Prince of Lies - James Lowder [21]
"So that's what your little interrogation was about," Mystra said coldly. "You presume a great deal, milord. Don't think the fact that I was once mortal prevents me from understanding the politics of the pantheon."
"I would never slight your humble origin," the Patron of Bards replied. "In fact, I believe the mortality you once faced grants you a rare and wonderful trait for a goddess: humility. Since you aren't so foolishly certain of your own perspective, you might be able to understand how the gods limit one another, how their nature binds them."
"Ever the accomplished bard," Mystra scoffed. "If you offend someone, immediately dole out a compliment to assuage any hurt feelings."
"I count many painfully honest scholars amongst my faithful, and not all the bards who do me worship are flatterers," Oghma replied. His voice was both musical and precise, a chorus of master storytellers speaking in harmony. "Some of the greatest harpers in my kingdom lost their lives because they couldn't tell a king he was handsome or wise or generous when it was not so."
Oghma clasped Mystra's hands in his. "Your name alone shows the truth of your mortal humility," he said. "When Ao raised you up from the mortals, you could have remainedMidnight. But you chose instead to adopt the name of the goddess who preceded you."
"It was a political move," she replied ingenuously. "It insured the church's stability. As I said, I'm not as naive as you think."
Oghma ignored her blunt claim. "Because you call yourself Mystra, there are some in the world who say Midnight of Deepingdale never existed, that she is a myth."
The Goddess of Magic shrugged. "There are also some who say Cyric is a myth, though he's spent the last ten years forcing his name upon the worshipers of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul. At this moment there are forty-eight bloody battles being fought in the Heartlands because of his pride, his vanity, worshipers killing worshipers over the true name of their god. That's simply foolishness."
"Perhaps. But his name will figure prominently in the tomes that tell the history of Faerun, whereas your mortal name will one day fade away." Oghma smiled. "I see by your face you're not concerned with history, though you should be. After all, control of history is at the heart of Cyric's mad plans. It's the reason he strives to create his much-feared book."
"Pardon me," a deep voice interrupted, "but Cyric is concerned merely with power. The Cyrinishad is a means to that end." Torm the True bowed formally to Mystra, then Oghma. "I do not mean to challenge your conclusions, Binder of All Knowledge, but I've had much traffic with the Prince of Lies of late, and I believe-"
"We are not here to discuss what you believe, Torm," said the blind man who had suddenly appeared in the pavilion's center. His features were square and unforgiving, like the cut of the magical robes Mystra perceived as his raiments. In his left hand he held a silver balance. His right hand had been chopped off at the wrist. "We are here to discuss the facts of Cyric's transgressions, the things you say you witnessed in his realm. When that's done, we shall bring the full weight of the law against him."
Talos paused in carving his name into the tabletop before him. "I say we just waylay him and spread his remains across the planes," he joked, twirling his silver dagger menacingly.
Tyr, the blind God of Justice, prodded his long white beard with his stump and turned sightless eyes on the Destroyer. "You will be given your turn to speak. Hold your peace until then." For a reply, Talos snorted and sliced a long sliver of wood from the tabletop.
"And so begins another conference of the Circle of Greater Powers," Oghma whispered to the Goddess of Magic. "Rather similar to every other meeting, don't you think?"
Mystra had to admit that Oghma was right. The greater powers met infrequently, since problems rarely