Crucible

by Troy Denning

  Jergal drifted to Kelemvor’s side, and a white glove fluttered up to point at a line of shiny black beads rolling down the god’s cheek. “What are those?”

  “Nothing.” Kelemvor’s voice was strained. “All that is left of my mortality, I suppose.”

  “Well, I hope you flush it out soon.” The seneschal moved away, as though Kelemvor were diseased and about to cough on him. “It is the oddest thing I have ever seen a God of Death do.”

  “Then do not watch!”

  It was Kelemvor himself who turned away, and neither he nor Jergal noticed that each teardrop vanished as it hit the floor.

  Forty-Four

  The Great Fzoul and his handmaiden Thir bound me in chains and dragged me stumbling and staggering through the Ruins. The hood covering my head blinded me, and the short chain between my ankles hobbled me, but my captors pushed and pulled and grumbled as though they did not understand why I could not shamble more quickly. After hours of this abuse, we reached smoother ground, then we descended some stairs into a rocky passage, and the smell of damp stone and burning pitch filled my nostrils.

  Fzoul tore the sack off my head, revealing a vast chamber cut entirely from rough-hewn rock. A few torches danced in the sconces upon the walls, filling the air with a smoke so black and bitter that it summoned a flood of tears to my eyes. The center of the room was empty, save for Iyachtu Xvim’s symbol painted on the floor and a black altar at the far end. Along one wall sat all manner of strange furnishings, but in the dim light I could not discern what they were for.

  After making this quick inventory, I began in the nearest corner and carefully gazed around the room, searching for an iron box or polished chest or any other container that might hold the True Life of Cyric. The gloom hung so thickly that I saw only strange outlines and vague shapes.

  Fzoul started toward the center of the chamber. I shuffled along beside him, cursing the tiresome shackles upon my ankles and the manacles that held my wrists in front of my belly.

  “The temple of Iyachtu Xvim.” Fzoul waved his arm around the gloomy chamber. “Not as grand as you’re accustomed to in the Church of Cyric—but then we in Zhentil Keep have had to make do since the Mad One smashed our homes to dust.”

  “The Razing was your own fault.” I was not afraid to say this, for I knew Tyr’s protection would shield me from harm. “If Zhentil Keep had remained Faithful—”

  “Silence, swine!” Thir pelted me between the shoulders. “I have heard enough of Cyric’s filth to last me a lifetime.”

  “No, my dear.” Fzoul reached behind my back and waved Thir off. “Let Malik speak. After all you have told me, I wish to hear what he has to say.”

  “I have nothing more to say, except that you are a guttersnipe and a traitor for reading the True Life of Cyric to your city.” Here, I watched Fzoul for any clue to the book’s location—or whether he still had it at all—but the only thing that flashed through his eyes was anger. I continued, “You betrayed the people of Zhentil Keep, not the One.”

  Fzoul’s hand tightened on my arm, but he showed no other sign of his ire. “A pity you feel that way, Malik. I certainly bear you no ill will.” Fzoul stopped on the symbol painted on the floor, and I had the unpleasant feeling that the green eyes in the palm were staring up at me. “In fact, I want to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  Fzoul nodded. “I wish to teach you the truth about Cyric.”

  “Nothing could be more wonderful!” I could not contain myself, for I believed he was threatening to read to me from the True Life. “I am ready.”

  Fzoul creased his brow, surprised by my enthusiasm, then shook his head. “First, we must cleanse your mind.” He glanced behind me to nod at Thir, then added to me, “The truth will be … better … once your thoughts are pure.”

  I felt a knife running down the length of my spine. The blade caused me no harm, of course, but it did terrible things to my clothes. A damp breeze brushed across a region of my body that rarely feels such things, then Thir jerked my tattered robe from my shoulders, leaving me as naked as the day I was born.

  “I thought you were going to cleanse my mind!”

  “We will, Malik.” Thir said this. “We certainly will.”

  She came around to stand in front of me, and I lowered my hands to cover the most private part of my nakedness. Thir slapped me in the face and grabbed my manacle chain and jerked my wrists back to my belly.

  “You have nothing to hide from us!”

