Prince of Lies - James Lowder [103]
"Again, I must admit to helping the lady with her deception. Rather clever, no?" Mask asked coyly "Just don't tell the rest of the Circle they've been hoodwinked."
The God of Knowledge scowled. He'd already been drawn into the Shadowlord's plans more than he would have liked. Yet with a renewed command of magic, Cyric would certainly discover the conspirators. To protect the cause of knowledge in the mortal realms, Oghma had no choice but to go along with the intrigue.
Or was it simply that the other options had become less expedient?
The image of his library, always so clear and comforting, faded for an instant in Oghma's mind. A void welled up in its place, gray and cold and infinite. Panicked, the Binder focused much of his vast consciousness on recovering the lost image. The sense of purpose, of security, returned quickly enough, but with it came a gnawing dread.
Mask's intrigues and the battle with Cyric had brought Oghma unknowingly to the limits of his domain, to a place where decisions about art and knowledge in the mortal realms couldn't be made with any surety. One wrong step, one act that destroyed more knowledge than it preserved, and he would step across the brink. And from the void that lay beyond, there would be no return, not even for a god.
From the back alleys of Zhentil Keep, harsh words being spoken to another of Oghma's incarnations rippled across his consciousness. His mind latched onto the admonitions, drawing back from the void. Here, at least, was a problem he could solve…
* * * * *
Rinda rocked back and forth, her arms clasped firmly around her knees, her head bowed. She'd been perched in the same position for hours now, though the ache in her back and the cramps in her legs didn't seem to register in her fear-clouded mind. "No hope," she whispered. "No hope."
Her house had become a prison, the only place her patron had deemed safe from Cyric's inquisitors. Apart from the times the Lord of the Dead summoned her to the parchmenter's shop to work on his book, she stayed at home, under the magical shield erected to hide The True life of Cyric from the death god. Rarely eating, never sleeping for more than an hour at a time, Rinda had become a gaunt shadow of her former self.
They've been captured, came a familiar voice. The inquisitors will stalk the Keep no longer.
The harmony in the multitoned words was meant to be comforting, but Rinda found no solace in the sounds. She turned green eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, toward the ceiling. "Did you do it?" she asked.
No. It was one of the other gods. Cyric has many enemies.
"I should've figured you wouldn't do anything so direct." The scribe rested her head on her arms, listening to the cold wind whistle through the cracks in the walls. "Who's left?" she murmured after a time.
Fzoul Chembryl and General Vrakk. And you, of course.
Rinda sighed. So Ivlisar was gone now, too. She'd thought as much. The elf hadn't come to see her in days, almost since Hodur's murder. "Will Fzoul or Vrakk be coming to meet with me again?"
It's unlikely, Rinda. Cyric has regained the use of magic, so I must focus my power on maintaining the shell around this dwelling. You must be protected-
"This isn't about me," the scribe said bitterly. "It's about the book. You just want to be sure it stays hidden from Cyric. If I happen to live here, it's just my good fortune."
She stood and stalked to a large knothole in the wall. From there she gazed out at the street. Snow fell in great white flakes, covering the grimy buildings and the frozen street in a shroud of alabaster lace. A woman, bent nearly double by age or sickness or both, shuffled along, a shawl clutched about her shoulders. A pack of ragged children charged past her. The boys split into two uneven groups and began pelting each other with snowballs; the smaller gang, which was quickly overwhelmed by a hail of snowy missiles, shouted their surrender then dashed off again. They left one small child bloody and