by Troy Denning
Svanhild was quick to leap to my defense. “Malik is hardly some bumbling neophyte. He has touched the Cyrinishad, and he has spoken face-to-face with the One!”
“Or so he says.” Fornault’s eyes grew as dangerous as a cobra’s, and he did not take his gaze off me. “But we have only his word. How do we know that he isn’t … exaggerating?”
It was a strange temple indeed where Cyric’s Faithful hesitated to call each other liars.
Svanhild thought for only a moment, then answered, “We know by what I saw at the gate. Crossbow quarrels do not bounce off the backs of normal men.”
“And we also know because of Halah,” added another sister of the temple, a raven-haired beauty called Thir. She pointed to the far corner, where my magnificent horse was devouring the temple’s only milk goat. “How many horses eat flesh and exhale black fog?”
“That is a good point,” replied a sister named Oda, and then a brother called Durin added, “I believe him.”
This occasioned a general course of head-nodding and agreement. As I looked around the circle, I saw that all the sisters of the temple, and several of the brothers, were looking at me with the same expressions of yearning I had already noticed in Svanhild’s eyes. No doubt this adoration had more to do with the god’s heart in my chest than seeing my stout figure in the baths—at least, in the case of the men, I hoped so.
Fornault’s expression flashed from shock to outrage to cunning, then settled on benign acceptance. This countenance looked as false on his face as a mask of brutish ferocity would have appeared on mine.
“Well then, it seems the matter is settled.” The Friar clasped his hands together and rose. “Why don’t I get a little surprise I’ve been saving? Then we’ll sit by the fire and plan our vengeance on the Great Annihilator.”
Svanhild frowned. “Surprise?”
“You’ll see,” Fornault replied. “Wash out the chalice, and I’ll be right back.”
Fornault lit a torch from the fireplace, then crossed the barren hall and disappeared into a dark stairwell. Though clearly troubled by the Friar’s offer, Svanhild took the chalice off the fireplace mantle and went up to wash it out in the roof cistern.
As soon as they were gone, Thir came to sit at my side. She slipped her arm beneath mine, brushing the hilt of my dagger beneath my robe, and nestled up close. She brought her lips near to whisper in my ear.
Before she had a chance to embarrass herself, I patted her hand. “Forgive me, Thir, but Svanhild has already asked to attend me later.” Here, the Harlot’s accursed magic compelled me to add, “And even with her, I fear I am too consumed with Fzoul Chembryl to enjoy any sport—besides which I am a only recently widowed.”
Thir frowned at this. “Widowed? What does that have to do with anything?” Then she leaned a little away from me. “Oh—look, I know you’re one of the Chosen, but that’s not what I—”
Fornault’s steps rang out from the stairway, and Thir fell silent. She continued to hold my arm, but I could tell she was reluctant to make the Friar jealous, as she no longer pressed herself quite so tightly to my side. Svanhild returned from the cistern an instant later. She showed no irritation at seeing another woman sitting so close to me, but only came over and sat on my other side and pressed herself as close as Thir. What a pity my thoughts were so consumed with Fzoul Chembryl!
The Friar stepped into the middle of the circle and displayed his prize, a dusty bottle of scarlet liquor. I noticed at once that he had exchanged his signet ring for another, as no merchant with an eye as keen as mine would mistake tarnished silver for cold iron.
“The finest Mulmaster port money can buy,” Fornault proclaimed. “Or should I say that a quick hand can steal?”
This drew nervous laughter from the acolytes, who seemed equally split between avoiding my gaze and casting furtive glances in my direction. Perhaps they thought I was selfish not to send either Thir or Svanhild away, or perhaps they knew something about the Friar’s relationship with Thir I did not.
Fornault came over and made a great show of uncorking the bottle, then reached down to Svanhild. “The chalice, my dear.”
Svanhild glanced at me.
“Sister Svanhild, hand it to me.”
Her hand was trembling. She cast her eyes down, as if she might be jealous of Thir after all, then passed the chalice to Fornault. As he filled it, I leaned closer to Svanhild.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I whispered.
Svanhild looked up with surprise in her eyes. “No?”
