Prince of Lies - James Lowder [141]
Magnificence, you must turn your mind back to this realm, Jergal pleaded. You must give over just a little of your power to maintaining the castle.
"Traitor!" Cyric shouted as they entered the throne room. "There must be a traitor in my ranks."
Yes, Godsbane echoed numbly. A traitor…
A few of the Burning Men reached out for the Lord of the Dead as Jergal hustled him toward his gruesome throne. Like everything else maintained by Cyric's godly power, the chains that held the tormented scribes to the walls and ceiling were decaying. The three hundred ninety-eight burning souls, all men and women who had failed to create the Cyrinishad, hung precariously by an arm or a leg or rolled about on the floor in a vain attempt to douse the fires that tortured them.
"Perhaps you can tell me something about the treachery in my court, Jergal," Cyric said. He turned on the seneschal and gripped him by the face. "What did Mystra offer you – a new title, perhaps? Do you aspire to godhood yourself?"
Certainly not, Your Magnificence, Jergal said, shaking free of the death god's grasp. I exist to serve the master ofBoneCastle.
A sinister lucidity settled in Cyric's eyes, and the room ceased trembling. "If you would serve anyone who sits this throne, you cannot be loyal to me only." He grinned. "Therefore you must be the traitor."
The Lord of the Dead drew Godsbane and advanced a step toward the seneschal. The short sword looked sickly in the shifting light cast by the Burning Men, its bone-white pallor darkening to the gray of twilight shadows. No, my love, she whispered. I cannot allow you to slay your only loyal minion.
"What?" Cyric roared. He held the blade up to his eyes, as if he could look inside its steely depths. "You cannot 'allow' me?"
There is a traitor at your side, my love, but it's not Jergal. Godsbane's voice quavered, straining to form each painful word. Not everything is as it seems.
Jergal hovered close. Please, Your Magnificence. Rest yourself in the throne for a time. Gather your thoughts so you can drive the-
"Get out!" Cyric shouted. He spared the seneschal a brief, anger-filled glance. "Now!"
I will see to the defense of the entry hall. Jergal bowed formally and retreated from the throne room.
The Prince of Lies stared at the short sword, turning it over in his hands, examining it from every angle. "What have you been keeping from me, Godsbane?" he rumbled. "The identity of the traitor?"
Yes, the spirit of the blade replied. Her voice had become more masculine, slick with sibilants. I see now how wrong I was to do so, but I've helped the other gods plot against you.
"Impossible," Cyric shouted. "I broke your will after I stole you from Black Oaks. I was only a mortal then, and I defeated you in mental combat. You couldn't turn against me."
You never bested me.
"Lies!" Cyric held the sword high over his head, one hand on the hilt, the other on the tip. With a scream of anger, he snapped Godsbane in two.
A blue-white ball of light formed around the break in the blade. For an instant, the glow hovered like faerie fire in front of Cyric, dancing along the sword's edges. Then it swelled, filling the throne room with its brilliance. The explosion crushed the death god's trophies to dust, splintered his throne of misguided martyrs.
When the light subsided, a shadow-wrapped figure lay before the Prince of Lies, its back broken, tears welling in its rose-red eyes. "Ah, my love, I was a fool to betray you." Cyric dropped the sundered blade. "You." The black mask had fallen away from the Shadowlord's face, revealing features that shifted and warped like the cloak of darkness that hid its form. A soft, feminine visage coarsened into a man's. An aquiline nose blunted into bulbousness, flattened, then narrowed and turned up daintily at the end. Only two features on Mask's face remained constant: the god's glowing red eyes and the pale fangs extruding from his lips. "If I had read the Cyrinishad sooner, realized your greatness before it