Prince of Lies - James Lowder [90]
Wait 'til The True Life is finished, Vrakk reminded himself, glancing back at the novitiate. Then it'll be our turn to choose which puppets go onto the pyre…
XIII
THE PRICE OF VICTORY
Wherein the Lady of Mysteries proves she
understands the value of good craftsmanship, but
few in the Circle of Greater Powers appreciate
how she puts that understanding into action.
Gwydion couldn't remember how many people he'd slaughtered, how much blood he'd spilled in Cyric's name. A part of his soul screamed each time he wrapped his gauntleted hands around someone's throat, but that feeble cry could never dull the urgency of the death god's command to kill all heretics. Gwydion knew he had no choice but to obey Cyric's mad orders. That didn't matter, though. The guilt was still his to bear.
The babel of voices from the Keep had quieted since his transformation. Or perhaps Gwydion had grown accustomed to the constant hum of prayers and pleas to the Prince of Lies. Whichever was true, the results were the same: as he hovered in a nether-plane, somewhere between the City ofStrifeand the mortal realms, Gwydion found himself enjoying an instant of near silence.
The nine inquisitors had done their job well. Only rarely did a heretic blurt out a denial of Cyric's power or refute his mandate to reign in the heavens. If the Lord of the Dead hadn't granted his patriarch the right to modify the definition of heresy, the knights of Hades might have remained idle for days on end. Now Gwydion spent his time culling out opponents to each new church edict. The heretics he faced were more often than not minor foes of Xeno Mirrormane, but opposing the patriarch had become just as deadly as insulting his god.
As for the eight remaining unholy knights, they'd been dispatched to other cities in Faerun, other places Cyric considered vital to the nurture of his cult. In Mulmaster and Teshwave and Yulash, inquisitors had begun new wars against heresy. Darkhold and the Citadel of the Raven, fortresses well-known as centers of Zhentarim intrigue, were also visited by the gold-armored terrors. Just as they had in the Keep, the inquisitors struck suddenly and violently against anyone who spoke out against the Prince of Lies or his church. The resistance in these places was stronger, but futile nonetheless.
And once these cities bowed to Cyric's will, there were many others waiting for a revelation of the death god's truth and his power…
"Cyric's a coward. A god would have to be a coward to use clockwork thugs to watch over mortals!"
The vehemence of the insult shocked Gwydion out of his respite. After a tenday of vaguely muttered threats to minor priests or slurred, drunken rails against all the powers and fates – including the Lord of the Dead – the clear, purposeful challenge rang out across the inquisitor's consciousness like a barrage of Shou fireworks.
Gwydion stepped into the mortal realms at the center of theForceBridge. The ice-choked Tesh flowed sluggishly beneath the long stone bridge, and gulls wheeled overhead. Before him, on one of the low railings that edged the span, sat a stoop-backed old woman. She looked as frail as elven crystal, so thin the cold winter wind might pull her up into the twilight just now settling over the Keep.
"There you are," she cackled. Stiffly the old woman stood, and the blue-white shawl dropped from her shoulders. The cloth slithered along the ground like a huge deadfall leaf.
Gwydion took two quick steps toward the heretic then stopped. This was no mortal. Beneath the aged facade lurked the power of a god. The inquisitor could smell the crackle of lightning in her movements, could feel the tremor of the bridge at her every footstep. And all around the woman, a million thin cords of light flowed from her body, linking her to the magical weave surrounding the world. This could be none other than the Goddess of Magic herself.
"Goddess," the inquisitor said thickly. From his lips, the word sounded as if it were the most vile curse he could manage. "Heretic."
"Well," the