Prince of Lies - James Lowder [114]
"It's your book, as well, my dear," the Prince of Lies said. "And yes, it's complete. I had the other craftsmen working on the pages as you completed them." He smiled wickedly. "I'm just fulfilling an old promise to Fzoul here, allowing him to be the first mortal to read the finished draft."
"The first mortal?" Rinda asked. She slipped her cloak off and let it drop carelessly to the floor. "Have you read it, then?"
Cyric resumed his nervous pacing around the cramped room. "From cover to cover," he replied breathlessly. "A magnificent job. You captured my brilliance on every page."
The Lord of the Dead dragged the tip of Godsbane along the floor as he walked, scoring a deep furrow in the creaking boards. "We need the illuminations for the rubes who can't read, of course, but the drawings have never been much of a problem. We had them right after the third or fourth version."
Cyric paused when a floorboard rattled loose, and Rinda's heart skipped a beat. The manuscript of The True Life was hidden on the ground there, wrapped tightly in leather. The Lord of the Dead didn't bother to look into the crack, though. He pushed the board back into place with a boot heel and stomped it tight.
"But you've been the only one to get the words down well, at least that's the way it seemed to me after I read it. Fzoul here will be the real critic."
Rinda fought back the urge to call out in her mind for Oghma, to send a silent prayer to the God of Knowledge. Cyric would surely hear any such plea and deal with them harshly. Besides, the Binder knew the death god had her trapped, at least he did if he were still watching over her.
"Where were you?"
The scribe looked up, only to find Cyric standing at her side. His red cloak flowed around him like flame, swirling and dancing on the cold eddies that shot up from the floorboards. The lantern light made his eyes glitter. His breath held the slightest hint of brimstone as he whispered, "Aiding the church in their hunt for traitors, perhaps?"
Rinda felt the color drain from her face. "Food," she blurted. "I was looking for food."
"But you came back with nothing? Ah, yes: wartime shortages." Cyric spread his hands wide as the realization came to him. "Sieges are like that. The rich eat venison, and the poor eat each other."
At a gesture from the death god, a mound of food appeared on a table: a jug of sweet cider, a steaming leg of lamb, piles of strawberries, and a still-warm loaf of bread. There you are," the Prince of Lies said. "You only need to ask."
Her stomach rumbled and tightened at the sight of so much food. There was little enough gruel and stale water to be had in the Keep, especially in the slums, and this was a feast suited to a nobleman's table. Rinda glanced at Cyric, who nodded his patronizing approval.
As Rinda ate, the death god continued to pace around the room. He idly chipped away at furniture with Gods-bane and thumped the rafters, sending rats scurrying for better cover. The vermin seemed to recognize the God of Strife. They paused and deferentially nodded their mangy, pointed snouts to him before scampering off.
The scribe finished eating quickly. A few mouthfuls of bread and a strawberry or two filled her to contentment, and she fell to watching the Lord of the Dead. After every few steps Cyric would look anxiously at Fzoul or gift Rinda with a deprecating smile. There was a tension in his movements Rinda hadn't seen before, a tick at the corner of his mouth when he forced away the grim scowl.
So focused was Rinda on watching Cyric that Fzoul's piercing scream made her leap to her feet. The jug of cider rolled from the table. Its sharp crash underscored the priest's long wail of despair.
"Please," Fzoul cried. He pushed away from the desk and got to his feet. "Don't make me finish it. I can feel the words eating into my brain."
Fzoul lurched drunkenly toward Rinda.