Prince of Lies (27 page)

The onyx-skinned creature appeared right in front of the inquisitor. The sound of their collision rolled over the city, a tortured clash of unbreakable metal and flesh that was stone. Those in the Keep who’d lived through the Time of Troubles trembled at the din; it echoed over their homes and shops much the same way another cacophony had in those dark times: the cataclysmic destruction of Bane’s temple.

Both the inquisitor and the marut fell back a few steps, ready to clash again. The marut struck first, slamming the cage down around Cyric’s minion. Gwydion grabbed the bars. His strength should have been enough to tear the steel like paper, but it held fast against him. More bars slid from the frame to close off the bottom before the inquisitor could dig down through the bridge. And when he tried to step out of the mortal realms, retreating back through the planes to Cyric’s domain, he found the armor’s mechanisms baffled.

“Gond was right,” Mystra said as she walked around the cage. “The armor is utterly magic resistant.”

This cage is not magic? the marut asked. In the goddess’s mind, the creature’s voice echoed as if it had come from deep within a cave. Surely this is no mundane device to hold such a warrior.

“Mechanical,” Mystra replied softly. She continued to circle the prison like a curious child at a zoo. “The cage is mechanical, just like the armor. The Wonderbringer built the bars specially to counter the strengths and prey upon the weaknesses of the armor he built.”

Then the cage is like a shield of spell turning?

Mystra smiled. “More like fighting fire with fire. Force and counter-force.”

Bah. I still say this is magic somehow.

The marut sullenly hooked the length of chain to the cage’s top so it could carry the thing without getting too close to the inquisitor.

“It’s only magic if you don’t understand how it works,” the Lady of Mysteries murmured.

Gwydion mirrored the goddess’s movements as she paced, trying to grab her whenever she got close. After one swipe snagged her hair, Mystra paused in her study of the armor and looked more carefully at the helmet, at the soul trapped inside. Though the inquisitor still thrashed against the bars, his eyes - Gwydion’s eyes - stared helplessly at the goddess from the golden prison.

“Can you hear me?” Mystra asked.

The part of Gwydion’s soul dominated by the armor screamed for the heretic’s blood. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to speak or even move in some way that might answer the goddess.

“Don’t worry,” Mystra said after a time. “I’ll get you out of there once we capture your eight brothers. Then we’ll see about making Cyric pay for this.”

A maelstrom raged inside Gwydion’s head. Shouted prayers to Cyric and solemnly sworn oaths blurred together with the whispered heresies he could no longer punish. He threw himself against the bars time and again, but deep inside, at the heart of the storm, Gwydion gave silent thanks the killing had been stopped.

“Lady Mystra,” Tyr said, “you stand accused of willfully endangering the Balance, the most serious charge that can be leveled against any deity. How do you plead?”

“I enter no plea,” the Goddess of Magic snapped. “The charge is ludicrous.”

At his desk to Tyr’s right, Oghma sighed. “I’ll take that to mean ‘not guilty,’” the Binder said without a trace of humor.

The Pavilion of Cynosure was packed with gods and demipowers from all parts of Faerun. Deities rarely seen in the pavilion - Labelas Enoreth, elven God of Longevity; Garl Glittergold, Father of All Gnomes; dour, stone-featured Grumbar, the Boss of Earth, ruler of that grim elemental plane; and a hundred others - took up long-unused tiers along both sides of the room. Public trials against one of the Circle of Greater Powers were rare, and few would miss the opportunity to witness such a spectacle.

Mystra had taken up her traditional post, toward the back of the wizard’s workshop that she perceived the pavilion to be. By her side stood the nine inquisitors, imprisoned in their cages of unbreakable, Gond-crafted steel. Tyr sightlessly faced the goddess from the opposite side of the workshop, clutching the lectern with his lone hand as if the box were a pulpit and he an impassioned preacher; there was nothing the God of Justice loved more than a trial, especially one involving his fellow deities.

“Members of the Circle,” Tyr began, “Lady Mystra stands accused of carrying out a vendetta against the rightful Lord of the Dead, with blatant disregard for the consequences to the Balance. To reach a verdict, we must consider two-“

“If my crime is so terrible,” Mystra snapped, “why haven’t I been brought before Ao?”

Tyr scowled at the interruption, but Oghma looked up from his notes. “Your accuser demanded the greater powers sit as the jury,” said the Patron of Bards. “As a member of the Circle, that was his right.”

