Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (17 page)

Mask shifted his form to that of a helpless human female, but otherwise he ignored the seneschal and spoke only to Kelemvor. “You dislike thieves? But you have stolen from me yourself!” The Shadowlord’s wispy voice was neither male nor female. “Or perhaps you only made a mistake.”

“Mistake!” Kelemvor leaned forward, but he was careful not to rise. To accuse a god of a mistake was worse than to say he had stolen something, and he saw that Mask would speak such words only to provoke a harsh reaction. “Explain yourself and be gone! I will not have Kezef chasing you through my city.”

A shudder ran down Mask’s murky figure, but he recovered himself quickly and continued. “You have passed judgment on one Avner of Hartsvale, have you not?”

Though many thousands of spirits had stood before Kelemvor since Avner, the memories of gods are limitless and perfect. Lord Death knew at once that Mask referred to a scofflaw orphan who had grown up in the streets of Hartwick, stealing from honest merchants and anyone else foolish enough to go near him. A firbolg named Tavis Burdun had taken pity on the boy and taught him to earn his bread by working, and Avner had turned his back on theft to become the most trusted scout in the kingdom of Hartsvale.

“Avner gave his life to save his queen’s child,” said Kelemvor. “I sent his spirit to Torm the True.”

“And robbed me of my due.” Mask’s skinny figure began to thicken and sprout bulging muscles on its arms and chest.

“Your due?” Kelemvor scoffed. “Once a spirit enters the City of the Dead, it is mine to do with as I please.”

“To punish as you please, not to pass along to your cronies!”

Mask’s brawny shape grew as tall as a hill giant and strained at Jergal’s grasp, but Kelemvor only sneered at the Shadowlord’s blustering and said nothing.

“Avner was one of my False!” Mask continued. “He was happy enough to worship at my altar when the only way to fill his belly was stealing, but what homage did he pay me after the firbolg took him in? None! In the last year of his life, he did not steal a copper!”

Kelemvor shrugged. “Mortals are allowed to change their behavior-especially for the better.”

Mask stopped struggling and shrank to the stooped shape of an old man. “Avner changed his behavior-but did he change gods?”

“Change gods?”

“Did Avner pray to Torm? Did he leave any offerings on Torm’s altar?”

At that moment, one of Jergal’s aspects appeared at the door. “Torm asks leave to enter the Crystal Spire, as requested.”

“As requested?”

Mask’s form changed into a perfect likeness of Lord Death himself. “I hope you don’t mind.” The Shadowlord’s voice sounded exactly the same as Kelemvor’s. “But I took the liberty. I am sure you want to work this thing out properly.”

Kelemvor rose at once, but Torm had already manifested himself before the crystal throne. In his palm, the God of Duty carried a young sandy-haired man with steel-colored eyes: Avner of Hartsvale.

Torm stared at the two Kelemvors, then saw that the one being held by Jergal’s aspects was an impostor. He bowed to the true God of Death. “I have brought the youth in question.”

“I apologize for troubling you, Torm. But I did not ask you here.”

“I did,” interrupted Mask, now assuming the shape of a drow elf. “I just wanted to know if Avner of Hartsvale ever prayed to you.”

The young man in Torm’s palm grew pale, and the God of Duty answered, “No. He gave his life in the line of duty.”

“But that is not worship, is it?” countered Mask. “Did he ever place any offerings on your altar?”

Torm frowned, glanced at Kelemvor, and reluctantly shook his head.

A white grin flashed across Mask’s face. He took the shape of a certain six-armed goddess of destruction; with one of his extra hands, he reached into his gloomy cloak and withdrew a collection of sparkling objects, and these he held out toward the mortal in Torm’s palm.

“Do you remember these, Avner?”

The mortal peered over Torm’s hand and gasped in surprise. “I gave those to Diancastra!”

“But she is a giant’s goddess, and you are a human.” Though Mask’s body remained that of the six-armed goddess, his face changed into the big-boned visage of the wily giantess, Diancastra. “Your offerings were to me-as you can see, I take many faces in many lands.”

The mortal’s jaw fell, and his mouth began to work up and down without speaking a word.

“Let us see; your regular tithe was one coin a week. How many do we have here? Seven hundred and ten?” Mask began to trickle copper coins from one hand to another. “And we should not forget the special offerings you made: a silver nugget, a brass comb, a scrap of linen….” As the Shadowlord named each thing, he dropped it into his palm. “And this agate marble. As I recall, it was your first gift-“

“That is enough,” Kelemvor said. “Those offerings mean nothing. The False are mine to do with as I please.”

