Prince of Lies - James Lowder [96]
"If I am allowed to pursue my office without unfair hindrance-"
"Without condition," Tyr said firmly. "It should be clear from this proceeding the Circle can police its own."
"Of course," Cyric said, though he hid his distaste at the concession rather badly.
"As for you, Mystra," Tyr added. "You must give up this vendetta against the Lord of the Dead. We will drop the charges against you, but you must allow Cyric the use of magic. He must be allowed the power to which his title grants him right."
"And if I don't give him access to the weave?"
"It will be as Oghma said – total sanctions against your mortal worshipers until you comply."
Cyric threaded his way through the spectators and strolled across the pavilion's floor. "Let's get this over with," he said, standing less than an arm's length in front of Mystra. "My realm requires the attention I've focused on this gathering…"
Mystra bowed her head to hide the angry tears welling in her eyes.
It required no more than a thought from the Goddess of Magic to reconnect Cyric with the magical weave. As the energy flowed around him, the death god threw back his head and shouted. The sound of his joyful triumph tore into Mystra's soul, leaving a scar that would never truly heal.
Cyric transformed, the seared features and blasted flesh replaced by the dashing facade of a lean, hawk-nosed Zhentish nobleman. "Your pain is enough of a reward for enduring this tedious business," the Prince of Lies murmured so only Mystra could hear. He spun around and bowed toward Tyr and Oghma. "I thank the court for its wisdom. And now, I will take my inquisitors and go."
The Prince of Lies paused long enough to gift Mystra with another gloating smile before walking to the cages. The inquisitors, still encased in their golden shells, bowed their heads to their master.
Mask caught Mystra's eye then, and nodded toward the gathered knights of Hades. There was an instant connection between the god and goddess, born of a shared foe and common goal. The Lady of Mysteries shouted a single command word, triggering a special mechanism Gond had built into the cages. The bars on two sides of each cage slammed together, crushing the inquisitor inside like a hawk caught between a cloud giant's palms. Gears and shards of metal and the shredded soul-stuff that had animated the armor spilled into the floor in a noisy cascade.
"The verdict said nothing about returning those monstrosities to you," Mystra said when Cyric turned to face her.
The shocked silence in the pavilion told the Prince of Lies that his old adversary had managed some small victory out of this, after all. "Very well," Cyric said. "Gond can make others."
"He won't," Mask noted snidely. "Not after he's proven these work. There's no gain in it."
Cyric locked eyes with his old ally for an instant. "The shadows cannot hide you from me forever, Mask. One day I'll drag you into the light and give Godsbane a taste of your blood."
"I doubt that very much," the God of Intrigue smirked. "But don't worry, when the threat doesn't come true, you can always claim you were lying."
The other gods had begun to disappear from the pavilion. "Hardly a new beginning," Lathander murmured sadly before he vanished, on his way back to the fertile lands of Elysium.
Oghma, too, was clearly troubled by the trial, and angry at Mystra for reasons she couldn't begin to fathom. The Patron of Bards stared at the goddess for a long time before he left for the security of his library. Then Mystra found herself alone in the wizards' laboratory with Mask and the shattered remains of the inquisitors.
"Cleverly done," the Shadowlord offered. He slid forward with feline grace. "All of them believed it – even Cyric, and he was standing close enough to touch them."
"Enough," Mystra snapped. "Look, I appreciate your aid, Mask, but I