Prince of Lies

by James Lowder

  “If my crime is so terrible,” Mystra snapped, “why haven’t I been brought before Ao?”

  Tyr scowled at the interruption, but Oghma looked up from his notes. “Your accuser demanded the greater powers sit as the jury,” said the Patron of Bards. “As a member of the Circle, that was his right”

  Oghma’s voice was full of anger, a mob singing a bloody song at a lynching. The tone of it brought a look of disbelief to Mystra’s eyes. “Did you have me summoned here?” she murmured. When the Binder shook his head, the goddess glanced at the other greater powers scattered around the pavilion floor. “Then who?”

  “Can’t you guess?” Cyric called from the mob of lesser powers and inhuman deities crowded in the tiers. He stood to face the Lady of Mysteries.

  “And the rest of you took this seriously?” Mystra scoffed.

  “Why not? I have proof enough to convict you three times over,” Cyric purred. “You’ve done everything you can to prevent me from executing my office. I realize now the only way to save myself—and stop you from upsetting the Balance—is to ask for the Circle’s help.” He smirked. “You see, I can play by the rules, even if you won’t”

  “This is absurd,” Mystra said. She summoned a spell to mind that would remove her and the caged inquisitors to Nirvana.

  “Consider the trial more seriously, Lady,” Oghma warned. “Your worshipers face total sanctions from the rest of the Circle if you don’t cooperate.”

  The Goddess of Magic paused, stunned by the threat. Sanctions meant total isolation for her worshipers; the greater powers would deny her faithful the benefits of their offices. Lathander would stop the dawn from rising over church grounds, and Chauntea would prevent their crops from growing. Mystra’s faithful would be refused entrance to the Fugue Plain if they died, and any knowledge preserved in their libraries would vanish. There was but one way for the mortals to escape these harsh measures: abandon their worship of the goddess. It wouldn’t take long for most to turn away, and those few devout souls who didn’t would soon perish. With no mortal worshipers, the Goddess of Magic would cease to exist

  “Cyric is using you against me,” Mystra pleaded. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I’ll have no part in judging the evidence,” Cyric called. “I’m an innocent bystander. The wronged party, if you want to be totally accurate.”

  “So says the Prince of Lies,” Tyr noted flatly from the podium. “Do not doubt that we listen for the ring of truth in each word you utter, Cyric. And as for you, Mystra, you should know that I will be a fair and just judge, conducting this trial in accordance with all the laws of the Balance, as decreed by Ao himself.”

  Tyr cleared his throat “As I was saying, to reach a verdict we must consider two questions. First, did Mystra act beyond the demands of her office in battling the Lord of the Dead? Second, if this is true, did she endanger the Balance by doing so?” He gestured to Cyric. “You may state your case.”

  “With the inquisitors, I’d hoped to counter the heresy growing in my church,” the Prince of Lies said. “Mystra took it upon herself to foil that plan—even though it had nothing to do with her responsibilities as Goddess of Magic.”

  Tyr nodded and stroked his long white beard. “Do you have anything to say in your defense regarding the capture of the inquisitors, Lady?”

  “They were threatening everyone’s worshipers,” Mystra replied. “They had to be stopped.”

  “The inquisitors didn’t single out your lackeys,” Cyric said. “They struck down anyone who spoke against me. If some of your faithful were harmed, they brought it upon themselves.” The Lord of the Dead turned to the crowd. “As I see it, the inquisitors were like a force of nature—like one of Talos’s storms. Surely Mystra doesn’t reserve the right to counter any force that might harm her worshipers. If this is the case, there can be no deep water, no poisonous plants, no weapons or—”

  “We understand,” Shar interrupted. The Mistress of the Night stretched languidly. “Come now, Mystra. You must be able to offer up a better reason why these clockwork warriors concern the Goddess of Magic.”

  “The armor is constructed to withstand all enchantments,” Mystra replied. “By their very nature the inquisitors attempt to prove craft’s supremacy over the Art.”

