Prince of Lies Page 6

  “It was a political move,” she replied ingenuously. “It insured the church’s stability. As I said, I’m not as naive as you think.”

  Oghma ignored her blunt claim. “Because you call yourself Mystra, there are some in the world who say Midnight of Deepingdale never existed, that she is a myth.”

  The Goddess of Magic shrugged. “There are also some who say Cyric is a myth, though he’s spent the last ten years forcing his name upon the worshipers of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul. At this moment there are forty-eight bloody battles being fought in the Heartlands because of his pride, his vanity, worshipers killing worshipers over the true name of their god. That’s simply foolishness.”

  “Perhaps. But his name will figure prominently in the tomes that tell the history of Faerun, whereas your mortal name will one day fade away.” Oghma smiled. “I see by your face you’re not concerned with history, though you should be. After all, control of history is at the heart of Cyric’s mad plans. It’s the reason he strives to create his much-feared book.”

  “Pardon me,” a deep voice interrupted, “but Cyric is concerned merely with power. The Cyrinishad is a means to that end.” Torm the True bowed formally to Mystra, then Oghma. “I do not mean to challenge your conclusions, Binder of All Knowledge, but I’ve had much traffic with the Prince of Lies of late, and I believe—”

  “We are not here to discuss what you believe, Torm,” said the blind man who had suddenly appeared in the pavilion’s center. His features were square and unforgiving, like the cut of the magical robes Mystra perceived as his raiments. In his left hand he held a silver balance. His right hand had been chopped off at the wrist. “We are here to discuss the facts of Cyric’s transgressions, the things you say you witnessed in his realm. When that’s done, we shall bring the full weight of the law against him.”

  Talos paused in carving his name into the tabletop before him. “I say we just waylay him and spread his remains across the planes,” he joked, twirling his silver dagger menacingly.

  Tyr, the blind God of Justice, prodded his long white beard with his stump and turned sightless eyes on the Destroyer. “You will be given your turn to speak. Hold your peace until then.” For a reply, Talos snorted and sliced a long sliver of wood from the tabletop.

  “And so begins another conference of the Circle of Greater Powers,” Oghma whispered to the Goddess of Magic. “Rather similar to every other meeting, don’t you think?”

  Mystra had to admit that Oghma was right. The greater powers met infrequently, since problems rarely arose that concerned all of them. Yet, in each of the few meetings Mystra had attended, Tyr had presumed to take control of the Circle, and Talos had disrupted it. Then, as now, Oghma had placidly noted every word and every action of his fellow immortals, while Tempus impatiently suggested his divine army be mustered to solve even the most delicate dilemma with sword and shield.

  Mystra realized then that this was the very conclusion Oghma had been laboring to get across: after centuries of interaction, the gods had become predictable. Tyr could be counted on to promote all causes furthering law and good in Faerun. Talos would just as surely oppose such measures, striving to create chaos and, at least as Tyr defined it, evil. In the same way, the viewpoints of Talos and Lathander made it difficult for them to find any common ground.

  Difficult, she decided, but not impossible. Surely the gods could break these patterns, could realize that theirs was not the only perspective in the universe.

  Slowly Mystra scanned the Pavilion of Cynosure. Ten of the eleven greater powers were in attendance—all save Cyric. Most of the gods had gathered around tables crammed with flasks and beakers and spell components. The trio of deities devoted to chaotic pursuits—Tempus, Talos, and Sune, the Goddess of Love—fidgeted in their seats or roamed around the perimeter. In the center of the room, Tyr held court from a podium, methodically listing the rules by which the gods would proceed with the hearing. To his right stood Torm. The God of Duty was only a demipower, but Tyr had sponsored him to speak to the Circle because of his recent conflicts with Cyric.

  “And I think it best for us to begin with the testimony of Torm the True,” Tyr droned, “for his charges against the self-styled Prince of Lies bring us together now.”

  As Torm took the podium, Mystra paused to consider her own position in the room. The pavilion resembled laboratories common in Halruaa and Cormyr and Waterdeep, places civilized enough to support schools where mages could be taught the rudiments of the Art. Tyr, and now Torm, had taken the place reserved for the instructor. The other gods were students. As in any school, some paid careful attention to the lecturer—like Oghma—while others waited for the time to pass so they could escape.

