Prince of Lies

by James Lowder

  “I will do as you ask,” Kezef murmured, his inhuman voice filled with unspoken maledictions. “Though I know I should not trust you.”

  “Oh, you can believe all that I tell you now, Kezef,” Cyric purred. “If you fail me, or if you do anything with Kelemvor’s soul besides bring it to my castle, intact, I shall carve the maggoty hide from you until there is nothing left but your teeth—and those I’ll hammer into chamber pots for my lowliest priest in the mortal realms.”

  The Hound narrowed his red eyes. The rotting orbs blazed with arrogance almost matching Cyric’s. “It took all the gods combined to chain me here, Lord of Four Crowns. And when I have tasted the souls of the saved once more, I shall have more flesh upon these bones than even you can carve away.”

  Before Kezef could react, Godsbane’s tip was planted firmly against his snout. “With this blade, I have whittled down gods, cur.”

  “It is indeed a mighty sword.” The Chaos Hound backed away until the darkness once again cloaked his horrible form. For a moment, Kezef studied the rose-hued blade. Then a spark of vague recognition flashed in his eyes. “What is its name?”

  “This sword has drawn the life from four gods,” Cyric lied, pride curling his mouth into a sneer, “and she has tasted the blood of a fifth.” His voice became a hate-filled whisper. “I have named her Godsbane.”

  “Godsbane,” Kezef murmured darkly. He sniffed at the sword with his dripping snout. “That’s a good name, I think. Very appropriate.”

  Cyric dismissed the comment as cowardly fawning and fell to studying the chain forged by the God of Craft. He quickly abandoned all thought of pulling up the anchor, driven miles deep into the floor. Calling forth all his rage and frustration at having Kelemvor elude him for ten long years, the Prince of Lies drew Godsbane and brought her down on a single link.

  The sword seemed to fight against the blow, but the resistance was not nearly enough to counter Cyric’s fury. As if it had been wrought of porcelain, the link shattered. The blow also broke an enchantment that countered the Hound’s pestilent aura; rust and decay spread from the beast’s throat, down the collar and the remainder of the chain.

  Kezef tossed back his head and howled gleefully. The rusted, useless chain slid from his neck, clattering to the floor. The Chaos Hound was free.

  * * * * *

  Nine identical Mystras raced across the planes, speeding to the courts of the other Greater Powers. As one they carried the dire news that Cyric was attempting to loose the Chaos Hound, that the ravager of the heavens would soon be free to prey on the souls of the Faithful. To the verdant fields of Elysium and the blasted plains of Hades, the hodgepodge chaos of limbo and the tranquil order of the Seven Mountains of Goodness and Law, the Goddess of Magic spread the warning—and pleaded with the gods of the Circle to stand with her against the Prince of Lies.

  In the plane known as Concordant, Mystra came seeking Oghma the Binder. The place was the embodiment of balance between law and chaos. Infinite godly domains spread out in circular bands from a fixed center. One moment the heart of Concordant appeared as a gigantic tree, reaching up endlessly, the next as a perfectly carved marble pillar or a swirling column of clouds, spitting lightning and rumbling thunder. And though its shape shifted incessantly, its location remained fixed, a still point at the center of the malleable plane.

  Beings from every god’s realm and every possible mortal world traveled to Concordant, seeking knowledge or power or gossip. The markets where these seekers gathered bustled with denizens and angels, selling dark secrets and divine guidance. Powerful mages traded incantations or rare spell components on the steps of magnificent temples. Holy pacts were sworn by paladins standing alongside oath-breaking assassins, in buildings that would not look the same an hour hence, yet would remain in the same location.

  And in the midst of this ordered chaos stood the house and the lands of Oghma, Patron of Bards, God of Knowledge. As Mystra appeared before the open gates of the vast estate, she noted with little surprise that the place had taken on yet another facade she had never before seen.

  The House of Knowledge resembled a palace from the desert lands of Zakhara. A high fence wrought of thin iron strands surrounded the estate. The bands curved and twisted in gorgeously intricate patterns, seemingly flimsy, but unbreakable by even the most mighty of giants. Beyond the open gates stretched a long, azure pool, filled by fountains that drew their water from the cool, peaceful flow of the River Oceanus. The water reflected the columned portico of Oghma’s palatial home, its high, slender minarets and squatting, mushroom-shaped domes.

