Prince of Lies (43 page)

They kissed, and as their mortal-seeming facades embraced, their spirits curled together in a far more intimate union.

“Come, Binder,” Torm said. “We have other duties to attend to.” He stalked away from Kelemvor and Mystra, puzzlement clear on his handsome features.

The Patron of Bards spared the armored god a wry smile. “You should mark these lovers well, Your Holiness,” Oghma said, “not flee them. They are the stuff of poetry, of song.”

“There are songs about my knights, as well,” Torm corrected. “Fine, heroic lays that steel a heart for battle.”

“I’ve heard them,” Oghma drawled. “Nothing but Zhentish limericks when compared to a sonnet meant to steal a heart for romance.” He chuckled at his own cleverness. “Maybe that’s what’s been wrong with us all these eons, no sense of passion. You should instruct your faithful to belt out a paean to a loved one each morning - you know, a song to their horses or their swords…”

Torm ignored the barb and made his way to Gwydion. The shade kneeled at the base of the diamond wall, Titanslayer held point-down before him in a show of humility.

“I have done my duty, Your Holiness,” Gwydion said. “I raised my sword against his minions.”

“Your deeds are known to me,” the God of Duty replied, “Look upon my hands, Gwydion. Tell me what you see.”

The shade lifted his eyes, saw the reddish light from the sky warp over Torm’s gauntlets. Tiny runes covered the burnished metal, symbols and glyphs of a thousand forgotten languages. Yet as Gwydion stared, the letters burned themselves into his consciousness, shouted their meaning to him on the voices of angels.

“I - I can understand them all, Your Holiness,” Gwydion whispered. Tears streamed down his face as he repeated the myriad words for duty and loyalty.

Torm raised the shade up from the dirt. “Come, Sir Gwydion, I’m certain Lord Kelemvor will free you from this place. You’ve proven yourself more than worthy of my kingdom.”

“I will obediently follow your commands, Holiness,” the knight said humbly. “But I would ask a boon of you.”

“Go on,” Torm said. “It is my duty to listen to the pleas of my faithful.”

“I want to be mortal again,” Gwydion said. “I ask only for the days and months I had left when my cowardice drew Cyric to me that afternoon in Than I wish to live that time, however long it may be, as an honorable man.”

The shade’s impassioned plea had drawn the attention of the other gods. “I will release any claims this kingdom has upon his soul,” Kelemvor announced. “Gwydion dared stand against Cyric. Without him, the cur might have escaped into the city.”

Oghma cleared his throat. “If you’ll forgive my earlier impertinence, Your Holiness, might I suggest a quest that your knight could undertake?” He sidled close to the God of Duty. “One of my faithful has taken on the dangerous task of carrying the Cyrinishad. Perhaps you could charge brave Gwydion to watch over her.”

Torm rubbed his cleft chin. “If Cyric still lives, he will most certainly seek the book. Who better to guard its keeper than a knight who has stood against the Prince of Lies before? Tell me, Binder, where is this guardian now?” “I don’t know,” Oghma murmured. “I’ve given her a holy symbol that hides her from the gods and all magical scrying.”

The God of Duty turned to Gwydion. “As usual, we are left to fulfill our sacred tasks chained by the foolishness of others. The Binder will give you a mental image of the woman and the book she carries. You’ll have to do the rest on your own.” He clapped the shade on the shoulder. “No other of my knights could be more worthy of this quest, Sir Gwydion. I know you will pursue it with honor and courage.”

Gwydion gasped when Rinda appeared in his thoughts. Pale skin, dark curls, and intense, sea-green eyes - he’d seen this woman before somewhere. Or perhaps it was the determined cast to her features that marked them as kindred spirits. I’ll find out which soon enough, he realized joyfully.

A burst of silver radiance settled over Gwydion the Quick. After bowing to his god, he began his long run back to the mortal realms.