  In her version of the pavilion, Mystra had not cast herself in the role of either teacher or student, but as an impartial monitor. In the mage schools she’d seen in her youth, the most powerful sorcerer never taught. He or she sat quietly in the back of the room, watching the class, ready in case someone should cast an enchantment that misfired or grew dangerous.

  “Cyric is a threat to all of Faerun,” Torm began, gesturing broadly. The robes of magic Mystra perceived hanging from his square shoulders were dimmer than those of the greater gods, signifying his lesser status. “As all of you know—”

  “If we already know, why tell us again?” Talos shouted impatiently.

  Tempus stopped poring over his maps long enough to snort his agreement, and the Goddess of Love giggled into her dainty hands. Of the remaining gods, only Tyr really seemed offended by the outburst. The God of Justice sneered in the direction of the Destroyer’s voice, then motioned for the God of Duty to continue.

  “What you don’t know,” Torm said sharply, glaring at Talos, “is that Cyric has been impersonating other gods, causing mortals weak in spirit to kill themselves with reckless acts. He chooses only those men and women who have yet to earn a god’s favor through devoted worship. They die before their time and become prisoners in the City of Strife.”

  Torm went on to describe how Cyric had fooled one particular sell-sword, a Cormyrian named Gwydion the Quick. He dealt with the heart of the incident briefly, but his speech didn’t end there. In detail, he described how Cyric’s offenses assailed the honor of each and every god. Torm followed this diatribe with his expected tirade on duty, calling the Circle of Greater Powers to stand against the blackguard Lord of the Dead.

  As Torm spoke, Mystra found herself wondering exactly how the God of Duty saw the pavilion. Breaking into the demipower’s thoughts proved much easier than the Goddess of Magic expected. His mind was a simple and orderly fortress of purest white stone, built around a vast temple to duty and honor. Armored knights stood silent vigil upon the walls. Whether they didn’t sense Mystra’s presence or dismissed her as an ally was unclear, but they let her pass through the gates unchallenged. Once inside, she could look out through Torm’s eyes.

  To the God of Duty, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as a pillared extension of his own castle. Marble columns lined the hall, with thrones at the foot of each. In these rested the gods, huge armored warriors with shields bearing their holy symbols. Some, like Tyr, wore bright plate mail, magnificent and glittering. The less the god supported law, the dimmer the gloss on his armor, the shabbier his cloak and boots and gloves.

  Torm kneeled in the center of this impressive gathering. His plate mail shone less brightly than Tyr’s, but it was much more ornate and weighted with badges of honor. Mystra was awed by the overwhelming sense of duty that pressed down on the demipower. And as the goddess looked closer, she saw thin chains of shimmering gold linking the God of Duty to each of his fellow deities. Some chains were thicker than others, but these links of obligation extended from Torm’s hands to every other god in the pavilion.

  “What says the Goddess of Magic to Torm’s proposal?”

  The words registered in another part of Mystra’s mind, a section she had left focused on the demipower’s speech. Like all the other deities,
Mystra possessed an intellect capable of performing a hundred different tasks simultaneously. While a small part of her mind had explored Torm’s perspective, another facet listened intently for the prayers of her faithful. Others kept vigil over the magical weave surrounding Faerun, or monitored the progress of Cyric’s book, or catalogued each new spell and enchantment created in the world. The most important of these facets, the nexus of her being, controlled the various lesser incarnations, creating or destroying them as necessary.

  Now the Goddess of Magic abandoned Torm’s perspective and focused more fully on the Circle. Tyr had once again taken the podium. His blind eyes were directed at her. “Do you think we can force Cyric to free this Gwydion fellow and the other souls wrongly imprisoned in the Wall of the Faithless?”

  “Possibly,” Mystra said.

  Torm stepped forward again, blustering happily, “Of course, this great wrong can be righted! The laws established in the Realm of the Dead for the treatment of the Faithless—”

  “Were ratified by the Circle of Greater Powers when Myrkul reigned in the City of Strife,” Oghma noted coldly. “Cyric has always claimed himself free of laws established by the trio of powers he replaced.”

