by Troy Denning
“Soon enough, Iyachtu.” Without taking her eyes off Xvim’s nebulous avatar, Mystra flicked Fzoul Chembryl aside. “Until then, be silent—or I will embarrass you in front of your worshipers.”
Iyachtu’s acolytes gasped at this sacrilege and backed away, for they feared that a battle between gods was about to erupt. But the New Darkness knew better than to attack such a powerful goddess. He could do no more to show his outrage than fill the chamber with the stink of Gehenna.
Mystra cleared the air with a wave her hand, sending both Iyachtu and his stench back to the place from whence they had come. Fzoul’s followers broke for the exits, and even the High Tyrannar himself retreated to a dark corner.
Mystra turned her attention to Ruha, whose skin was clammy and pale beneath the sacrificial tabard. The witch’s shallow breathing betrayed the agony of having her limbs pulled back against their joints. Her muscles still twitched from her bath among the eels, and her purple swollen cheek and black eyes bore witness to the fight she had given Fzoul before being captured. And despite all this, her expression remained as stoic as ever.
“Goddess!” she gasped. “At last … you came!”
Mystra made no move to free the witch. “Do not thank me so soon, Ruha. I have yet to decide whether my purpose in coming to Zhentil Keep includes saving you—I have not forgotten that volcano in the Storm Horns.”
“I do not matter,” the witch said. “Malik escaped!”
Mystra scowled. “You said the Cyrinishad was safe.”
“The Cyrinishad is! He came here to steal the True Life of Cyric.” Ruha strained against her bindings. “That little scorpion is as mad as his god. He means to cure the Dark One’s insanity!”
“What?”
“It may be too late already.” Ruha pointed her chin at the ceiling, then gasped, “Cyric was up there … I heard Fzoul say this to his god.”
Mystra glanced into the dark corner where the High Tyrannar was hiding. “Is this so?”
Fzoul nodded slowly. “I don’t know what he wanted with it, but that foul-mouthed little shoat stole the True Life and went upstairs into my private chamber.” The High Tyrannar spoke in a tone at once spiteful and frightened, carefully calculated to placate Xvim’s hateful nature and avoid offending Mystra. “Then I heard Cyric talking. He had a thousand voices, and they all sounded insane.”
This news dismayed Mystra so greatly that her avatar shrank to the size of a normal woman. This was as terrible as any setback she had suffered during the past few days—Adon’s death, Talos’s plot to subvert her worship, even Kelemvor’s betrayal. A sane Cyric might win a favorable verdict at the trial and start spreading his corruption over the world again. Moreover, with Lord Death too absorbed in his “Reevaluation” to help her win the support of the other gods, the Circle seemed more likely than ever to find against her and Kelemvor and insist that they both yield their divine powers.
Mystra shook her head, much disgusted with both the trial and Kelemvor’s strange willingness to believe the charges had merit. If she and he did not protect Faerûn’s mortals, who would?
The goddess sent an avatar to watch the Shattered Keep and saw that Cyric had sealed every entrance and posted avatars around the perimeter. Seeing no reason for him to take such precautions unless he had already read the book and was preparing a special rebuttal for his trial, she gave up on the thought of stealing the True Life before he could read it.
All this took but an instant, and there was only a slight pause before Fzoul dared to urge, “Perhaps you should go, goddess. Iyachtu Xvim is searching for Helm even as we speak.”
Mystra ignored the warning and continued her conversation with Ruha. “I have only a short time, so I will ask you directly. How did Talos persuade you to betray me?”
Ruha lowered her eyes, much ashamed. “I should have known better … But after the things Malik did in Candlekeep, it was easy to believe you wanted him caught at any cost.”
“Me?”
“Yes. When it became apparent I would never catch Malik, you … someone I took to be you … gave me the magic to keep up with him and told me to use it no matter what destruction it caused.”
“Then Talos deceived you?” Mystra sounded more relieved than angry, for proof of Talos’s actions would do much to justify her escape from Helm. “He has been impersonating me, and using my own worshipers to subvert my control over the Weave!”