The sounds of a solemn procession had begun to drift over the diamond walls, curling over the noisome waters of the Slith. Jergal appeared at Kelemvor’s side, almost as if he’d been carried to the keep by the mournful chanting.

The ghostly seneschal held a roll of blank parchment in his gloved hands. Even before Jergal spoke, Kelemvor knew that the time had come for him to take up his mantle as Judge of the Damned. Soldiers and sell-swords and sick old merchants - the False and the Faithless had arrived in the Realm of the Dead to hear their fates proclaimed.

As the first of the shades shuffled into the courtyard, Kelemvor turned his mind to the decaying heap of Bone Castle. With a thought, he recast the twisted tower as a beautiful spire of crystal, a palace more suited to a god who intended to hide nothing from his faithful.

From that day forward, Kelemvor’s court shone from within those clear, sparkling walls, a beacon of law and compassion on the dark plains of Hades. And all those who looked upon the tower knew that justice had finally come to the Realm of the Dead.

In a hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric awoke. The lamentations of every mortal in Faerun, the sobs of the desperate and the keening of the brokenhearted, found their way to that lonely place sooner or later. And the cold winds that blew through the endless labyrinth warped those plaintive cries, transforming them into a weird symphony, rich with the chords of madness.

As he rose from the smooth-hewn floor, Cyric became aware of a shadow - his shadow - moving with him. Darker than the utter darkness surrounding it, the shape mimicked the fallen god’s actions, but not his form. The Burning Men had left their mark upon Cyric, scarred him so deeply that no magics could mask the ragged brands on his hands and face. Yet the shadow suffered none of these imperfections, its outline smooth and perfect.

In the overgrown garden that was Cyric’s mind, the shadow’s voice murmured soothingly - at least, the soft words seemed to come from the dark form trailing him.

The jabbering of his faithful and the cold, sharp complaints of his myriad selves made it difficult for Cyric to tell for certain. And before he could consider the notion further, the thoughts racing through his mind drew him away to other, more vital matters.

There was a new kingdom to build. After all, Cyric was still a deity - God of Strife and Intrigue, Patron of Murder. As such, he deserved a palace of suitable size to accommodate his horde of worshipers, a mammoth treasure house to store the spoils of his victorious war against Mystra and the Circle of Greater Powers.

The Prince of Lies waved his tattered hand, and a fortress began to construct itself there in the howling darkness. Yet as the foundation settled into the tunnel and the first few night-black stones piled themselves one upon the other, the shape of the keep changed, altered to suit Cyric’s ever-shifting desires. The castle became a single tower, high and twisting, then a pyramid, a final redout from which the God of Strife could plot his revenge upon the traitors who had usurped the Realm of the Dead.

The redout vanished, too, when the fawning voices in Cyric’s head reminded him that Mystra had merely done his will in bringing the City of Strife to revolt. No longer would he be forced to waste time judging the damned, listening to their simpering excuses, meting out feeble punishments set down ages ago by gods with little imagination for cruelty. No, Cyric had forced them to take command of the loathsome place and set the title Lord of the Dead like an unbreakable stock on the shoulders of someone else. As always, the pantheon had been puppets, playing the parts Cyric created for them.

For an instant, the Prince of Lies heard the babel of voices in his head chime harmonious agreement. None of them could deny his absolute supremacy over all the gods in Faerun. The Cyrinishad proved the truth of that, and Cyric himself had read the tome very carefully.

All across the mortal realms, a disembodied smile appeared in the most squalid alleys and haunted, shadow-draped woods. Broad and sharp, glinting like a straight razor in the moonlight, it hinted at the mad god’s pleasure with a world well-suited to become his earthly kingdom. The true meaning of the apparitions eluded even the most gifted oracles. They wove dire but vague prophecies around the chilling visions, but, as was their wont, the men and women of Faerun heeded them little and went on with their chaotic, mundane lives.

In the hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric began to laugh. The world was doomed, but it kept running anyway.