  Tyr paused to consider that claim. “True enough,” the God of Justice noted after a moment. “And you might have been able to sway us with that argument—had you yourself not sought the aid of Gond in combating the inquisitors. The cages you had the Wonderbringer construct endanger the place of magic in the world, too, if we follow your logic.”

  When Mystra failed to offer another reason for her actions, Tyr rapped the podium with his bony knuckles. “It’s clear, then, that the goddess went beyond the boundaries of her office in battling Cyric.” The rest of the Circle chorused their agreement. “Now,” Tyr added darkly, “we must consider the threat this posed to the Balance.”

  Before the God of Justice finished speaking, Cyric was on his feet, demanding to be heard. “Zhentil Keep holds the largest and most important gathering of my faithful in the mortal realms. If heretics should succeed in turning the city against me, I’d lose so much power I might be unable to prevent a revolt in the City of Strife.”

  The Prince of Lies turned his seared, hellish features to the greater gods gathered on the pavilion floor. “All of you know that my realm in Hades is in perpetual unrest. And all of you know, too, what would happen if a revolt amongst my denizens caused my downfall: total destruction of the Balance. Until a new god could be found and placed on the throne in Bone Castle, no one in the mortal realms could die, no matter how grievous his wounds. All the newly dead would rise as undead, preying upon the living until—well, the scene is too gruesome to contemplate.”

  In the grim silence that followed his speech, Cyric sank slowly to his seat.

  “Showmanship was always one of your strong suits, Cyric,” Mystra noted dryly. “But this has nothing to do with a revolt in Hades.”

  “Yes, it does,” Tyr said. “It has everything to do with Cyric and his realm.” He took hold of the podium once more, bony knuckles white from his vicelike grip. “The crux of the evidence against you is this: You have taken it upon yourself to punish Cyric, to thwart whatever plans he hatches to further strife and death in the world. In doing so, you’ve forgotten two important facts. First, it is Cyric’s office to create such discord in the mortal realms. Second, it is not your office to prevent that discord. You are the Goddess of Magic, Lady Mystra, not the harbinger of peace or the avenger of those done harm by Cyric’s actions.”

  “The book he is forcing his minions to craft, that will affect all of you,” Mystra said coldly. “But only a few of you have spoken out against Cyric for that. Where’s the justice, then? When does the Balance swing against the whims of the Lord of the Dead?”

  “As I have told you before, Lady, you must have patience,” Oghma offered. “We’ve countered the book’s creation so far, have we not? As for Cyric’s other crimes … the Balance has always corrected such outrages in the past”

  “And I’m willing to do some little part toward repairing any damage I might have caused in my anger at being cut off from the weave,” Cyric offered. “Return the inquisitors to me, and I’ll assure the Circle they will be used exclusively against my faithful in the future.”

  Mystra laughed bitterly. “But only if you’re granted the use of magic again, right?”

  “Just so, Lady.” Cyric bowed. “Just so.”

  Lathander Morninglord stood, his eyes glowing with the soft light of dawn. “Mystra, we could see our way to dropping all charges against you,” he began, “but only if you’ll agree to this new beginning.”

  “None of you can see what a monster he is,” the Lady of Mysteries said.

  “A monster? How so?” Oghma asked, his voice edged in steel. “Because he uses illusions and deception to fool his victims? Consider how you drew the inquisitors into your trap, Lady.”
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br />   “And there is the matter of the Chaos Hound,” Cyric said smoothly. “The evidence found atop Blackstaff Tower—”

  “You’d do well not to mention that crime at all,” Tyr warned. “It’s fortunate for you the beast did no harm to any of the Faithful, or one of us would have called you to trial for freeing the Hound.…”

  “But Mystra conspired to imprison Kezef, and in doing so she willfully caused the death of her own loyal follower,” Cyric murmured. “She is hardly one to judge my moral standing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mystra asked. “I know nothing of Kezef. I never confronted the beast”

  The Lord of the Dead feigned shock. “But the evidence clearly shows otherwise.”

  With one rap of his knuckles on the podium, Tyr silenced the court. “The evidence you have presented to us—the holy symbol and spell parchment—could have been planted by anyone. Justice demands proof.”

