Prince of Lies - James Lowder [28]
Revenge will be yours, my love, Godsbane purred. The spirit of the sword pulsed inside the swirling chaos of Cyric's thoughts. Just as soon as you put your plans into motion.
"Eh?" Cyric grunted. "My plans?"
To find Kelemvor. To finish your tome.
The Prince of Lies rubbed the sword's pommel. "Right now a hundred plots are coming to fruition, a thousand agents are on the move…"
His mind raced as he considered the monstrous assassins he'd sent to stalk Mystra's clerics in Sembia. They trailed the goddess's minions from beneath the ground, in the guise of mutated moles, and from the skies as human vultures. Press gangs on the Fugue Plain were also just now grabbing Mystra's faithful. They would be rushed into the City ofStrifebefore the maruts could escort them to paradise. In Zhentil Keep, the search for his new scribe was almost over. The soldiers had learned the whereabouts of Bevis's daughter from a parchmenter. In hours, she would be ready to begin the new Cyrinishad. There were other schemes, too – the desecration of Torm's shrine in Tantras, the disruption of the holy rites of Tyr in Suzail, the betrayal of Mask's agents in the city watch of Waterdeep…
And in every temple dedicated to Cyric, every coven of worshipers, circles of clerics and powerful mages sought the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.
For a decade, Cyric had turned his worshipers' magic to the task. He little believed the mortals would find the errant soul, since only a deity had the might to shield Kelemvor for so long. But each oracle and priest scrying for the hidden shade put the deceitful god's power to the test. Now the number of seekers had been swelled by the faithful of Leira.
It hadn't been difficult to win the cooperation of the church hierarchy – a finely polished tale of their goddess's murder at the hands of Kelemvor had been enough. The truly fervent had been the easiest to convince, the quickest to join the hunt for the renegade soul. The fear of offending the new God of Deception swayed other important clerics, especially the men and women who had dedicated their lives to the art of illusion. Assassins had dealt with those too vocal in their opposition. And once the high priests were brought in line, Cyric could count on the rest of the church to follow them like mindless sheep.
Your Magnificence?
The words echoed inside Cyric's thoughts. It wasn't the cool, feminine purr of Godsbane, but a chilling, inhuman voice. Cyric looked out on the long, narrow throne room and found Jergal before him. The seneschal cast his gaze down to the floor. White-gloved hands floated up and folded palms together in a show of submission. I am sorry to disturb your reverie, but emissaries of the Shadowlord are at the gate again. They beg to deliver a gift from their master.
"Kill them all," Cyric said coldly. "Then send their heads back to Mask, along with their gifts. Sooner or later he'll give up – or run out of emissaries."
Godsbane stirred uneasily. You might be able to use his aid, my love, she said.
"He wants to apologize for his cowardice, not buy back an alliance with me. He fears Mystra too much to break his promise to her – not this soon anyway."
Cyric leaped suddenly to his feet, sending Jergal floating backward to avoid being trampled. The seneschal's empty black cloak fluttered and danced. "There's something odd about this," the Lord of the Dead hissed. "Mask is risking Mystra's ire just sending messengers to me."
Perhaps the gifts hold the key, Godsbane suggested.
"Hmmm. Have you examined the gifts, Jergal?" Cyric asked.
The seneschal nodded. Arquebuses, Your Magnificence. All the emissaries have carried arquebuses. No written message, though all the rifles bear the symbols of both the Shadowlord and the Gearsmith.
"Why would Mask offer me Gondish rifles? Gond himself has sent me a dozen such contraptions in the past He thinks they'll make any army invincible, the dolt." Cyric snorted. "How can they be any threat at all when they blow up in soldiers' faces as often as they fire correctly?" The Prince of Lies rubbed his