Prince of Lies - James Lowder [119]
After he slipped the chain around Rinda's neck, Oghma turned to Mask. "Come, Shadowlord. We've much to do." With that he was gone.
Mask lingered a moment longer. "Remember all I've told you, Fzoul. I'll be there tomorrow if you call upon me."
The priest stepped forward boldly. "You can't allow the Binder to throw the book away."
"Throw it away?" the Shadowlord asked. His red eyes glittered playfully.
"She couldn't turn aside a simple knife," Fzoul said, his face flushing beneath his blackened eyes. "How will she protect herself against an assassin's blade? Cyric is Lord of Murder, after all. All the assassins in the world answer his call."
Mask glanced around the room, astonished to find he could see neither the scribe nor the book. "The knife that struck her a moment ago was wielded by a god, Fzoul, not a mortal. Even then, she very nearly blocked the strike. Could you do the same?"
The priest was not so easily deterred. "The next blade she faces could be Godsbane. Cyric killed two gods with that sword. What chance does a scribe have against that? At least I'd have my spells to protect me."
Mask paused, suddenly baffled. "Only two gods?"
"Bhaal and Leira," Fzoul said. "What others?"
"Oh, er, none," the Shadowlord said abruptly. He gestured vaguely around the room. "If you want the Cyrinishad so badly, Fzoul, then you should try to take it. Wait until the ceremony's over, though. If she kills you, you'd be hard to replace with such little notice."
Mask slipped into the priest's shadow and vanished.
As still as a statue, Rinda stood in the center of the room. She'd wrapped the Cyrinishad in rags and tied them tightly with some frayed rope. In all, the bundle looked no more or less important than any other beggar's pack. When Fzoul took a step toward her, she raised a hand to ward him off, but kept her eyes fixed on the priest's shadow, where Mask had disappeared.
"Don't worry," Fzoul said. "I think Mask's right. We'll leave things be for now, but after the battle-"
Rinda merely continued to stare.
"What's wrong?"
"You heard him. Mask knows Cyric didn't kill Bane and Myrkul, as the Cyrinishad claims. But he almost disagreed with you." The scribe held the ragged bundle away from her, as if it were crawling with venomous spiders. "Cyric made the book so its enchantment works on gods, too."
XVII
GIANTS ON THE DOORSTEP
Wherein Gwydion the Quick is offered the
magical sword that started him on the road to
Hades, Xeno Mirrormane receives his just
reward for serving the Prince of Lies, and a
book of truth brings down the walls of
Zhentil Keep – with considerable help
from an army of monsters.
"He's a lunatic," Adon said. "Honestly. Cyric belongs in here more than some of the inmates." He gestured to an empty bed. "Maybe we can find room for him, though I'm pretty certain the others wouldn't like him very much."
Mystra smiled at her patriarch's fervor, at the anger in his eyes as he mulled over the death god's plot to unify Zhentil Keep. "Right now, Cyric's plans don't seem as mad as ours," the Lady of Mysteries sighed. "For the uprising in the City ofStrifeto have the slightest chance of success, the giants and dragons must sack the Keep. We've got to make certain the monsters win, which means innocents will suffer. That's what's troubling me."
Adon kneeled to wipe the face of the wild-eyed man Mystra had named Talos. "Can't sleep again, old fellow? It's pastmidnightyou know."
Since the Goddess of Magic had first brought Adon to the asylum, more than a month past, conditions at the House of the Golden Quill had improved greatly. The priest had devoted much of his time – and more than a little of the church's wealth – to improving the place. From his efforts, the reeking, lightless pit had been transformed into a comforting home for those whose minds had been twisted by misfired enchantments. The asylum remained cold and drafty, to