Oghma’s voice was full of anger, a mob singing a bloody song at a lynching. The tone of it brought a look of disbelief to Mystra’s eyes. “Did you have me summoned here?” she murmured. When the Binder shook his head, the goddess glanced at the other greater powers scattered around the pavilion floor. “Then who?”

“Can’t you guess?” Cyric called from the mob of lesser powers and inhuman deities crowded in the tiers. He stood to face the Lady of Mysteries.

“And the rest of you took this seriously?” Mystra scoffed.

“Why not? I have proof enough to convict you three times over,” Cyric purred. “You’ve done everything you can to prevent me from executing my office. I realize now the only way to save myself - and stop you from upsetting the Balance - is to ask for the Circle’s help.” He smirked. “You see, I can play by the rules, even if you won’t.”

“This is absurd,” Mystra said. She summoned a spell to mind that would remove her and the caged inquisitors to Nirvana.

“Consider the trial more seriously, Lady,” Oghma warned. “Your worshipers face total sanctions from the rest of the Circle if you don’t cooperate.”

The Goddess of Magic paused, stunned by the threat. Sanctions meant total isolation for her worshipers; the greater powers would deny her faithful the benefits of their offices. Lathander would stop the dawn from rising over church grounds, and Chauntea would prevent their crops from growing. Mystra’s faithful would be refused entrance to the Fugue Plain if they died, and any knowledge preserved in their libraries would vanish. There was but one way for the mortals to escape these harsh measures: abandon their worship of the goddess. It wouldn’t take long for most to turn away, and those few devout souls who didn’t would soon perish. With no mortal worshipers, the Goddess of Magic would cease to exist.

“Cyric is using you against me,” Mystra pleaded. “Can’t you see that?”

“I’ll have no part in judging the evidence,” Cyric called. “I’m an innocent bystander. The wronged party, if you want to be totally accurate.”

“So says the Prince of Lies,” Tyr noted flatly from the podium. “Do not doubt that we listen for the ring of truth in each word you utter, Cyric. And as for you, Mystra, you should know that I will be a fair and just judge, conducting this trial in accordance with all the laws of the Balance, as decreed by Ao himself.”

Tyr cleared his throat. “As I was saying, to reach a verdict we must consider two questions. First, did Mystra act beyond the demands of her office in battling the Lord of the Dead? Second, if this is true, did she endanger the Balance by doing so?” He gestured to Cyric. “You may state your case.”

“With the inquisitors, I’d hoped to counter the heresy growing in my church,” the Prince of Lies said. “Mystra took it upon herself to foil that plan - even though it had nothing to do with her responsibilities as Goddess of Magic.”

Tyr nodded and stroked his long white beard. “Do you have anything to say in your defense regarding the capture of the inquisitors, Lady?”

“They were threatening everyone’s worshipers,” Mystra replied. “They had to be stopped.”

“The inquisitors didn’t single out your lackeys,” Cyric said. “They struck down anyone who spoke against me. If some of your faithful were harmed, they brought it upon themselves.” The Lord of the Dead turned to the crowd. “As I see it, the inquisitors were like a force of nature - like one of Talos’s storms. Surely Mystra doesn’t reserve the right to counter any force that might harm her worshipers. If this is the case, there can be no deep water, no poisonous plants, no weapons or-“

“We understand,” Shar interrupted. The Mistress of the Night stretched languidly. “Come now, Mystra. You must be able to offer up a better reason why these clockwork warriors concern the Goddess of Magic.”

“The armor is constructed to withstand all enchantments,” Mystra replied. “By their very nature the inquisitors attempt to prove craft’s supremacy over the Art.”

Tyr paused to consider that claim. “True enough,” the God of Justice noted after a moment. “And you might have been able to sway us with that argument - had you yourself not sought the aid of Gond in combating the inquisitors. The cages you had the Wonderbringer construct endanger the place of magic in the world, too, if we follow your logic.”

When Mystra failed to offer another reason for her actions, Tyr rapped the podium with his bony knuckles. “It’s clear, then, that the goddess went beyond the boundaries of her office in battling Cyric.” The rest of the Circle chorused their agreement. “Now,” Tyr added darkly, “we must consider the threat this posed to the Balance.”

