Prince of Lies - James Lowder [149]
"There are songs about my knights, as well," Torm corrected. "Fine, heroic lays that steel a heart for battle."
"I've heard them," Oghma drawled. "Nothing but Zhentish limericks when compared to a sonnet meant to steal a heart for romance." He chuckled at his own cleverness. "Maybe that's what's been wrong with us all these eons, no sense of passion. You should instruct your faithful to belt out a paean to a loved one each morning – you know, a song to their horses or their swords…"
Torm ignored the barb and made his way to Gwydion. The shade kneeled at the base of the diamond wall, Titan-slayer held point-down before him in a show of humility.
"I have done my duty, Your Holiness," Gwydion said. "I raised my sword against his minions."
"Your deeds are known to me," the God of Duty replied, "Look upon my hands, Gwydion. Tell me what you see."
The shade lifted his eyes, saw the reddish light from the sky warp over Torm's gauntlets. Tiny runes covered the burnished metal, symbols and glyphs of a thousand forgotten languages. Yet as Gwydion stared, the letters burned themselves into his consciousness, shouted their meaning to him on the voices of angels.
"I – I can understand them all, Your Holiness," Gwydion whispered. Tears streamed down his face as he repeated the myriad words for duty and loyalty.
Torm raised the shade up from the dirt. "Come, Sir Gwydion, I'm certain Lord Kelemvor will free you from this place. You've proven yourself more than worthy of my kingdom."
"I will obediently follow your commands, Holiness," the knight said humbly. "But I would ask a boon of you."
"Go on," Torm said. "It is my duty to listen to the pleas of my faithful."
"I want to be mortal again," Gwydion said. "I ask only for the days and months I had left when my cowardice drew Cyric to me that afternoon in Than I wish to live that time, however long it may be, as an honorable man."
The shade's impassioned plea had drawn the attention of the other gods. "I will release any claims this kingdom has upon his soul," Kelemvor announced. "Gwydion dared stand against Cyric. Without him, the cur might have escaped into the city."
Oghma cleared his throat. "If you'll forgive my earlier impertinence, Your Holiness, might I suggest a quest that your knight could undertake?" He sidled close to the God of Duty. "One of my faithful has taken on the dangerous task of carrying the Cyrinishad. Perhaps you could charge brave Gwydion to watch over her."
Torm rubbed his cleft chin. "If Cyric still lives, he will most certainly seek the book. Who better to guard its keeper than a knight who has stood against the Prince of Lies before? Tell me, Binder, where is this guardian now?" "I don't know," Oghma murmured. "I've given her a holy symbol that hides her from the gods and all magical scrying."
The God of Duty turned to Gwydion. "As usual, we are left to fulfill our sacred tasks chained by the foolishness of others. The Binder will give you a mental image of the woman and the book she carries. You'll have to do the rest on your own." He clapped the shade on the shoulder. "No other of my knights could be more worthy of this quest, Sir Gwydion. I know you will pursue it with honor and courage."
Gwydion gasped when Rinda appeared in his thoughts. Pale skin, dark curls, and intense, sea-green eyes – he'd seen this woman before somewhere. Or perhaps it was the determined cast to her features that marked them as kindred spirits. I'll find out which soon enough, he realized joyfully.
A burst of silver radiance settled over Gwydion the Quick. After bowing to his god, he began his long run back to the mortal realms.
The sounds of a solemn procession had begun to drift over the diamond walls, curling over the noisome waters of the Slith. Jergal appeared at Kelemvor's side, almost as if he'd been carried to the keep by the mournful chanting.
The ghostly seneschal held a roll of blank parchment in his gloved