Prince of Lies - James Lowder [27]
"Submit to the Circle?" Cyric repeated, his voice sepulchral. "The Cyrinishad will bring this entire pantheon to its knees." He smiled viciously and leveled a gnarled finger at Mystra. "But while I wait for my mortal minions to complete my book, I'll search for the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane. His suffering will be your particular reward,Midnight."
The Lord of the Dead patted the rose-hued sword at his side and chuckled. "You're leaving me Godsbane? That's surprisingly kind of you."
"I won't destroy something wrought from the weave simply because you own it. Besides, you'd be hard-pressed to stand against a seasoned mortal soldier without something to protect you." She returned his cruel smile. "Now, if you ask nicely enough, I'm certain one of the other powers would be kind enough to transport you back to the Realm of the Dead – unless you plan to walk."
Talos took a tentative step forward, looking to Mystra for some sign of approval. The Goddess of Magic nodded, and the Destroyer took Cyric's arm and disappeared.
"You cannot maintain this ban for long, Lady," Oghma whispered as soon as Cyric had departed. "If he should lose control of the Realm of the Dead…"
Mystra turned to the God of Knowledge. "That's why I left him the sword," she said distractedly. "He can maintain his power with that, but he shouldn't be able to harm any of us. That should give us time to shore up our houses against his next onslaught." The Goddess of Magic bowed hurriedly and excused herself, vanishing from the Pavilion of Cynosure in a burst of blue-white light.
She returned to her throne room, at the heart of her magnificent palace. There Mystra buried her face in her hands, trying to banish a chilling image from her memory. She knew it was futile. For the rest of time, the horrid sight would haunt her.
In the instant before Cyric disappeared from the pavilion, Mystra had slipped into his mind, hoping to catch some glimpse of his twisted perspective. The contact was brief. The ever-vigilant spirit of Godsbane had sensed an intruder and pulsed forward, an amorphous red-hued mass of evil. But before the Goddess of Magic fled, she saw for a moment the world from the eyes of the Lord of the Dead.
A red haze of pain mingled with black clouds of strife and despair. At the center of this roiling chaos stood the Prince of Lies. The Pavilion of Cynosure had no other features, the gods and goddesses no faces or forms. They spoke with Cyric's own voice, and their words came to him as unruly comments from his own mind. He was utterly alone.
IV
SOUL SEARCHING
Wherein the Prince of Lies uncovers clues of
many sorts, and Gwydion the Quick learns
that there are things to fear in the
City ofStrife, even for a dead man.
Cyric sat brooding inBoneCastle's immense throne room, continually replaying in his mind his humiliation at Mystra's hand. Each time he reached the moment when the goddess denied him contact with the weave, Cyric imagined some wildly twisted version of the actual event. In one he shattered Mystra's arcane shield and struck her down with Godsbane, thus adding God of Magic to his growing list of titles. In another the weave itself revolted against Mystra. Or the gods of chaos rallied and descended on her like a pack of winter-starved wolves. Or Ao himself manifested to prevent her from abusing her power so flagrantly…
The variations were endless, and in certain dark corners of Cyric's mind, some of them dropped like seeds into the mire of delusion and fantasy. In days or months or years, as time was measured in the mortal realms, these notions would blossom into false memories. The noisome thoughts would vie with the truth, creeping around it with leafy tendrils, draining it of vitality. Then these lies would become Cyric's only memories of the meeting, transforming it into a triumph.
"Glorious," Cyric muttered as he envisioned himself dripping to the elbows in Mystra's blood. He could almost taste the crimson liquid