Prince of Lies Page 34

  “But what if the pantheon wants to punish us?” rumbled one of the False. “If we let them in they may hand the city back to Cyric!”

  Gwydion stepped forward. His clothes were tattered, his face grimy with soot. And, though he no longer wore the god-forged armor of an inquisitor, the shades and denizens knew him well. Like Kelemvor, he’d become a legend of sorts in the city, a harbinger of hope in that hopeless place.

  “Cyric will never reign over this realm again, but a new god must take his place,” Gwydion shouted. “That’s the way of things, and nothing we can do will change it. Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t make our voices heard.” He pointed at Bone Castle, deserted now and crumbling swiftly to rubble without a god to maintain it. “The lord who rebuilds those walls will do so only with our permission. And we won’t give that until we have a few promises.”

  “No more torture!” someone shouted.

  “Fair trials!”

  “Justice!”

  The crowd took up the last as a chant After a moment, the denizens added their inhuman voices to the clangor. The chant swelled, echoing over the Realm of the Dead until even the Faithless trapped in the wall ceased their wailing and took up the call. Kelemvor found himself caught up in the moment, screaming along with the rest until his jaw ached.

  Finally Kel raised the jagged halves of Godsbane over his head. “Justice will be yours! Each of you will be given a new trial, a chance to lift the doom proclaimed upon you.” A riotous cheer shook the diamond wall. “Those who once served Cyric, we give you a choice: join us in building a just kingdom atop the ruins of his mad empire or flee the city. Your master may yet be hiding in some darkened corner of the planes. Whichever you choose, you’ll not be harmed.” Another cheer rose, this one thick with the growls and monstrous whoops of the denizens.

  Kelemvor tossed the broken halves of Godsbane into the Slith. A magnificent plume of darkness erupted from each piece as it hit the fetid water, but the billowing shadows faded when the river swallowed up the blade. “My prison is gone. Together we can shatter the chains Cyric forged for you, the links of suffering and tyranny that make this place a realm of strife. Strike the first blow for freedom! Open the gates!”

  A sudden flood of energy washed over Kelemvor. He trembled for an instant as the cool, thrumming pulse filled his being, stretched his mind to its limits, then pressed beyond.

  The entire Realm of the Dead spread before his consciousness like a map upon a table. Each burning building, each shattered street, lay open to his gaze, cold details of a ravaged city. He sensed the fires and the destruction, tiny pinpricks of discomfort that nagged his thoughts. He felt the chill passing of the nightmares as they returned to Dendar’s cave, the corrupt scrabbling of Kezef’s paws as he climbed the Wall of the Faithless, seeking an escape from the city and from the gods that milled at the gates. The smell of the swamp, the whiff of brimstone in the air, the horrible stench of fear that permeated everything.…

  This was the nectar of godhood, he realized numbly. At least it was for the Lord of the Dead.

  Eyes wide with wonder, Kel looked out at the sea of upturned faces. He saw the hope there, the terrible longing for salvation. The unspoken prayers of each shade and denizen filled his head, granting him the might of a million dreams.

  Lead us, they pleaded. Give us justice!

  Jergal leaned close to Kelemvor once more and spoke for him alone to hear. This time, though, the ice had melted from the seneschal’s voice, replaced by a cool deference. Shall I see to it, milord?

  “See to what?”

  Your command, Jergal replied evenly. Do you wish me to open the gates to the other gods?

  At a nod from Kelemvor, the unearthly seneschal vanished, only to reappear an instant later at the massive gates to the City of Strife. Kel could sense Jergal’s presence there, feel his feather-light touch upon the grisly doors. The gates trembled slightly, the cowards’ hearts quaking at the awesome task they had performed; few barriers could bar one god’s passing, let alone a triumvirate’s. Their job was done now, though. At Jergal’s silent prompting, the gates swung wide.

  Mystra streaked above the city, a huge blue-white phoenix. Magical light rained down from her, driving the darkness and despair from every corner of the ruined realm. The wind from her passing snuffed out the fires still burning in the city, and her shrill cry of joy made the cruel things that preyed upon the damned cower in their burrows.

  Torm and Oghma trailed in Mystra’s wake, flares so bright that none could look upon them. Their passing left streaks of fire arched over the necropolis. Like banners proclaiming Cyric’s defeat, the twin flames lingered over the Realm of the Dead as the three gods settled in Bone Castle’s deserted bailey.

  Kelemvor leaped from the wall and walked to Mystra’s side. She looked much as he remembered her—slender and graceful, raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, a slight smile upon her full lips. Only her eyes were different, blue-white and flickering with power from the weave of magic.

  They stared at each other for a time, neither speaking. Kelemvor was the one who finally broke the silence. “Cyric’s gone,” he said. “I don’t know where.”

  Mystra nodded. “And Mask?”

  “As near as I can tell, he was disguised as Godsbane all along,” Kel replied. “Ever since Cyric stole the sword from the halflings at Black Oaks. Anyway, Cyric shattered the blade. That freed me, but destroyed Mask. He melted away into darkness, crying out for forgiveness. He really seemed penitent.”

  “That’s unlikely,” Torm noted stiffly.

