by James Lowder
Rinda slipped the cloak from her shoulders and shook her dark curls into place. “Begging Your Holiness’s pardon,” she said, “but I’m not very religious and, I’m sorry to say, a rather poor scribe. If I had any skill at all, I’d be part of the guild.”
“We’ve been checking up on you, Rinda,” Xeno returned sharply. “You turned down a spot in the guild, not the other way around. And for what—to go off and do good deeds for thieves and drunkards.”
The thin facade of pleasantness shattered. With every word, every gesture that followed, the patriarch teetered on the brink of mad rage. “We know everything about you. Don’t think for an instant your actions go unnoticed, that you do anything in this city we do not condone.” He chuckled. “The hope you foster, the dreams you nurture—they help our causes in ways you can never understand.”
“This is hardly the way to win her cooperation,” a voice said coolly from the back of the room.
The patriarch dropped to his knees and pressed his palms together in fervent prayer. “Forgive me, Your Magnificence, forgive me. But she is an unbeliever. She profanes your—”
“Enough,” the man said. He stepped into the room with casual grace, eyeing Rinda openly. His gaze made her skin crawl. “Perhaps an unbeliever is just what we need to win over the other fools who cannot see the light.”
For a moment the scribe wondered who this lean, hawk-nosed man could be to make Patriarch Mirrormane kowtow. He appeared to be no less than half the priest’s sixty years, and his clothes marked him as nothing more influential than an underling in the city’s thieves’ guild. His leather boots were worn at the heels. His cloak was clean, but a little threadbare. Only the ancient rose-hued short sword on his belt told of wealth or power.
“I am Lord Cyric,” he announced, then paused for a reply, for Rinda to bow or avert her gaze. When she merely stood and stared, a smile crept to his lips and crinkled the crow’s feet surrounding his dark eyes. “You’re a skeptic. That’s good.”
Patriarch Mirrormane slipped a dirk from the sleeve of his robe. “Kneel,” he hissed.
“Oh, let her alone,” Cyric said. He studied the scribe a moment longer, then added, “Get out, Xeno. I think we’ll get started now.” The patriarch scurried backward to the door and disappeared into the night.
The realization that this was indeed the Prince of Lies crashed in on Rinda, and she began to tremble uncontrollably. Like rainwater, her cloak slipped through numb fingers to pool on the dirty floor.
Cyric ran a slender finger across her lips. “A skeptic, but wise enough to fear me, too. Better and better.”
“I—I don’t—”
Cyric silenced her with a gesture. “You’re here to listen, not talk. Come.”
He took her hand and led her to the part of the shop where the parchment was prepared. Vats of water and lime stood along one wall, filled with soaking animal skins. Circular wooden frames held skins already softened in the tubs. Beneath each one, wet piles of fur mounded where the parchmenter had begun scraping the skin to the necessary thinness. Rinda had seen such workshops before, and she could tell at a glance this one produced parchment of especially low quality. The water in the tubs was dirty, the curved scraping knives dull and rusted. The skins held in the frames were riddled with holes from careless handling and blotched from the filthy surroundings.
“I would never ask you to waste your time writing on parchment like this,” Cyric said, watching the scribe as she took in her surroundings. “For notes it’s fine, but never for a finished book.” He patted her hand. “The parchment I use is made much more carefully, from much rarer stock.”
“I don’t understand,” Rinda managed at last
“Don’t worry. You will.”
Cyric paced around the huge room, taking in the drying racks crammed with badly cut sheets and tables piled high with account books. “I always begin the story in this place because I was born here.” He stopped and rested his hands on his hips with theatrical flair. “Hard to believe, but this is the birthplace of a god—well, the house that used to stand here was, at any rate.”
Slowly Cyric turned and stared into Rinda’s green eyes. A jagged lance of fear bit into her heart “I am going to tell you a story,” the Prince of Lies said. “And from it you will write a book, one that will inspire men to worship me. The mages in my church have created special inks and parchment. They wrote special prayers that must be incorporated into the text exactly where they dictate, in the precise form they dictate. There will be illuminations and special bindings … but your work is the most important.”
