Prince of Lies - James Lowder [98]
"I know," the Binder rumbled. "I heard her scream."
"Don't worry. She'll make it back sooner or later – unless she crosses paths with one of the greater baatezu.
Quite a nasty lot, the baatezu." Cyric let a facade of mock concern drop over his features. "I wouldn't have been so harsh, but I find it troubling when a lackey breaches godly etiquette…"
"Like sitting in a seat that doesn't belong to him," Oghma countered. The rumble in his multitoned voice had hardened into the ringing of steel against steel.
"I said lackey, not superior," Cyric corrected, but he stood nonetheless. "Please, Binder, sit. It's rather sad to find you elder powers tire so easily."
"At the moment I'm tired only of you," Oghma said. He pushed past the Lord of the Dead, threw his hood back from his dark handsome face, and settled into his throne. "Do you have business with me, or are you here to be an annoyance?"
Cyric sat on the edge of the desk. His crimson tunic and crushed velvet cloak made him stand out in the silent, solemn throne room-library like a jester at a funeral. "I come seeking knowledge, Binder."
"You'll have to be more specific."
"You're going to provide me with a solution to an old problem," the Prince of Lies said, toying with the quill pen on the desk. He casually dipped the pen into an inkwell and scrawled a vile obscenity across a folio of sacred verse. "I really wish I'd thought of coming here before. Luckily, the trial reminded me that magical knowledge finds its way to you, too."
Oghma erased the ink with a wave of his hand. "Don't play the fool with me, Cyric. I know you better than that"
"You know everything, is that it?" The death god dropped the pen. "Fine. I want to know how I can find the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane."
Oghma's laughter filled the room. The chuckling drowned out the mournful sounds floating in from the antechamber, where bards and priests sang dirges to lost knowledge. "Why, in Ao's name, should I help you?" the Binder managed at last.
Cyric matched the smile on Oghma's face. "This fine library is open to everyone, is it not? You said so at the trial."
"I did." The mirth fled Oghma's voice. The Binder stood, his cool gaze locked on the death god's lifeless eyes.
Then you have no choice but to give me the information I need – unless, of course, you can tell me where Kelemvor is hidden." Cyric leaned forward. "Is that bit of trivia in one of your books?"
"No," Oghma replied. "And I have no knowledge that will guarantee his discovery."
"Well played, Binder – trying to refuse my request by splitting verbal hairs." The Prince of Lies gestured vaguely to the volumes lining the shelves around the room. "I'm not looking for guarantees, though. Just give me the tome that will tell me how best to find the errant soul."
The God of Knowledge held his hands forward, palms up, and a massive book appeared in them. The parchment, older than the pyramids of ancient Mulhorand, had begun to yellow long before Cormyr had crowned its first king. The pages cracked and flaked as Oghma opened the book. "You may read these pages, but do not touch them."
Cyric scanned the lines of cramped magical script, penned by a long-forgotten evil god named Gargauth. The cryptic text alluded to primordial battles between the greater powers and weird beings more mighty even than Ao. In the midst of this strange history were the necessary preparations for an enchantment to break through all divine barriers, see through all godly deceptions. The words were difficult to read since the enchantment had been written in reverse script, the gray ink trailing like shadows across the darker ebon of the main text. Yet Cyric focused a small part of his mind on the task, and soon the knowledge was his.
"I will show this book to Lady Mystra right away," Oghma noted as he gently closed the tome. "She may find Kelemvor's soul before you."
Cyric leaped from the desk, animated by a wild excitement.