Prince of Lies (35 page)

Mystra laughed softly. “The spell Cyric took from Oghma’s library is forbidden magic, a sorcery created by an ancient god even more foul than Bane and Mask and Cyric lumped together, if you can believe that. The giants and the revolt in the Realm of the Dead are ways for me to prevent the magic from being released. The Circle won’t question that reasoning.”

They moved away from the beds, toward the center of the room. “You’ll have to convince the other gods it’s a good thing for Zhentil Keep to fall, but only if they rescue their worshipers,” Adon said. “Put your case before the rest of the pantheon in terms they’ll have to support.”

The priest pointed to Talos. The lunatic had been bathed and clothed in a new smock, but he wasn’t tearing out his hair or plucking at the robes, as his madness demanded. His mind was focused on the thin sheet of cloth in his hands. No matter how quickly he destroyed it, a minor enchantment restored the threads to their original weave.

“We couldn’t figure out how to stop him from hurting himself,” the patriarch said, “but then I remembered what you’d told me about the gods: they can see nothing but the world their minds create.” He shrugged. “If Talos here has to destroy things, we have to give him something to work on instead of his clothes or his skin.”

The Lady of Mysteries hugged the cleric fiercely, bringing a startled blush to his cheeks. “Of course,” she blurted. “It’s all perspective! Thank you, Adon.”

Mystra disappeared in a swirl of blue-white light. A few of the inmates howled in their sleep at the sudden burst of magic. Even unconscious, their scarred minds recoiled from the thing that had damaged them so horribly.

As Adon stood for a moment, looking out over his wards, a chilling thought worked its way into his mind, a notion born of the lateness of the hour and the weird cries of the inmates. Kelemvor had been imprisoned for a decade by a thing of magic. Wasn’t it possible he might despise the Art, or even fear it as much as the poor souls lodged in the asylum? And if that were true, Mystra could be risking everything to rescue someone who might not be able to bear her presence.

The patriarch shook the dark thoughts from his mind and hurried to seek out the novitiates ministering in other parts of the building. Madness wasn’t contagious, not as some on the farms surrounding the Golden Quill claimed. But Adon had learned the company of madmen gave birth to strange fancies. After a month tending the inmates at the asylum, he knew better than to linger in the halls after midnight.

Similarly, he hoped Mystra had enough sense not to dwell too long in the other gods’ minds, even if only to convince them of her plan. Cyric had proved that madness wasn’t something confined to the realms of mortals. The Lady of Mysteries would do well to remember that.

Even with her myriad incarnations, it took Mystra hours to visit each member of Faerun’s pantheon. The Lady of Mysteries informed the gods and goddesses of Zhentil Keep’s fate, how the holy city would be turned against its patron and the giants allowed to raze the evil place to the ground. She cast her involvement in the plot just as she had explained it to Adon: as the guardian of magic, it was her responsibility to prevent Cyric’s use of forbidden sorceries. No one disagreed.

As for the destruction of the city itself, Mystra dipped into the thoughts of each deity and used that perspective to describe the Keep’s fall as something positive. To the Lady of the Forest, the giants became a scourge with which to strike down the walls and reclaim the land for the wilderness. To Lathander Morninglord, the end of the city brought with it the possibility for a glorious new kingdom to arise from the torched houses and fractured columns. Talos viewed the promised destruction of the Keep as a desirable end in itself, while Tyr judged the annihilation of Cyric’s faithful to be just punishment for their disregard of law and justice. The process was exhausting and often tedious, but before long the members of the pantheon had been convinced Cyric’s strife was a glorious victory for their cause and their faithful.

Now, as night began her slow retreat from Faerun, the Lady of Mysteries stood in the courtyard of her heavenly palace. The castle and the walls protecting it were drawn from the magical weave, pulsing blue-white radiance that flickered like faerie fire in a midnight marsh. Bright penons snapped and fluttered from an infinite number of tall spires. Each flag bore the sigil of a wizard or sage granted a home in Mystra’s realm. In their towers lay workshops, wonderfully strange and arcane places where the faithful freely pursued the more elusive secrets of sorcery denied them by the limits of mortal life.

Dragons of silver and gold perched on the high battlements, and unicorns wandered over the lush, verdant lawn. Other creatures of magic called the palace home, as well. Basilisks and cockatrices roamed the gardens, their eyes masked by special enchantments to prevent them from turning the unwary to stone. A ram-headed sphinx perched near the front gate, exchanging riddles with a couatl. The feathered serpent laughed at some jest and beat the air with its alabaster wings.

