Prince of Lies - James Lowder [120]
Normally, one of those young clerics would have seen to Talos, but Adon had banished them from the ward upon Mystra's arrival. With the goddess's avatar strolling about, they wouldn't get any work done anyway, what with all the bowing and praying.
At last the patriarch finished his ministering. As he got to his feet, he turned concern-filled eyes on the goddess. "How many of them do you think are left in the city? Innocents, I mean."
"Five hundred and fourteen, to be precise about it. Most of the people devoted to gods other than Cyric fled the Keep years ago. The ones who stayed either hid their true allegiance or found themselves branded as heretics. There are some secret Tempus worshipers in the army. Quite a few Zhentarim wizards offer prayers to me or Azuth."
"So rescue them yourself," Adon offered. "Just reach down and grab them all before the battle starts."
"Oh, I'll extricate my worshipers from the fight," the goddess said. "But that won't help the faithful of Tymora or Tempus or Lathander."
"Can't you just save them while you're at it?"
"Are you ready to suffer the Circle's wrath because I was meddling beyond the demands of my office?" The Lady of Mysteries shook her head. "They threatened total sanction, Adon. No plants growing in church gardens. No sun in the sky. Everything except magic denied my faithful until I limit my interference with the world."
"But you can explain away your right to make a horde of giants level Zhentil Keep? And your right to start a revolt in the City ofStrife?" the patriarch asked as he moved on to the next bed. The man there slept soundly, wrapped in warm blankets donated by the Lords of Waterdeep. "I'm afraid the divine logic eludes me," he whispered.
Mystra laughed softly. "The spell Cyric took from Oghma's library is forbidden magic, a sorcery created by an ancient god even more foul than Bane and Mask and Cyric lumped together, if you can believe that. The giants and the revolt in the Realm of the Dead are ways for me to prevent the magic from being released. The Circle won't question that reasoning."
They moved away from the beds, toward the center of the room. "You'll have to convince the other gods it's a good thing for Zhentil Keep to fall, but only if they rescue their worshipers," Adon said. "Put your case before the rest of the pantheon in terms they'll have to support."
The priest pointed to Talos. The lunatic had been bathed and clothed in a new smock, but he wasn't tearing out his hair or plucking at the robes, as his madness demanded. His mind was focused on the thin sheet of cloth in his hands. No matter how quickly he destroyed it, a minor enchantment restored the threads to their original weave.
"We couldn't figure out how to stop him from hurting himself," the patriarch said, "but then I remembered what you'd told me about the gods: they can see nothing but the world their minds create." He shrugged. "If Talos here has to destroy things, we have to give him something to work on instead of his clothes or his skin."
The Lady of Mysteries hugged the cleric fiercely, bringing a startled blush to his cheeks. "Of course," she blurted. "It's all perspective! Thank you, Adon."
Mystra disappeared in a swirl of blue-white light. A few of the inmates howled in their sleep at the sudden burst of magic. Even unconscious, their scarred minds recoiled from the thing that had damaged them so horribly.
As Adon stood for a moment, looking out over his wards, a chilling thought worked its way into his mind, a notion born of the lateness of the hour and the weird cries of the inmates. Kelemvor had been imprisoned for a decade by a thing of magic. Wasn't it possible he might despise the Art, or even fear it as much as the poor souls lodged in the asylum? And if that were true, Mystra could be risking everything to rescue someone who might