Prince of Lies - James Lowder [62]
Kelemvor sighed. Now it was the very stuff of his everyday existence.
With the same care he'd taken with his clothes, the shade ran his fingers through his long black hair and smoothed out his mustache and muttonchop sideburns. His features were rugged beneath his course touch. Some women had considered him handsome in his day; at leastMidnighthad seemed to think him so. As always, Kelemvor allowed himself to dwell on a memory of the lovely mage's face, her lithe body, but only for a moment.
Finally, he swept his cloak over one shoulder. With tentative fingers, the shade reached back to his right shoulder blade to feel the ragged hole in his tunic and the gaping, bloodless wound beneath. As always, the slightest touch sent a throbbing ache through his whole being. Kelemvor didn't mind the pain in the least. It had become a signal of sorts to him, a prompting to a part of his spirit he kept carefully reined at all other times.
Through the opened floodgates of his mind, images of Kelemvor's final moments poured like a flood of dark, poisonous water: the battle against Myrkul atopBlackstaffTower; the defeat of the Lord of Bones atMidnight's hands; the joyous return of Adon, who they'd all thought slain by Cyric; and Cyric's sudden, treacherous attack…
The ache spread, sending swells of pain through Kelemvor's body. A single memory, clearer than all the rest, rode atop the crest of the bitter flood – Cyric, laughing as he drove his sword deep into Kel's back.
"The hour's up," Kelemvor rumbled. "I'm ready to talk about that black-hearted bastard, and about revenge…"
IX
NOTHING TO FEAR
Wherein Cyric adds another chapter to his
book of lies, the Chaos Hound tracks along the
winding trail of Kelemvor's life, and
BlackstaffToweronce more becomes the topic of
much gossip and speculation in both Waterdeep
and the heavenly realms.
Rinda rubbed the sleep from her eyes and propped her chin up on her elbow. At first Cyric had called her to the parchmenter's shop at highsun every day. Now he was demanding her presence at more and more unusual hours-twilight,midnight, and now dawn. Days lapsed between visits, too; he hadn't dictated another chapter for the Cyrinishad in almost a tenday.
Weighed down by exhaustion and depression, the scribe let her head sink once more to the oaken writing desk. The foul smell of the poorly ventilated shop, the fetid water and rotting hides, didn't bother Rinda in the least. She'd grown accustomed to such unpleasantries, just as she'd grown accustomed to church spies following her every move, or Fzoul and the other conspirators appearing unheralded in the middle of her house.
With little enthusiasm, Rinda drove thoughts of treachery and The True Life of Cyric from her mind. She wondered for an instant what chaos would result if the Lord of the Dead uncovered those dangerous notions. Would the harp-voiced patron of Fzoul and the rest come to her aid? More likely the mysterious deity would strike her dead before Cyric could gain any information from her. She'd never worshiped any one particular god, though, so her soul would land squarely in Cyric's domain, and he would get the information he wanted anyway.
Sighing raggedly, Rinda closed her eyes. The cool desktop felt good against her forehead. She thought only of that feeling as she drifted nearer and nearer the precipice of sleep…
"We shall begin whenever you're ready."
Rinda bolted straight in her high-backed chair. Cyric stood at her side, a smirk on his gaunt features, his arms folded casually over a surcoat emblazoned with his own holy symbol. "I can wait if you need to rest," he added with just a trace of sarcasm. "It's no good to either of us if you forget to cross a T or dot an I. This book needs be perfect, remember?"
"I – I'm sorry, Your Magnificence," she blurted. "It's just that-"
Cyric held up a long-fingered hand. "No need. I may seem to have no sense of the time when I summon you, but I do remember what it's like to need sleep."
Rinda watched the Lord