Prince of Lies - James Lowder [13]
"You threaten me!" The God of Duty transformed, his handsome features becoming leonine. "I could slay every pit fiend in your hellish home," he roared.
"But they would keep you occupied for quite some time," Cyric cooed. "Long enough for me to visit your churches in your guise and start a holy war. You wouldn't have the might to stop me, either. After all, Torm, you are only a demipower."
Torm stalked to the edge of the library. His lion's face was locked in an angry snarl. His golden mane bristled around his head like a halo. "You are unfit to be called a greater power." With a flash of blue light, he was gone.
The Fool is lucky he cannot know how dangerous you truly are, Your Magnificence, Jergal noted.
Cyric drew his short sword again and stared intently at the crimson blade. "If he did, I would simply deal with him as I did Bhaal and Myrkul and Leira. In fact, I might kill him anyway. My sword has gained a taste for the blood of gods." He ran his hand gently along the blade. "Haven't you, my love?"
Only if it is blood spilled for you, a seductive, feminine voice purred. The spirit of the sword curled contentedly in the mire of Cyric's consciousness, as dark and vicious as any of the corrupt thoughts lurking in the death god's mind.
II
BOOK OF LIES
Wherein the three hundred ninety-seventh
version of a book detailing Cyric's life receives a
very harsh review indeed, much to the dismay
of the scribes and illuminators
in Zhentil Keep.
Bevis had been an illuminator for fifteen years, and he couldn't think of an instant when he'd enjoyed his job. He hated the perpetual ink stains blotting his fingers. The sour-smelling paints made his eyes run, and he never finished a day's work when his hand wasn't cramped to the wrist. The problem was, Bevis had no other skills he might put to legal use and even less bravado with which to cut himself a niche in Zhentil Keep's sizable and thriving underworld.
And so he plodded through the days, providing artistic embellishments for dull collections of sermons, tedious accounts of local battles, and pompous autobiographies by guildmasters hoping to buy a place in Zhentish history. Bevis found the work he did on penitentials a bit less tiresome. Such books detailed the penance demanded for various sins and usually contained vivid scenes of denizens torturing souls in the City of Strife – just in case the faithful needed to be reminded of the penalties for shirking. Like all the other miniatures Bevis drew, the horrific images originated in a pattern book. Still, copying denizens was more interesting than repeatedly scribbling the holy symbol of Mask on cheap paper intended for thieves' guild ransom notes.
The volume in Bevis's uninspired care at the moment had snared his attention more completely than even the most gruesome penitential. He'd been hired by the Church of Cyric to clean up the gatherings of finished pages before they went to the stationer for binding; even with the mysterious shortage of scribes and illuminators in Zhentil Keep, the clerics had rudely informed Bevis that his skill wasn't up to standards to provide any borders or miniatures for this important work. After scanning the first few pages, he was inclined to agree.
The parchment was the finest he'd ever seen, thin and flexible and textured perfectly to hold ink and paint. Ornate display scripts written in bold red ink called out the intention of each new section. Weird borders of bestial denizens lurked around the text, apparently warning the squeamish reader away from the knowledge they guarded. Large squares of rubbed gold foil served as backdrop for the miniatures. The most elaborate of these depicted cities under siege by unnatural monsters and the gods themselves being cast from the heavens.
"Ah, the Time of Troubles," the illuminator whispered then nervously scanned the cavernous room surrounding him.
The priests had gone back to the warmth of the temple long ago, leaving Bevis alone