Fornault drank from the chalice and made a great show of swishing the port around in his mouth.
“I have already told Thir,” I whispered. “I am too consumed with my mission for any sport tonight.”
Svanhild wrinkled her brow, betraying her disappointment, and she hissed, “But, Malik—”
The Friar smacked his lips and pronounced, “A fine bottle!”
He refilled the chalice quickly, then swirled the contents around and passed it to me. Svanhild intercepted the cup.
“Svanhild!” the Friar said. “Don’t you think we should let Cyric’s Chosen drink first?”
Svanhild looked from me to her fellow acolytes. They all averted their eyes at her shameful behavior, yet she did not release the chalice. A bitter coldness began to fill my breast at this strange affront, for I had not tasted a drop of port, fine or otherwise, since leaving Calimshan.
Thir reached across my chest to take Svanhild’s hands. “Let him drink.” She took the cup and passed it to me, and I saw that her hands were trembling just like Svanhild’s. “What harm can a little port cause someone as mighty as Malik?”
Now, had I not already raised the chalice to my lips, I might have thought twice about drinking. But as it was, the port was already upon my tongue and halfway down my gullet before I realized what her words implied. Even then I doubted them, for the port did not bear the slightest hint of bitter taste or mordant smell. Indeed I was not certain the Friar had poisoned the drink until my stomach grew strangely full and the soft mass in my chest began to gurgle and race.
I swallowed about half the contents of the chalice, then lowered the cup. The Friar’s eyes were already as wide as saucers, and his color had gone from pale to ghostly.
“A fine port indeed, Fornault.” My ears were filled with such a gurgling I could barely hear my own words, and my stomach felt as swollen as a woman’s before she gives birth. Yet I could see by the Friar’s reaction I should have been dead before I lowered the cup. “Now, will you tell me where I can find Fzoul Chembryl? Or would you like to finish what’s left of the port?”
I stood and thrust the chalice back into the Friar’s hands. He stared into the cup, trying to decide if his poison had failed or I was as great as Svanhild claimed. My head began to pound. A terrible coldness seeped from Cyric’s gurgling heart into my breast, and this had nothing to do with the poison.
“Your decision?” I demanded.
The chalice slipped from Fornault’s hand and clanged to the floor, spilling red port across the stones. He dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of my robe.
“I was only trying to honor Our Lord of Murder!” He was referring, of course, to the venerable act of killing an unsuspecting guest. “I didn’t know you were Chosen!”
“I did not say I was.” I could barely hear him over the gurgling in my ears. “Now, where will I find Fzoul Chembryl?”
His gaze followed my hand as it slipped beneath my robe and withdrew the shining blade of my dagger.
“Don’t!” he pleaded. “I’ll take you there myself.”
I shook my head, for I knew I was not strong enough to resist the cold yearning in my breast. “Tell me, or I will kill you now and let the One punish your silence in the next life.”
This threat was too much for Fornault “His old tower! My spies tell me that is where he worships Iyachtu Xvim.”
I looked up and saw the eyes of the acolytes shining in eagerness, for the murder
of a master venerates the One even more than the killing of a guest Svanhild showed her approval by nodding excitedly.
“I can find the tower,” she said. “It’s in the Ruins.”
I glanced around the barren hall, for I had thought we were in the Ruins, then raised my dagger high. Fornault closed his eyes, knowing he could not resist the Chosen of the One. The viscid mass in my chest squeezed slush through my veins, and I stepped forward to take my vengeance.
Then I imagined Fornault’s spirit down on the Fugue Plain with my wife, calling for Our Dark Lord, and I knew by the cold lump in my chest that Cyric would never answer him. The poisoning had become a great sacrilege, distressing the One’s heart as it had, and this could not be forgiven. The Friar would be hauled before Kelemvor and found to be ignoble as well as False, and then he would be sentenced to an eternity of torment.
My arm would not come down to strike the infidel.
I clenched my teeth and tried harder, and all that happened was that my hand began to tremble. How could I be so weak? It was a terrible impiety to leave Fornault’s treachery unavenged, yet I could not strike, not even when I called upon Cyric’s heart for strength. I cursed the Harlot’s spell, but I knew I alone was at fault I was so afraid of Kelemvor’s tortures that I could not send another to face them.
