ragged indentation where a marker had once graced the floor. Perhaps I should let Xeno enshrine the scribes who labored on the early versions of the Cyrinishad, he mused. That would fill this place up soon enough. I might even give the scribes’ bodies back, if the clerics wish to bury what’s left of them.
The Prince of Lies closed his eyes and listened. The unending shrieks of the men and women who had penned the failed tomes filled his ears, even from their place of fiery imprisonment in the throne room of Bone Castle.…
A jarring clatter chased the wails of the damned from Cyric’s consciousness. He glanced back at the others; Xeno had dropped the iron into a brazier for reheating. The thought of entombing the patriarch with his murdered brother flashed through the death god’s mind—pleasant repayment for this incessant shrieking and fidgeting—but amusement quickly drowned Cyric’s annoyance.
Cyric had taken on a physical avatar for this visit to Zhentil Keep, something he’d seldom done since becoming a god. He preferred instead to haunt the dreams of his worshipers as a bloody wraith or manifest as a cloud of poisonous smoke before his enemies. He’d forgotten what it was like to perceive the world through senses easily plagued by distractions. The strange feeling was pleasant, in a nostalgic way, and it softened his dark mood just a little.
The echoes of Fzoul’s footfalls preceded him into the crypts. When he appeared at the base of the stairs, he showed no signs of having hurried to answer Cyric’s call. In fact, from the ceremonial dress he wore, it seemed as if the priest had taken the time to array himself for the meeting. The weird radiance lighting the catacombs made Fzoul’s black armor appear slick, like a snake’s scales just after it molts. Once the holy symbol of Bane had graced the breastplate. Now it was blank, a midnight sky devoid of stars. Bands of silver plundered from the centaurs of Lethyr Forest bound his long red hair in a braid and ringed his drooping mustaches.
Fzoul slid the gloves from his hands one long finger at a time, then folded the dragon-leather gauntlets and slipped them into his belt. “Tour Magnificence,” he said without reverence or enthusiasm. The priest dropped to one knee and bowed his head, more to hide the look of disdain on his harsh features than to show his submission.
Cyric’s cruel laughter filled the crypts. “Your reluctance only makes your worship that much sweeter to savor, Fzoul. I know you hate me. You’ve hated me ever since I put that arrow in you at the Battle of Shadowdale.” He smirked. “Tell me, do the war wounds hurt on Bane’s old high holy days?”
Fury flashed like lightning in the priest’s eyes. He gritted his teeth to hold back a bitter reply.
“That’s right, Fzoul. Send silent prayers to every dark power in the universe,” Cyric said. “The other gods can’t bring Bane back, and they’ll do nothing against me.” The mirth had fled his voice now, and his gaze pierced the priest’s soul.
Slowly Fzoul stood. A pall of fear had damped the jagged streaks of anger. “So you have proved, again and again over the last ten winters, Your Magnificence.”
To break the tension that had settled over the group, Lord Chess smiled broadly and clapped a hand on Fzoul’s shoulder. “Tell me, how go things with the Zhentarim? Have your mages found any trace of Kelemvor Lyonsbane? Damned strange, his soul missing for all these years.” He beamed foolishly at Cyric. “Your Magnificence killed him too well, I fear.”
Godsbane stirred uneasily against Cyric’s thigh. I long to drink the blood of all these prattling apes, the rose-hued sword purred in the god’s mind.
The dark smile returned to Cyric’s face as the sword shared visions of carnage with him. The Prince of Lies dwelled upon those; Fzoul’s precise uninteresting explanation for the Zhentarim’s inability to find Kelemvor’s soul lodged itself in another part of Cyric’s immense consciousness.
The Lord of the Dead didn’t particularly trust the Zhentarim. Since the destruction of their immortal patron, Bane, the Black Network had continued to subtly undermine the lawful kingdoms of Faerun by means of spies and assassins. The mages who controlled the group had proved annoyingly loyal to the memory of Bane or, even more infuriating, to the Goddess of Magic. Still, Cyric recognized their usefulness, especially for matters that required the services of talented sorcerers.
“And the oracles can find no trace of Lyonsbane,” Fzoul concluded flatly. “If his soul fled your wrath and hides in the realms of the living, some great power is shielding him from our magic.”
Cyric frowned. “The same as every report for the past ten years,” he rumbled. “Mystra is behind this, or one of her allies. But they won’t keep Kelemvor hidden from me forever, not after the Cyrinishad steals their worshipers away, eh Xeno?”
The patriarch cackled madly and lifted the stack of parchment from the table. “You’re fortunate, Fzoul. Someone else has given the book its first review—part of it, anyway.” He gestured to Bevis with his chin. “We’ll put the brand to him and see if he believes it.”
“Don’t worry, Fzoul,” Cyric murmured as he passed close to the priest “You’ll get to read the book next if this little experiment proves successful. That’s why I called you here. I want you to be the first to see the error of your ways.”