“That does not make them mine.” Torm raised his hand and spoke to the frightened mortal. “Avner of Hartsvale, you died well and true, and if you had ever uttered a single word of prayer to me, I would be proud to keep you in Trueheart forever.”

“But my life was-” The mortal caught himself, then bowed his head. “Forgive me, True One. I should know that you, of all the gods, cannot ignore your responsibility.”

“Well said,” replied Torm. “We shall miss you in Trueheart.”

The True One turned to pass Avner to Mask, but Kelemvor stepped between them and thrust out his own hand.

“The False belong to me, and I can always use a loyal spirit such as Avner.” Lord Death snatched Avner from Torm’s hand, then retreated toward his throne. A pair of feathery black wings sprouted upon the youth’s back, and Kelemvor said, “Avner of Hartsvale will be the first Seraph of Death.” “Seraph of Death!” scoffed the Shadowlord. “What will he do? Sing the glories of decay across the heavens?”

“Perhaps-or perhaps he will keep an eye on you. He can call the Chaos Hound whenever you start trouble.”

Mask’s eyes turned as red as embers. “I am glad to see you have a sense of humor, Lord Death.” The Shadowlord’s body melted onto the crystal floor, and Jergal’s hands were left holding nothing but empty air. “Before we finish this, you will need it.”

Thirteen

With Oghma’s foolish priest holding my elbow and my veiled face buried in the sleeve of the witch’s robe, we scurried out of the Dungeon Tower and down a path into the citadel’s crowded ward, where hundreds of monks and warriors had gathered to hear news of my interrogation. They pressed in close to demand what we knew, but the priest cursed them and spewed dire warnings about the Binder’s wrath. I kept my face toward the ground to conceal my eyes, which did not resemble those of the witch. I also made retching noises-this much was no act-and swung my head back and forth. The crowd cleared a path, and I scurried toward the High Gate as fast as I could. All the while I kept expecting someone to cry out that I was not the meddling Harper, or that there was a strange banging in the basement of the Dungeon Tower, but neither of these ever happened.

Rinda’s journal continued to plague me. It was not enough that I had to keep reading despite the battle with my stomach; it pleased the Maid of Misfortune that I still felt compelled to speak the words aloud. I managed to hold them to a whisper, and so the priest kept pausing to lean close and ask, “What?” or “Did you say something, my dear?”

I could only shake my head and steal another glance at the rile book. No one discovered my disguise, and we reached the wicket door soon enough.

A monk, yielding to the urgency in the priest’s voice, pulled it open, and I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled through into the shadowy passage beneath the gatehouse. The eyrie lay before me with nothing but sky and wind beyond. I jumped to my feet and rushed across the courtyard, thinking to hurl myself over the edge and trust Tyr’s protection to save my life.

But I have never been that brave. As I neared the brink, ray legs slowed of their own accord; by the time I reached the edge, they were hardly walking. I dropped to my knees and let out a sickly groan, more on account of Cyric’s words in the stairwell than because of any fear of being recaptured-though this danger was certainly real enough.

In the sky ahead, a ribbon of black smoke snaked its way down to the knoll where Jabbar and Haroun had killed each other. There were dark flecks swarming all over the hill, dragging other dark flecks across the ground to a crackling bonfire. I did not need sharper eyes to know Candlekeep’s defenders were burning all that remained of the Army of Belief.

The unholy sight was too much. My stomach surrendered its struggle, purging itself with a violence so great I pitched forward and found myself staring straight down the tor.

At first I took the fingers that caught my collar to be those of Tyr himself, but it was the priest’s familiar voice that sounded in my ear. “Easy now, I’ve got you.”

I allowed him to pull me back onto my haunches, then rested my hands on my thighs. I had made a foul-smelling mess of the witch’s veil, but I scarcely noticed. The priest released my collar and kneeled beside me. I was quick to look away and pull my mannish hands inside my sleeves-and then I realized Rinda’s journal was gone!

I dropped flat and peered over the edge, crying out in despair.

The astonished priest threw himself on top of me and exclaimed, “Ruha! What are you doing?”