  Mystra hurried through the courtyard, past clusters of scholars who debated the finer points of one obscure theory or another. Nearby, brightly clad bards competed for the attention of passersby. The visitors to the House of Knowledge gave way before the goddess, sensing the urgency of her mission. An angel of the dwarven god Berronar bowed to the Lady of Mysteries, his alabaster beard flowing to the ground, and his short, iron wings parting gracefully over his stocky shoulders. At the venerable dwarven spirit’s side, a tanar’ri lord nodded gruffly. The Abyss-spawn had the body and wings of a huge fly, with vaguely elven features and a pair of human hands. In one of those hands it gripped a roll of parchment detailing the past battle plans of a rival warlord.

  The doors to Oghma’s palace were, as always, unguarded. The goddess rushed into the cavernous entry hall, beneath a vaulted ceiling inscribed with an unending roll of the faithful residing in the palace. Two sets of stairs wound away to the right and left. They led to the chambers reserved for the shades of Oghma’s blessed scholars and bards.

  “The alignment of the stars must be fortunate indeed to bring you to my home,” Oghma announced, his melodious voice filling the hall.

  The God of Knowledge stood framed by the ornate arch that opened from the entry hall into his library-throne room. His clothes matched the exotic facade on his palace—a flowing caftan, cinched at the waist with a sash of purest sky-blue silk; slippers with curling, pointed toes; and a sultan’s turban, pinned with a sapphire the size of a dwarf’s fist. A parchment page wrought of moonlight glowed in his left hand.

  “This isn’t a social call,” Mystra replied without prelude. “The faithful of all the gods are in peril.”

  Oghma’s broad, welcoming smile drooped into a frown. “You’ve been wounded,” he said, gesturing with a ring-heavy finger to the glittering slashes on Mystra’s hands and shoulders. “Cyric?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. These are nothing that a few moments of meditation won’t heal.” She took the Binder’s arm. “We need to mobilize, and quickly. I left the bastard in Pandemonium, at the wall to Kezef’s prison.”

  “Then he truly is mad,” came a smooth whisper.

  Mystra turned to find Mask standing at her shoulder. The Patron of Thieves was wrapped in a cloak of shadows, his face hidden by a loose-fitting black mask. “I have heard rumors of a battle in Pandemonium near Kezef’s prison. I’d hoped they were untrue.” His red eyes narrowed as he bowed perfunctorily. “I have waited for a chance to undo the aid I once provided the Prince of Lies. Perhaps now I shall be of service to the rest of the pantheon.…”

  “I’m sure you’re anxious to help,” Mystra replied stiffly. “I’ll mention that to the rest of the Circle.”

  Mask bowed again. “As you wish. But do not forget the Chaos Hound will devour the honored thieves in the darkened alleys of my domain as well as the sages in your weave-wrought castle of magic. I’m certain all the gods will want to strike against Kezef before he grows strong again. We should—”

  Oghma dropped his hand onto Mask’s shoulder. “Mystra is correct. This is a matter for the Circle.” The God of Knowledge held out the glowing parchment. “Here is the information you requested. My payment shall be your silence about the Chaos Hound until the Circle has had a chance to discuss the matter.”

  “Wait,” Mystra said. “The intermediate and lesser powers should be warned so they can set guards a
long their borders.”

  “In time, Lady,” Oghma replied. “We’ll only panic them if we don’t offer a plan of attack along with the warning.” He turned to the Lord of Shadows. “If you require such arcane texts in the future, Mask, I would appreciate the offer of some lost lore of equal obscurity in return. I’m sure your groundlings occasionally uncover useful tomes when rooting for coins in long-forgotten tombs.”

  “You’re right. Thievery is no honest labor, not compared to copying the words of others in some dank monastery,” Mask said, his normally smooth voice thick with disdain. He took the parchment in his gloved hands and disappeared into the shadows of the arch.

  Mystra scowled in consternation. “You were telling the truth back in the Pavilion of Cynosure. You aren’t a flatterer. Why insult him so? The Circle will need his help against Cyric and Kezef.”