  “Justice demands I save the Lady of Mysteries from being wrongfully punished,” Mask said. When the Shadowlord stepped from the corner nearest Mystra, a ripple of surprise moved through the room; no one had seen Mask in that corner until he spoke.

  “It was I who captured Kezef. Placing the blame on the goddess was a twist of intrigue.” Mask moved to Mystra’s side. “In such matters I can’t help myself—though I also acted out of fear. None of you may wish to admit it, but you know the Lady of Mysteries is correct: Cyric threatens us all.”

  “As I expected,” the Prince of Lies murmured. The rose-hued short sword at his hip flared angrily. “Where is the Chaos Hound?”

  “Where you’ll never find him,” Mask taunted. “But don’t worry, he’ll turn up on your doorstep sooner or later. Dogs are like that.”

  Cyric merely smiled at the barb. “Where did you get the spell that allowed you to capture him so easily? Such enchantments are far beyond your ken, Shadowlord.”

  “From my library,” Oghma sighed.

  “So you were his accomplice, as well,” the Prince of Lies hissed. “Tell me, what has Kezef to do with knowledge, Binder? Are you as guilty of overstepping your office as Midnight?”

  “The knowledge contained in my library is available to all the gods,” Oghma said. His voice thundered with menace, like the martial songs written by the necromancers of Thay. “Mask borrowed the information from me. In return for this service, the borrower often provides a bit of lost history to include in my books.”

  “So you would have given me the spell, had I traded you some suitable fragment of lore?” Cyric asked slyly.

  “Of course. Knowledge must be free to travel where it is desired.”

  The Lord of the Dead nodded slowly. “I’ll remember that, Binder.”

  “Enough, Cyric,” Tyr said. “It should be no surprise to you that there are many of us who stand against you—”

  “But I should only expect opposition from any of you when my plans threaten your office,” the Prince of Lies said. “That is Ao’s law, is it not?”

  Oghma stood and moved to Tyr’s side, then whispered into the old judge’s ear. “Yes,” the God of Justice said, “given the nature of the conflict, a compromise might be in order.”

  Tyr faced the gathered throng once more, stiff and regal. “Because both the accuser and the accused are unique amongst us, having risen from the mortal realms to their positions of power, we can excuse this lapse in judgment on both their parts. Cyric, you will be required to participate in all meetings of the Circle and abide by all its decisions.…”

  “If I am allowed to pursue my office without unfair hindrance—”

  “Without condition,” Tyr said firmly. “It should be clear from this proceeding the Circle can police its own.”

  “Of course,” Cyric said, though he hid his distaste at the concession rather badly.

  “As for you, Mystra,” Tyr added. “You must give up this vendetta against the Lord of the Dead. We will drop the charges against you, but you must allow Cyric the use of magic. He must be allowed the power to which his title grants him right.”

  “And if I don’t give him access to the weave?”

  “It will be as Oghma said—total sanctions against your mortal worshipers until you comply.”

  Cyric threaded his way through the spectators and strolled across the pavilion’s floor. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, standing less than an arm’s length in front of Mystra. “My realm requires the attention I’ve focused on this gathering.…”

  Mystra bowed her head to hide the angry tears welling in her eyes.

  It required no more than a thought from the Goddess of Magic to reconnect Cyric with the magical weave. As the energy flowed around him, the death god threw back his head and shouted. The sound of his joyful triumph tore into Mystra’s soul, leaving a scar that would never truly heal.

  Cyric transformed, the seared features and blasted flesh replaced by the dashing facade of a lean, hawk-nosed Zhentish nobleman. “Your pain is enough of a reward for enduring this tedious business,” the Prince of Lies murmured so only Mystra could hear. He spun around and bowed toward Tyr and Oghma. “I thank the court for its wisdom. And now, I will take my inquisitors and go.”

  The Prince of Lies paused long enough to gift Mystra with another gloating smile before walking to the cages. The inquisitors, still encased in their golden shells, bowed their heads to their master.

