by Troy Denning
Fortunately, the sentries at the watch portals happened to be looking away, as though something inside had caught their attention. Then I noticed they never once glanced back or made any visible movement at all. It was as if they had been frozen solid by Cyric’s cold aura. If this was so, I wondered why he did not walk into Candlekeep and recover the book himself!
When the One spoke, it was not to explain. “The instant you have the Cyrinishad, go to the nearest high place. Call my name three times and fling yourself over the edge.”
“Over the edge, my lord?” I saw my body tumbling down, down toward the sea and shattering like a melon upon the rocky shore.
“And do not forget the book!” The One still spoke in a thousand rumbling voices, but the noise did not disturb the sentries. “The Cyrinishad is everything!”
“Of course, Mighty One. It is sacred. And am I to understand that it will it stop me from hitting—”
“Listen to me, fool!” Cyric grabbed me by the shoulders, and his fingers sank into my flesh to the depth of the first joints. “You must understand how much depends on you.”
“Yes. I am listening.” What else could I do?
The One’s talons dug deeper still. “The Cyrinishad is my only defense! It will make them see. When they read it, they will bow before me and beg the honor of kissing my feet. They will plead for mercy, and even Ao will have no choice.”
“Ao?”
“Yes. He will understand what I have made of myself. He will see that I can watch over Faerûn alone, that I do not need them—” Here, Cyric suddenly tore his talons from my shoulders and backed away, and he cast many furtive glances in all directions. Then he straightened, and hissed in a thousand whispers, “It depends on me, of course. Everything does.”
“Mighty One?”
“Who shall live. Who shall die. What is, what shall be.” His dark eyes flashed. “Imagine I am watching from above, hovering in the sky as mortals are wont to think we gods do.…”
What Cyric said here I have already told at the beginning, and there is no use recounting it, other than to describe how his words fed the doubts that had already risen in my mind. I listened in dumbfounded awe as he rambled on about how nothing is certain until he has beheld it and set it in place, and I heard with my own ears why all of Faerûn called him Prince of Madness. My despair grew as black and bottomless as the Abyss, and I cursed myself for ever praising his name.
When at last he finished, I stood gape-mouthed before him, so stunned I could not even tremble.
Cyric smiled as a father smiles when he sends his son into battle in his own place. “You must be fast, Malik. Very fast indeed. The trial begins at dawn.”
“The trial?” I asked hoarsely. I had not yet learned of the events in the Pavilion of Cynosure, and so was greatly confused. “Am I to be tried for—” In my fear, I could not bring myself to repeat the blasphemies I had uttered that morning.
“Your trial?” His words exploded with such fury that I was hurled against the portcullis. “You dare worry about yourself? You are nothing to them!”
By what he had stated earlier, I took “them” to be his fellow gods. They were not “begging for mercy” now, and I realized the trial at dawn was to be Cyric’s. But I did not see how the Dark Sun would save himself by recovering the Cyrinishad. His fellows would never read it. They knew the awesome power of its truth and would go to any length to avoid looking upon its pages, for they were all vain and arrogant and had no wish to serve a master greater than themselves. Nor could they be tricked into reading the sacred book, even by the awesome cunning of the One. They were great gods, after all, and clever enough to avoid any hazard they knew so well.
I was wiser than to speak these doubts aloud, as Cyric would not suffer gladly the skepticism of a mortal. I merely inclined my head and awaited the Dark Sun’s next command.
“Go on,” he said. “Dawn is not far off.”
Thinking he had created some passage for me, I turned to find it. The Low Gate stood as before. But now I could see the sentries turning toward me, ever so slowly. To say their heads were inching around would have been a great exaggeration. When one man blinked, the act took as long as all that had passed between the One and me.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Cyric. “Dawn is coming!”
My answer was sure to displease. Still, I had no choice but to give it, since I could not pass through the gate as it was.
“Forgive me, Almighty One, for I have the wits of an ass and just one good eye.” Naturally, I made no mention of whose doing this was. “But I thought you might provide me some way to enter.”
Cyric’s burning black eyes flared in the empty sockets beneath his brow. “Idiot! If I could do that, I would get the book myself. If I were to endow you with my power, Oghma’s magic would make you as blind to the book as it does me. Only a mortal—an unaided mortal—can find the Cyrinishad.”
“Unaided?” I gasped. “But I am no thief, no warrior! Even if I get into the citadel, how am I to defeat the book’s guardians?”
“How does not matter.”
This was a terrible thing to hear, and not only on my own account. I was shrewd in the ways of cheating the scale and claiming one cargo is another, but I had never stolen a thing from another man’s home, nor killed any person except through the exchange of gold, nor was I certain how to accomplish these things. Counting on someone like me in such a great and dangerous matter was more than folly—it was insane! Cyric could only be as mad as his enemies claimed, and if I obeyed him, I would certainly be killed.
I threw myself at his feet and wrapped my arms about his legs. “Holy One, I beg you! Find one more worthy! If you rely on me, you will never see the Cyrinishad again!”
