Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (44 page)

And what of Malik, savior of his god and all Faerun? 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 Faerun.” 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.”

As Mystra turned away, a single tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. Cyric snatched the golden chalice off the table, then thrust it under the goddess’s chin and caught the glittering drop. He all but squealed his delight, and I winced at his display.

Mystra pushed him away. “Stand aside, Foulheart.” She floated back toward her place behind the golden rail. “You tempt me to forget where we are.”

“As you wish.” Cyric smiled compliantly, then returned the chalice to the table. “I’m done anyway.”

Kelemvor looked on, but said nothing. The other gods shook their heads or rolled their eyes, and in my folly even I thought Cyric’s behavior but another sign of his madness.

Tyr raised his stump at the One. “You may also return to your place, Cyric. We have heard enough about Adon the Fallen.”

“And we have heard enough about the charges against Lord Death,” added Oghma the Wise. “I say we find in his favor. We have seen for ourselves what he sacrificed for duty.”

At this, the gods filled the pavilion with a general chorus of agreement. Only Cyric raised his voice against the verdict, and even he did not object too forcefully. This puzzled me greatly, until I noticed the cunning gleam in his ebony eye-and my puzzlement turned to concern, for there was clearly more to Cyric’s plan than my reading of the Cyrinishad. I gazed at my heart and wondered if I might ever feel it beating in my chest again.

Tyr raised his stump. “The Circle has made its will known in the matter of Lord Death, but the charges against him have not been separated. He and Mystra stand accused together. If we find for one, we must find for both.”

Then let us hear from her,” said Oghma.

Mystra addressed her fellow gods from her place behind the golden rail. “I, too, have learned from my mistakes.”

“Your actions suggest otherwise,” came Tyr’s stern reply. The Just One pointed to the shattered corner of Helm’s black prison. “You have shown little respect for the Circle’s justice. And let us not forget why Helm took you into custody to begin with. You attacked a witness!”

Tyr gestured at Mask, who stood on the other side of the table a dozen paces from Adon and me. As usual, the Shadowlord was shifting from one murky form to another-none with all their limbs-and he still clutched Prince Tang’s enchanted sword.

Lady Magic replied, “I have compensated Mask very well for his loss-unless he cares to return Prince Tang’s chien and ask some other boon of me.”

The God of Thieves folded the sword into a crease of shadow and shook his head, for being free of the Chaos Hound was worth more to him than he had lost.

Mystra continued, “And he is more than a witness at this trial. It was his scheming that convinced Tempus to lodge his original charge, and the Shadowlord told me outright that he had caused much of the trouble Kelemvor and I encountered in preparing our defenses.”

Tyr turned his empty gaze upon Mask. “Is this so?”

The Shadowlord shrugged, then changed into the shape of a one-winged lammasu. “Admitting a thing does not make it so.”

“It does in this trial,” Tyr replied. “Tampering with the accused’s right to defend-“

“Do not punish Mask on my account,” Mystra said. “I find myself indebted to him. Without his interference, I would not have seen the injustice I have been doing to the mortals of Faerun.”

Her use of the word “injustice” was calculated to kindle Tyr’s curiosity, and so it did. “What injustice would that be?”

“A despotism more terrible than any Cyric would inflict”

“As if you could!” The One raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Tyranny of the flesh is nothing compared to tyranny of the spirit.” Mystra turned her gaze toward Lathander and Silvanus and Chauntea, who all bore a greater love for freedom than it was worth. “In trying to deny the Weave to the destructive and the wicked, I have been attempting to choose Faerun’s destiny. This is not my place-and it is not the place of any god here.”

“A choice has no meaning unless it is freely made,” agreed Oghma the Wise. “It is for the mortals of Faerun to make what they wish of their world. If we relieve them of this trust, the destiny of Faerun will have no value to them.”

“To them?” scoffed the One. “I did not make myself a god to let mortals ruin Faerun.”

“No, you became a god to ruin it for them.” Sune flashed a dazzling smile at the One, then added in a voice of honey, “We all know what an ugly mess you would make of things.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Cyric’s face had grown as red as Sune’s hair. He could see that Lady Magic was winning too many gods to her side, and his plans for the new order had no room for Mystra and Kelemvor. He turned to the Harlot and asked, “What are you saying? That you will let me have free access to the Weave?”

Mystra met his gaze evenly. “Yes-and Talos and Tempus, and Shar as well.”

At this the Destroyer snorted and looked up from the profanity he had been scratching in Tyr’s gold rail. “In return for what? Supporting a verdict in your favor?”

“Not at all, Talos,” the Harlot replied. “I have already reopened the Weave to you and your storm lords, and to Tempus and his war wizards, and to Shar and all her dark followers, and even to Cyric and his madmen. The Weave will remain open regardless of the Circle’s verdict.”