Before the God of Justice finished speaking, Cyric was on his feet, demanding to be heard. “Zhentil Keep holds the largest and most important gathering of my faithful in the mortal realms. If heretics should succeed in turning the city against me, I’d lose so much power I might be unable to prevent a revolt in the City of Strife.”

The Prince of Lies turned his seared, hellish features to the greater gods gathered on the pavilion floor. “All of you know that my realm in Hades is in perpetual unrest. And all of you know, too, what would happen if a revolt amongst my denizens caused my downfall: total destruction of the Balance. Until a new god could be found and placed on the throne in Bone Castle, no one in the mortal realms could die, no matter how grievous his wounds. All the newly dead would rise as undead, preying upon the living until - well, the scene is too gruesome to contemplate.”

In the grim silence that followed his speech, Cyric sank slowly to his seat.

“Showmanship was always one of your strong suits, Cyric,” Mystra noted dryly. “But this has nothing to do with a revolt in Hades.”

“Yes, it does,” Tyr said. “It has everything to do with Cyric and his realm.” He took hold of the podium once more, bony knuckles white from his vicelike grip. “The crux of the evidence against you is this: You have taken it upon yourself to punish Cyric, to thwart whatever plans he hatches to further strife and death in the world. In doing so, you’ve forgotten two important facts. First, it is Cyric’s office to create such discord in the mortal realms. Second, it is not your office to prevent that discord. You are the Goddess of Magic, Lady Mystra, not the harbinger of peace or the avenger of those done harm by Cyric’s actions.”

“The book he is forcing his minions to craft, that will affect all of you,” Mystra said coldly. “But only a few of you have spoken out against Cyric for that. Where’s the justice, then? When does the Balance swing against the whims of the Lord of the Dead?”

“As I have told you before, Lady, you must have patience,” Oghma offered. “We’ve countered the book’s creation so far, have we not? As for Cyric’s other crimes… the Balance has always corrected such outrages in the past”

“And I’m willing to do some little part toward repairing any damage I might have caused in my anger at being cut off from the weave,” Cyric offered. “Return the inquisitors to me, and I’ll assure the Circle they will be used exclusively against my faithful in the future.”

Mystra laughed bitterly. “But only if you’re granted the use of magic again, right?”

“Just so, Lady.” Cyric bowed. “Just so.”

Lathander Morninglord stood, his eyes glowing with the soft light of dawn. “Mystra, we could see our way to dropping all charges against you,” he began, “but only if you’ll agree to this new beginning.”

“None of you can see what a monster he is,” the Lady of Mysteries said.

“A monster? How so?” Oghma asked, his voice edged in steel. “Because he uses illusions and deception to fool his victims? Consider how you drew the inquisitors into your trap, Lady.”

“And there is the matter of the Chaos Hound,” Cyric said smoothly. “The evidence found atop Blackstaff Tower-“

“You’d do well not to mention that crime at all,” Tyr warned. “It’s fortunate for you the beast did no harm to any of the Faithful, or one of us would have called you to trial for freeing the Hound…”

“But Mystra conspired to imprison Kezef, and in doing so she willfully caused the death of her own loyal follower,” Cyric murmured. “She is hardly one to judge my moral standing.”

“What are you talking about?” Mystra asked. “I know nothing of Kezef. I never confronted the beast.”

The Lord of the Dead feigned shock. “But the evidence clearly shows otherwise.”

With one rap of his knuckles on the podium, Tyr silenced the court. “The evidence you have presented to us - the holy symbol and spell parchment - could have been planted by anyone. Justice demands proof.”

“Justice demands I save the Lady of Mysteries from being wrongfully punished,” Mask said. When the Shadowlord stepped from the corner nearest Mystra, a ripple of surprise moved through the room; no one had seen Mask in that corner until he spoke.

“It was I who captured Kezef. Placing the blame on the goddess was a twist of intrigue.” Mask moved to Mystra’s side. “In such matters I can’t help myself - though I also acted out of fear. None of you may wish to admit it, but you know the Lady of Mysteries is correct: Cyric threatens us all.”

“As I expected,” the Prince of Lies murmured. The rose-hued short sword at his hip flared angrily. “Where is the Chaos Hound?”

“Where you’ll never find him,” Mask taunted. “But don’t worry, he’ll turn up on your doorstep sooner or later. Dogs are like that.”