Even now it shames me to admit such cowardice. I stood holding the blade aloft so long that all the eager faces turned to looks of puzzlement, and Fornault opened his eyes to gaze up at me piteously.
Svanhild frowned and stepped away from my side. “Well, Malik? Will you kill him or not?”
I tried again to bring the dagger down, but I was too weak—especially with my victim staring up into my eyes.
I shook my head. “No.”
A startled gasp rose from the acolytes. I saw the yearning vanish from Svanhild’s face—then Thir grasped my arm.
“Of course not! Malik has no need to prove his Faith.” Thir took the dagger from my hand. “We’re the ones who must prove ours!”
Thirty-Eight
The Caliph has a saying: If it is not cruel, it is not punishment. In service of this motto, his jailers have devised many implements of ingenious and splendid design. They have constructed machines that can bend the victim backward until his head touches his heels, and have forged little tools that can keep him laughing until he ruins his voice, and have built one hideous device that tightens around the prisoner’s chest each time he exhales. Yet the Caliph would have traded all these treasures for the simple prison in which Helm confined Mystra, which was more brutal than all the racks and hooks in Calimshan.
The goddess sat on a bed of soft emptiness, cursing Tyr for a fate she alone had caused. So cramped was her prison that she could not lift her head without thrusting it into the cold void of the ceiling, nor lie straight without touching the unbreachable nil of the walls. Yet her agony was not physical, for the bodies of the gods can endure any torment with less pain than a mortal feels in bright sun.
What troubled Mystra was Adon. Her patriarch was down on the Fugue Plain, crying out in madness and confusion, his voice so full of anguish it muffled the pleas of all her other Faithful. “O Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead and Judge of the Damned, heed the call of your dead friend Adon! Take mercy on my soul and on all the poor souls who have ever worshiped Mystra, the Goddess of Lies! She is filled with hate and envy, and she deceives all who worship her! She has left us to rot, and I beseech you, the Fair Lord, the Kind and Merciful Lord, to take pity on our wretched souls and give us shelter in the City of the Dead!”
Mystra wailed in agony, for no torture could hurt more than this. She had heard Adon’s treaties a thousand times, and each time she had tried to answer but failed. Helm’s prisons existed outside time and space; any deity trapped inside was cut off from all godly powers.
That Lady Magic could hear the worshipers’ voices was but a courtesy of her jailer, given in acknowledgment that the charges against her remained unproved. Mystra could have asked for silence, but she did not, for she believed Kelemvor would try to free her and wanted to be ready when the time came to escape.
Adon’s plea to Kelemvor droned on for the thousand and tenth time. Mystra let out a great sob and swore that when she escaped, the first thing she would do was comfort her patriarch, then she steeled herself to hear the prayer again.
But Adon’s voice fell silent.
Mystra’s first thought was that he had lost all hope, and she ached to send a harbinger down to comfort him—then she realized that Kelemvor would have heard Adon’s pleas as clearly as she had. Surely, Lord Death had sent one of his own escorts to answer the patriarch’s appeal.
No sooner had Mystra consoled herself than an avalanche of prayers filled the hush left by Adon’s silence.
“… of Mysteries, why have you deserted me?”
“Mother of Magic, I am alone and without guidance …”
“… answer me? Answer my prayers! Answer …”
These prayers came not only from her most devoted clerics, but from ordinary spellcasters as well. The desperation in their voices stunned the goddess. Even with her locked in Helm’s prison, the Weave remained, and any devoted student of magic could still tap it.
“… frightened to use my magic …”
“My light spell blinded half the town! How have I …”
“… the sphere melted the King’s favorite …”
Talos!
The name flashed into Mystra’s thoughts like a lightning bolt. Three years ago, she had started to scale back the magic of devastation. The Destroyer had retaliated by beginning a quiet campaign to subvert her worshipers, secretly allowing the most destructive of them to use him as a conduit to the Weave. Seeing that it was easier to control a plot she knew about than one of which she remained ignorant, the Goddess of Magic had feigned ignorance and allowed Talos to continue.
