Prince of Lies - James Lowder [63]
"No," the scribe replied too quickly. She took up her penknife and pinned down the corner of a gruesome parchment sheet wrought of human skin. Vigorously she rubbed the page then blew away the leavings. "Ready, Your Magnificence," Rinda noted, rolling up one silk sleeve and dipping her quill.
This won't do at all," Cyric said. "Something distresses you, dear Rinda, and that may well affect how you take down the tale I have to tell this fine morning." He dropped his feet to the dirty floor with a thump and leaned forward. "My good humor disturbs you?"
"Surprises me," Rinda offered meekly.
The Prince of Lies clapped his hands together. "Ah, but I have reason to be glad," he chimed. "A decade-long quest ends today. By sunset the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane shall be mine." His eyes grew vague as he drifted into a mad reverie, picturing a thousand horrible ways to greet the long-lost shade.
Rinda sat in silence, waiting for the god's mind to wander back to the parchmenter's shop. When she noticed the mischievous spark had returned to Cyric's eyes, the death god was staring at her. "There's something else," he said. "Something else is wrong."
Fear made Rinda's heart thud in her chest. "I'm -" She swallowed hard, trying to clear her throat, but she couldn't. The lies came painfully, as if the very words were spiked with nails. "I'm just tired, Your Magnificence, and feeling… overwhelmed by the task."
A slow, smug smile crept across Cyric's thin lips. "Feeling powerless, are we?" He stood and walked to her side. With one finger he raised her chin until their eyes met. "Is that it – do you feel like a pawn?"
Her soul froze beneath that gaze. "Yes," she whispered, though she knew not how she'd managed it.
Cyric laughed the harsh sound full of mockery. "You have no one to blame but yourself," he said, then swept back to his chair. "You've given in to Fate. Not once have you voiced an objection to penning this tome."
"B – But you've already said you'd destroy me if I didn't scribe the book for you."
"Of course," the Prince of Lies said. "But you'll be a pawn as long as you're afraid of dying."
Rinda nodded and once more took up her pen.
"Freedom from fear will give you power over every force in the universe," he noted pedantically, cleaning his fingernails with a thin dirk. "Except me, of course. Fear is based mostly on terror of the unknown, and you'll never be able to catalogue all the horrors I can visit upon you after I've killed you. Still, I think you need to pay more attention to the stories I've been telling. As I have shown time and time again, fear has never ruled my life."
* * * * *
From the Cyrinishad
When Cyric had conquered the dangers of Zhentil Keep and brought the masters of its thieves' guild to their knees, he struck out into the wilderness again. Though the disgraced guildmasters murmured threats against the young man's life, he cared not, refusing to let their vague night terrors unsettle an instant of his slumber. Though only sixteen winters old, Cyric knew once he bowed before the idol of Fear, that dark altar would command his fealty forever.
For eight years Cyric traveled, learning the ways of far-flung peoples, deciphering their myths in search of the gods' true faces, true weaknesses. The fearful deities and the guildmasters joined forces and sent assassins against him in that time. Each and every one of them tasted the deadly steel of Cyric's blade and were sent screaming down to Hades.
By then it had become difficult for Cyric to move unnoticed through the cities of Faerun. The constant battles against the Zhentish agents sent by Bane and Myrkul drew too much attention to him. So he returned to Zhentil Keep one final time. The young man was intent on killing the guildmasters and the patriarchs of both