Prince of Lies - James Lowder [83]
Rinda started forward, but Fzoul grabbed her by the arm. "Stay still," the priest hissed.
The scribe struggled against Fzoul's grip, but their godly patron said, "Do as he says." The words were full of discord, the pitch broken by a clarion note of fear.
Rinda turned tearing eyes on the thing towering over Hodur's body. The gold-armored knight stared back through the doorway, confusion clear in his eyes. It seemed as if he could feel their presence somehow. Yet his senses told him that the room was empty, save for the elf in the doorway.
The five of them stood frozen in that tableau for a moment – Ivlisar huddled on the ground; Vrakk crouched and waiting, his sword at the ready; Fzoul holding Rinda, both trembling more than a little at the sight of the inquisitor; and Gwydion, blood dripping from his gauntlets, lost in a sea of prayers and curses. Finally the knight turned and stepped through a portal that appeared in the air before him.
The image of the inquisitor burned itself into Rinda's thoughts, remaining clear and vital long after Ivlisar had dragged Hodur's corpse away – no doubt to sell it on the black market. The knight's eyes remained the sharpest part of that memory. They'd held no malice, no anger, just an overwhelming pall of helplessness. The look was a familiar one to the scribe; many of the slum's most desperate inhabitants watched her with eyes like those when they explained why they'd sold their bodies in the brothels or betrayed their families to the city watch for a few coppers' reward.
But that wasn't the reason the image plagued her thoughts. In looking into those bleak eyes, so devoid of hope, Rinda had seen herself.
XII
PUPPETS ON PARADE
Wherein Xeno Mirrormane and the Church of
Cyric put on a parade for the citizens of
Zhentil Keep, and General Vrakk attends
a puppet show much lauded by the
crowned heads of Faerun.
To Vrakk, the gaudy procession moving through the crowded marketplace seemed more appropriate to a circus than a religious festival, though in Zhentil Keep, the two had become one and the same.
A small army of priests wrapped in dark purple robes led the way. They chanted a prayer to Cyric, their voices rising and falling with their steps. Four across and twenty-five deep, the lines passed with military precision. Vrakk grunted at that. A city where the priesthood attracted better soldiers than the regular army was no place for him.
And if the clerics' show of marching skill weren't enough to bring his blood to a boil, Vrakk had merely to remind himself what had brought him to the market this day – crowd patrol duty. A decorated general, veteran of Azoun's crusade, and he'd been assigned to watch for pickpockets and flashmen in the marketplace. Just thinking about it made him snort in anger.
The prayer at an end, the priest-horde held their hands up to the clear winter sky in one final burst of devoted worship. Silver bracelets, symbols of their enslavement to the Prince of Lies, glinted brightly in the morning sunlight. "O Master of the Heavens and the Earth, we are yours to wield against heretics, living swords to smite unbelievers!"
Vrakk suppressed the urge to spit.
Behind the chanting priests came a long line of creatures, both rare and common. The people in the marketplace perked up at the sight of the beasts. They'd given the clerics a respectful sort of attention, conducting their transactions at somewhat less than a shout, but even the merchants paused in hawking their overpriced foodstuffs, cheap gin, and threadbare linens to watch the procession of animals.
"These creatures and many like them have been captured in the name of Cyric to make the world more secure for his faithful," a barker cried stridently. His clean white clothes and scrubbed face made him stand out amongst the grubby commoners and travel-stained merchants. "Even the most dread beasts in the wild lands hereabouts quake before Cyric's devoted warriors…"
Five bears led the way. They'd been roused from