Prince of Lies - James Lowder [113]
In three days, Zhentil Keep had become a grim reflection of Cyric's realm in Hades – at least as he'd described the City ofStrifein the Cyrinishad. The Prince of Lies had dictated the last chapter in that cursed tome in the hours before the temple statues came to life. In it, he described his dream of a world with no other gods. More than any section of the Cyrinishad, the words from this chilling fancy had burned themselves into Rinda's mind:
The chains of Hypocrisy will fall away, and man will be free to act upon his instincts, the only trustworthy guides in this world of strife and despair. The prison whose four walls are Honor, Loyalty, Philanthropy, and Sacrifice will be shattered by the sword of Self-Interest and the mace of Greed. Even now the warriors who take up these weapons first and wield them with the surest hand triumph over all others. Loosed from the fetters of Righteousness, all men will be set on a level battlefield, made free to cut their own destiny from the bleak cloth of life.
Cities will burn and rivers run crimson with the blood of those too foolish to see the truth. Pyres of unbelievers will color the sky yellow with their greasy smoke, and the wind will carry the stench of death to every corner of the globe. But those who follow me will build new cities upon the ruins of the old, places where anyone can be king – so long as he has the temerity to take up a blade against his brother and demand everything owed him by the world…
Though the warp and weave of Cyric's brutish tapestry stayed with Rinda, she'd distanced herself from his foul vision with a firm belief that civilization wouldn't fall so easily. After all, she herself had taken a stand against the death god. And there were others battling Cyric – both mortals and immortals. Once they distributed The True Life of Cyric, perhaps even more would flock to their banner of Truth and Freedom.
As she pushed open her front door, the scribe was wondering what Oghma had in mind for The True Life. Like the death god's tome, the Binder's history had been completed on the Day of Dark Oracles.
All thoughts of the God of Knowledge and The True Life of Cyric fled to the deepest, most guarded part of her mind when she saw the two men awaiting her return.
"My dear," said Cyric. "You look like you've seen a ghost" He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't tell me one of my minions followed me from home."
"N – No, Your Magnificence," Rinda stammered. She adopted the facade of unquestioning, somewhat dimwitted loyalty she used whenever she was in Cyric's presence. "It's just that – uh, one of my neighbors was murdered – I mean, he was marked as a heretic and-"
"Yes, the fletcher," the Prince of Lies drawled. "His son is an exemplary citizen, don't you agree?" He waved the question away. "Of course you do. You know you really shouldn't be surprised to find people in your living room, not when you leave your door unlocked in a neighborhood like this."
"So I've been told," Rinda said numbly.
The death god turned to the other man in the room. "I didn't tell you to stop reading, Fzoul."
The red-haired cleric looked up at Rinda, fear making his hard mouth twitch. He sat at her desk, a thick volume open before him. The lantern at his side cast long shadows across his features, masking his eyes and mouth with dark bands. "The woman deserves an explana-"
Cyric tapped Fzoul sharply with Godsbane, as if the sword were a pointer and he a stern lecturer at some temple school. "I'll decide what the woman deserves," he murmured.
"The illuminators and