  “All you had to do was ask!” And indeed this was true, for I have always had every reason to be proud in that regard.

  Thir raised her hand to strike me again, but Fzoul caught it and shook his head.

  “Don’t be too hard on him. Malik has yet to understand.” The High Tyrannar draped a burly arm across my shoulders and guided me toward the wall. “Thir tells me you never feel pain, Malik.”

  “Never!” I was only hoping to avoid a senseless waste of time for us both, but Mystra’s spell compelled me to add, “Not in the past few days, anyway.”

  “No?” Fzoul grabbed my manacles and jerked them back to my belly, as my modesty had allowed my hands to drift south. “Well, there are many ways to cleanse a man’s thoughts.”

  Fzoul stopped five paces from the wall. Before us, in the flickering light of a torch, sat a trio of large and elaborate devices. The Great Annihilator gestured at the first. Four copper balls were suspended above a table equipped with more straps than I could count. A narrow glass tube ran from the bottom of each ball, joining together at a little spigot that hung directly over a wooden neck pillow.

  “The Drip Torment” Fzoul waved Thir forward. “Show him.”

  Thir stepped into the circle of light and turned the spigot. A bead of water dribbled from the nozzle, landing just above the pillow. The next drop fell a moment or two later.

  This did not seem much of a torment to me. Compared to the wonderful machines in the Caliph’s dungeon, it looked relaxing.

  Fzoul guided me to the next device, which was a tilted chair with many straps. Before the chair sat a small round table holding a dozen ceramic pots, each topped by a hinged cap with a high barb at the center. Thir cranked something under the table. The surface rotated a twelfth of a turn, and one of the ceramic pots swung around before the tilted chair. A little bar sticking out from the chair caught the barb on the cap and tipped it open. At once, the room smelled as though a skunk had raised its tail.

  “The Torture of the Smells.”

  I could not help but smirk. During my time outside Candlekeep, I had eaten things that smelled worse.

  Fzoul guided me to the next device, which was little more than a tarnished copper tub full of dark water.

  “The Eel Bath.” Here, Thir lagged behindhand Fzoul had to wave her toward the tub. “Demonstrate!”

  Thir’s face grew pale, but she rolled up her sleeve and thrust her arm into the water. Something splashed. A soft sizzle reverberated through the tub wall, then Thir’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Her teeth clacked together, and her chin tipped up, and she began to tremble and fell over backward. When her arm came free of the tank, something black and flat untwined itself from her forearm, then slid back into the tub.

  Thir’s eyes grew glassy and vacant. When she tried to roll to her knees, her quivering muscles would not support her, but she showed no sign of pain. In fact, she showed no sign that she felt anything at all.

  Fzoul slapped me, then pointed at my hands, which I had allowed to drift south again. When I raised them, he nodded his approval. “We would put you completely in the tub, of course.”

  “Of course.” Though I tried to sound nonchalant, my words were but a squeak.

  The High Tyrannar fell silent and gave a thin smile, so that I might contemplate what he had shown me. I perceived that he meant to do more than ‘teach me the truth about Cyric.’ To destroy my belief in the One’s power, he had only to bring out the True Life of Cyric and read, and the power of Og
hma’s words would do the rest. But Fzoul wanted more; he wanted me to beg for the ‘truth,’ as that would be a greater insult to the One and a boon to his own god, Iyachtu Xvim. And I was happy to do what he wished, as I knew the last laugh would be Cyric’s, and that nothing in the True Life’s pages could ever turn me away from Our Dark Lord—not while the One’s heart slurped in my chest, and my own heart beat in his.

  “You are wasting your time with this cleansing,” I said. “I am ready for you to read me the truth now.”

  Fzoul shook his head. “It is not enough that you hear the truth, you must embrace the truth.”

  The One’s heart nearly leapt into my throat, for Fzoul had fallen prey to a simple merchant’s trick. The High Tyrannar had made no objection to the suggestion that he would read his truth, which was as good as telling me he still had the True Life of Cyric. Now all I had to do was convince him to reveal its location, and I saw that sterner measures would be required.

