Prince of Lies - James Lowder [12]
A cry of relief escaped Gwydion's lips. "Thank you, Your Holiness. I knew you wouldn't let a faithful…"
"Don't shower him with praise just yet," Cyric interrupted slyly. "Torm cares nothing for your soul. He has enough power to enter my city uninvited only because you spoke his name aloud. You've provided a convenient way for him to make himself unwelcome in my home."
The anger Torm had been fighting to suppress boiled over. He raised a mailed fist and shook it at the Prince of Lies. "I have a duty to my worshipers. Men call me Torm the True because I value loyalty above all else. They call me-"
"They call you Torm the Brave because you are too stupid to cut your losses and abandon a failed fight," Cyric hissed. "I know the litany quite well. I repeated it rather dramatically to Gwydion in Thar not too long ago."
Torm took a menacing step toward Cyric, who still had not risen from his chair. "We get to the meat of the matter quickly. That's unlike you."
"Ah, you came here to inform me you are unflattered by my impersonation." The Prince of Lies laughed. "It was quite good, I assure you. Apart from the sword, I had you to a T." He stood and stretched. "Still, I'll give you a chance to save this poor, abused soul."
"You admit your sins?" Torm asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Gwydion is free to leave?"
"I admit nothing," Cyric said, "but I'll give you the chance to rescue this would-be Tormite." He kicked Af out of the way and raised Gwydion by the shackles. "Before you take him under your armored wing, though, you must convince me he will have a home with your faithful. I cannot release a soul from my realm without such a guarantee."
"If not with me," Torm began, "then with-"
"You cannot speak for the other gods, Torm. I'm surprised you would be bold enough to try."
The God of Duty flushed. He turned his steady gaze on Gwydion and said, "I can offer you sanctuary, but only if you are truly one of my faithful. Will you prove your devotion to me?"
The shade stepped forward, away from the cringing denizens and the weird, silent seneschal. "Of course," he said.
Torm straightened his fingers and held his hands out, palms to the floor. The sickly glow from the windows revealed myriad tiny runes carved into his gauntlets: on the right hand, the word for duty in every language ever known; on the left, the same for loyalty.
It was whispered that Torm could be destroyed if all those words were lost. To prevent this disaster, some Tormish novices spent their first year of servitude sequestered in tiny cells, where they repeated one of the words for duty or loyalty, mantralike, throughout their waking hours. The most devoted of them even kept up their assigned chant in their sleep.
"Read any word from either gauntlet," Torm said solemnly.
Gwydion squinted at the armor then looked up at the God of Duty. "I… I see no writing, Your Holiness."
A genuine sadness filled Torm's eyes. "The pact I have with my church is clear, Gwydion the Quick. I cannot accept your soul if you cannot pass this simple test." The anger returned then, flaring hotly. He faced Cyric. "You will pay for this. I'll make certain of that."
The Prince of Lies turned his back on the armored god and walked slowly to his chair. "Af, Perdix, take Gwydion and stick him in the wall. Watch over him until I summon you again."
Silently Gwydion looked to Torm for aid, but the God of Duty shook his head. All the shade's hopes died. Head down, he let the denizens lead him away without a struggle.
As soon as the prisoner had left the room, Cyric waved a hand, idly dismissing Torm. "Go on, report his punishment to the Circle. I know perfectly well the wall is reserved for the Faithless. I put the worm there for one reason: I want you to know for the rest of eternity you made things worse for him by sticking your square jaw where it didn't belong."
"The law that governs-"
"My whim is law in the City ofStrife," Cyric snapped. "You'd be well-served to remember