Prince of Lies - James Lowder [26]
In the center of the pavilion, Cyric crossed his arms over his chest. "Is there anything else?" he asked smugly.
Tyr took a step toward the Lord of the Dead, his fist raised before him. "There will be justice done for this crime."
"Didn't you hear Ao?" Cyric scoffed. "There was no crime. Leira died because I willed it." He drew Godsbane and leveled the blade at the God of Justice. "Any of you could be next. That's my place in the Balance: To weed out the weak from this pathetic pantheon."
Dutifully Torm stepped between Godsbane and his patron. A sword appeared in his hand, gleaming silver and edged sharply enough to slice a rainbow into separate bands of color. He tapped the blade in warning against Godsbane then planted his feet in a practiced fighting stance. "We will not fall as easily as Leira."
Mask flinched as the gods flicked the tips of their swords together. "This isn't the time, Cyric," he counseled, "not in the open, not when there are so many against you."
"Spoken like a true coward," Torm snarled. "You might as well try your luck now, Mask. From this day forward we'll remain vigilant against your treachery."
Lowering his pen and parchment to the table before him, Oghma raised empty hands to both Cyric and Torm. "We cannot bring Leira back, but perhaps we can reach some agreement. Release the souls unfairly imprisoned, and we-"
Cyric laughed bitterly. "I will do with Gwydion the Quick as I wish. I may release him; I may torture him forever." He slowly lowered Godsbane and sheathed her. "But none of you will influence his fate. Until now, I have occasionally welcomed you or your envoys into my domain. No longer. As of this moment, the City ofStrifeis completely closed to the pantheon."
"You asked before what we could do against you because of your crimes," Mystra said. Her words were edged sharper than Torm's sword. "I have your answer – and yours as well, Mask. As Goddess of Magic, I forbid you both from drawing on the magical weave."
"What!" Cyric shrieked. "You can't deny me magic. I must answer the prayers of my faithful. And the City ofStrife-"
"Is not my concern," Mystra interrupted. "Your minions may still use magic, and your worshipers will be granted spells, but you, Cyric cannot draw the magic for a single cantrip."
Mask bowed his head, hiding his glowing red eyes from Mystra. "I acted only by my cursed nature, Lady. I can do little but plot intrigues and further the place of thieves in the world. Is there no way I can escape this punishment?"
"Forswear any alliances with Cyric," Mystra said without pause. "Swear that you will not aid him again."
The Lord of Shadows replied just as quickly. "Of course, Lady."
"You cowardly bastard," Cyric shouted.
He started toward Mask, but Mystra gestured grandly. A shimmering wall of force blocked his path. The Lord of the Dead struck the wall, and the robe of magic he wore began to fade. The brilliance drained from the raiments like water. The cast-off magic pooled on the pavilion's floor before vanishing, evaporating into the air like summer rain.
Cyric clutched his head and screamed in impotent rage. His features blurred, and three dozen faces appeared on his head – shouting vile curses, answering his minions' questions, stalking the nightmares of men and women across Faerun. Stunned in his sudden loss of power, the Lord of the Dead had lost all control of his myriad selves. They sprouted from his body like cancerous growths, swearing dark oaths, shrieking their displeasure.
For a time the rest of the pantheon watched in fascinated horror as Cyric fought to regain control. When finally he managed to subdue the warring facets of his mind, he no longer appeared as the lean, hawk-nosed mortal Mystra had known during their quest for the Tablets of Fate. His skin had blistered and hardened into a smooth red hide. His muscles rippled on his thin frame, bands of steel corded beneath his flesh. From his gaunt, almost skeletal face, eyes like dark suns burned with unending malice.
"Without magic, all your incarnations