Crucible

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Crucible Page 15

by Troy Denning


  The three gods followed their honor guard up a long walkway and emerged in a huge plaza surrounded by edifices of many-pillared grandeur. The paladins cut straight across this square, clearing a broad swath through the throng of bustling clerks who stopped to stare at the passing gods, then halted before the grandest building of all. The portico stairs were as high as cliffs, and the columns so tall they seemed to support the sky.

  Mystra and Kelemvor and Oghma entered the shadow of the first step, and then they were standing inside the great Tribunal Chamber of Tyr the Evenhanded.

  The courtroom was shaped like a horseshoe, with high tiers of benches on three sides and the Just One’s alabaster throne on the fourth. Next to this chair, leaning on the back as though he were Tyr’s closest ally, stood a skull-faced wraith in tattered leather armor.

  “Cyric!” hissed Mystra.

  “The One and All,” replied Cyric.

  Though the court was filled with Tyr’s faithful, who packed the benches day and night to bask in the wisdom of his decrees, now the chamber was hushed. It was rare that the gods themselves argued a matter in that chamber, and no ear wished to miss what was said.

  “I am sure you will have no objection if I listen to your petition,” said Cyric. “After all, it is sure to affect me.”

  “It is for me to decide what affects you, Cyric.” Tyr craned his neck around to scowl at the One and All. “You may be certain that I would have summoned you if it was appropriate.”

  “But it is appropriate.” The One went to the edge of the dais and glared down at Mystra. “Mystra and her boy have come to ask for a separate trial.”

  With a thought, Tyr increased the size of his throne, until he had risen high enough to peer over Cyric’s head. “I would like to hear from Lady Magic and Lord Death why they are here.”

  Mystra nodded. “We have come to ask for a separate trial. We cannot defend ourselves as matters stand, since we agree with the charges against Cyric.”

  “And since no one will speak in your defense, as that would also mean speaking in mine,” added Cyric. “I warned you about this. They are all so jealous of me!”

  “Jealous?” snorted Kelemvor. “I think not.”

  Mystra raised her fingers to silence Lord Death, then ignored Cyric and spoke directly to the Just One. “Tyr, you have put us into an indefensible position. It is not fair to make us choose between defending ourselves and judging against Cyric.”

  “Lady Magic, I am not the God of Fairness. I am the God of Justice, and that is a very different thing.” This drew a respectful murmur from the benches, which Tyr silenced with a single eyeless glance. “And if you find it impossible to defend yourself from the charges levied against you, then perhaps you should ask if it is because they have some merit.”

  At this, the benches burst into an applause, and Tyr did nothing to silence his admirers.

  Cyric raised his skeleton’s hands and looked around the gallery as though he had won a great triumph, and it is a testament to his mercy and patience that he took no offense at how quickly the ovation trailed off.

  Oghma made use of the silence to step forward and speak. “Well said, Tyr. A little introspection might benefit both Kelemvor and Mystra.” He glanced first at Lord Death, who bit his lips and looked away, then at Lady Magic, who only scowled and narrowed her eyes. The Binder returned his attention to the Eyeless One. “And there lies the crucial difference between them and Cyric, it seems to me.”

  Cyric leaned down from the dais and jabbed a weathered fingerbone at Oghma’s face. “I warn you, Old Man—”

  Tyr rose and caught Cyric by the shoulder, then jerked him back from the edge. “And I warn you, Mad One: my tolerance has its limits. This is my Tribunal Chamber, and you will not threaten any soul within its walls!”

  Cyric’s jaw clacked open. He whirled on the Just One, and the chamber grew still and tense. The two gods glared at each other for a time, until the One seemed to remember where he was and glanced around the court at Tyr’s astounded worshipers. The fury drained from Cyric’s blazing black eyes, and he closed his jaw and nodded as though granting a request.

  “You may speak for yourself, of course. We must not forget, this is your palace.”

  “No, we must never forget that,” replied Tyr.

  Oghma cleared his throat, then spoke, “As I was saying, the charges against Mystra and Kelemvor cannot stand as they are.”