Mystra began to free Ruha, snapping the taut ropes as though they were threads. Fzoul started to protest the theft of his god’s sacrifice, then thought better of it and remained silent, trusting that Helm would arrive soon to take the goddess away.
Ruha sat up, her face reddening at the folly of falling victim to the Destroyer’s deception. “I learned of my mistake when you cut me off from the Weave, but I was not certain who had deceived me until Talos appeared in Voonlar and offered to restore my powers.”
“And you refused him?” Mystra snapped the last binding. “You did not call on him even after Fzoul captured you?”
“His help carries a high price.” The witch began to rub her wrists. “I would rather die than call upon him.”
“I am touched.” Mystra laid her palm upon Ruha’s cheek, and her magic healed the witch’s bruised face. “So many people have deserted me during these troubles—even Kelemvor. Yet you stand by me, Faithful even after the injustice I did you.”
Ruha took Mystra’s hand from her face. “I pray you will not be angry with me, but I must speak honestly before my goddess.” The witch lowered her feet to the floor and stood on shaky legs, facing Mystra as best she could. “I did not refuse Talos for you. I refused him because I had already seen the terrible destruction that comes with his aid. And you did no injustice in denying the Weave to me. Whether it was you or Talos who gave me the magic to chase Malik, I was wrong to use it The Weave is there to use or abuse, and it is the choice we make that determines our fate. I chose poorly, and so I suffered.”
Mystra hardly heard this last sentence, for the witch’s words had already sent the goddess’s thoughts spinning. “Ruha!”
The witch paled, mistaking the blast of Mystra’s voice for a sign of anger. She dropped to her knees and clutched the hem of Lady Magic’s robe. “Forgive me, my goddess. I did not mean—”
“No, Ruha.” Mystra lifted the witch back to her feet. “You have done nothing wrong—but I have.”
Iyachtu Xvim returned in a pillar of swirling black smoke. “Begone, you self-righteous shrew! Helm is coming!” The hateful god sent a wisp of sulfur-stinking fumes across the room to entwine Ruha. “And leave my sacrifice here!”
Mystra severed the foul strand with a pass of her hand, then looked into Ruha’s eyes. “Close your eyes and think of Silvercloud.”
The witch obeyed. In the next instant she was sitting on the hippogriff, back in the same dark stable where she had left him in Zhentil Keep, safe from Iyachtu Xvim and free to return, happily ever after, to her life as a meddling Harper.
“Thieving hag!” Xvim flicked his hand in Mystra’s direction, and a cage of dark smoke rose up to enclose her, the bars turning instantly as solid as iron. “When Helm arrives, you shall pay for that insult, too!”
“I think not.” Mystra walked out of Iyachtu’s prison and did not seem to notice when the bars sliced her body into long strips. “But if I am wrong, you may tell Helm that I will be waiting at my trial.”
Forty-Nine
To make it known he had tolerated the last abuse of his justice, Tyr had cast the Pavilion of Cynosure into the image he favored. Now every god would see it as he did: a round chamber of mahogany walls and marble floors covered by a luminous dome of milky alabaster.
Around the perimeter stood five bailiffs, all avatars of Helm. They wore full suits of plate armor and kept their visors down and cradled naked battle-axes in their arms, and on their belts they carried black manacles of nothingness.
In the middle of the room, the Greater Gods stood in their customary
places—though they now waited behind a circular rail of burnished gold. Tyr, as usual, took the place next to the space left empty for Ao. The Just One carried his warhammer thrust into his belt for all to see, and in place of his customary leather armor, he wore a flashing suit of silver plate.
Cyric stood directly opposite the Just One. Our Dark Lord had also altered his appearance, assuming the form of a gaunt young man with white hair and flesh the color of chalk. The blood of countless murdered guests stained the sleeves of his ivory tunic, over which he wore a long hauberk sewn from the flayed skin of Tethyr’s last king. Whenever another god dared meet his burning eyes, he glared at him until he averted his gaze.
Kelemvor wore his new attire, the same silver death mask and pearly robe he had donned when he doused the lights of his city. Mystra stood beside the Usurper, her ankles shackled together by one of Helm’s black chains. She stared at the floor and never looked in Lord Death’s direction; whether this was out of anger or shame, only the Harlot could say.