Such beasts were not unknown to the mortal realms, but to Gwydion, standing in the center of the courtyard, they were all gloriously new.

In his days as a soldier, Gwydion had heard stories about dragons and sphinxes. The creatures populated the tales told by drunken sell-swords and experienced warriors, men and women who’d traveled outside the civilized confines of cities like Suzail. Some of the stories were true. Others were pure fantasy, yarns in which the mere sighting of a manticore’s tracks was embellished until it became a bloody fight to the death against three of the scorpion-tailed beasts.

Tales like those had helped to lure Gwydion away from his life in Cormyr’s army, drawn him into the unlikely role of mercenary. And though he’d battled more than a few exotic beasts, he’d never encountered creatures as rare and marvelous as the ones gathered before him now. As he watched a phoenix rise high over the palace and spread her fiery wings, the shade realized that neither the bards’ tales nor his imagination had done the enchanted creatures justice. Even after all the pain, all the bloodshed, the mere sight of such wonders had proved enough to remind him that Cyric’s dire city was only a small part of a huge and often glorious universe.

Not everyone in the courtyard shared the shade’s wonder at his surroundings.

“Go pester someone else, blast you!” Gond shouted.

The God of Craft waved a greasy spanner around his head, but the sprites swarming there easily avoided the clumsy swipes. As soon as the Wonderbringer turned back to his work on Gwydion’s armor, they moved close again. The sprites tugged at Gond’s hair and fluttered around the clockwork golems assisting him, dropping daisy chains around their blocky heads. They danced in a circle around the other eight shades whom Cyric had imprisoned in the inquisitor armor.

“Good thing I’m almost done,” the Wonderbringer muttered into his barbed wire beard. “Otherwise I’d set up a swatter to keep you pests away.”

A sprite hovered just over Gond’s pate, silently mocking the burly god. Gwydion couldn’t help but laugh as the tiny spirit screwed a scowl onto its sweet face and curled its gossamer wings into a particularly good imitation of the Wonderbringer’s hunched shoulders.

“What’s so damned funny?” Gond snapped, his iron-gray eyes sparking like steel on flint.

“Laughter is not as unusual in my realm as it is in some others,” Mystra interrupted, shooing away the sprites with one subtle gesture. “I thank you again for your assistance, Wonderbringer. You prove there are things better left to the hammers of your smiths than the spells of my faithful.”

Gond grunted. “If you didn’t realize that, I wouldn’t be here,” he muttered. He never looked up from his task, his eyes focused on the rivets holding Gwydion’s knee cops in place. “Glad you didn’t try to dismantle these suits yourself, though. You would’ve damaged ‘em for sure. Like you said, the workmanship’s too good to be wasted…”

“And we will put it to good use,” Mask said, appearing suddenly at Gwydion’s side.

“I didn’t care what Cyric used ‘em for,” Gond said as he stood. “I don’t care what you use ‘em for.” He tossed the spanner over his shoulder to one of his golems. “Pack it up, boys. We’re done.”

The Wonderbringer turned abruptly for the gate, pausing to acknowledge neither Mystra’s polite thanks nor Mask’s snide remarks about the mechanical lover Gond had created, if certain myths were to be believed. Gwydion watched the God of Craft trudge away. A half-dozen clockwork servants clanked along in his wake, boxes of tools and stray pieces of armor in their viselike hands. Just why the Wonderbringer bothered walking to the gate at all puzzled the shade, and the confusion showed on his face.

“It’s his way of slighting magic,” Mystra said in reply to the unasked question. “By walking out rather than plane shifting, he’s proving he values physical labor over sorcery.”

Mask chuckled. “He’ll shift quick as he’s out of sight, though. Some time you ought to follow him. The old crank would walk all the way back to Concordant just to spite you.”

“And where would that leave the two of us?” Mystra replied coldly. “Gond would be home, and I’d have walked all that way for nothing.”

The Lord of Shadows shook his head. “I thought you’d have learned something from me by now,” he said, the words slithering from his lips. “Ah well. I suppose it’s time we sent the troops off on their merry way.”

Gwydion suppressed a shudder at the thought of returning to the Realm of the Dead. He could almost hear the screaming, taste the bitter smoke that filled the air.

“No one will force you to go,” Mystra said.

