Prince of Lies - James Lowder [150]
As the first of the shades shuffled into the courtyard, Kelemvor turned his mind to the decaying heap ofBoneCastle. With a thought, he recast the twisted tower as a beautiful spire of crystal, a palace more suited to a god who intended to hide nothing from his faithful.
From that day forward, Kelemvor's court shone from within those clear, sparkling walls, a beacon of law and compassion on the dark plains of Hades. And all those who looked upon the tower knew that justice had finally come to the Realm of the Dead.
EPILOGUE
In a hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric awoke. The lamentations of every mortal in Faerun, the sobs of the desperate and the keening of the brokenhearted, found their way to that lonely place sooner or later. And the cold winds that blew through the endless labyrinth warped those plaintive cries, transforming them into a weird symphony, rich with the chords of madness.
As he rose from the smooth-hewn floor, Cyric became aware of a shadow – his shadow – moving with him. Darker than the utter darkness surrounding it, the shape mimicked the fallen god's actions, but not his form. The Burning Men had left their mark upon Cyric, scarred him so deeply that no magics could mask the ragged brands on his hands and face. Yet the shadow suffered none of these imperfections, its outline smooth and perfect.
In the overgrown garden that was Cyric's mind, the shadow's voice murmured soothingly – at least, the soft words seemed to come from the dark form trailing him.
The jabbering of his faithful and the cold, sharp complaints of his myriad selves made it difficult for Cyric to tell for certain. And before he could consider the notion further, the thoughts racing through his mind drew him away to other, more vital matters.
There was a new kingdom to build. After all, Cyric was still a deity – God of Strife and Intrigue, Patron of Murder. As such, he deserved a palace of suitable size to accommodate his horde of worshipers, a mammoth treasure house to store the spoils of his victorious war against Mystra and the Circle of Greater Powers.
The Prince of Lies waved his tattered hand, and a fortress began to construct itself there in the howling darkness. Yet as the foundation settled into the tunnel and the first few night-black stones piled themselves one upon the other, the shape of the keep changed, altered to suit Cyric's ever-shifting desires. The castle became a single tower, high and twisting, then a pyramid, a final redout from which the God of Strife could plot his revenge upon the traitors who had usurped the Realm of the Dead.
The redout vanished, too, when the fawning voices in Cyric's head reminded him that Mystra had merely done his will in bringing the City ofStrifeto revolt. No longer would he be forced to waste time judging the damned, listening to their simpering excuses, meting out feeble punishments set down ages ago by gods with little imagination for cruelty. No, Cyric had forced them to take command of the loathsome place and set the title Lord of the Dead like an unbreakable stock on the shoulders of someone else. As always, the pantheon had been puppets, playing the parts Cyric created for them.
For an instant, the Prince of Lies heard the babel of voices in his head chime harmonious agreement. None of them could deny his absolute supremacy over all the gods in Faerun. The Cyrinishad proved the truth of that, and Cyric himself had read the tome very carefully.
All across the mortal realms, a disembodied smile appeared in the most squalid alleys and haunted, shadow-draped woods. Broad and sharp, glinting like a straight razor in the moonlight, it hinted at the mad god's pleasure with a world well-suited to become his earthly kingdom. The true meaning of the apparitions eluded even the most gifted