  “They cannot?” Mystra’s voice cracked with astonishment. “But you said—”

  “That I would not speak in your defense. However, I cannot allow you to stand trial on the wrong charge.” Oghma turned to Tyr, and there was a glint in the Wise God’s eye. “We have charged Cyric with innocence by reason of insanity—but Kelemvor and Mystra are neither innocent nor insane. We have asked them to prove a negative, which is both ridiculous and unjust.”

  Tyr nodded thoughtfully.

  Before he could say anything, Cyric blurted out, “But Tempus has made his charge! They are as incompetent as I am!”

  “That is for the Circle to decide,” said Tyr. “But Oghma is right. The charge is amended to incompetence through humanity.”

  Mystra and Kelemvor turned to thank Oghma, but their appreciation was lost in the One’s angry wail.

  “Noooo!”

  The chamber fell silent. All eyes turned toward Cyric, who was tearing handfuls of tattered leather from his armor and flinging them upon the floor. The instant they touched the stone, the scraps turned into steaming piles of fetor, filling the hall with such a poisonous stench that all of Tyr’s Faithful rose and scrambled for the exits.

  The Just One showed no sign of anger. “Cyric, what is the basis for your objection?”

  The One looked up from his hallowed labor. “Basis?”

  “The reason,” Oghma prompted.

  Cyric removed his hands from his shredded armor and looked about the polluted chamber. Approving of what he saw, he clacked his skeleton’s teeth together and turned to face Tyr.

  “My reason is simple.” The One spoke in a calm and pleasant voice, as though he had done nothing untoward in Tyr’s courtroom. “Mystra has already tried to disrupt my trial once. If you separate our cases, what is to stop her from trying again?”

  “I cannot deny what you say,” Tyr said.

  The Just One fell into silent thought, and as he considered Cyric’s argument, his eyeless gaze fell on a pile of offal. The One, seeing where Tyr was looking, made a scooping motion with his bony hand, and the heap vanished at once. The Eyeless One’s gaze wandered to the next pile, which Cyric promptly removed with the same scooping motion, and they continued in this fashion until the whole chamber was as bland and as barren as before.

  Tyr smiled, then looked to Mystra. “The trials will take place at the same time.” This drew a victorious chuckle from the One. “But the charges will be split; Cyric’s verdict will stand separately from the verdict rendered for you and Kelemvor.”

  “What?” shrieked the One.

  Tyr ignored him and continued to address Mystra. “I warn you, give me no reason to regret this. I shall be on guard against tampering of any kind. If I find it—”

  “You will find no tampering,” Mystra replied. Then, to make certain Tyr had not mistaken her pledge for a boast, she added, “I have learned my lesson.”

  Cyric ripped a handful of leather from his armor, but Tyr was quick to catch the One’s arm.

  “Your actions will not influence my judgments,” Tyr said, “but I might present them as evidence at your trial.”

  “Traitor!” the One screamed. He opened his hand, and the scrap vanished. “Everyone has betrayed me!”

  “So it seems.” Oghma spoke softly, and Cyric had to stop yelling in order to hear the Binder’s words. “You would do well to find out why—unless you want to lose your trial.”

  Fifteen

  I left the cave with the midnight tide and made good my escape, creeping along the coast until Candlekeep’s lights di
sappeared behind the horizon and the circling hippogriffs vanished from the sky. Then I climbed the headwall and crawled miles through the tall salt grass to a small farm with a pungent little barn. Thinking this stock shed a good place to rest and collect my wits, I opened the door and sneaked inside.

  I was greeted by the shining eyes of five goats and a mangy dog, all peering out from beneath the belly of a swaybacked mare. I hissed a harsh warning for the beasts to keep silent, then turned to keep watch through a knothole—and nearly cried out myself.

  Outside, silhouetted against a pink ribbon on the predawn horizon, a lone hippogriff was wheeling past the farmer’s hut. The beast carried two riders, the man who held the reins and the cloth-swaddled figure of the Harper witch. Whether they had tracked me here or had only broadened their search, I could not say—but they were a terrible sight to see. Soon it would be morning, and if I fled, they would spy me running across the open plain. Yet I could not pass the entire day in the stock shed. There were certain to be scouts among the companies that had ridden to Candlekeep’s defense, and the sunlight would make it easy for them track me here.