After shaking Bevis awake, Xeno held the hot iron rod against the man’s bare feet. The pain sent the illuminator into an agonized swoon. As soon as his mind cleared, the smell of his own charred flesh made the gorge rise in his throat
“I’m sorry,” Bevis choked. “I know I wasn’t supposed to read it B-But once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
Xeno howled triumphantly. “Couldn’t help yourself, you say?” He waved the smoldering iron in front of Bevis’s face. “You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”
“No!” the prisoner shrieked. “P-Please. I won’t tell anyone what I read. I won’t tell them what the book says!”
Rubbing his double chin, Lord Chess scowled and shook his head. “That’s not the point at all. We’d really rather you tell everyone.”
Bevis looked hopefully into the foppish nobleman’s eyes. “Then I will. I’ll stand in the streets and shout the story over and over. Look, my daughter used to be a scribe, an excellent one, too. She quit the guild, but I’ll get her to help copy the text if you want.…”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Fzoul snapped. He grabbed the red-hot iron from the patriarch. “We want to find out if he believed the book, not if he can be bullied int
o becoming a town crier for the church.”
At a nod from Cyric, Fzoul Chembryl started a long, systematic torture of Bevis. For more than an hour the illuminator endured the pain. He repeated much of what he’d read from the Cyrinishad, word for word. The passages were set into his memory with a brilliance undimmed by the priest’s most ingenious use of his dagger or the hot iron—until they came to the death of Myrkul and the battle atop Blackstaff Tower.
“I can’t remember that part of the story,” Bevis shouted through scorched and bleeding lips.
Xeno frowned. “Don’t believe him.”
“Of course not,” Fzoul snapped. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of one hand, then flicked the salty liquid onto Bevis’s flayed cheeks. When the illuminator stopped howling, the priest asked quietly, “Who destroyed Myrkul?”
“It—it was in the other book,” Bevis said. “The one about the Time of Troubles I worked on years ago.” He began to laugh uncontrollably. “The only book I read from cover to cover, that history was. I thought—”
“The destruction of Myrkul,” Cyric prompted impatiently. He unsheathed Godsbane, for some part of him knew the answer before Bevis gave it
“Midnight killed Myrkul,” the illuminator whispered, rolling his eyes back until the whites showed. “But it hurts to think that now, even though the other book said it was true. And Cyric waited in the tower and ambushed Midnight and Kelemvor and the other one, the scarred priest And he stabbed Kelemvor in the back and stole the Tablets of Fate. He ran away because Midnight would have—”
The crimson blade pierced the man’s side, cutting off his rambling reply. Bevis had time to gasp once as Godsbane drained every drop of blood from him. Then Cyric reached into the corpse and yanked the soul free. Phantasmal and shimmering, the soul seemed to be formed of light, but once he was in the City of Strife, Bevis would be as corporeal as all the other shades—and as vulnerable to eternal torture.
One hand tight around the soul, the Lord of the Dead turned eyes brimming with hellfire on the three mortals in the crypts. “We will start again three days from now, at sunset,” he shouted. “Have a scribe ready in the usual place. Find the one who penned this piece of rubbish—” he pointed Godsbane at the gatherings, and the ink disappeared from the pages “—and add his skin to the parchment for the next volume. I’ll send a denizen to collect his body when you’re done flaying him.”
Xeno dropped to his knees. “But we’ve no more scribes in the temple,” he said, his voice quavering. “We’ve even used up all the guild members we arrested.”
The soul in Cyric’s grasp burst into flame. “This one said he had a daughter who could write,” the god shouted over Bevis’s cries for mercy. “If you have no one left, find her. I’ll decide if she’s worthy of serving me when I meet her.” And with that, the Lord of the Dead vanished.
Lord Chess waved his scented handkerchief before him, trying vainly to drive away the stench of charred flesh. “This book will be the ruin of Zhentil Keep yet,” he mused, though his voice betrayed little concern.
One silvery eyebrow raised in suspicion, Xeno Mirrormane said, “Sounds to me like you’re doubting the god’s powers, Chess. I could have you killed for that.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Fzoul snapped. “He’s only stating the facts of it. If Cyric can find the right scribe and the right wording for his book, he’ll have the perfect weapon to convert everyone in Faerun—in the world, even.” He thumbed through the blank parchment gatherings. “He was close this time. The artist nearly believed the whole thing, even though he’d read the truth before.” Fzoul shook his head. “Read the Cyrinishad and believe in it, no matter what it says. Why do you think Mystra denied Cyric the magic to create the book himself? Or why Oghma denied him the services of his eternal scribes? Without worshipers, the rest of the pantheon will disappear, just as if they never existed.”
Xeno pulled the pages from Fzoul’s hands. “Mystra and Oghma cannot stop Cyric’s faithful from creating this tome. And there are many who believe everything His Magnificence tells us even without the Cyrinishad. To us, there are no other gods.”
“That’s the most frightening thing of all,” Fzoul said and turned to leave the crypts.