  “Besides, the whole point of forcing Cyric to do anything in his realm is moot,” Lathander added glumly. He stood and straightened his robes. “We have no power in the City of Strife. We can’t even enter it unless we’re invited. And the Wall of the Faithless is clearly within the boundaries of Cyric’s kingdom.” He sighed. “Do you think logic or reason will persuade him to free those souls, with no threat of force behind it? I’m not one to abandon hope, but even I see this as futile.”

  Mystra shook her head in disbelief. “If we band together, we can show Cyric our displeasure. If we’re silent, we’re tacitly consenting.”

  She stalked toward the podium. Both Torm and Tyr gave her a wide berth. “When Cyric started work on his infernal book,” Mystra began, “I denied him the use of magic to create it on his own. Oghma denied him the services of the eternal scribes to complete it in the heavens. This left him to call upon his worshipers to create the Cyrinishad. These sanctions worked, did they not? The book remains but a dark grail for him.”

  “I would not discount the possibility of one of his mundane servants writing the tome he desires,” Oghma warned. “As you should well know, Mystra, mortals can accomplish a great deal given the right motivation.”

  The Goddess of Magic nodded, but the resolve in her glowing blue-white eyes never faded. “Nevertheless, we have forced him to work within the code the rest of us follow. We can do so again with the imprisoned souls—” she paused and scanned the faces of the assembled powers “—and we can do so with the disappearance of Leira.”

  The gods shifted nervously at the mention of the missing goddess. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand,” Oghma suggested. “The mistreatment of the shade Torm saw—”

  “Cyric’s crimes against the Balance are the true matter at hand,” Mystra hissed. When no one disagreed, she pressed on. “Leira hasn’t shown herself since the Time of Troubles. It’s obvious to me that she’s gone. Someone destroyed her.”

  “Leira is the Goddess of Deception,” Oghma noted. “This wouldn’t be the first time she obscured her whereabouts from us, simply to prove her power to hide outstrips our ability and patience to seek.”

  After yawning loudly, Talos dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “Someone’s answering the prayers of her faithful. That’s all that matters.”

  “And if that someone is Cyric?” Mystra asked. “He already has the power of three gods. Do any of you wish to see him take the power of a fourth?”

  A subtle shift in Talos’s expression told Mystra that even the Destroyer trembled at the prospect of confronting Cyric about Leira’s disappearance.

  “Someone must be aiding him if he’s kept the crime hidden this long,” Torm offered boldly. “Mask, perhaps?”

  Tyr nodded sagely and ran gnarled fingers through his long white beard. “The Lord of Shadows would have much to gain from an alliance with Cyric. As God of Intrigue, Mask could bury all clues of Leira’s murder so deep even a god’s eyes might miss them.”

  “Perhaps,” Mystra said. “But if Cyric destroyed Leira and took on her worshipers, he’s added God of Deception to the rest of his titles. He might not need Mask’s help to hide his crimes.”

  An uncomfortable murmur broke out in the pavilion, and Oghma turned pleading eyes on the Goddess of Magic. Mystra ignored him, though, and said, “I call upon my right as a member of the Circle. I demand Cyric and Mask be brought before Lord Ao for judgment.”

  The response to this proclamation was instantaneous; the gods sent countless incarnations winging across the planes to summon the two errant deities. A burst of darkness and a sickening stench of brimstone heralded Cyric’s arrival in the Pavilion of Cynosure. His robes glowed almost as brightly as Mystra’s, crackling around his thin frame like a cloak of fire. But brightest of all was the enchanted sword at his side. The rose-hued blade burned with such magical radiance Mystra found it difficult to look at it for long.

  Cyric sneered at the other gods, his face twisted with hatred. His dark eyes glittered malevolently as he turned to Torm. “You’ve whined loudly enough to get an audience, I see. That’s not so surprising, I suppose—though I can’t imagine why the rest of you have bothered to call me here.”

  “To answer certain charges,” Tyr said stiffly.

  “Charges!” Cyric scoffed. “If Torm the True told you I’m guilty of breaking some cosmic law, you’d be fools not to believe him. He can’t lie, the dolt, and I’m not going to waste my time trying to get you to believe otherwise.”

