by James Lowder
* * * * *
For the moment, the House of Knowledge resembled a monastery, dark and gloomy, with an air of ancient holiness that hung over the place as palpably as the storm clouds choking the sky overhead. Oghma’s faithful went about their duties draped in coarse brown robes, their faces obscured by overlarge hoods. They shuffled through cavernous chambers crammed with tomes of every size. Heavy chains bound each book to its shelf; only the master librarian’s keys could free a volume from its guarded captivity for more careful perusal. Despite these precautions, though, no request for knowledge was ever denied. Such was the nature of the Binder’s domain.
Oghma took on the appearance of a monk as he materialized in his palace’s throne room. His robes were somber, though his hood and draped sleeves were lined with ermine, his sandals shod with dragonhide. His dislike of this grim, bookish facade drove the Binder’s mood even closer to the slough of despair—especially after the trial had gone so badly.
The sight of Cyric lounging in the Throne of Knowledge was enough to send Oghma the rest of the way into the mire.
“The robe’s a good look for you,” the Prince of Lies noted casually. He’d draped himself over the thick, stiff-backed chair that now passed for Oghma’s throne. As the God of Knowledge approached, Cyric straightened and planted his elbows on the heavy writing desk that stood between them. “The place suits you, too.”
“How so?” Oghma asked flatly, trying in vain to hide his anger from the death god.
Cyric sneered. “Musty and humorless. Your servants all fled when I arrived. All except one little pest. By the by, she tried to stop me from sitting here. I sent her to the Nine Hells.”
“I know,” the Binder rumbled. “I heard her scream.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll make it back sooner or later—unless she crosses paths with one of the greater baatezu. Quite a nasty lot, the baatezu.” Cyric let a facade of mock concern drop over his features. “I wouldn’t have been so harsh, but I find it troubling when a lackey breaches godly etiquette.…”
“Like sitting in a seat that doesn’t belong to him,” Oghma countered. The rumble in his multitoned voice had hardened into the ringing of steel against steel.
“I said lackey, not superior,” Cyric corrected, but he stood nonetheless. “Please, Binder, sit. It’s rather sad to find you elder powers tire so easily.”
“At the moment I’m tired only of you,” Oghma said. He pushed past the Lord of the Dead, threw his hood back from his dark handsome face, and settled into his throne. “Do you have business with me, or are you here to be an annoyance?”
Cyric sat on the edge of the desk. His crimson tunic and crushed velvet cloak made him stand out in the silent, solemn throne room-library like a jester at a funeral. “I come seeking knowledge, Binder.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You’re going to provide me with a solution to an old problem,” the Prince of Lies said, toying with the quill pen on the desk. He casually dipped the pen into an inkwell and scrawled a vile obscenity across a folio of sacred verse. “I really wish I’d thought of coming here before. Luckily, the trial reminded me that magical knowledge finds its way to you, too.”
Oghma erased the ink with a wave of his hand. “Don’t play the fool with me, Cyric. I know you better than that.”
“You know everything, is that it?” The death god dropped the pen. “Fine. I want to know how I can find the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.”
Oghma’s laughter filled the room. The chuckling drowned out the mournful sounds floating in from the antechamber, where bards and priests sang dirges to lost knowledge. “Why, in Ao’s name, should I help you?” the Binder managed at last.
Cyric matched the smile on Oghma’s face. “This fine library is open to everyone, is it not? You said so at the trial.”
“I did.” The mirth fled Oghma’s voice. The Binder stood, his cool gaze locked on the death god’s lifeless eyes.
“Then you have no choice but to give me the information I need—unless, of course, you can tell me where Kelemvor is hidden.” Cyric leaned forward. “Is that bit of trivia in one of your books?”
“No,” Oghma replied. “And I have no knowledge that will guarantee his discovery.”
“Well played, Binder—trying to refuse my request by splitting verbal hairs.” The Prince of Lies gestured vaguely to the volumes lining the shelves around the room. “I’m not looking for guarantees, though. Just give me the tome that will tell me how best to find the errant soul.”