“I will. Look what you have done already. Who else would have left his mansion to live in the mud? Given up his fortune to beg for his dinner? Forsaken the envy of his peers to grovel before strangers?” The thousand voices of the One spoke with unaccustomed gentleness. “You will do this thing not because I command it—though I do—but for the same reason you have done all these other things: because you have no choice.”
The One reached down and grasped my arms with great delicacy, and I dared not speak as he pulled me to my feet. “And, Malik, you will succeed. Do you know why?”
I could but shake my head.
“You will succeed, because if you do not—if you fail me, or merely die trying—I will let Kelemvor take your Faithless soul.”
Five
Mystra and Kelemvor manifested themselves outside Oghma’s palace, which never looked the same on any two visits. Today, they faced a many-domed alcazar of snow-white stone, with a long garden pool to reflect its splendor. No wall enclosed the grounds, nor did any gate control access; the House of Knowledge was open to all who troubled to visit.
Mystra and Kelemvor squandered no time upon the beauty of the alcazar, for they had much to do before Cyric’s trial. They floated down the alameda, past throngs of scholars engrossed in debate. Myriad bards pressed forward to sing ballads praising magic and death, and countless fiends and seraphim stopped to bow, their arms laden with charts and manuscripts. The two gods ignored them all. They reached the palace and passed through its arched entrance into a vast foyer, where the vaulted ceiling was inscribed with the names of the innumerable learned who had died and been taken into the House of Knowledge by their loyal god.
“Truly, the stars have favored my house today!” Oghma’s voice was a song. He stood in the doorway to the next room, dressed in snug trousers, billowing tunic, and loose turban. “To have two visitors of such distinction!”
“Fortune did not bring us here, as you well know,” said Mystra. She pushed brazenly past Oghma into the vast library beyond. “We have come to discuss the trial.”
Oghma frowned. “We should do that at the trial.”
The God of Wisdom turned and followed Mystra through the door, and Kelemvor came behind. The library was a cavern of pillars a
nd shelves, vast beyond limit and filled with volumes recounting every detail learned by Oghma’s Faithful during their lives. Mystra twined her way through the maze in perfect ease, having visited the House of Knowledge often enough to know her way whatever the palace’s form.
“It is not for us alone to decide Cyric’s fate,” said Oghma, still following Lady Magic. “That is for the whole Circle.”
Mystra reached Oghma’s throne, an alabaster seat surrounded by tables and benches of white marble, and turned to her host. “What I have come to say, I cannot say before the Circle.”
“Then, my dear, perhaps you should not say it.” Oghma stepped past Mystra and sat in his throne.
“And perhaps you should hear her out,” said Kelemvor. “Unless your mind is not as open as you pretend.”
Oghma cocked an eyebrow. “Touché, Kelemvor.” He waved his guests to the benches beside his throne, then turned back to Mystra. “Very well. My listening will not corrupt the trial any further. I am certain the rest of the Circle has already been busy negotiating the outcome.”
“Kelemvor and I have made a few inquiries, yes,” admitted Mystra. “But Cyric has made no … arrangements of his own.”
“Perhaps he trusts the process.”
“You know better than that,” said Kelemvor. “Cyric is planning something.”
“He has the Cyrinishad,” added Mystra.
“If you are certain of this, then you are a wiser god than I,” Oghma replied. “I have not lifted my ban. How can you know that Cyric has the book when I have denied knowledge of the Cyrinishad’s whereabouts to all deities? And how can Cyric possess it, when he cannot perceive its location? He could walk into a room and pick it up and not know he held it in his hand. What you suggest is impossible.”
Kelemvor scowled. “Whatever you say, Cyric has the book. That is the only reason he would be this calm.”
“I see,” said Oghma. “Not only do you know where the Cyrinishad is, you know how the mind of a mad god works!”
“I know Cyric,” Kelemvor growled. “I know him better than you ever could.”
“You know Cyric the mortal,” Oghma replied. “And we are speaking of Cyric the god.”
“Oghma, I did not come here to argue circles with you,” said Mystra. “I know better than that. So let us suppose that Cyric has the Cyrinishad, and that he intends to present it at the trial—as evidence.”
Oghma furrowed his brow, then his eyes grew wide. “We would be obliged to hear it!”
The three were silent, for they all understood the power of the sacred Cyrinishad. They knew that upon hearing its truth they would fall to their knees and pay homage to the One, and they also knew the terrible retribution Cyric would take on them for the many affronts they had heaped upon him in the past.
Kelemvor broke the silence. “Good—we all agree. If Cyric brings the book, the trial is off. We destroy him on the spot.”
At this, Oghma gasped and shook his head with such vigor that every sage on Faerûn lost the course of his thoughts. “No!”
“No?” Mystra gasped. “But the Balance—”
“Would be utterly destroyed,” said Oghma. “Better to serve in Pandemonium than rule in a wasteland, which is all that would remain if we unleashed an all-out godswar! What you suggest would make the Time of Troubles look like a mere squabble.”
“Never!” So fast did Kelemvor take his feet that it cannot be said that he rose; he was sitting one instant and standing before the next began. “I will destroy myself before I serve Cyric!”