  “Then you admit to impersonating other deities,” Torm said. He leveled an accusing finger at the Lord of the Dead.

  “Of course.”

  “And of unfairly sentencing souls to the Wall of the Faithless?”

  Cyric snorted. “You were there, Torm.”

  “And of continuing work on your infernal book, intending to use it to undermine all other faiths in Faerun?”

  “Didn’t I just tell you I admit to everything you can charge me with, you dimwitted tin warrior? The real question is, what can any of you do about it?” Cyric rolled his eyes in disgust and faced Mystra. “He’s almost as dull as Kelemvor, eh Midnight?”

  The goddess returned Cyric’s cold gaze evenly. “What about the death of Leira?” she asked tonelessly. “Do you admit to that?”

  One eyebrow arched, the Lord of the Dead leaned back against a table. “Upon whose testimony are you accusing me of harming the elusive Lady of the Mists? As I remember, the Circle of Greater Powers cannot try me for a crime without testimony or evidence.”

  “We have only our suspicions,” Mystra said calmly, “but I’ve demanded the Circle call upon Lord Ao and ask him where Leira is. Do you have any objections? Actually, they don’t matter, so don’t bother voicing them.”

  The Lord of the Dead and the Goddess of Magic stared at one another. The twitch in Cyric’s left eye told of barely subdued rage, while the hard line of Mystra’s mouth, the tension in her limbs, revealed an overwhelming revulsion for the creature of darkness she had once called friend.

  Cyric closed his hand tightly around the hilt of his sword. The gesture’s meaning was not lost on Mystra; that blade had nearly drained her life atop Blackstaff Tower, after Cyric had used it to kill Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He would repay her for humiliating him before the Circle. Godsbane would taste her blood again.

  “We yet await Mask’s arrival,” Tyr announced. “Only then may we summon Ao.”

  “Don’t delay on my account,” said a smooth whisper. The words hissed like a black silk cloth polishing a sharp blade. “I’ve been here for quite some time.”

  As one, the gods turned to find Mask standing at the very edge of the pavilion. Darkness clung to him in thin wisps, passing over his bright robe of magic like clouds over a full moon. Black gloves c
overed his hands, and a loose-fitting mask concealed his features. Only his eyes were visible, twin pools of red flashing and ebbing as he spoke.

  “Should I join my fellow conspirator?” he asked glibly. Without waiting for a reply, the Lord of Shadows slid with feline grace past Mystra to stand beside Cyric.

  “Hear our plea, great and wise overlord,” Tyr began without prelude. “We seek your wisdom.”

  The other gods picked up the evocation, repeating it over and over. Their voices grew louder, the words more strident. They called until they howled like mad things—all save Cyric, who stood mute and sullen in the midst of the riot.

  Mystra winced at the discord, yet some part of her reveled in the painful cacophony and drew strength from it. She screamed along with the others until she saw that the Pavilion of Cynosure was trembling. The laboratory her mind had cast as a facade over the place warped, then unraveled like a worn tapestry. The tables melted, then the ceiling and walls. The floor went last, wafting away in a haze of unreality.

  The gods found themselves surrounded by a vast sea of emptiness. The prayers of Mystra’s worshipers faded in her mind to distant, feeble cries as more and more of her consciousness was drawn into the void. The mortal world became a desert oasis seen through a heat haze, faint and shifting, more ghostly than real. Then, suddenly, the sea of emptiness transformed into a night sky filled with a million stars. And from each pinpoint of light radiated a spectrum of subtle, unearthly hues and a chorus of terrifying heavenly voices.

  Keepers of the Balance, you have summoned me needlessly.

  The words insinuated themselves into Mystra’s mind, demanding the attention of every facet of her divine intellect. She reeled at the force of the million stern voices rebuking her, the myriad angry flashes filling the darkness around her.

  Know you now that Cyric and Mask did murder Leira, Ao boomed. Yet they have done nothing that is outside their natures. Cyric is Lord of Murder, so he should strive to blot out even the lives of gods. Mask is Lord of Intrigue, so he should strive to conceal such deeds.