The God of Knowledge held his hands forward, palms up, and a massive book appeared in them. The parchment, older than the pyramids of ancient Mulhorand, had begun to yellow long before Cormyr had crowned its first king. The pages cracked and flaked as Oghma opened the book. “You may read these pages, but do not touch them.”
Cyric scanned the lines of cramped magical script, penned by a long-forgotten evil god named Gargauth. The cryptic text alluded to primordial battles between the greater powers and weird beings more mighty even than Ao. In the midst of this strange history were the necessary preparations for an enchantment to break through all divine barriers, see through all godly deceptions. The words were difficult to read since the enchantment had been written in reverse script, the gray ink trailing like shadows across the darker ebon of the main text. Yet Cyric focused a small part of his mind on the task, and soon the knowledge was his.
“I will show this book to Lady Mystra right away,” Oghma noted as he gently closed the tome. “She may find Kelemvor’s soul before you.”
Cyric leaped from the desk, animated by a wild excitement. “Go ahead, Binder, but you know as well as I that she’ll never force her faithful to make the blood sacrifices the enchantment demands—whereas I most certainly will.…” And with a flourish of his cloak, the Prince of Lies was gone.
Tucking Gargauth’s journal beneath his arm, Oghma readied for his trip across the planes. He paused, though, and reconsidered the wisdom of tempting the Goddess of Magic with such dangerous knowledge; she’d proved capable of endangering the Balance in pursuit of Cyric. What might she do to save her lover?
Oghma sighed. The Lady of Mysteries was even now answering that question in the halls of Mask’s hellish keep.
Despite the doubts gnawing at him, the God of Knowledge decided to bring the tome to her attention. After all, it wasn’t his place to protect Mystra.
Especially from herself.
* * * * *
Oghma’s second incarnation arrived at Shadow Keep in the same instant his first discovered Cyric lounging in his throne. The annoyance wrought by the death god’s impertinence rippled across the Binder’s entire being, casting a long shadow over the mood of all his myriad selves. Cyric’s slight barely affected the incarnation waiting on the threshold of Mask’s domain, though. His thoughts had been quite grim to begin with.
In the darkest part of Hades, far from the City of Strife, sprawled the meandering slums of Shadow Keep. The city wandered far along the blasted plain, a place dedicated to thievery. The walls surrounding the keep weren’t particularly high, the gates seemingly unguarded. Yet as Oghma stood beneath the main archway leading into the squalid alleys, awaiting one of Mask’s heralds to grant him admittance, he knew the uncomfortable prickle of unseen eyes upon him. Had the Binder searched out the watchers, he could have spotted them, but that was too much like playing along with the games of deception and intrigue fostered here. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and resolutely stared straight ahead, out across the infinite wastes that separated Mask’s domain from Cyric’s.
After a time, the Shadowlord appeared before Oghma, Mystra at his side. “I’m not surprised to find you together,” murmured the God of Knowledge.
Mask held out a gloved hand to Oghma, but the Binder kept his arms folded.
“You arrived sooner than I thought you would,” the Lord of Shadows noted happily. “You even beat us here from the pavilion—well, we did have a package t
o drop off in Nirvana.…”
“Both of you are fools,” Oghma snapped. “Your juvenile plotting has given Cyric—”
“Whatever Cyric gained today were gifts from the rest of the pantheon,” Mystra interrupted. “He would still be cut off from the weave had the Circle not demanded otherwise. You and all the other greater powers are cowards, Binder.”
“The trial wasn’t about Cyric. It was about you, and how you’d strayed from your duties as Goddess of Magic. Cyric understood that. It’s why he called the Circle together in the first place. Your punishment would almost certainly swing the Balance back in his favor.” Oghma gestured toward Mask. “And don’t think for an instant this blackguard wasn’t trying to draw you in, make you lash out against Cyric.”
“What would I gain from that?” Mask asked with mock innocence. “Do tell.…”
Oghma snorted in a very unscholarlike manner. “Just what you received: an alliance. Now that Mystra is alienated from the Circle, she’s got nowhere left to turn.”