III
POINT OF VIEW
Wherein Mystra meets with the Circle of Greater Powers to censure Cyric and discovers that, even in the heavens, guilt and innocence are a matter of perspective.
To each of the gods, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as something different. Sune Firehair saw a vast hall filled with mirrors to reflect her perfect beauty. Tempus envisioned a planning room deep within a fortified redoubt. Maps and charts of legendary wars fought by the Lord of Battles covered every wall, every table. The Great Mother, Chauntea, perceived the place as an endless field fertile with wheat. The crops waved slowly in the autumn wind, eternally ready for harvest.
The gods in the pavilion saw each other with disparate faces as well. Lathander Morninglord viewed the powers gathered there as either shafts of light or dark clouds, forces that augmented or obscured the glorious sunrise of renewal he fostered in the world. For Talos the Destroyer, bellicose Master of Storms, the gods devoted to good or law were islands of annoying calm in the roiling thunderheads before him.
As one facet of her consciousness manifested in the pavilion, Mystra noted with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment that, as always, Lathander and Talos had positioned themselves as far apart as possible. To the Goddess of Magic, the other gods appeared as human mages. Their gorgeous robes were drawn from the magic weave that surrounded Faerun, the web of enchantment from which all sorceries originated. The pavilion itself was a wizard’s workshop, filled with bubbling beakers and jars of every arcane substance known to man or god.
“Tell me, O Lady of Mysteries,” asked a melodious voice, “have you ever considered why the Morninglord and the Destroyer can’t seem to put their differences aside, even for an instant?”
Mystra turned to find Oghma at her side. The God of Knowledge and Patron of Bards bowed and took the goddess’s hand. Her dainty alabaster fingers glowed like streaks of moonlight against his dark skin as he raised them to his lips.
The Goddess of Magic smiled at Oghma’s gallantry. “Their feud is no mystery,” she replied. “It’s simply a function of their offices. Renewal and destruction are not particularly complementary pursuits. It’s nothing more than that.”
“Really?” Oghma said. “When you look around you now, what do you see?”
“A workshop for training mages,” she replied.
“And what do the others see—Talos and Lathander and the rest?”
The goddess balked at the insistent tone in Oghma’s voice. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m the God of Knowledge,” Oghma said dismissively. “Just exercising my divine curiosity.”
From the slight smile on the god’s lips, Mystra could tell the reply was hardly the whole truth. Still, there was little to be lost in answering him. If nothing else, it might lead her closer to discovering the real purpose for his prying.
The Goddess of Magic took Oghma’s arm in hers and moved gracefully to one of the circular tables scattered about the workshop. The train of her blue-white dress floated behind her like gossamer wings. “Since I see a mage’s laboratory, the other gods probably see the pavilion as something familiar to them. Their minds put a facade over the bland reality of the place, making it into something that reflects their office in the pantheon. I suppose you see a library of some sort”
Oghma nodded. “But if I wanted to see the pavilion as something else, or see the reality that underlies the facade my mind has created—what then?”
“You could will your consciousness to do so,” Mystra said.
“You’re certain it’s that simple, are you?” A flicker of disappointment crossed Oghma’s expressive features. He fell silent for a moment, then noted abruptly, “Not to change the subject, but I have considered your proposition concerning the P
rince of Lies. I don’t think it would be wise of me to take a more active stand against him at this time.”
“But the Cyrinishad, and Leira’s disappearance—”
The God of Knowledge held up a restraining hand. “I won’t go back on my word to you. The scribes in my domain, and any who worship me in the mortal realms will not aid Cyric in completing the book.”
Oghma frowned severely, and his voice took on a decidedly pedantic tone. “But beyond that, I think any open challenge to Cyric—about Leira’s disappearance or anything else—would be ill-advised for both of us. You don’t understand the way the rest of the Circle thinks, and until you do, any direct confrontation might very well strengthen his position.”
“So that’s what your little interrogation was about,” Mystra said coldly. “You presume a great deal, milord. Don’t think the fact that I was once mortal prevents me from understanding the politics of the pantheon.”
“I would never slight your humble origin,” the Patron of Bards replied. “In fact, I believe the mortality you once faced grants you a rare and wonderful trait for a goddess: humility. Since you aren’t so foolishly certain of your own perspective, you might be able to understand how the gods limit one another, how their nature binds them.”
“Ever the accomplished bard,” Mystra scoffed. “If you offend someone, immediately dole out a compliment to assuage any hurt feelings.”
“I count many painfully honest scholars amongst my faithful, and not all the bards who do me worship are flatterers,” Oghma replied. His voice was both musical and precise, a chorus of master storytellers speaking in harmony. “Some of the greatest harpers in my kingdom lost their lives because they couldn’t tell a king he was handsome or wise or generous when it was not so.”
Oghma clasped Mystra’s hands in his. “Your name alone shows the truth of your mortal humility,” he said. “When Ao raised you up from the mortals, you could have remained Midnight. But you chose instead to adopt the name of the goddess who preceded you.”