He crossed to Rinda’s side once more and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “If you succeed, you’ll be worshiped, praised in the annals of my world as a herald of the new order, an angel of knowledge to rival Oghma himself.”
An unvoiced question hung in the air. Cyric paused only an instant before he answered it “If you fail—” a shadow passed over his face, and he dug his fingers into her shoulder until the nails drew blood “—I’ll drag your screaming soul down to Hades and hang you in my throne room next to your father.”
* * * * *
From the Cyrinishad
It is said that Tymora and Beshaba wager for dominion over each and every soul born into the world. Lady Luck flips her silver coin, and the Maid of Misfortune calls heads or tails. If Beshaba guesses wrong, then Tymora showers the happy soul with good luck for the rest of his life. It is also said that the Maid of Misfortune rarely loses such contests.
Only one man in all of history escaped their cruel game—Cyric of Zhentil Keep. Even before he first walked the world as a mortal Cyric had the will to resist the random call of Fate and make his own fortune. As his newborn soul stood before the goddesses, he cast a light upon Tymora’s silver coin, blinding them to his presence. The deities never saw the coin fall never settled their wager for Cyric’s destiny. Thus was he born into the world without any fate save the one he himself could forge.
In the squalor of Zhentil Keep’s slums, the man-who-would-be-a-god took on the shell of mortality for the first time. His mother, a beautiful bard with a mind as quick as Oghma’s, had foreseen her child’s greatness in a dream. She hid the infant Cyric from his father in the back alleys of that grim city, for the man was a leader of the Zhentilar and an agent of the Black Network, faithful to the god Bane. The Cod of Strife, too, had foreseen Cyric’s potential mightiness. Fearing the only mortal unbound by Fate, he sent his agents throughout the city to slay the child.
On the hottest night in Flamerule, in the grips of the most brutal summer ever visited on Zhentil Keep, the assassins caught Cyric’s mother and murdered her. Among the first to drive a blade into the woman’s heart was her lover, the father of her son. Yet Cyric himself escaped their daggers by crawling away into the sewers. Gore-smeared and alone, he fought for life when any other human child would have withered and died. The blood of rats became his milk, and the motley skin he tore from the vermin became his blankets.
At dawn the next day, Cyric struggled back into the light, hardened like a thrice-tempered sword by the murder and his hunger and the Flamerule heat.
A Sembian vintner named Astolpho, traveling in the poorer sections of the city to sell his wares, discovered the infant Cyric and secreted him away. He had little idea that he’d become the means of the child’s escape from a bloodthirsty pack of soldiers and Zhentarim mages. All he saw was a baby, dirty and abandoned. Like many, he could not gaze past the mortal facade hiding Cyric’s greatness from the world.
For a dozen years Astolpho the vintner and his wife raised the boy amongst the trappings of wealth so common in the merchant-kingdom of Sembia. Cyric, ever disdainful of luxury, used their money and power to educate himself, to gather all the knowledge he could about Faerun and the lands he would one day rule as Lord of the Dead. The ever-jealous gods watched the child grow, frightened by his power, yet unable to drive him toward any destiny but the one he had chosen for himself.
St
ill, the gods Cyric would one day destroy—Bane and Bhaal and Myrkul—attempted to fight his growing strength and wisdom in any way they could. Bane created dark rumors about the boy, isolating him from the wealthy circle in which his parents traveled. Myrkul struck a deal with Talona, Lady of Poison, to plague him with diseases. And Bhaal sent his most subtle assassins to hunt the boy. But Cyric had turned his early suffering into a shield no god could shatter. He destroyed their minions wherever he found them and conquered hardships cast before him as if they were nothing but blunted caltrops strewn before a juggernaut.
The last of Bane’s minions that Cyric faced in Sembia were Astolpho and his wife. The God of Strife had purchased their loyalty, promising to end the ill-fortune that had brought the man’s business near to ruin. In return for this empty dream of renewed prosperity, they tried to prevent the young boy from leaving Sembia to seek his fortune. Yet the bonds of familial duty and feigned love they wielded were no match for Cyric’s razor-sharp mind. He rejected their wealth and comfort, striking out to see the world he had only viewed through the eyes of bards and historians.
