Prince of Lies - James Lowder [97]
"As well you shouldn't," the God of Intrigue admitted, far too readily for the goddess's liking. "Now that I know Cyric's toy soldiers aren't really destroyed-"
"I said enough! Can you create a shield to guarantee none of the other gods can interrupt us?"
"No," Mask said uncomfortably. "You know the pavilion can't be closed to the pantheon."
"Which is why I said keep quiet." Mystra turned back to the cages and the inquisitors. "I'll take care of them. You can leave any time you want."
Mask moved close to the Goddess of Magic. "Let's retire to my domain so we can discuss our mutual foe. It's time we joined forces, you and I. An alliance could aid us both."
"You get to foster intrigue," Mystra said, "and perhaps even gain some of Cyric's titles if he happens to fall. I get condemned for stopping a mad god from destroying the world. No thanks."
"Perhaps you're right," Mask sighed. "There might not be enough in it for you. Still, I can promise one reward for allying with me, Lady, something that might make you change your mind."
"I can't think of anything that would, Mask. Stop wasting my time."
The God of Intrigue settled onto the floor, shadows spreading out from him like a pool of blood from a slashed corpse. "Is Kelemvor's soul a waste of time?"
The bolt of force struck Mask in the chest, knocking him backward a dragon's length. "Where is he?" Mystra said. Tell me now."
"I don't have possession of him myself," the Lord of Shadows said, smoothing his charred cloak. "And I don't want to say more here. Other gods may be listening, remember?"
"All right," Mystra growled. "We'll go to my palace in Nirvana."
"No," Mask said as he rose ghostlike from the floor. "We'll go to the City ofShadows. That's a much more fitting place for this sort of intrigue." He smiled ferally beneath his mask. "Besides, one of the other gods is already awaiting us there."
XIV
A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE
Wherein the God of Knowledge faces three
unpleasant confrontations in three different
planes of existence, all at the same time.
As Oghma left the Pavilion of Cynosure, he sent his consciousness racing off in myriad directions to deal with the moment-to-moment challenges of his office. However, he focused most of his mind in three locations. None of these incarnations were very happy about the tasks facing them, but they didn't complain. The unpleasant meetings might just yield some unusual bit of knowledge for his library, and in the end, knowledge was all that mattered…
* * * * *
For the moment, the House of Knowledge resembled a monastery, dark and gloomy, with an air of ancient holiness that hung over the place as palpably as the storm clouds choking the sky overhead. Oghma's faithful went about their duties draped in coarse brown robes, their faces obscured by overlarge hoods. They shuffled through cavernous chambers crammed with tomes of every size. Heavy chains bound each book to its shelf; only the master librarian's keys could free a volume from its guarded captivity for more careful perusal. Despite these precautions, though, no request for knowledge was ever denied. Such was the nature of the Binder's domain.
Oghma took on the appearance of a monk as he materialized in his palace's throne room. His robes were somber, though his hood and draped sleeves were lined with ermine, his sandals shod with dragonhide. His dislike of this grim, bookish facade drove the Binder's mood even closer to the slough of despair – especially after the trial had gone so badly.
The sight of Cyric lounging in the Throne of Knowledge was enough to send Oghma the rest of the way into the mire.
The robe's a good look for you," the Prince of Lies noted casually. He'd draped himself over the thick, stiff-backed chair that now passed for Oghma's throne. As the God of Knowledge approached, Cyric straightened and planted his elbows on the heavy writing desk that stood between them. The place suits you, too."
"How so?" Oghma asked flatly, trying in vain to hide his anger from the death god.
Cyric sneered. "Musty and humorless.