  The hippogriff circled the farm and swooped less than a sword’s length above the roofs, but it did not land. My foes were searching blind, hoping their mount would scare me out of hiding or else catch my scent—a thing that seemed impossible, given the stench of manure in the shed. I dared to breathe again but kept my eye to the knothole and thanked Tymora I was done with Rinda’s journal.

  I had finished it in the sea cave, by the light of a small fire struck from a pack rat’s nest, which is always so dry and old it makes excellent tinder. The book was mostly an account of Rinda’s wanderings with Gwydion and their many battles with Cyric’s Faithful. In places, Rinda’s words could have been my own, for she was as cut off from Oghma as I had been from the One during my vigil outside Candlekeep. Nor was Gwydion much comfort, as the same things that made him an excellent guard also made him a poor companion. He had little use for sleep or food, nor for any of the other things that men need, and this was a great sadness to Rinda, who was a robust woman with wants of her own. She often thought of her home in Zhentil Keep and of the lovers and friends she had known there and would never see again—but in this we were as different as night and day, for I was confident I would one day return to see my friend the prince and my loving wife and give them all they deserved.

  The journal made no further mention of the True Life of Cyric, except to say she had heard that Fzoul Chembryl had fled for a time to a place called Teshwave, then returned to the ruins of Zhentil Keep to worship a new god named Iyachtu Xvim. It was a great relief to know my quarry was so important that people tracked his movements, as I had less than ten days to complete my journey and find him.

  I was on a holy mission now, a quest to save my god—and if the One did not yet appreciate my efforts, I felt sure he would reward me all the more after he read the True Life and returned to his senses. The alternative was too terrible to imagine—though of course I could hardly keep it from my mind. If Cyric was insane when his trial continued, nothing would save him—or me. Compared to my punishment for disobeying the One, the torments of Kelemvor’s city would seem heavenly delights.

  The hippogriff circled the farm three times, approaching from a different angle on each occasion, and it was just swooping down toward the stock shed door when the mare nickered in fear. This occasioned several bleats and a growl from beneath the nag’s belly. I spun around at once, bringing my finger to my lips.

  “Quiet!” I hissed.

  “Really, Malik, you are growing too cocky.”

  Though the thousand voices of the One were but a whisper, they filled my head as a roaring wind. My bones ached with a stinging chill, and I saw a man’s shape blocking the gleam of the farm beasts’ golden eyes. A gentle throb sounded outside as the hippogriff beat the air with its wings and flew over the shed. I fell to my knees and pressed my head to the stinking floor.

  “Mighty One!”

  Cyric’s boots scuffed through the filth, and a bony hand grasped my shoulder. “Do not offer reverence you do not feel.” The One plucked me from the floor and returned me to my feet. “It demeans us both, and you remain under Tyr’s protection—for now.”

  “But—”

  “Malik, there is no cause for worry. I only want to know why you betrayed me.” He brushed off my robe—I was still wearing the witch’s aba, as the dark cloth made excellent camouflage in the night “Speak freely. Whatever you say, it will not aggravate your punishments.”

  I believed him, for I knew nothing could add to what he planned for me already. Yet it was impossible to do as he commanded. “Mighty One, I have not betrayed you. How can I ever betray the god of gods?”

  The One clasped me by the throat, and I am certain that only Tyr’s protection kept him from crushing my windpipe. “No lies, you mewling…!” He let the threat trail off, then removed his hand and patted me on the chest. He pulled the Harper’s brooch from my robe and tossed it aside, and I heard the pin land in something moist and soft where it belonged. “I am trying to be patient here, Malik. Perhaps I could pay a visit to your wife?”

  This, of course, was too great an honor to ask. “You would do that for me, Mighty One?”

  “Of course, Malik.” His thousand voices were as melodious and pleasing to the ear as a choir of eunuchs. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

  “But I have, Sacred One,” I replied. “An amil does not betray his caliph, for he has too much invested in him. What hope but you do I have of regaining all I have sacrificed in your service? No other god will reward me for what I have done.”

