Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (33 page)

We galloped twenty paces down a squalid lane so narrow my legs scraped the walls on both sides. In the space of that distance, Halah leapt two sleeping beggars and bowled over another, then the crone let go of my waist and pointed down another gloomy lane.

“Turn right.”

We skidded around the corner, galloped another dozen paces, and burst onto a boulevard even larger and more crowded than the one by which I had entered the city.

“Left.”

As I guided Halah around the corner, the mare made a detour to a street vendor’s cart and smashed his chicken cage and snatched up a crowing rooster, which she devoured feathers and all as we galloped down the avenue.

Over my shoulder, I asked, “Can you help me find Fzoul Chembryl?”

“Of course. But you shouldn’t have asked for him at the gate. He keeps spies there just as we do, and now he’ll be watching for you.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” I answered, and this was as true as anything I said that day.

After no more than a hundred and fifty paces, the crone guided me down a short side street, to the courtyard of a squat black building. Its condition was no better than most structures in Zhentil Keep. It lacked much of its second story and roof and the city’s blasphemous residents had defiled its walls with all manner of profanities blaming Cyric for the Razing.

Given the sacrileges I had witnessed so far, the One had shown the city more mercy than it deserved.

The crone slipped off Halah’s back and began to pound on the copper doors of the temple. “Friar Fornault, this is Sister Svanhild!” She motioned me forward. “Open the doors and quickly! The One has sent us a savior!”

Thirty-Five

In a place as vast as Faerun, many hundreds die each day, and so the Seraph of Death required but a short time to observe the final moments of a thousand and ten, as Lord Kelemvor had commanded. Now Avner stood in the Crystal Spire, recounting all he had seen. Lord Death sat slumped in his crystal throne, his face weary and dark as he listened to the report.

“In the Swamp of Nether,” Avner continued, “a black dragon rose up beneath a punt in which Goodwin of Haywood was riding. The instant the wyrm opened its mouth, Goodwin drew his sword and leapt into its jaws.”

Kelemvor raised his sullen eyes. “To what purpose?”

“None. The punt was already sinking, and his companions were either drowned or swimming for safety. There was no question of saving the treasure, and Goodwin might well have spared himself by diving into the water.”

“And perhaps one of his drowning companions as well?”

“Yes. He was a good swimmer, and lightly armored.” The Seraph of Death paused a moment, studying his god’s stormy mood, then said, “Goodwin’s death was the thousand and tenth. Shall I go and observe more?”

Lord Death gave no answer, for there comes a moment when even the blindest fool perceives the mistake of his ways. Kelemvor saw that he had made a poor God of Death-especially compared to Cyric, who knew in his infinite wisdom that humans are weak and selfish creatures who will always seek the easy way to do anything, except when they fear some incredible pain or anguish. On this account, the One had made his realm a place of bitter sorrows, to prevent the Faithless and the False from seeing death as an escape from their harsh and vulgar lives, and also to prevent the Faithful from turning their backs on their own gods. All this had Cyric done for the good of Faerun’s mortals, like a stern father who loves his children well enough to give them a harsh upbringing.

Kelemvor perceived these things at last, and he sat sulking for many long minutes; like any jealous child, it angered him that his rival should be right when he was wrong. He kept thinking the matter over and over, until at last he convinced himself that his error was due to a laudable concern for Faerun’s mortals, whereas Cyric’s reign had been but the accident of a brutal and selfish nature.

When he had finally convinced himself of his righteousness, the God of Death fixed his gaze on Avner. “You could watch ten thousand and ten deaths. It would change nothing. If worthy men do not fear dying, they will leave life to the unworthy-and all Faerun will suffer.”

The Seraph of Death’s black wings sagged. “But surely, it is not wrong to be fair to the dead?”

“It is not my place to be fair.” Kelemvor shifted his gaze to the empty air beside Avner. “Jergal!”

The seneschal’s shadow-filled cloak appeared at once, his yellow eyes glowing beneath the hood. “I am here for you, as always. How may I serve?”

“I have been remiss in my duties. Have you prepared the list of my judgments as God of Death?”

In Jergal’s white gloves appeared a scroll as thick as a giant’s waist. “I have.”

“Good.” Kelemvor glanced at his Seraph of Death, then said, “We will begin the difficult case of Avner of Hartwick.”