  “My house is open to all,” Oghma replied blandly, “but by his nature Mask seeks to obscure, to cloak minds in the shadows of ignorance. There has never been true peace between us.” He dismissed the matter with practiced casualness. “Now, what’s this about Kezef?”

  As she passed under the arch into Oghma’s throne room, Mystra explained what had transpired in Pandemonium. The library at the heart of the House of Knowledge was infinite, with shelves rising as high as anyone—mortal or immortal—could see. The Binder’s faithful spent millennia cataloguing every bit of information they had learned in life. Others kept careful track of the library’s ever-growing hoard of knowledge. The shades of bards and writers studied these volumes of obscure lore and distilled the facts into brilliant tales and songs, as captivating as they were enlightening.

  In keeping with the palace’s Zakharan facade, the library was decked out in exotic finery. Shades soared from shelf to shelf on flying carpets, huge stacks of books balanced precariously in their arms. Readers stretched out in luxurious piles of pillows. Small air sprites known as djinnlings whisked between patrons. The blue-tinged elementals fulfilled every whim of the scholars crowded there, scribing notes, fetching food and drink, or seeking out myriad priceless tomes.

  “You were wise to flee,” Oghma noted. He slid into the ornate, high-backed throne, then shifted uncomfortably. “I do hope these furnishings change soon. The setting’s far too gaudy for my tastes. Too many distractions to lure my faithful away from their work.…”

  Mystra waved away a genie bearing a decanter of ambrosia. “The rest of the Circle is discussing the matter with me now,” she said, then traced an enigmatic sign in the air. Invisible wards sprang up around the two gods, shielding them from prying ears or scrying magic. “I would like to tell them you are ready to strike against Cyric as soon as we’ve recaptured the Chaos Hound.”

  “I will provide all the information I can on Kezef,” the Binder said. “And if the rest of the pantheon will give me certain bits of knowledge I seek, I will be glad to act alongside them in capturing the beast.”

  Mystra sighed. “Yes, I expected as much. The rest are asking for concessions, too. I suppose we can work something out.”

  “By rights, we cannot imprison the Hound until he has struck against one of the gods’ faithful. Even when that has happened, don’t count on a treaty too quickly,” Oghma warned. “When we last hunted Kezef, it took us nearly a year of mortal time to hammer out the pact Talos is always the problem. He gets fixated on blowing up the moon, and, well, you’ve been to enough councils to know how he gets.…”

  Though she was fighting hard to hide her anger, Mystra flushed crimson. “And Talos says Lathander will be the unreasonable one,” she grumbled. “Look, we don’t have a year. If Cyric released Kezef, he must have some task in mind for the beast. By next winter it’ll be too late to stop whatever that plan might be.”

  “Cyric is another matter completely, Lady,” the Patron of Bards said, his voice a thousand mournful dirges. “You were brave to stand against him in the meeting of the Circle, but I’m afraid my opinion on that matter hasn’t changed. It would be foolish for you or me to strike openly. In fact, caution will be needed now if we are to avoid a war in the heavens and catastrophe in the mortal realms.”

  “Caution?” Mystra scoffed. “Would you sit by, weighing your options, while Cyric looses the Chaos Hound in your courtyard? What if he were to siege this library? Would you be cautious then, Oghma?”

  “There would be no question of patience then, Lady,” the Binder said. The chorus of his voice had become a threatening basso rumble. “The book he is attempting to create threatens the spread of true knowledge, so I am doing what I can to thwart it. But, as yet, the Lord of the Dead has put no new plots against me into action.”

  Oghma conjured an image of Everard Abbey, a lonely, ramshackle retreat in the Caravan Lands. The phantasm floated in midair between the two gods.

  “It would take Cyric’s assassins but a few hours to ride from Iriaebor to this humble place,” the Binder began. “If I stand with you now, before the Lord of the Dead has struck a blow against me directly, will you give the men and women in the abbey magic to turn aside the assassins’ blades? Cyric will most certainly send them to Everard, and to every other temple and library built in my name.”

  He leaned forward, looming over the ghostly image of the abbey. “And I would have to rely on your help to protect my faithful, Lady, for the rest of the Circle will say I overstepped my office in battling Cyric. This is a matter for Tyr perhaps, since freeing Kezef broke a law. It’s just not a concern for the God of Knowledge.”