  “The truth is that Iyachtu Xvim is a petty little god unworthy of the One’s notice!” My plan was to make Fzoul so angry that he would forget about my cleansing and pull out the True Life just to silence me. “When you die, Cyric will take your soul from your pitiful little god and torment it for a thousand years in the dungeons of the Shattered Keep!”

  Fzoul’s face turned red with rage, and his hand flashed up from his side, cuffing my head so hard the blow knocked me off my feet. I crashed down on Thir, who had just started to gather herself up, then I rolled over laughing.

  “Strike me again!” I staggered to my feet and shuffled back to Fzoul. “No servant of piddling Xvim can harm me.”

  The High Tyrannar raised his arm, then caught himself and brushed the dirt off my naked shoulders. “Forgive my outburst. I am here to help you.” He turned me toward the torture devices. “Which shall it be, Malik? The Drip? The Smells? The Eels?”

  My mouth went dry. The choice was obvious, as the eels would take less time than any of the other tortures. Yet I could not take my eyes off Thir, who still seemed so dazed and confused that she could hardly struggle to her feet.

  “I choose …”

  I choked on the words, and my gaze swung toward the Drip Torment. After my long ride, it would be nice to spend a few hours lying on a table. I might close my eyes and sleep for days.

  And why shouldn’t I, after all I had done on the One’s behalf? For years I had lived like a beggar in the cold and the rain, and I had jumped into a boiling moat and fought guardians who returned from the dead, and ridden day and night across the breadth of Faerûn. And what had the One done for me, except give me a vile betrayer for a horse and slay my wife and threaten me with damnation if I failed him?

  But as I thought all these things, the awful despair I had felt outside Candlekeep returned. I recalled how I had awakened amidst the carnage of the Ebon Spur and rejected Cyric in my misery, and how he had come to make me feel the terror of dying Faithless and returned me to the Way of Belief, and how he had given me a chance to redeem my wretched soul and honored me by exchanging hearts, and I saw I really had no choice.

  “Which shall it be, Malik?” Fzoul stepped toward the eel bath, a mocking smirk on his face. “The eels?”

  I nodded quickly, before I had time to lose my courage.

  Fzoul raised a brow. “Truly? The eels?”

  “I shall think of Iyachtu.” I tried to sound spiteful, but my voice cracked with fear. “Even his name is slimy as an eel.”

  Fzoul’s mouth twitched, yet he answered in a calm voice. “Strange, I had picked you for a Drip man.” He studied me and saw that I could not take my eyes off the eel tub. “And yet, you pick the most enfeebling of the tortures? Why?”

  I made no answer, fearing Mystra’s spell would compel me to admit the truth.

  Fzoul remained silent a moment longer, then got a cunning look and shrugged as though resigned to my choice. “Very well—the Eel Bath.”

  Thir, still quivering from her own treatment, came over to help lift me into the tub.

  Fzoul raised a hand to stop her. “Not yet. I have given Malik what he wants. Now he must give me something.”

  “I shall give you the sweat beneath my arms!” I spat. “That is all any worshiper of Iyachtu Xvim deserves.”

  Thir’s knee shot toward my exposed groin, but she slipped in a puddle of water and crashed to the floor. Whether this was due to Tyr’s protection or her own quivering muscles, I did not know.

  Fzoul scowled, but he continued to look at me. “Come now, Malik. I am only asking you to tell me who sent you.” The High Tyrannar stepped closer and spoke in a reassuring voice. “There is no harm in that. I know everything already.”

  “You do?” Cyric’s curdled heart oozed up into my throat, then I realized that Fzoul was either lying or mistaken. No one knew about my plans for the True Life of Cyric. “Then why do I need to tell you?”

  “You must confess yourself. It is the way to love the truth. Tell me who sent you, and I will let you sit in the Eel Bath.”

  “Let me?” This was less incentive than he thought. “And I will let you lick clean the soles of True Believers in the time beyond the Year of Carnage!”

  “I see.” Fzoul’s face grew as ugly as an orc’s. He grasped my arm. “What is it you fear more than a vat of lightning eels?”

  The High Tyrannar jerked me away from the tank and stopped before the Torture of the Smells. He flipped up three lids, filling the room with a melange of scents too vile to breathe.