Had Avner been alive, his knees would have gone weak and he would have felt sick to his stomach. As it was, he merely dropped a few shadowy feathers and did his best to stand up straight, determined not to embarrass himself by falling to his knees or begging for mercy.

If Kelemvor noted Avner’s stoic acceptance of fate, he did not show it. “Bring me the list.” The God of Death motioned Jergal forward, then took the scroll and began to scan names. “Now go and fetch the God of Thieves, if he will stop gloating over Mystra’s imprisonment long enough to see me.”

“He will not have the choice.”

Jergal did not turn toward the exit; he merely began to float toward it. Avner stepped aside and let the seneschal pass, catching a glimpse of himself in the perfect mirror on the wall. Instead of the mighty Seraph of Death, he saw a sandy-haired orphan of ten years, doing his best to hide his terror behind a mask of cynicism and cunning. The narrowed eyes and furrowed brow did less to make the boy look dangerous than lonely. Avner lost his poise and began to tremble.

Kelemvor looked up from the scroll long enough to cock an eyebrow, then returned to his reading and left Avner to the horrors of his imagination.

Jergal appeared before Lord Death’s throne. “Mask is in the anteroom, awaiting your summons.”

“How kind of him. Show him in.”

At once, the Shadowlord’s wispy voice filled the Judgment Hall. “I am under Tyr’s protection!”

A second Jergal appeared in the doorway, his disembodied white glove dragging along a tangle of writhing shadow.

“I warn you, Kelemvor!” Mask stopped squirming long enough to assume the shape of a huge firbolg; the warrior had both legs, but only one arm, and in his hand, he held the magical chien stolen from Prince Tang. The jewel-encrusted sword was barely as long as the firbolg’s forearm. “If you want to share Mystra’s cell-“

Kelemvor rolled his eyes. “Helm has his hands full guarding Mystra. But I have not called you here to assault you, Mask. There is no need to put on airs. They mean nothing to me.”

To emphasize his point, Lord Death nodded toward the mirror. Mask’s reflection was that of a little creature with a doglike muzzle and a pair of goat’s horns on its scaly head. This kobold had two faces and seemed even smaller and more spindly than most, for there was only one leg beneath its hips, and the huge Shou sword in its hand was longer than its body.

Mask cried out and changed his shape to that of a burly minotaur; his reflection remained that of the kobold. The Shadowlord began to shift forms faster than a mortal could blink, becoming a Bedine sheikh, a Knight of Myth Drannor, and a dozen other noble warriors. The image in the mirror always remained that of a pitiful little kobold with a sword bigger than he was.

At last, the God of Thieves gave up and simply assumed the kobold’s form, then allowed Jergal to drag him toward Lord Death’s throne. “Is that what you brought me here to show me?”

“Not at all,” Kelemvor replied. “I asked you here because I have been reconsidering the case of Avner of Hartsvale.”

Mask glanced at the Seraph of Death, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Reconsidering?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken in refusing to return him.”

“Mistaken!” Mask’s tone grew angry; in his arrogance, the God of Thieves believed that Mystra’s imprisonment had caused Kelemvor to fear him. He puffed his figure into that of a burly dwarf, then raised his nose and dared to place his foot on the crystal step beneath Kelemvor’s throne. “It is too late to beg my forgiveness.”

“I am not begging anything, especially from a craven little god such as you. What I am doing is offering to give Avner’s spirit over to your care.”

“My care?”

To hide his surprise, the God of Thieves scratched his scruffy chin and turned away. He began to look the seraph up and down, as any man might before purchasing a camel, but the Shadowlord was not trying to drive the price down. He was only buying time to think. If Kelemvor started acting like a proper God of Death, the verdict at the trial just might go in his favor-and then Mask would have yet another powerful enemy.

The Seraph of Death stood as straight as a rod and glared down at the Shadowlord’s spindly silhouette. True, he had once worshiped the God of Thieves, but he had also answered the high call of duty and not flinched; nothing Mask could do would change what Avner had become in that moment.

At length, the Shadowlord twisted his kobold’s snout into a snaggle-toothed smile, then turned to face the God of Death. “You expect me to take him back? After you have ruined him?”

“I do not expect anything. I only ask if you want him.”

Mask shook his head. “Not now-not until he proves himself worthy.”

“Proves himself?” Kelemvor leaned forward. “How?”