“I recognize Mask’s duplicity,” Mystra said coldly. “After all, I see everyone’s true motivation—that’s the little secret you were hoping I’d stumble across, right?”
Swiftly Mask stepped between the two, hooking an arm around each of them. “Come, come. We all have something to gain from an alliance—even you, Lord Oghma. Let’s discuss this at my palace, where I can ensure our mutual foe cannot hear us.”
He led them through the archway, into the outlying alleys of Shadow Keep. The streets were narrow, the cobbles slick from the fog that hung over the city. Black-facaded buildings loomed on every side, their upper stories leaning so close together they nearly touched. Shards of sky shone through in places, but these revealed a heavens locked in perpetual twilight, just at that instant of gloaming when shadows are longest.
The three gods made their way along the twisting path to the weird castle that lay somewhere amongst the sprawl. A sibilant hiss filled the air around them, a weave made up of false oaths, the vows of unfaithful lovers, and the treacherous plots of trusted minions. Footsteps echoed from darkened corners, the padding of thieves as they stalked each other through the murk. The only other sounds were the short, sharp shriek of daggers clashing or the wet squelch of a strangler’s garrote biting into someone’s throat.
Torches guttering all along the alley walls sent up a sour smell of pitch, which mingled with the cold fog. The few sages who had visited Mask’s realm claimed the discomforting aroma was meant to resemble the stench of fear from a robbery victim. To Oghma, it was a distilled essence of ignorance, the gasping breath of knowledge trapped in intricate webs of deceit.
The air seemed to invigorate Mask. The Lord of Shadows gulped in lungful after lungful, though the action was only a show. “Ah, can you sense them?” he whispered gleefully.
“They’re all around us.”
“Who?” Mystra murmured, glancing uneasily over her shoulder.
“My faithful.” Mask smiled like a proud father bragging over a gifted child. “Those shadowy blurs are my lads and ladies. No doubt they’ve hatched a dozen plans to attack us before we get to the keep.”
Light from the torches danced on the walls of the high buildings, but did not push the darkness back very far. If Mask’s faithful were stalking nearby, the Patron of Thieves had reason to be proud. Oghma and Mystra glimpsed only flickers of movement, patches of shadow that seemed to flow with more purpose than the rest
“And you expect me to tolerate this?” Oghma blurted. He summoned a magical light, illuminating the entire alleyway. Shades wrapped in cloaks of shadow, much like their god, fled before the radiance. They melted into doorways and windows, cracks in the walls and fissures between the cobbles. Flares of light reflected off their daggers as they went
“How rude,” Mask said. He spread his cloak and drew the light into him, plunging the alley into darkness once more. The faint sounds of thieves moving amongst the shadows returned almost instantly.
“I’m God of Intrigue,” the Shadowlord explained, his red eyes flashing behind his mask. “What did you think my faithful would be like?” He shook his head. “Don’t worry about them attacking, if that’s what’s disturbing you. I’ve taught them never to strike against someone more powerful—unless they have a chance of making a kill. They won’t attack us unless someone’s given them all god-slaying blades, like Cyric’s.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” Mystra said. Though she knew the likelihood of an attack was terribly slim, several facets of her mind drew powerful defensive enchantments to the ready. No sense trusting Mask, especially in his own domain.
They continued in silence the rest of the way to Mask’s palace, shadowed at every turn by lurking thieves. At last the alley opened onto a huge plaza. The structure dominating the square seemed to be constructed out of darkness alone. The palace walls wavered in the perpetually failing twilight, the battlements and towers warping like smoke on the wind. Bats fell through the air above the palace. The sound of their wings drowned out the constant murmur of intrigue hissing from the alleys.
“Welcome, master,” two deep voices rumbled in unison as the gods approached the castle.
Oghma had taken the hulking shapes to either side of the door to be gatehouses, but they shifted suddenly. With subtle grace, the twin creatures slid away from the walls. Their serpentine tails uncoiled, their huge wings unfolded from hunched shoulders. Finally the shadow dragons opened sulphur-yellow eyes. They kowtowed to the lord of the keep, their long necks stretched almost to full length.
