Prince of Lies - James Lowder [42]
On the other side of the enchanted gateway lay the parchmenter's shop. Mirrormane and his tongueless Zhentilar escort prostrated themselves in the center of the room, bowing toward the portal. Behind them, Rinda kneeled in shocked silence. None of them could see Cyric as he stood inBoneCastle's huge throne room. Yet as the Prince of lies glanced back at the scribe, he wondered how she would react to his inhuman face. Perhaps, he mused, I will honor her with it once she's completed the book.
Was the illusion satisfactory, Your Magnificence? Jergal asked. He floated at Cyric's side, ever ready to do his unholy master's bidding.
The Lord of the Dead grunted noncommittally and stalked toward his throne. It wouldn't do to admit a lackey had proved useful in masking his lack of magic. "What news of the search for Kelemvor?"
The denizens have completed their sweep of the city, the seneschal began. He paused just long enough to dispel the portal he'd created then hurried after the god. The news is not as good as I had hoped it might be.
"Don't be coy," Cyric snapped. "Did they find him or not?"
No, Your Magnificence.
"Then they obviously aren't looking hard enough!" Cyric shouted. He drew Godsbane and turned on the seneschal. "You promised to see to this matter, Jergal. I didn't leave a facet of my mind focused here because I trusted your word. Am I to take this failure as a sign you've come to the end of your usefulness?"
Jergal bowed, turning his bulging yellow eyes to the carpet. I can only hope not, he said fearfully.
The Prince of Lies ran the flat of his blade over Jergal's skull. Godsbane pulsed a deeper red, humming like a galleon's rigging in a gale wind. "Kelemvor is near," Cyric murmured. "I can almost smell the unwashed lout."
He turned the blade so it nicked the seneschal. An unearthly howl of pleasure went up from Godsbane as she gulped Jergal's yellow, poisonous blood, draining his life-force away. The stoic Jergal flinched, then trembled in agony, but he never cried out, never raised a hand to defend himself.
After what seemed like an eternity, Cyric took the blade away. Please, my love, Godsbane purred. He has betrayed your trust. He does not deserve to live.
"Enough," Cyric said. He sheathed the sword and raised Jergal to face him. The seneschal's yellow eyes were dim, the gray skin on his skull mottled with festering blotches of purple. "Remember this pain. If you fail me again, I will make it last forever."
The phantasmal creature nodded weakly. I exist only to serve you, Your Magnificence.
Rubbing bony hands together, Cyric paced to his throne. He shifted his robe and settled into the ghastly chair. "They need to fear me. That's the heart of this problem, I think."
All living creatures fear you, Jergal said from the foot of the throne. He gestured to the trophies of pain and suffering displayed about the room. You dwell in the darkness of men's souls.
"Not mortals," Cyric corrected. "The denizens." Impatience flashed across his blasted, hellish features. They've lived too long in this city believing themselves safe from my wrath."
They fear your tortures, Jergal offered.
"But torture is finite. Utter destruction is a different matter entirely. The False and the Faithless may welcome oblivion, but not the denizens. This is their heaven, after all. Why leave it?" Cyric ran one finger along Godsbane's red blade. "For a moment, when the sword had her fangs in you, you thought yourself doomed."
Jergal shuddered. Yes.
"I think it made you see the error of your ways, did it not?"
Of course, Your Magnificence. I'll not fail you again.
"And neither will the denizens, if we give them a glimpse of oblivion." Cyric steepled his fingers before his mouth and tapped his thumbnails on his chipped teeth. "They cannot truly fear me unless they know the price of failure is destruction. And if they do not fear me, they are useless as servants."
There is the matter of the pact, Jergal said quietly. Your faithful