  “Perhaps not,” Mystra offered. “After all, Mask read the Cyrinishad. Who’s to say the book doesn’t contain the power to twist a god’s mind, as well?”

  In the silence that followed, Torm remembered his manners. “Forgive me, Lord Kelemvor,” he murmured, bowing formally. “We have not yet been introduced.”

  “No need, Torm,” Oghma said. “Kelemvor knows who—or, more precisely, what we are. He could sense it the moment we entered his realm.”

  “His realm?” The God of Duty gave Kelemvor a skeptical look. “Only Ao can bestow godhood, and he—”

  “He will ratify what the damned have already decided for themselves,” the God of Knowledge interrupted. “If I can recognize the wisdom in their choice, I am certain Ao will, as well.” He turned to the new Lord of the Dead. “Tell me, Kelemvor, what do you plan to do for a clergy?”

  Kel shrugged. “Gather together people who want to see the underworld ruled by law, I suppose. That’s all the denizens and the damned want.” He frowned fiercely. “I really don’t understand any of this. I never set out to be a god. All I wanted was justice. I didn’t do anything to deserve a reward like this.”

  “Reward?” Oghma asked, the sound of tiny bells chiming amusement in his musical voice. “What makes you think being made Lord of the Dead is a reward? The last two deities to hold the post went mad.”

  Kelemvor glanced up at the grim tower that would become his home. “I liked this all better when I thought it was a reward,” he murmured.

  At the wounded look on Kel’s face, Mystra laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The title will be what you make of it, but don’t doubt your worthiness for a moment. Sometimes heroes must fight to prove their mettle, sometimes they need be patient enough and wise enough to stay their sword while others fight around them. You did both.” She slid into his arms. “Besides, I have your reward, Kel. I’ve been keeping it safe for ten years now.”

  They kissed, and as their mortal-seeming facades embraced, their spirits curled together in a far more intimate union.

  “Come, Binder,” Torm said. “We have other duties to attend to.” He stalked away from Kelemvor and Mystra, puzzlement clear on his handsome features.

  The Patron of Bards spared the armored god a wry smile. “You should mark these lovers well, Your Holiness,” Oghma said, “not flee them. They are the stuff of poetry, of song.”

  “There are songs abo
ut my knights, as well,” Torm corrected. “Fine, heroic lays that steel a heart for battle.”

  “I’ve heard them,” Oghma drawled. “Nothing but Zhentish limericks when compared to a sonnet meant to steal a heart for romance.” He chuckled at his own cleverness. “Maybe that’s what’s been wrong with us all these eons, no sense of passion. You should instruct your faithful to belt out a paean to a loved one each morning—you know, a song to their horses or their swords.…”

  Torm ignored the barb and made his way to Gwydion. The shade kneeled at the base of the diamond wall, Titanslayer held point-down before him in a show of humility.

  “I have done my duty, Your Holiness,” Gwydion said. “I raised my sword against his minions.”

  “Your deeds are known to me,” the God of Duty replied. “Look upon my hands, Gwydion. Tell me what you see.”

  The shade lifted his eyes, saw the reddish light from the sky warp over Torm’s gauntlets. Tiny runes covered the burnished metal, symbols and glyphs of a thousand forgotten languages. Yet as Gwydion stared, the letters burned themselves into his consciousness, shouted their meaning to him on the voices of angels.

  “I—I can understand them all, Your Holiness,” Gwydion whispered. Tears streamed down his face as he repeated the myriad words for duty and loyalty.

  Torm raised the shade up from the dirt. “Come, Sir Gwydion, I’m certain Lord Kelemvor will free you from this place. You’ve proven yourself more than worthy of my kingdom.”

  “I will obediently follow your commands, Holiness,” the knight said humbly. “But I would ask a boon of you.”

  “Go on,” Torm said. “It is my duty to listen to the pleas of my faithful.”

  “I want to be mortal again,” Gwydion said. “I ask only for the days and months I had left when my cowardice drew Cyric to me that afternoon in Thar. I wish to live that time, however long it may be, as an honorable man.”

  The shade’s impassioned plea had drawn the attention of the other gods. “I will release any claims this kingdom has upon his soul,” Kelemvor announced. “Gwydion dared stand against Cyric. Without him, the cur might have escaped into the city.”

  Oghma cleared his throat. “If you’ll forgive my earlier impertinence, Your Holiness, might I suggest a quest that your knight could undertake?” He sidled close to the God of Duty. “One of my faithful has taken on the dangerous task of carrying the Cyrinishad. Perhaps you could charge brave Gwydion to watch over her.”

  Torm rubbed his cleft chin. “If Cyric still lives, he will most certainly seek the book. Who better to guard its keeper than a knight who has stood against the Prince of Lies before? Tell me, Binder, where is this guardian now?”

  “I don’t know,” Oghma murmured. “I’ve given her a holy symbol that hides her from the gods and all magical scrying.”

  The God of Duty turned to Gwydion. “As usual, we are left to fulfill our sacred tasks chained by the foolishness of others. The Binder will give you a mental image of the woman and the book she carries. You’ll have to do the rest on your own.” He clapped the shade on the shoulder. “No other of my knights could be more worthy of this quest, Sir Gwydion. I know you will pursue it with honor and courage.”