Oghma’s eyes grew as hard as diamonds. “The issue is not whether you would destroy yourself, Kelemvor, but whether you would destroy Faerûn. As a god, you must put your duty above disputes that linger from your life as a mortal. The fate of a world hangs on your every act, and you would do well to remember that.” Oghma glanced at Mystra, then added, “You both would.”
Six
The Night of Despair was upon me, for I had met my god, and he was the very Prince of Madness! At my best, I could not have done as he demanded, and I was not at my best, for I had suffered much at the One’s hands. Half blind, half deaf, fully a bloodied fool, I saw only my coming failure and certain doom. I threw myself upon the portcullis and cleaved to the bars, and I wept as never before.
How could I save myself? I was too fat to squeeze through an arrow loop and too crippled to scale the tor. And even if such things were possible, I was too clumsy to do either without being caught. My god had asked an impossible penance of me, and now I would be delivered to his eternal enemy to suffer an unbearable destiny. I cursed Kelemvor’s name, for he was a jealous coward who groveled in his city of bones and hid from Cyric’s wrath and visited his hatred upon helpless souls like me. I also cursed the One, for in my misery I believed he had lost the Cyrinishad through his own folly, and that if I had relinquished my faith after enduring so much, it was more his fault than my own. This is a terrible shame to me now; I admit it only as evidence of the absolute truth of my account.
At length, there arose a clattering behind the gates, and the small wicket door behind the portcullis opened. Two monks bent down to peer out through the bars. Both were dressed for battle, with steel skullcaps on their heads and the bulk of their chain mail showing beneath their violet robes.
“Mukhtar!” exclaimed one.
The guards of the Low Gate called me Mukhtar the Mad, for in all my years outside Candlekeep, I had never given them my true name, knowing this to be the practice of all good spies. “By the Bard! What happened to you?”
I saw no use in lying. “I have been gored by a bull.”
“Aye, and trampled too, judging by your looks,” said one monk, whose name was Agenor. “But the Keeper thinks our enemy is playing a trick. We can’t open the gate for you, Mukhtar.”
I nodded, for I had expected no less. Indeed I was surprised they had not slain me already, but perhaps they did not know I had betrayed the Cyrinishad’s presence to the Caliph.
“Look at him, Agenor,” said the other monk, who was known to me as Pelias. “He’ll die!”
“We have our orders.”
“We can raise the portcullis and let him crawl under. What can happen? There isn’t a Cyricist within a league!”
“Remember what the Keeper said about wooden horses.”
“Ulraunt has been reading too many epics,” replied Pelias. “And what I remember is that Mukhtar is my friend.”
“Friend?”
I was as surprised by this remark as Agenor. Pelias had shown me many kindnesses, but we had never spoken as I had with my friends in Calimshan, among whom it was customary to talk of the success of one’s ventures and the importance of one’s other friends. Yet I did not contradict him, for I sensed his words were sincere, and there might be some advantage for me in that
Pelias was silent for some time. Then he said, “Yes, Mukhtar is my friend. We have broken bread together often enough, and what makes a friendship, if not that?”
Speaking thus, he stepped back and vanished from my sight
Agenor followed at once. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To raise the portcullis.”
Truly, Pelias’s reply made my heart pound like the hooves of the bull that had gored me. It had never occurred to me entry into Candlekeep might be mine for the knocking! Recovering the Cyrinishad would still be impossible, as it was certain to be well guarded, but perhaps my engagement with Kelemvor might be delayed if one of the citadel’s healers looked after my wounds.
“Don’t concern yourself, Agenor,” said Pelias. I could hardly hear him, for both he and Agenor had stepped into the darkness. “I’ll take the blame if Brother Risto levies any.”
“He will,” countered Agenor. “Don’t forget that your friend is Mukhtar the Mad. And Cyric is the Prince of Madness.”
No more sounds came from within; Agenor’s words were having their effect.
“What do you think now?” asked Agenor. “Maybe Ulraunt
hasn’t been reading too many epics, eh?”
I had to do something or I was lost. “Pelias, Agenor is right!” I called. “You must not open the gate. I have seen Cyric himself upon the plain. He is the one who did this to me!”
“What?” Pelias and Agenor returned to the wicket door in an instant and eyed my bloody figure. “Cyric did that?”
“Not the goring, but all the rest.” Among the many things my father had taught me about being a merchant, one was that it is always best to tell the truth, when convenient. “The first time he struck me, my eye shut fast. The second time he attacked, he did this.” I raised my chin, displaying the gashes where he had raked my neck. “And the third time he hit me, my ear exploded.”
“By the Bard! How many times did he hit you?” gasped Pelias.
“These three were the worst, though he also grabbed my shoulders and deeply pierced my flesh, and I am certain those wounds alone will be enough to kill me.” I spoke softly and moaned to seem weak. In truth, neither my strength nor my pain had ebbed since the One had poured that vile stuff into my mouth.
“I am only a beggar and have but one thing in this life.” I reached inside my cloak and withdrew the small dagger I always carry. “This is why Cyric has killed me. When you hold it in your hand, the gods speak to you.”
I cocked my head, as though I were listening to someone even then—do not forget they called me Mukhtar the Mad—then I pushed the knife through the portcullis to Pelias.
“I want you to have it, my friend.”