Astolpho’s corpse was found spiked to the town gates, flayed like the rats that had sustained Cyric in the Keep’s sewers so many years before. No one ever found the remains of the vintner’s wife, so expertly had the boy hid them throughout the town. To this day, nothing can lessen the smell of death hovering over the place, or silence the ghostly, tortured cries that nightly fill the air.
And so Cyric came to travel the Heartlands, amassing his own hoard of knowledge from the coins of experience he gathered along the way. The fearful gods, certain of their impending doom, tried their best to hold him back, but he was beyond their feeble grasp. He learned to fight as well as any soldier in Faerun and to live off the land in even the most inhospitable climes.
At last he returned to the city of his birth, for no other place in the world could match the cruelty and everyday horrors of Zhentil Keep. In short, it is a city where the cowardly veil of Civilization is thinnest, where men and women pass each day with the realization that Existence is Pain, and Death is the only water to ease suffering in the wasteland. That knowledge was Cyric’s birthright, and the time had come for him to claim it …
VI
SECRET PASSAGES
Wherein the Prince of Lies expounds upon the motivational uses for fear, and Rinda gains a very powerful patron who has another version of Cyric’s life to set down on parchment.
As Cyric stepped through the portal, the illusion masking his hideousness melted away. Gone were the humble clothes and roguish good looks. His face hardened into a rigored mask, blood red and gaunt. The flesh vanished from his fingers, leaving them little more than daggers of bone. A robe of darkness cloaked his lithe frame. The shadowy vestment was patterned only with a gleaming white skull that seemed to float over the god’s heart.
On the other side of the enchanted gateway lay the parchmenter’s shop. Mirrormane and his tongueless Zhentilar escort prostrated themselves in the center of the room, bowing toward the portal. Behind them, Rinda kneeled in shocked silence. None of them could see Cyric as he stood in Bone Castle’s huge throne room. Yet as the Prince of Lies glanced back at the scribe, he wondered how she would react to his inhuman face. Perhaps, he mused, I will honor her with it once she’s completed the book.
Was the illusion satisfactory, Your Magnificence? Jergal asked. He floated at Cyric’s side, ever ready to do his unholy master’s bidding.
The Lord of the Dead grunted noncommittally and stalked toward his throne. It wouldn’t do to admit a lackey had proved useful in masking his lack of magic. “What news of the search for Kelemvor?”
The denizens have completed their sweep of the city, the seneschal began. He paused just long enough to dispel the portal he’d created, then hurried after the god. The news is not as good as I had hoped it might be.
“Don’t be coy,” Cyric snapped. “Did they find him or not?”
No, Your Magnificence.
“Then they obviously aren’t looking hard enough!” Cyric shouted. He drew Godsbane and turned on the seneschal. “You promised to see to this matter, Jergal. I didn’t leave a facet of my mind focused here because I trusted your word. Am I to take this failure as a sign you’ve come to the end of your usefulness?”
Jergal bowed, turning his bulging yellow eyes to the carpet. I can only hope not, he said fearfully.
The Prince of Lies ran the flat of his blade over Jergal’s skull. Godsbane pulsed a deeper red, humming like a galleon’s rigging in a gale wind. “Kelemvor is near,” Cyric murmured. “I can almost smell the unwashed lout.”
He turned the blade so it nicked the seneschal. An unearthly howl of pleasure went up from Godsbane as she gulped Jergal’s yellow, poisonous blood, draining his lifeforce away. The stoic Jergal flinched, then trembled in agony, but he never cried out, never raised a hand to defend himself.
After what seemed like an eternity, Cyric took the blade away. Please, my love, Godsbane purred. He has betrayed your trust. He does not deserve to live.
“Enough,” Cyric said. He sheathed the sword and raised Jergal to face him. The seneschal’s yellow eyes were dim, the gray skin on his skull mottled with festering blotches of purple. “Remember this pain. If you fail me again, I will make it last forever.”
The phantasmal creature nodded weakly. I exist only to serve you, Your Magnificence.