  Gwydion gasped when Rinda appeared in his thoughts. Pale skin, dark curls, and intense, sea-green eyes—he’d seen this woman before somewhere. Or perhaps it was the determined cast to her features that marked them as kindred spirits. I’ll find out which soon enough, he realized joyfully.

  A burst of silver radiance settled over Gwydion the Quick. After bowing to his god, he began his long run back to the mortal realms.

  The sounds of a solemn procession had begun to drift over the diamond walls, curling over the noisome waters of the Slith. Jergal appeared at Kelemvor’s side, almost as if he’d been carried to the keep by the mournful chanting.

  The ghostly seneschal held a roll of blank parchment in his gloved hands. Even before Jergal spoke, Kelemvor knew that the time had come for him to take up his mantle as Judge of the Damned. Soldiers and sell-swords and sick old merchants—the False and the Faithless had arrived in the Realm of the Dead to hear their fates proclaimed.

  As the first of the shades shuffled into the courtyard, Kelemvor turned his mind to the decaying heap of Bone Castle. With a thought, he recast the twisted tower as a beautiful spire of crystal, a palace more suited to a god who intended to hide nothing from his faithful.

  From that day forward, Kelemvor’s court shone from within those clear, sparkling walls, a beacon of law and compassion on the dark plains of Hades. And all those who looked upon the tower knew that justice had finally come to the Realm of the Dead.

  EPILOGUE

  In a hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric awoke. The lamentations of every mortal in Faerun, the sobs of the desperate and the keening of the brokenhearted, found their way to that lonely place sooner or later. And the cold winds that blew through the endless labyrinth warped those plaintive cries, transforming them into a weird symphony, rich with the chords of madness.

  As he rose from the smooth-hewn floor, Cyric became aware of a shadow—his shadow—moving with him. Darker than the utter darkness surrounding it, the shape mimicked the fallen god’s actions, but not his form. The Burning Men had left their mark upon Cyric, scarred him so deeply that no magics could mask the ragged brands on his hands and face. Yet the shadow suffered none of these imperfections, its outline smooth and perfect.

  In the overgrown garden that was Cyric’s mind, the shadow’s voice murmured soothingly—at least, the soft words seemed to come from the dark form trailing him. The jabbering of his faithful and the cold, sharp complaints of his myriad selves made it difficult for Cyric to tell for certain. And before he could consider the notion further, the thoughts racing through his mind drew him away to other, more vital matters.

  There was a new kingdom to build. After all, Cyric was still a deity—God of Strife and Intrigue, Patron of Murder. As such, he deserved a palace of suitable size to accommodate his horde of worshipers, a mammoth treasure house to store the spoils of his victorious war against Mystra and the Circle of Greater Powers.

  The Prince of Lies waved his tattered hand, and a fortress began to construct itself there in the howling darkness. Yet as the foundation settled into the tunnel and the first few night-black stones piled themselves one upon the other, the shape of the keep changed, altered to suit Cyric’s ever-shifting desires. The castle became a single tower, high and twisting, then a pyramid, a final redout from which the God of Strife could plot his revenge upon the traitors who had usurped the Realm of the Dead.

  The redout vanished, too, when the fawning voices in Cyric’s head reminded him that Mystra had merely done his will in bringing the City of Strife to revolt. No longer would he be forced to waste time judging the damned, listening to their simpering excuses, meting out feeble punishments set down ages ago by gods with little imagination for cruelty. No, Cyric had forced them to take command of the loathsome place and set the title Lord of the Dead like an unbreakable stock on the shoulders of someone else. As always, the pantheon had been puppets, playing the parts Cyric created for them.

  For an instant, the Prince of Lies heard the babel of voices in his head chime harmonious agreement. None of them could deny his absolute supremacy over all the gods in Faerun. The Cyrinishad proved the truth of that, and Cyric himself had read the tome very carefully.

  All across the mortal realms, a disembodied smile appeared in the most squalid alleys and haunted, shadow-draped woods. Broad and sharp, glinting like a straight razor in the moonlight, it hinted at the mad god’s pleasure with a world well-suited to become his earthly kingdom. The true meaning of the apparitions eluded even the most gifted oracles. They wove dire but vague prophecies around the chilling visions, but, as was their wont, the men and women of Faerun heeded them little and went on with their chaotic, mundane lives.

  In the hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric began to lau
gh. The world was doomed, but it kept running anyway.

  About the Author

  James Lowder has been involved with fantasy and horror fiction and film in many ways during the past decade: as a student at Marquette University; an instructor at the University of Illinois; a book editor for TSR, Inc.; and as the author of Crusade, Knight of the Black Rose, and The Ring of Winter. He has also written material for various game products and contributed book and video reviews to such diverse publications as Filmfax, The New England Journal of History, and TSR’s Polyhedron® Newszine. With Scott Ciencin and Troy Denning, Jim was part of the creative team responsible for the Avatar Trilogy, where some of the characters in Prince of Lies made their debuts. Despite rumors to the contrary, he steadfastly denies being Cyric’s avatar.

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