And what of Malik, savior of his god and all Faerûn? Now clothed in a crimson robe, I stood inside the golden ring with my eyes firmly shut, and even then I was nearly blinded by the naked brilliance of the gods. They were as large as giants, and their splendor shined through my eyelids as the hot sun shines through wax, and I saw everything in the chamber in a blinding kaleidoscope of light.
Beside me stood two other witnesses. Adon the Fop now resembled the walking dead, which in fact he was. The god Mask was also present, shifting his murky form like a child who cannot stand still, and every shape he took lacked a limb.
On a table before us sat the trial evidence: a gleaming chalice of gold, a shattered corner from Helm’s prison, the black book I had risked all to recover, and a pulsing mass of yellow mold that had once been my heart.
This was not as I had planned.
The gods kept casting worried glances at the True Life of Cyric, then glaring at me. They believed the book to be the Cyrinishad, and I knew many of them would see me dead before allowing me to open it. And even if Tyr forced them to let me read, Oghma’s lies would humble Our Dark Lord before his lessers—surely a fate worse than madness!
Lathander the Morninglord nodded to Tyr, and Tyr raised the stump of his wrist to signal for quiet.
“Dawn has reached the spires of Candlekeep.” The Just One pointed across the circle to Cyric. “The Prince of Lies stands charged with innocence by way of insanity, by which he is accused of failing in his godly duty to spread the fruits of strife and discord beyond his own church.”
Tyr turned his eyeless gaze toward Mystra and Kelemvor. “Lady Magic and Lord Death stand charged with incompetence by way of humanity, by which they are accused of ignoring their godly duties to show undue kindness to the mortals of Faerûn.” The Just One glanced around the circle, pausing a moment upon the face of each god, then said, “Let the trial begin.”
“I will speak first.” My borrowed heart fell as Cyric spoke these words; he was far too eager to have me read. “I am first charged, and I shall be first absolved.”
The outcry of protest nearly deafened me, and the gods cast nervous glances in my direction, and I feared I would discover what they had in store before I could escape my dilemma.
Oghma raised his voice above the others. “It is because you are the first charged that you must be last judged, Cyric.” He was careful to avoid looking at the black tome on the table. “This trial began with you, and so it must end with you.”
The Binder’s logic escaped me, but his fellows were equally reluctant to deal with the book, and so they chimed a chorus of agreement.
To my relief, Tyr announced, “It is decided.”
The dark suns beneath Cyric’s brow shone blacker than ever, but he sneered and shrugged off his anger. “You must hear me sooner or later.”
“And it will be later,” retorted Tyr. He turned to Kelemvor. “Lord Death will speak first. How plead you, Kelemvor?”
“Guilty,” replied the god in the silver mask.
An astonished murmur rumbled through the room, nearly shaking me off my feet. Kelemvor stepped forward, passing through the golden rail as though he were a ghost. I stepped back, granting his looming figure as much berth as possible.
The Usurper’s voice was as somber as a dirge. “I have failed my duties in the past. I will not stand before you and say otherwise.” He turned in a slow circle, facing each god in turn. “I have rewarded the brave and kind and punished the cowardly and cruel, and I am sorry for it.”
Here, Kelemvor turned the impassive visage of his death mask toward Mystra, and at last the Harlot raised her lashes to meet the gaze of her forsaken lover. Only her glistening eyes betrayed her sorrow, for they were damp with tears.
Kelemvor continued his litany. “I judged men as if I were yet a man. Good mortals have placed their faith in my fairness instead of in their gods, while the wicked have deserted their churches at the first sign of disfavor. My actions have undermined the worship of every god here, and I was wrong.”
At this, Mystra bit her lip. Kelemvor faced the Battle Lord.
“My offense against you, Tempus, has been greatest of all. By favoring courage over cowardice, I have invited brave warriors to hurl their lives away, and given cowards good excuse to hide in their holes. I swear, that was never my intent.”
Tempus’s face remained hidden behind his visor, but he lifted his bloody arms and opened his palms in a gesture of acceptance. When the Battle Lord started to speak, Lord Death raised a hand to silence him, then turned toward Tyr.