Mask nodded to the beasts, and they rose again to take up their posts. With their eyes closed once more, their wings and limbs folded to their sides, the dragons melted back into the greater darkness that made up the palace walls.
“I usually accept guests in the throne room, but no need for pomp between allies,” the Shadowlord said as they passed through the entry hall. “We’ll go to my study.”
Wraithlike servants flitted through the keep, dancing from one shadow to another. The doors, even the hallways themselves, had been built with odd angles and jutting corners. Hidden alcoves lined both walls and ceiling. More often than not, weird creatures lurked in these places, their ghastly features hidden by darkness and the thin yellow fog that curled around everything.
A panting shadow mastiff, as large as a bear, greeted the God of Intrigue as he entered the study. The beast seemed to float across the intricately patterned carpets. A tongue black as a moonless night lolled over equally ebon teeth. Only the creature’s eyes stood out from its shadowy form, bright and glinting like platinum reflecting candlelight.
Mask took a seat in a wing-backed chair, so overstuffed it seemed to engulf his form completely. “So, Oghma, what exactly have you been up to?”
The God of Knowledge remained standing, uncomfortable even surrounded by Mask’s library. “Meaning?”
“Your plan against Cyric,” Mask prompted, idly patting the shadow mastiff. “You’ve obviously got some plot in motion.”
“That can wait,” Mystra interrupted. “We’re safe from scrying here, Mask. Where’s Kelemvor?”
“In Cyric’s grasp—well, very nearly.” At Mystra’s angry glare, he held up a gloved hand defensively. “No more pyrotechnics, Lady. I’ll be more specific.”
The God of Intrigue shooed the mastiff away. After wandering close to Oghma, the hound settled in the shadows around the fireplace. “As I was saying,” Mask began, “the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane resides in the City of Strife, but hidden from Cyric by a very powerful being.”
“Who?” Oghma prompted.
“Come now,” Mask chortled, “both of you are intelligent. Where do you begin looking for something you’ve lost?” He paused for an instant, then answered: “Why, where you last saw it, of course. And Kelemvor was last seen atop Blackstaff Tower, skewered on the end of—”
“Godsbane!” Mystra shouted. “The sword’s been hiding his soul from Cyric all these years?”
&
nbsp; Mask bowed his head in mock humility. “I must admit to helping her keep Kel hidden, at least a little.”
“I want him back.” Mystra took a threatening step toward the Shadowlord. “Now.” The mastiff leaped to its feet and bravely set itself, growling, between the two gods.
Casually, the God of Intrigue pushed the hound to a sitting position. “It’s not that simple. Godsbane will give up Kelemvor’s soul if we help her get revenge on Cyric. She’s quite miffed—something about Cyric trying to break her will during the Time of Troubles.…”
“And where do you come in, Mask?” Oghma asked. “No, let me guess. You and the sword have plotted to overthrow him.”
Mask nodded appreciatively. “Quite correct, Binder. There may be hope for you yet.”
Pacing back and forth before the hearth like some caged beast, Mystra suddenly stopped and turned on the God of Knowledge. “What about you? What’s your part in all of this?”
“Last time I asked that, you cut him off,” Mask smirked.
Oghma ignored the Shadowlord. “I’ve been trying to counter Cyric’s book,” he said, finally settling into a chair. “A task that is well within my office.”
“But what, exactly, are you doing?” Mask pressed. He leaned forward eagerly. “Whatever it is, you’ve hidden it well. I’ve been trying to find out for quite some time.”
“Aiding the underground in Zhentil Keep,” Oghma admitted reluctantly. “With my help, they’re creating a true version of Cyric’s life.”
“Brilliant!” Mask crowed. “I never would have thought you had it in you, Binder, but that’s a smashing plan! When the book’s done, the conspirators will use it to undercut Cyric’s worship—”
“They will use it to supplant his lies,” Oghma corrected. “To insure his book doesn’t rewrite the true history of the world.” He leaned back in the chair, shadows sliding across his handsome features. “But that’s all in jeopardy, now that Cyric has magic again. I don’t know if I can keep my agents hidden from him any longer.”