Prince of Lies - James Lowder [115]
"Set him back at the desk," Cyric said. "But use one of those rags to clean him off first. We wouldn't want him leaving his blood all over the pages. No, I'd better take care of that…" He gestured at Fzoul, and the blood stopped gushing from his nose, disappeared from his hands and face.
Rinda helped Fzoul to his feet. The priest's nose bent awkwardly at the bridge, and bruises circled both eyes like a highwayman's mask. At first he accepted the scribe's help. When he saw the pity in her eyes, though, Fzoul savagely shoved her away. Alone, he staggered the last few feet to the desk.
"He's always been an ungrateful lout," Cyric said as he gently lifted Rinda from the floor. He turned to the red-haired priest. "And don't think of skipping a single word," he rumbled.
Petulantly Cyric lashed out with Godsbane. The flat of the blade struck Fzoul on the ear; the short sword pulsed brightly, hungrily, then calmed to its normal rosy hue. "He's not for you, my love," the Prince of Lies cooed as he sheathed the blade. "Not unless the book fails to convince him of my greatness."
Fzoul had a single gathering left to read, the section devoted to Cyric's final vision of the world. The panic had fled his features, replaced by a stoic resignation to his fate, like a cobra mesmerized by a charmer's pipes, he began to sway as he read the tome's final words: This is the immutable word of Cyric, Lord of the Dead and Prince of Lies, long may he reign on earth and in Hades.
The priest slumped forward onto the book, bringing Cyric to his side in three hurried steps. Fzoul didn't resist when the death god pulled him from the chair. His eyes seemed unable to focus, and he returned Cyric's intense stare only vaguely. Yet that pall slipped from Fzoul's face almost as swiftly as it had settled there. It was as if he had recognized the Prince of Lies for the first time.
"Your Magnificence," Fzoul cried, dropping to his knees. He folded his hands together in supplication and bowed.
Cyric rubbed his chin for a moment, skeptically eyeing the prostrate form before him. He raised Fzoul up with a firm hand then stared once more into the priest's eyes.
Rinda watched, horrified but fascinated, as Fzoul shuddered in Cyric's grasp. The death god was probing his convert's mind, looking for some hint of dissent, some pocket of resistance trying to hold out against the book's hypnotic spell. "Well, well," the Lord of the Dead murmured after a time. "You aren't lying, are you?"
Casually Cyric released Fzoul and turned to the scribe. "You've done your job well. One final boon and your work will be complete." He gestured for her to join him at the desk.
As the Prince of Lies closed the Cyrinishad, Rinda saw the covers for the first time. Golden clasps and hinges held the book together, along with a lock wrought of some brightly polished metal the scribe couldn't identify. These stood out sharply against the raven-black leather, which the binders had stamped with hundreds of tiny holy symbols, all grinning skulls and dark suns. Weird patterns warped and flowed across the rest of the leather. At first the designs seemed random, but the longer Rinda looked at them, the more clearly she could see the horrible scenes of torture and grief hidden in the chaos of lines and shapes.
A skull the size of a child's fist dominated the front cover, staring out of the closed book through dark, lifeless sockets. Cyric ran his fingers tenderly over the bones. "Now that the critic has spoken, we must protect the Cyrinishad from tampering – by mortals or gods."
He held out his hand, and a dagger appeared, balanced by the tip on one slender finger. "Don't worry, my dear. This will hardly hurt at all."
Striking as swiftly as a serpent, Cyric grabbed Rinda by the wrist. He drew the blade across her palm before she could react then positioned the wound over the closed book.
The scribe's blood dripped onto the cover, the sizzle of the crimson