“In the past, I have been guilty of all this, but as I have changed myself, so have I changed my realm.” Kelemvor waved a hand over his new attire. “I invite you all to send your avatars to see the new City of the Dead. Judge me not on my past, but on what you find there now.”
As the Usurper spoke, he opened the gates of his city. Many gods did as he asked, though Sune turned around at the mirrored gates; the reflection of her slightest flaw was enough to convince her Lord Death had done all he claimed. The others continued on, swooping down ashen streets crowded with dull-eyed residents, passing whole boroughs of drab buildings and dead trees, crossing graceless bridges that spanned still waters the color of steel. They saw no cruelty or malice, but neither did they see joy; Lord Death’s realm had become a domain of shuffling spirits and passionless shades, a place of neither punishment nor reward. And in the heart of this dismal city loomed the Crystal Spire, a soaring minaret of smoky brown topaz encircled by a line of sorrowful spirits, the False and the Faithless.
In the Pavilion of Cynosure, Mystra braced herself against the golden rail and let her shoulders sag. She stared at the floor in sadness, but it was Cyric who spoke first.
“Very convincing, Kelemvor.” The One rolled his blazing black eyes at the ceiling. “A nice show that can be undone as easily as it was done. Do you really expect us to believe you’ve changed so suddenly?”
Kelemvor’s response was eerily calm. “I expect nothing of you, Mad One. You are incapable of learning from your mistakes, and so you cannot understand how others might.”
“You learned nothing!” Cyric pointed a finger as long as a sword toward Adon. Mystra’s patriarch was cowering at my side, looking away from the goddess he feared. “Even now, you are protecting Adon the Fallen!”
“I am protecting no one,” answered Kelemvor. “Adon will be judged when he stands before me in the Judgment Hall.”
“He is mine!” Cyric passed through the rail and started across the floor.
Tyr plucked his warhammer from his belt and pointed it at the One. “Do not touch the witness!”
Cyric continued forward, and all five of Helm’s avatars stepped away from the wall in unison. For one terrible instant I thought Our Dark Lord would ignore Tyr’s command, but he stopped abruptly, standing nose to nose with Lord Death’s silver mask. Kelemvor remained as calm as a corpse.
“I stole Adon’s soul!” Cyric spat. “You have
no right to keep it from me.”
“I told you before,” came the steady reply, “you stole nothing but his life. He did not pray to you, and so he remains both False and Faithless.”
Now it was Mystra who could not bear the Usurper’s words. “How dare you call my patriarch Faithless—or False!” She passed through the rail, floating just above the floor to spare herself the shame of walking in shackles. “Adon would never have turned from me, had Cyric not driven him mad. You know this!”
Adon trembled and hid behind me. All three gods were as tall as trees and brighter than suns, and they stood a dozen paces away. I covered my eyes, but still their image burned in my head.
The fire faded from Cyric’s eyes, and he asked in a voice full of false forbearance, “Lady Magic, how can Kelemvor know something that isn’t true? I did not drive Adon mad. You did.” He flashed the Harlot a smug smile, then continued, “I let your patriarch see you through my eyes, and the sight of your true nature was more than any man could bear.”
Mystra whirled on the One, and so great was her hatred that even I saw the gore-eating harpy of Adon’s nightmare. “You profane canker of pustulation! I’ll scrape you—”
“Hold!” Cyric raised his hands, still smiling. “You have no call to be angry with me, Lady Magic. Kelemvor knew what I had done. He could have saved Adon long before our old friend grew so troubled that he leapt to his death.”
Mystra’s face betrayed her surprise. She looked into the bleak orbs of Kelemvor’s eyes, then shook her head in dismay. “It is true, is it not? You knew long ago, when you came to draw Zale’s spirit out of the volcano—and you kept it from me!”
Kelemvor did not deny her claim. “The secrets of the dead are their own. That much has not changed in my city.”
“But you have.” Tears of sparkling magic welled in Mystra’s eyes. “And I cannot love this new god as I once loved the man.”
At this, Kelemvor dipped his chin, though he kept his gray eyes upon her. “No one should love Death.”