The Shadowlord tipped his snout up and scratched his chin. “Let me think. Something will come to me, I am sure.” He made a great show of studying the ceiling. “I have it! Something you will appreciate more than I. He can free Mystra!”

“No one can do that,” Kelemvor objected. “Not with Helm guarding her.”

“Ah-well, I thought you might say that.” Mask shrugged. “Too bad. If he succeeded, I was going to make him my Seraph of Thieves. As it is, I suppose you will have to change him into a rat and send him into the Maze of Alleys.”

The Shadowlord shook his head as though disappointed, but when he turned to leave, his shadowy muzzle was grinning.

“I can do it.”

Mask stopped on the spot, then whirled around and pointed his kobold’s snout at Avner. “What did you say?”

“I can do it. Allow me to borrow a few things from this chamber, and I will free Mystra.”

“Take anything you like, Avner.” Now it was Kelemvor’s turn to smile. “When you have succeeded, I am certain the Shadowlord will keep his word-will you not, Mask?”

Mask’s first thought was that Lord Death had tricked him, but how could the God of Death have known he would insist on testing the seraph, much less foreseen the nature of the test? The answer was that he could not have; Avner’s boast was nothing but the desperate attempt of a condemned spirit to escape his fate. Mask twisted his kobold’s muzzle into a confident smirk, then looked up at the seraph. “Agreed. If you can free Mystra, then you are a better thief than I.”

Thirty-Six

Time has no meaning for the dead, so when Adon found himself standing on the blinding expanse of the Fugue Plain, it was with no idea how long it had taken to get there. He recalled striking his head on the fountain and opening his mouth to scream, and then a great tidal wave had rushed down his throat to fill his lungs. His spirit left his body with less effort than it takes a man to slip from his robes. The cold waters swept him away, and Mystra’s face appeared on the surface, blurry and rippling in the current, once again the beautiful goddess of his memory.

Then Mystra asked him to speak her name. The hatred returned to her eyes and the anger rose again in her voice. Adon cried out and sank into the depths of a black cold ocean, and the goddess’s image shattered above him and vanished.

After that, his journey became at once endless and ephemeral. A swirling light appeared in the darkness ahead, and he swam in its direction until the waters thickened into a sea of slurping, sucking ooze. The swirling light became a distant glow, and he burrowed toward it until the mud hardened into a granite plateau. The distant glow became a radiance shining on the horizon, and he stumbled after it until his march became a numb and mindless trek. Then the radiance became a boundless white expanse, and the patriarch found himself standing upon the Fugue Plain with no certain memory of how he had come there.

The ground quivered beneath his feet like something alive and restless, and the air buzzed with the drone of a million voices, and all around him the spirits of the dead beseeched their gods to come and rescue them from this empty wasteland.

Nearby, a matron cried, “O Chauntea, Great Mother, Golden Goddess of Grain, Merciful Giver of life! Answer this, the call of your Faithful servant Gusta, who has borne fifteen children and planted a bountiful field each spring and prayed to you every day of her life. I beg you, take me into your garden-“

A shaft of golden light split the sky, and over Gusta’s head appeared a winged herald bearing a yellow cornstalk. The harbinger lowered her stalk, and a flaxen beam shone down to engulf Chauntea’s beseecher; at once, the cares and concerns of Gusta’s life melted away, and her spirit grew so light that it floated up the flaxen beam into the herald’s arms.

A short distance ahead, the spirits of a hundred warlocks and sorceresses had gathered into a great throng, all facing the same direction and staring at the sky. A low murmur rose on the far side and raced toward Adon and broke over him with all the force of a wave upon the ocean.

“Mystra!”

So loud was the cry that the patriarch grimaced at its volume; he could imagine it crossing the heavens and reaching Mystra’s ears in her palace of shimmering magic.

“0 Mystra, Lady of Mysteries, Guardian of the Weave, answer this, the call of your Faithful worshipers!” A hundred voices spoke at once, yet their words were clear. “When will you deliver us, we who have spent our lives studying your wonder, spreading the glory of your magic to every corner of the land? Hear the appeal of your worshipers, Lady Magic. Look! Here is Mandra the Mighty, who changed the Sea of Petark to wine, and here is Darshan the Dread, who filled the Chasm of Narfell with diamonds, and here is Baldemar the Brilliant, who …”