by James Lowder
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.
IV
SOUL SEARCHING
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.
It hadn’t been difficult to win the cooperation of the church hierarchy—a finely polished tale of their goddess’s murder at the hands of Kelemvor had been enough. The truly fervent had been the easiest to convince, the quickest to join the hunt for the renegade soul. The fear of offending the new God of Deception swayed other important clerics, especially the men and women who had dedicated their lives to the art of illusion. Assassins had dealt with those too vocal in their opposition. And once the high priests were brought in line, Cyric could count on the rest of the church to follow them like mindless sheep.
Your Magnificence?
The words echoed inside Cyric’s thoughts. It wasn’t the cool, feminine purr of Godsbane, but a chilling, inhuman voice. Cyric looked out on the long, narrow throne room and found Jergal before him. The seneschal cast his gaze down to the floor. White-gloved hands floated up and folded palms together in a show of submission. I am sorry to disturb your reverie, but emissaries of the Shadowlord are at the gate again. They beg to deliver a gift from their master.
“Kill them all,” Cyric said coldly. “Then send their heads back to Mask, along with their gifts. Sooner or later he’ll give up—or run out of emissaries.”
Godsbane stirred uneasily. You might be able to use his aid, my love, she said.
“He wants to apologize for his cowardice, not buy back an alliance with me. He fears Mystra too much to break his promise to her—not this soon anyway.”
Cyric leaped suddenly to his feet, sending Jergal floating backward to avoid being trampled. The seneschal’s empty black cloak fluttered and danced. “There’s something odd about this,” the Lord of the Dead hissed. “Mask is risking Mystra’s ire just sending messengers to me.”
Perhaps the gifts hold the key, Godsbane suggested.
“Hmmm. Have you examined the gifts, Jergal?” Cyric asked.
The seneschal nodded. Arquebuses, Your Magnificence. All the emissaries have carried arquebuses. No written message, though all the rifles bear the symbols of both the Shadowlord and the Gearsmith.
“Why would Mask offer me Gondish rifles? Gond himself has sent me a dozen such contraptions in the past. He thinks they’ll make any army invincible, the dolt.” Cyric snorted. “How can they be any threat at all when they blow up in soldiers’ faces as often as they fire correctly?” The Prince of Lies rubbed his pointed chin. “Anything else special about them? Are they enchanted somehow?”
Jergal shook his head. No, Your Magnificence. I examined them myself. They are simple contraptions of metal and wood, like everything else the Gearsmith builds. The only thing unusual about the gifts is that the bearers had strict orders from the Shadowlord himself to present them to you in this room.
Face rigid with concentration, Cyric paced away from his throne and down the length of the long audience hall. Chained to the pillars along either wall were three hundred and ninety-seven souls that burned without diminishing—the scribes who had failed in creating the Cyrinishad. One other shade writhed in fiery torment: Bevis the Illuminator. He hung from the ceiling halfway between the throne and the doors, suspended spread-eagle by chains of red-hot iron. As they entered the hall, supplicants would hear Bevis’s whimpers. The other Burning Men had long since screamed themselves mute.
Muttering incoherently, the Lord of the Dead stalked through the long shadows warping across the hall. He glanced up at some of the other trophies as he passed them, his mind veering wildly from his consideration of Mask’s strange gifts. Here was a ghastly canvas painted by a worshiper of Deneir, the red and brown pigments nothing less than the blood of her children. Next to it hung an axe used to enforce the judgments of a mad king who ruled in the name of Tyr. A glass case at the base of one pillar held a single silver nail with which a man devoted to Sune had blinded himself after receiving a vision of the goddess, convinced he would never see anything so beautiful again.
In fact, much of the hall had been dedicated to displaying badges of other gods’ shame. Cyric had meant these trophies to unnerve the deities when they visited, but in his isolation, they served only to remind the Lord of the Dead how easily worship could be twisted.
The greatest symbol of that truth was Cyric’s throne itself. The Prince of Lies had built the hulking, grotesque chair from the bones of men and women who died mistakenly believing themselves saints—a worshiper of Chauntea who slit his wrists thinking his blood would make the crops grow faster; a druid devoted to Eldath who drowned everyone who wandered near a certain secluded pool because they upset the peace of the place; a knight of Torm who tortured anyone he caught in even the most insignificant lie.…
As he approached his throne once more, Cyric stopped and stood absolutely still. Amongst the other relics was the hand of a Gondish ironsmith. The man had bled to death after lopping off his left arm in hopes of replacing it with a mechanical limb built from blueprints he’d dreamed the night before. As his lifeblood drained away, the smith raved about an army of unstoppable mechanical warriors, men in living Gondish armor greater than any artifact wrought by magic. The idea of Gond’s machines making Mystra’s weave superfluous was near to Cyric’s black heart, and one he had discussed many times with Mask.
“Greater than magic,” Cyric whispered. “Of course.”
The Prince of Lies smiled and gestured to Jergal. “Pen and parchment,” he said impatiently. He took the items that appeared in the seneschal’s gloved hands and scribbled a lengthy note. “Take this to Gond,” he told the phantasmal creature when he’d finished. “No one else is to know of this message. Make it clear to the Gearsmith this is so. Tell him I’ll pay whatever price he asks, but the consignment is to be kept secret. See that the emissaries are killed before you go, but keep one of the arquebuses. That will be answer enough for the Shadowlord.”
Bowing deeply, Jergal took the parchment and backed away, keeping his bulging yellow eyes fixed on the floor until he reached the doors.
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The Shadowlord is a worthy Lord of Intrigue, Godsbane said once the seneschal had gone. A novice could learn much from him.
Cyric settled back in his grisly throne. “Actually, I was just thinking how much he’s learned from me.…”
A flutter of light appeared somewhere in a remote part of Cyric’s consciousness, causing his mind to race and seek it out. The Prince of Lies found his thoughts drawn to the small section of his mind devoted to hearing the prayers of his faithful. A braying voice called to the Lord of the Dead with a fervor even he found hard to ignore.
“O mighty Cyric, judge of the dead, master of the damned, hear me! I have glorious news from your most holy of churches in Zhentil Keep.”
When Cyric focused on the prayer, the visage of Xeno Mirrormane appeared before his mind’s eye. The high priest’s silver hair was wild around his glowing face. His eyes shone with a mad happiness. “Yes, Mirrormane,” Cyric replied flatly.
“O great Prince of Lies, the priests of Leira have news,” Xeno burbled. He smiled like a drunkard happily lost in his bottle. “Lord Chess himself led their vigil—under my supervision, of course—and they had a most magnificent vision, a most—”
“Get on with it,” Cyric snapped.
“Kelemvor Lyonsbane,” Xeno said. “The priests have divined that his soul is in the City of Strife somewhere.”
“Where in the city?”
“They cannot tell exactly. Some power still tries to block their magic.”
Cyric withdrew his consciousness from his faithful priest and focused once again on his throne room in Hades. His voice tight with excitement, he shouted for his denizens. They would scour every inch of the city, burn down every structure if need be. Kelemvor could not escape; no one left the Realm of the Dead without Cyric’s permission. If he was trapped there somehow, all that remained was to flush him out of hiding.