Prince of Lies - James Lowder [118]
The priest snapped his nose back into line, then shook his head violently to drive away the tears of pain coursing down his cheeks. "I suppose I have no choice in the matter?"
"You always have a choice," Oghma said.
Mask leaned over the priest's shoulder. "Of course you do," he whispered. "In this case, you either go along with us or we let Cyric know the book didn't work on you. I'm certain he'll get it right the second time around."
Sighing, Fzoul got to his feet. "What do I do?"
"You'll address the faithful tomorrow, just as Cyric wants," Mask began. He circled Fzoul as he spoke, an owl waiting for a field mouse to twitch in the dark. "Except you'll read them the final section of Oghma's book. It tells how our Prince of Lies intends to dupe the city. When everyone hears how Cyric created the menace in the first place… well, more than a few people will be sorely disappointed in their would-be savior."
"That won't bring the giants down on the city," Fzoul rumbled. "That'll just get me killed. Don't you think Cyric will be listening to this ceremony?"
"We know he will not – indeed cannot – pay careful attention to what you say, Fzoul Chembryl." Oghma had begun to gather up the scattered pages of The True Life. He handed a bundle to the priest. "Cyric needs the city's desperate worship to power a spell. That's the point of the dawn ceremony, to focus that power. But to use it, he must meditate, point all the facets of his mind to the grail of his quest."
"Lyonsbane's soul," Fzoul murmured.
"Exactly," Mask said. "In other words, when you give your little lecture to the masses, Cyric will have his eyes closed."
Fzoul straightened the gatherings and set them on a chair. "And that's when you start the revolt in the City ofStrife." He drummed his fingers nervously on the pages from The True Life. "I'm still not happy about moving into the open."
"I'll be there to protect you," Mask offered with exaggerated deference. "If you take up my holy symbol, Fzoul, I'll serve you well. After all, Bane has been dead the past ten years, and you still mourn him. Isn't it time you got on with your life?"
"Perhaps," the priest said then pushed past Mask to pick up the last of the scattered gatherings. "Let's see where we stand at sunset tomorrow, Shadowlord."
"That still leaves the matter of the Cyrinishad," Oghma noted, the chords in his voice somber.
"I'll take it," Rinda said softly. "I wrote the damned thing, I should be the one to deal with it now." She struggled to sit up, one hand pressed against her stomach to ease the throbbing.
Fzoul scowled. "That's absurd. How are you supposed to guard it?"
"You'd be a better choice, I suppose?" the scribe snapped. "Oghma, you can't let this powerful an artifact fall into the hands of the Zhentarim. They'd try to twist it to their purposes, and we both know it can only be used to destroy true knowledge."
"I think the matter is settled," the God of Knowledge said, and Mask did not contradict him.
The Binder held out a glittering holy symbol to the scribe. The small scroll was wrought of a single pure diamond and fit comfortably into the palm of her hand. "You are now guardian of the Cyrinishad," Oghma said solemnly. "This holy symbol will mark you as such to all of my faithful. My churches and monasteries will provide safe haven for you, and my loremasters will give you food and money if you are needy."
"Your clerics won't be able to hide her from Cyric," Fzoul said snidely. "And unless you intend on destroying him in this little revolt, he'll come looking for his book sooner or later."
Oghma nodded. "That likelihood has been foreseen, as well. So long as you wear this holy symbol and remain in the mortal realms, Rinda of the Book, you and the tome will be invisible to all the gods and their divine minions." At the concerned look in her eyes, the Binder nodded. "Even to me. It's best that way."
The scribe got to her feet. "Thank you," she said. Tentatively, she