  Mask caught Mystra’s eye then, and nodded toward the gathered knights of Hades. There was an instant connection between the god and goddess, born of a shared foe and common goal. The Lady of Mysteries shouted a single command word, triggering a special mechanism Gond had built into the cages. The bars on two sides of each cage slammed together, crushing the inquisitor inside like a hawk caught between a cloud giant’s palms. Gears and shards of metal and the shredded soul-stuff that had animated the armor spilled into the floor in a noisy cascade.

  “The verdict said nothing about returning those monstrosities to you,” Mystra said when Cyric turned to face her.

  The shocked silence in the pavilion told the Prince of Lies that his old adversary had managed some small victory out of this, after all. “Very well,” Cyric said. “Gond can make others.”

  “He won’t,” Mask noted snidely. “Not after he’s proven these work. There’s no gain in it.”

  Cyric locked eyes with his old ally for an instant. “The shadows cannot hide you from me forever, Mask. One day I’ll drag you into the light and give Godsbane a taste of your blood.”

  “I doubt that very much,” the God of Intrigue smirked. “But don’t worry, when the threat doesn’t come true, you can always claim you were lying.”

  The other gods had begun to disappear from the pavilion. “Hardly a new beginning,” Lathander murmured sadly before he vanished, on his way back to the fertile lands of Elysium.

  Oghma, too, was clearly troubled by the trial, and angry at Mystra for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom. The Patron of Bards stared at the goddess for a long time before he left for the security of his library. Then Mystra found herself alone in the wizards’ laboratory with Mask and the shattered remains of the inquisitors.

  “Cleverly done,” the Shadowlord offered. He slid forward with feline grace. “All of them believed it—even Cyric, and he was standing close enough to touch them.”

  “Enough,” Mystra snapped. “Look, I appreciate your aid, Mask, but I simply don’t trust you.”

  “As well you shouldn’t,” the God of Intrigue admitted, far too readily for the goddess’s liking. “Now that I know Cyric’s toy soldiers aren’t really destroyed—”

  “I said enough! Can you create a shield to guarantee none of the other gods can interrupt us?”

  “No,” Mask said uncomfortably. “You know the pavilion can’t be closed to the pantheon.”

  “Which is why I said keep quiet” Mystra turned back to the cages and the inquisitors. “I’ll take care of them. You can leave any time you want.”

  Mask moved close to
the Goddess of Magic. “Let’s retire to my domain so we can discuss our mutual foe. If’s time we joined forces, you and I. An alliance could aid us both.”

  “You get to foster intrigue,” Mystra said, “and perhaps even gain some of Cyric’s titles if he happens to fall. I get condemned for stopping a mad god from destroying the world. No thanks.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Mask sighed. “There might not be enough in it for you. Still, I can promise one reward for allying with me, Lady, something that might make you change your mind.”

  “I can’t think of anything that would, Mask. Stop wasting my time.”

  The God of Intrigue settled onto the floor, shadows spreading out from him like a pool of blood from a slashed corpse. “Is Kelemvor’s soul a waste of time?”

  The bolt of force struck Mask in the chest, knocking him backward a dragon’s length. “Where is he?” Mystra said. “Tell me now.”

  “I don’t have possession of him myself,” the Lord of Shadows said, smoothing his charred cloak. “And I don’t want to say more here. Other gods may be listening, remember?”

  “All right,” Mystra growled. “We’ll go to my palace in Nirvana.”

  “No,” Mask said as he rose ghostlike from the floor. “We’ll go to the City of Shadows. That’s a much more fitting place for this sort of intrigue.” He smiled ferally beneath his mask. “Besides, one of the other gods is already awaiting us there.”

  XIV

  A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

  Wherein the God of Knowledge faces three unpleasant confrontations in three different planes of existence, all at the same time.

  As Oghma left the Pavilion of Cynosure, he sent his consciousness racing off in myriad directions to deal with the moment-to-moment challenges of his office. However, he focused most of his mind in three locations. None of these incarnations were very happy about the tasks facing them, but they didn’t complain. The unpleasant meetings might just yield some unusual bit of knowledge for his library, and in the end, knowledge was all that mattered.…