It did not surprise Mystra to learn that the Destroyer had seized the opportunity of her imprisonment to further his plot, but she did not realize the extent of his success until she heard the prayer of the Harper witch Ruha.
“… sorry for my mistake, Goddess. But if you cannot forgive me, why do you allow Talos to steal your worshipers? I refused his offer, for I did not enjoy being a scourge to the land even when I thought it your will. But many others have not done the same. During the flight from Voonlar to Yulash, I had to avoid five savage whirlwinds, and one time the smoke from the burning forest grew so thick …”
Mystra rolled onto her hands and knees. “Helm!”
The God of Guardians made no response. Like any jailer, he was accustomed to much yelling and screaming from his charges, and he knew the wisdom of ignoring it.
“Helm, you must know what Talos is doing! You cannot allow it to continue!”
Still, there came no response.
“He is stealing the Weave! It is your duty to let me out!”
Helm stuck his head through the wall of nothingness. His visor remained down as always, and so he resembled a closed helmet hanging on a dark wall.
“How dare you presume to tell me my duty! My duty is to keep you here. If you had been doing yours, Talos would not have stolen so many of your worshipers. Even Oghma says that!”
“So many? How many?”
The God of Guardians shook his helmet “I dare not guess. But many centuries hence, I am sure this will still be known as the Month of Disasters.”
“Helm, listen to me.” Mystra clasped her hands before her. “You must let me out.”
“I cannot. It is my duty to keep you here.”
“You are the God of Guardians. Have you no duty to guard Faerûn?” Like any harlot, Mystra knew just the words to make a man doubt himself. “In the Time of Troubles, you were the one who kept the gods out of the heavens. Much of what they destroyed has never been repaired. Will you let Talos demolish the rest?”
Helm fell silent, though his visor hid what he was thinking.
“I am the only one who can stop
Talos,” Mystra said. “You know that.”
“No! You are the one who neglected her duty, and you are the one who violated her promise to Tyr. If Faerûn suffers for that, it is on your head, not mine.”
With that, the God of Guardians withdrew, leaving Mystra to the pleas of her Faithful and her bed of emptiness.
Thirty-Nine
In the Burning Gallery in the Crystal Spire, four of Kelemvor’s avatars sat in four identical thrones, staring out over four endless lines of terrified spirits summoned from all reaches of the City of the Dead. The souls coughed and choked in the black acrid fumes that swirled off the walls of smoldering coal, and many of them murmured in soft tones, wondering why they had been called into this place of smoke and darkness. And when they reached the head of the line and learned the answer, some would cry out in delight and others would wail in despair, and they would fling themselves at Lord Death’s feet and kiss his toes or clutch his legs, but he paid no heed to any of them. The souls would vanish and reappear in their new home, and Jergal would call the next forward and read his history, and Kelemvor would pronounce a new judgment, and the spirit would wail or rejoice and fling himself at Kelemvor’s feet, and so the Reevaluation continued hour after hour, day after day.
In the Hall of Judgment, where the crystal ceiling had turned as brown and smoky as topaz, two more Kelemvors sat passing judgment on all the souls recently arrived in his realm. As these spirits heard their sentences, no laughing or wailing ensued, but only stunned gasps and long, sorry silences.
Out in the city, three more avatars reshaped the many districts and boroughs into ghettos better suited to the realm of the dead. Kelemvor blew a great breath over Pax Cloister, and the shadowy valleys and wooded mountains became a desolate land of howling dust and barren peaks. In the same moment, Lord Death let out a tremendous bellow in the Singing City, and the whole quarter fell as silent as a tomb. He waded into the Acid Swamp and seeded the quagmire with handfuls of pebbles, which swelled into stone islands where the charlatans and swindlers might find refuge from their soggy existences. No longer would Lord Death’s judgments be decrees of eternal bliss or unending agony. Now the dead would make of their lot what they could, just as they had in life, except that they would dwell only with others like themselves, which was certainly enough to make any mortal stay Faithful to his god.