I gave no answer, except to stare over the brink until I finally saw the book sailing around the side of the tor. It struck a rock halfway down and bounced. Then the wind caught its fluttering pages and carried it toward the coast.

I pushed away from the edge and slipped out from beneath the priest who was so alarmed that he grabbed my leg and would not let go.

“Ruha, what is it?”

I waved my arm toward the edge and ran over to the path leading down to the Low Gate, and in my best woman’s voice, I cried, “The book!”

I did not look back to see if this explanation satisfied him, but raised the hem of the witch’s robe and plunged down the path at a dead sprint, and not only because of my strange obsession to finish reading her journal. I believed more than ever that the only way to help the One and All was to cure his insanity. And if there was any truth to Rinda’s sacrileges at all-which I doubted most sincerely, of course-the only way to counter the Cyrinishad’s power was to read the True Life of Cyric, and the only way for me to find the True Life was to follow Rinda’s journey back to where she had last seen Fzoul Chembryl.

As soon as the trail rounded the first curve, it grew narrow and steep, and sometimes it tilted away from the cliff, so that my feet slipped toward the edge with every step. Nowhere had the monks fixed a rope or chain to hold, for they claimed a treacherous path made a better defense, and I believed them. I kept my eyes fixed on the trail and ran as fast as I dared, all the while expecting to hear the peal of the alarm bell.

But the bell did not clang. The trail rounded the tor and hung for a time above the Sea of Swords’ crashing shore, and I paused to peer over the edge until my eye caught the fluttering pages of Rinda’s journal. The book lay thirty arrow lengths below, halfway down the stony bank that separated the grassy plain from the stony coast, and every time a gust flipped through its pages, the ledger slipped farther down the slope. There was no telling what would become of the journal if it slid all the way to the bottom; the shore was a snarl of old lava flows, tidal pools, and deep, jagged chasms roaring with trapped waves.

With no memory of how it happened, I found myself lying on my belly and lowering my legs over the edge of the trail. At once, my fear of height filled my head with the pounding of my pulse, but my arms would not pull me back onto the path. I began to clamber down the cliff face, my fingers and feet trusting my weight to ledges and crannies as thin as a coin. This was the doing of my compulsion and not myself, for I knew the limits of my own courage and would never have attempted such a thing.

Twice my toe caught the hem of the Harper’s robe and nearly pulled me from the cliff, and only Tyr’s protection gave my hands the strength to hold me until I freed my foot and found a hold. I could do nothing about the clumsy robe except tuck the hem in my belt, but it always fell free and dropped back down. My foot tangled a third time. I grew so angry that I tore the witch’s veil from my face and flung it away. In doing this I happened to look down and see that Rinda’s journal had slipped down three-quarters of the bank. Even worse, much of the rocky shore had now vanished beneath the rising tide, and I had lived upon this coast long enough to know that in less than a quarter hour the sea would be so high that its waves would slap at the very place where the journal now lay.

I clambered down the cliff another few minutes, pausing every so often to glance at the book and at the rising tide. The uprush was just beginning to lap at the bank when the clanging of the alarm bell echoed down from the windy heights above, and I knew that Ulraunt and the witch had freed themselves. The shore lay perhaps twice a giant’s height below me; if I could only reach it before my foes spied me clinging to the cliff, I would be safe.

The crashing waves had been tearing at the bank for centuries upon centuries, working even the tiniest fissures into small caverns. During my long winters outside Candlekeep, I had slept in a hundred of them. They were never very comfortable, but they kept the rain off, and there was even one grotto whose entrance disappeared at high water. Inside that cave, I could hide until the tide went out at midnight, then start my journey under cover of darkness.

The wind caught Rinda’s journal and spun it around, and it slid down the bank until it was so close to the water that I saw the spray spattering the rocks around it. I closed my eyes and jumped and prayed that Tyr’s protection would guard me against sprained ankles and broken legs, and most especially being caught in a wave’s backwash and drowned.

Fourteen

In another ocean far from Faerun, where the brine smelled as sweet as honey and the surf chimed like tinkling bells and the stars and the moon flooded the sky with light as lustrous as silver, Kelemvor and Mystra appeared in the glittering shoals near shore. In the distance ahead, Mount Celestia hovered above the horizon, its base lost in a swaddling haze of sea mist, its jagged peak hanging like a cloud in the air. Closer by, completely covering the rocky crown of a nearby island, loomed the immense white palace of Tyr the Just.