Rubbing bony hands together, Cyric paced to his throne. He shifted his robe and settled into the ghastly chair. “They need to fear me. That’s the heart of this problem, I think.”
All living creatures fear you, Jergal said from the foot of the throne. He gestured to the trophies of pain and suffering displayed about the room. You dwell in the darkness of men’s souls.
“Not mortals,” Cyric corrected. “The denizens.” Impatience flashed across his blasted, hellish features. “They’ve lived too long in this city believing themselves safe from my wrath.”
They fear your tortures, Jergal offered.
“But torture is finite. Utter destruction is a different matter entirely. The False and the Faithless may welcome oblivion, but not the denizens. This is their heaven, after all. Why leave it?” Cyric ran one finger along Godsbane’s red blade. “For a moment, when the sword had her fangs in you, you thought yourself doomed.”
Jergal shuddered. Yes.
“I think it made you see the error of your ways, did it not?”
Of course, Your Magnificence. I’ll not fail you again.
“And neither will the denizens, if we give them a glimpse of oblivion.” Cyric steepled his fingers before his mouth and tapped his thumbnails on his chipped teeth. “They cannot truly fear me unless they know the price of failure is destruction. And if they do not fear me, they are useless as servants.”
There is the matter of the pact, Jergal said quietly. Your faithful are supposed to be safe from destruction, so long as they continue to worship you.
Cyric looked up at Jergal, surprise in his red-rimmed eyes. “Are you suggesting I cannot do with the citizens of my city as I please?”
No, the seneschal replied. Merely reminding you that the laws of the realm—
“I’ve sent denizens to their doom from the first day of my reign,” Cyric drawled. “The hour in which I ratified that foolish pact I also condemned a dozen to become part of the Night Serpent’s levy.”
They had broken from worshiping you, Jergal offered.
“Ah, but who is to say what I consider true worship?” Cyric asked. “Today I’ve decided that the hunt for Kelemvor is a holy quest, so from this moment on, all who fail in that quest are traitors.” He studied his seneschal for a moment. “Perhaps this devotion you have to law is blinding you to your duties.”
Jergal looked into his master’s eyes. It is part of my nature, Your Magnificence. When I was created to oversee the castle, I was given that trait so I could be trusted to uphold my obligation. I am faithful to the Lord of the Dead even bef
ore myself.
“Once you were loyal to Myrkul,” Cyric noted.
Yes.
“And now you’re loyal to me?”
You are the rightful lord of Bone Castle, Jergal replied evenly. And as long as you are, I will do anything you ask—except betray you.
“Then I wish you to break the pact with the denizens,” Cyric said, searching for some sign of displeasure in Jergal’s dull yellow eyes. “Have one thousand of them publicly tortured, then give them to the Night Serpent or bathe them in water from the River Slith. Either way, they’ll be destroyed.” He drummed his fingers anxiously on the arms of the throne, then murmured, “That isn’t enough.”
Destroy one for each hour that passes without Kelemvor being found, Godsbane suggested darkly.
Cyric giggled like a madman. “Better still, destroy one of the spineless curs for each minute that goes by without the holy quest being fulfilled.” He curled his bony fingers around the sword’s pommel. “That will set them on his trail like hounds, eh?”
Like Kezef himself, Jergal offered.
Cyric paused, then a sick smile crept across his lips. “Kezef,” he murmured. “Of course.”
The Circle of Greater Powers has forbidden traffic with Kezef, Godsbane warned, trepidation in her voice.
“Since when have you cared what the Circle proclaims?” Cyric snapped. “Have they not broken their own laws by denying me magic?”
Godsbane did not reply, but Jergal said, Of course, my lord. You are above their laws. You have every right to unleash the Chaos Hound.
“My cup,” said Cyric, the smile still creasing his seared lips. “Then arrange for my passage to Pandemonium.”
The seneschal held out his hands, and an ornate silver chalice appeared, encrusted with hundreds of tiny rubies, each in the shape of a sundered heart. The ever-full cup contained the tears of disillusioned dreamers and brokenhearted lovers. The drink was bitter, but to Cyric it tasted like a priceless wine, aged to perfection.