Prince of Lies - James Lowder [117]
"Another job well done," Cyric sighed as he gathered up his book. "There won't be time for anyone else to read this by morning, but I want you to take it to the main temple for safekeeping. At the dawn service, you are to read the final section to the faithful."
Fzoul bowed as he took the heavy volume. "As you wish, Your Magnificence."
"Yes, fine," the Prince of Lies said, irritation creeping into his voice. "The reading will be the final part of the ceremony, and you must be finished by sunrise." Cyric paused and stared at the top of Fzoul's bowed head. "This is hardly the sport it once was. I almost miss your futile anger. Ah, well. Can't be helped."
With a final glance at Rinda's corpse, the Lord of the Dead readied himself to leave. "Burn this place to the ground," he said as his incarnation faded from view. "Use the Binder's book to start the blaze."
No sooner had Cyric disappeared than Fzoul tossed the Cyrinishad onto the desktop and rushed to Rinda's side.
"What do you think you're doing?" the book shrieked.
A silver chain appeared around the tome, filling the skull's mouth like a gag.
"You didn't need to hurt her so badly," Oghma snapped as he appeared in the center of the room. He glanced at the Cyrinishad to be certain his enchantment was holding then turned back toward Rinda. "Can you save her?"
Fzoul smirked. "I know how to gut-stab someone so they'll take hours to die," he said, though the voice coming from his lips was now the Shadowlord's sibilant hiss. "But I need to get rid of this ham-fisted disguise first."
The priest's shadow darkened, grew more substantial, as if Fzoul's lifeforce were pouring from his body into the blackness. It rose then, towering over both the priest and the fallen scribe. Shadows from around the room flowed toward Mask. They merged around him to form his ever-shifting cloak. "Are you keeping your shield up over the place?" the Shadowlord asked.
"If he bothers to look, Cyric will see Fzoul preparing to set the building ablaze," the Binder said. "What about Rinda's shade? Cyric said his denizens were waiting."
"Already taken care of," Mask said smugly. He pushed Fzoul out of the way and kneeled by Rinda's side. At a touch of his hand, the bleeding stopped and her chalk-white face began to show a little color. "I sent an old friend of Fzoul's in her stead. You remember Lord Chess, don't you? I think he'll rather enjoy being a woman for a while – well, he might have if Cyric hadn't planned such a nasty reception for Rinda." His eyes narrowed, and a hint of true concern slipped into his voice. "She'd better hope she never falls into his hands…"
"She won't," Oghma said. Gently he lifted Rinda from the floor and carried her to a table, which transformed into a padded couch as he lowered her toward it. "And you, Fzoul, how do you fare?"
The priest now lay on his back, hands pressed tightly on his temples. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I can't tell if this pounding in my head is going to stop or not."
"It will," Mask said. "I had to let you feel some real pain or Cyric might have caught on. Human screams are tough to mimic convincingly."
"Give me the knife back and we can practice on you for awhile," Fzoul said. He sat up with a groan then fell to examining his broken nose.
"You're just fortunate I set up that construct to save your mind," Mask noted. "The book would have made you another of Cyric's mindless drones."
Oghma looked again at the tome. The skull was trying to spit the chain from its mouth, intent on calling its master. "We have to destroy it somehow."
"Not now, we don't," Mask said. He seemed to float as he came toward the Patron of Bards, buoyed by the intrigue of the day. "Cyric set some powerful wards on the thing, too powerful to be broken in any simple fashion. No, it would be best to get the book out of the city and worry about it later – after the battle."
"What battle?" Fzoul said. "You said yourselves Cyric doesn't intend to let the giants attack the city."
"But we do," the Shadowlord replied. "Those brutes are