  “That’s ridiculously near-sighted, Oghma,” Mystra shouted. She banished the conjured abbey. “You’re dooming your worshipers.”

  “No,” the Binder replied flatly. “I’m serving my worshipers. If they perceived battles as the most important aspect of life, they would worship Tempus. They value knowledge and art, Lady, and this matter has yet to threaten a single historian’s notebook, a single verse of the most wretched Sembian poetry. When it does, I will turn all the power their faith gives me to stopping Cyric.”

  A brooding silence settled over the two gods. “Mystra,” the Binder said after a time, “you should know I can do nothing about the matter. It doesn’t directly concern knowledge or bardcraft. I told you in the pavilion—”

  “That the gods were more limited than I suspected,” she said softly. “I am hearing how true that is right this moment. Most of the Circle mirrors your stand, Binder. As you said, only Tyr will help me against Cyric, because freeing Kezef broke a law.” She held out her wounded hand to Oghma. “If you realize the gods can only see from a limited perspective, why can’t you break out of yours? Why can’t you see that the world is more than poetry and histories?”

  “Knowing the truth is not the same as being empowered to act upon it,” Oghma noted. “I realize my kingdom has boundaries, that my perspective might not be the same as yours or Lathander’s or Mask’s—but I cannot imagine what those other views reveal. No matter how hard I try, I cannot make my eyes see the universe as anything but a vast library.”

  Mystra dispelled the wards around the throne. “You can bargain with the rest of the Circle about Kezef on your own, but I’ll have no more part of it,” she said bitterly. “If it’s going to fall on me to counter Cyric’s insanity, I won’t waste time in endless debates.”

  The Goddess of Magic vanished just before chaos swept through Concordant. As it did each day at this time, the facade on the House of Knowledge changed, and along with it the trappings within the library and the binding of every book. Yet each volume remained in the same location, and each page held the same facts as before, though written in a different script or in a different colored ink.

  Oghma closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the world would be like if this pattern were broken somehow, if the wave of chaos destroyed the House of Knowledge instead of altering it. He couldn’t. Though he knew the universe held more than the contents of his library, when he subtracted his books and bardic tales and musty histories, he saw nothing but an endless
void.

  * * * * *

  “Don’t worry,” a soothing, feminine voice purred, “we shall deal with Kezef before he can track you down.”

  Kelemvor Lyonsbane kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and continued to pace through the white, featureless void. He moved his lips, silently counting his steps. After he counted one thousand, he made a precise turn to the left and started the count over.

  “I should erect a barricade in your way,” the unseen power noted petulantly. “Just to throw off your count.”

  “Then I’d wait for you to get bored and lower it,” Kelemvor said. His deep voice, rarely used in the last decade, was barely a whisper.

  “And if I don’t get bored?”

  Abruptly Kelemvor stopped pacing. “You will. You can’t help yourself.”

  The silence that followed told the shade he was correct. Smiling at his victory, he resumed his march.

  As he had each day for the past ten years, Kelemvor Lyonsbane marked out the dimensions of his prison. Not that there were any walls within the empty whiteness around him, but Kel knew he would surely go mad if he didn’t create them for himself. And so he walked a careful circuit with regular, military steps. The room he inhabited was one thousand paces to a side, with windows in the center of each wall. There were no doors, of course, and the ceiling was too high to reach.

  Occasionally his unseen jailor spoke to him, or appeared as a woman or man or beast. But Kel dismissed these phantasms as unreal diversions, no more substantial than the memories of Midnight that sometimes took shape in the formless void around him. He never let these distract him for long; dallying in that sort of chaos would break him, and Kel was determined to rob his captor of such an easy victory.

  “Cyric is growing desperate to find you,” the voice said.

  “Go away,” Kelemvor replied, unperturbed by the obvious prodding. “I’ll be thinking about flaying Cyric alive in an hour. If you want to come back then, we can talk.”

  “An hour? What’s that mean to you? There’s no sun here, no stars.…” When the prisoner didn’t answer, the voice added, “You held up far longer than I thought you would, but I believe you’ve finally cracked.”