  “Decay? Death? Offal?” He watched me for signs of fear and when I showed none, he shook his head. “I think not. Being a Cyricist, you are accustomed to these things.”

  “Because we smell them so often on the bodies of Iyachtu Xvim’s dead Faithful!” And Mystra’s spell compelled me to add, “I have never smelled this myself, but I have heard it is so.”

  Fzoul dragged me to the next device, then grabbed me by the manacles and swung me up on the table and laid me down so that my neck rested over the wooden pillow.

  “Water?” By the way Fzoul growled this, I saw that my plan was working. He twisted the spigot, and a single drop of icy water fell on my lip and ran into my nostril. When I made no complaint, he shook his head. “Or is time your torment?”

  “You are a dog and the worshiper of a dog!”

  Fzoul smiled. “Thir said you wouldn’t spend the night at the temple.” He leaned over me. “Are you in a hurry, Malik? Did Cyric give you a deadline? Is he that eager to see me slain?”

  I raised my head and spit in his face.

  Fzoul slammed me back to the table and pinned me down with one hand, then motioned to Thir. “Help me strap this weasel down. I must go before I kill him!”

  “You’re leaving?” I tried to roll off the table. Fzoul grabbed my manacles and tugged me back into place, and I cried, “You are a coward, as is your god!”

  “That is enough!” He reached under the table and grabbed a crusty rag and stuffed it between my lips. Before I could spit it out, Thir laid a strap across my mouth and pulled it tight. Fzoul sighed in relief. “Silence has never been so golden.”

  My next insult was a mere grunt, but it hardly mattered. The Great Annihilator was already as angry as a wounded lion.

  Forty-Five

  At daybreak, when the dreary sun brightened the gray sky above the dilapidated towers of Zhentil Keep, Ruha and her hippogriff stood waiting on the road outside. She knew better than to pound the gate, for every city in the Heartlands kept its portals closed between sunset and sunrise, and no amount of knocking would convince a sentry that the sun rose any earlier than he said it did.

  The witch waited nearly an hour before a heavy thud sounded somewhere inside the gatehouse and the portal swung open. Two bleary-eyed guards stepped out to greet her, each as large as a bear and reeking of ale. Over their chain mail, they wore black tabards emblazoned with the gauntlet and gem symbol of Zhentil Keep, a sign the witch had learned to despise long before becoming a Harper. Althoug
h she made no effort to move forward, they crossed their halberds before her veiled face.

  “State your name and business in Zhentil Keep,” commanded the oldest. From behind him came the acrid smell of peat burning in fireplaces, and the gentle clamor of an awakening city. “And show your coin, so we’ll know you can afford to pay your way.”

  A few beggars drifted out of the alleys beyond the guards, but they looked too healthy to be paupers. Ruha reached into her robe and withdrew a small purse, then jingled the contents.

  “I am searching for a thief,” she said, extracting two silver coins. “Perhaps you have seen him?”

  Each guard snatched a coin, but they made no move to uncross their halberds.

  “There are many thieves in Zhentil Keep,” said the oldest.

  “This one is a pudgy little man with the eyes of a bug. And if you have seen his horse, you will never forget it His mare eats flesh and breathes black steam.”

  The guards looked at each other, then the oldest one held out his hand. “We might have seen him. What do you want him for?”

  “He stole something of mine.” Being a foolish woman who believed that money had no value beyond what it could buy, Ruha placed two more silver coins in the man’s hand. “I would like to see that he is punished for it”

  The guard accepted the coins with a smile. “If you want to punish him, you’ll have to stand in line.” He passed one coin to his companion, then raised his hand again. “Could be, I can put your worries to rest.”

  Now, any astute person would have put her purse away and told the buffoon he had already been paid enough to buy every thought in his skull. But, as the witch was spending the Harpers’ money and not her own, she withdrew two more silver coins.

  “I do not need to put my worries to rest” The witch dangled the coins over the guard’s palm. “What I need is to find this thief. I believe he will be searching for Fzoul Chembryl.”

  The older guard scowled. “What are you, another of Cyric’s stinking assassins?”