“I’ll be all right,” Gwydion said thickly. His teeth and tongue had healed quite a bit since Gond had removed the bit from his mouth, but he still found it difficult to form some words.

Mask sidled up to the shade. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, you know. This armor makes you a match for just about anybody.”

Long and silver and tipped with venom, a knife appeared in the Shadowlord’s hand. The cloak of darkness obscured Mask’s form as he lunged, but that didn’t hamper Gwydion in the least. His gauntleted hand a gold blur, the shade grabbed the god’s wrist and twisted the knife from his grasp.

“See,” the Shadowlord purred. “Quite impressive.”

The second blade left the slightest of cuts on its way across Gwydion’s throat. The shade grabbed at Mask’s other hand, but was far too slow.

The Shadowlord slithered out of Gwydion’s grasp. “But don’t be overconfident. You’re no good to us with your head rolling around on the ground.”

“Enough games,” Mystra said. “It’s almost dawn at Zhentil Keep.”

“Ah yes,” Mask said brightly. He gestured to the other armored shades. “Hades awaits.”

Gwydion and his fellows formed a ragged line. Together they resembled the figures from some children’s storybook romance, shining knights ready to embark upon a heroic quest. Gond had scoured away Cyric’s foul holy symbols, removed the hooks and razors from the armor. That didn’t make the knights less intimidating, though. They still stood as tall as ogres, even without their great horned helmets.

“Remember,” Mystra said, coming to stand before the gathered knights. “Your task is to stir up the False and free the Faithless from the wall.”

“Pardon, milady,” Gwydion ventured, “but it’d be best to leave the Faithless where they are until the battle’s over. They’ll be too weak to fight right after they get free.”

“The voice of experience?” Mask asked snidely. “Or were you a general in your mortal days?”

Gwydion frowned. “I was only a grunt in the Purple Dragons - but yes, I spent time in the wall.”

Mystra cut in before Mask could reply. “Then we shall heed your advice, Gwydion. Focus your attentions on rallying the False. Strike against their jailors, and they’ll rise up to support you.”

When Mask spoke next, all the shades were startled to find the Patron of Thieves standing right in front of them. It was as if he’d stepped out of their own shadows. “We have a spy within Cyric’s house, and she’s been priming the mob with thoughts of revolt. You only need strike the spark. The oil has already been poured upon the tinder.” He glanced at the Goddess of Magic. “It’s time we gird them for battle, don’t you think?”

The Lady of Mysteries spread her hands wide, and a sword appeared in the air before each of the knights. Blue fire limned the blades. “These weapons will serve you well, even against the beasts that call Cyric master.”

As one, the knights reached out to take the swords, but Gwydion’s vanished before he could grasp the hilt.

“I was hoping you would accept a blade from me,” said a deep, booming voice.

Torm the True strode forward, a bejeweled scabbard in his hands. “This is the blade of Alban Onire, a weapon called Titanslayer by some. I have taken it from the holy knight’s final resting place. Once you were deceived with visions of this blade. It would be just for you to wield it against the deceiver.” Slowly the God of Duty held the scabbarded sword out to Gwydion.

The shade paused. “No,” he said. “If you couldn’t rescue me from the City of Strife, the weapon is not for me.”

“A fine choice, Gwydion,” Mask whispered. “Never trust a man who says he can be trusted. Cyric taught me that. The Prince of Lies has a fine understanding of many things, and the truth behind Truth is one of them.”

Torm frowned. “Praising Cyric, Mask? If you didn’t lust after his kingdom, I’d wonder whose side you were on.”

The Shadowlord slid behind Mystra and hissed in her ear, “You left your gates open to the other gods when we’re mustering a rebel army?”

“I’ve told you before, my kingdom is always open to Cyric’s foes,” Mystra said.

“Especially in times of war,” Torm added. He smiled at the Lady of Mysteries, the twinkle in his blue eyes almost mischievous. “But you look surprised to see me. Come, come. You’re sending one who would be my knight off to battle my enemy’s minions. You can’t expect me to just stand aside and watch.”

“How did you know?” Mystra asked.

“I am called Torm the True for a reason, Lady. What you told me about the doom of Zhentil Keep had the ring of truth about it, but it was faint, as if I were hearing only half the chord.” He scowled at Mask. “I realized then that you must be moving armies in the shadows. It’s common enough knowledge that you’ve been trafficking with this snake.”