  This, Cyric seemed to understand. A purple light suddenly filled the shed, drawing much snorting and bleating from the mare and her nervous goats, and the One fixed his blazing black eyes on my face and studied me a long time. The dog slunk into a corner and hid beneath a manger and lay there growling softly, but I could tell that the beast was not overly brave, or else it would never have lived to be so gray.

  “Malik, can you really be telling the truth?”

  I nodded. “Of course, Mighty One.”

  The One was not interested in my reassurances. He placed his bony hand in the center of my chest and began to push, and I stumbled back and kept stumbling back until I reached the wall and could go no farther.

  “This may hurt,” Cyric said, “but it will not kill you—not while you are under Tyr’s protection.”

  My eyes dropped to the bony claw on my chest, and suddenly my heart was pounding like the hooves of a fine stallion. “Wh-what are you going to d-do?”

  Cyric continued to push, and my sternum flexed inward. My ribs bowed out around his hand. A terrible crushing pain filled my torso, as though a giant were standing on my chest, and my breath stopped. My heart pounded harder than ever. Every time the organ expanded, I felt it touch my spine and my sternum at once, and I thought the One meant to crush it inside my own body.

  Then his hand grew as pellucid as a ghost and slid into my chest, so that all I could see was his wrist pressed tight to my sternum. My entire body grew cold and numb, and the pain vanished. His hand closed around my heart. With each beat, I felt the spongy muscles squeeze up between his fingers; each time they contracted, his grasp tightened.

  “Stronger than I thought,” he said. “That may not be good. Steadfast hearts are for Tempus and Torm, not me.”

  My knees buckled. I fell against the wall and slumped to the floor; there was nothing I could do. The warmth rushed back into my body, and a low boom-booming filled my ears, and I felt a strange void in the middle of my chest. The horse whinnied and the old gray dog ventured a bark, and even before I looked, I knew I would see the One holding my heart in his hand.

  The sight was not as gruesome as I imagined. It reminded me of a small throbbing sponge, save that each time it pumped, the stuff that gushed from its pores was blood and not water.

  “In the name of the One!” I was in no
condition to think of what I was saying. “I am only a poor mortal! Put that back!”

  “When I am ready.”

  Cyric did not even look at me, but stuck my heart into his mouth and bit a chunk from the side. I let out a great shriek, which should certainly have roused even the lazy farmer who did not rise before dawn to check his animals, then watched as the One spat out the piece he had bitten off.

  “Aaarrgh! It’s fresh!”

  “But of course,” I replied. “You took it from my chest.”

  “That is not what I mean.” Cyric grabbed my collar and pulled me to my feet. My blood was smeared over his skeleton’s mouth, and I could not bear to look at his face. “You are telling me the truth.”

  “I wouldn’t dare lie—not to you!”

  “Of course you would.” Cyric propped me against the wall—I think he feared I would fall again—then he backed away, shaking his head. When he spoke, it was only in a single cackling voice. “It makes no sense. It makes no sense.”

  He looked toward the ceiling and answered himself in a demon’s rumble. “Don’t be a fool. You can see what’s happening!”

  Cyric spun on his heel and spoke next to the floor, this time in a soft woman’s tone. “Malik has always been your most devoted worshiper.” These are the exact words of the One and All, and I have not altered a syllable. “He is true to you. You have tasted that for yourself.”

  “But everybody has betrayed us!” Cyric’s voice was now deep and angry. “Even Oghma said that!”

  Yet another voice came to the One’s lips. “He said it seemed that way!” He directed this to the dog in the corner, which only whimpered and crawled farther beneath the manger. “And he said we had to figure out why!”

  With that, the One plunged his free hand into his own chest, and he withdrew a slimy mass of curd as brown as roasted coffee beans. It did not beat so much as slurp between his fingers, and nothing on Faerûn smelled stronger. The goats fell to their knees and rubbed their muzzles in the filthy dirt. Horrible choking sounds came from the nag’s throat, and the dog crawled out from beneath the manger to do what I would have done myself, had I not been too frightened.

 

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