Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (28 page)

As Kelemvor spoke, the seneschal’s shadow-filled cloak appeared beside him.

“Ah yes, the Lyonsbane curse: perform a selfless act, turn into a man-eating beast.”

“Where would you have sent me?” Kelemvor turned and pointed at the Web of Snakes. “There? Home to the hopelessly confused?”

“I would not have sent you anywhere,” Jergal replied. “Myrkul would have put you in his Wall of Bodies, and who can say what Cyric would have done?”

“I had a pretty good idea.” The voice was Mystra’s, and she appeared on the hill beside Kelemvor. “That is why I fought so hard to overthrow him before he found you.”

Kelemvor dismissed Jergal with a thought, then turned to Mystra. “I am glad you saved me from Cyric’s mercies, but sometimes I wonder about giving me his throne.”

“I did not give you anything. The denizens of the city made you their ruler.”

Kelemvor’s eyes grew sad. “I have not forgotten. I think it would be easier to be a true God of Death if I could.”

Mystra scowled. “Kelemvor, I do not like this ‘thinking.’ You are more suited to action, and I wish you would take some!”

Kelemvor recoiled as though struck, then raised his brow and squared his shoulders. “Maybe so. Is that what you came to say?”

Mystra shook her head. “No, I came to tell you it is Mask who started all this, not Cyric.”

Kelemvor nodded. “I know. Avner returned to the Crystal Spire and reported everything Mask said.”

“Including his claim that he duped us?”

“I fear it is more than a claim. He came to demand that I punish Avner as one of his False, and I stepped into his trap like a blind bear. I refused.”

Mystra frowned. “But Avner died serving his queen.”

“That would count for much, had he been one of Torm’s Faithful. But Avner worshiped no god except the God of Thieves.”

“I see.” Mystra bit her lip. “What does Mask have planned for me? I received no such demand.”

Kelemvor shook his head. “I have no idea, but I can tell you there is only one way to counter his trap.”

“And that is?”

“Reflect on ourselves. Make certain we are serving our nature and the Balance.”

Mystra rolled her eyes. “I think we would be wiser to force our accusers to withdraw their charges. I will take care of Mask, but you must handle Tempus.”

“Handle him?” Kelemvor’s tone betrayed his wariness. “How?”

“Withhold death from the justified side in every battle.”

“Withhold death?” Kelemvor was too stunned to say more.

“Nothing could bring all the wars on Faerun to a swifter end. Tempus will be forced to do as we ask.”

“You are as mad as Cyric!” Kelemvor shouted. Of course, this was not possible; Mystra was not smart enough to be even half as mad as Cyric. “Even if I could decide which side is justified-and that is Tyr’s purview, not mine-Tempus would never break his promise to Mask.”

“By the time I finish with him, Mask will beg Tempus to withdraw the charges.”

Kelemvor cocked his brow. “I thought you promised not to interfere with the trial?”

“That was before Adon’s affliction. More to the point, Mask was not part of the trial in the past, nor will he be in the future-there will be no trial, at least not for us.”

Kelemvor took a breath and made no reply.

Mystra studied him. “You are not going to do this, are you?”

Kelemvor shook his head. “You are asking me to violate my duty as God of Death.”

“But this is for Adon!”

“I know.” Kelemvor closed his eyes. “But my refusal is for us. If you do this thing, you are lost.”

Mystra staggered back. “What has happened to you?” She stepped off the hill into the empty air. “I will talk to you when your senses return!”

Kelemvor watched the goddess vanish, then looked bad toward the Web of Snakes. “Jergal!”

“I am here for you, as always.” The seneschal’s empty cloak appeared at Kelemvor’s side. “How may I serve you?”

“Did you hear what passed between Mystra and me?”

“Did you want me to?”

Kelemvor thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”

Jergal’s yellow eyes swung away, gazing down upon a bed of crimson lilies. “Then I heard nothing. Is there anything else?”

Kelemvor nodded, then faced his seneschal. “Mystra was right about one thing: it is time I started taking action.” He stepped off the hilltop directly into the Crystal Spire’s throne room, though the distance was farther than a camel could run in two days. “Jergal, I want you to prepare a list of all the judgments I have made since becoming God of Death.”

The seneschal appeared at Kelemvor’s side, his empty cloak waving like a banner in the wind. “All your judgments?”

“All of them. Avner will be returning with his report soon. If things go as I expect, we will have a lot of work to do.”

Twenty-Eight

It required Halah but a short time to find me in the forest where I had fallen, for my hand was coated with Silvercloud’s blood and she had a very keen nose for gore. Within minutes I was on her back, galloping along on my sacred pilgrimage. Aside from the strain my terror had placed on Cyric’s rancid heart, I was none the worse for my long plummet. Though my thoughts remained much concerned with my wife’s unfaithful miracle, I had learned my lesson and kept a careful watch over my shoulder. Apparently, the Harper’s hippogriff had fared worse than I during our quick exchange. I saw no sign of the witch or her beast all day, and so it was that I rode into Arabel upon the supper hour, shortly before dark.

Although the One had graced the city by living there before the Time of Troubles, Arabel seemed no different than any other barbarian town, with dogs wandering loose and insects swarming out of the open gutters. The avenues were narrow and crooked and almost deserted, since most people were inside taking their suppers. The smell of roasted meat and warm bread filled the air. After my harrowing escape that morning and the hard ride that followed, I felt worthy of a good meal and a soft bed.

I guided Halah to one of the few people on the street, a burly guardsman standing outside an alley. As we approached, he turned to face us and angled his halberd across his body.

“Well met, traveler,” said he. “How can I-“

Before I could ask him a single thing, Halah bit his halberd in two and nosed him back into the alley.

“In the name of Torm!” The guard dropped his useless polearm and reached for his sword. “Control your mount!”

The poor soul did not know the folly of what he asked. Before his sword could clear its scabbard, Halah bit off the astonished fellow’s hand. There is little point in describing what followed, except to note that I was lucky enough to salvage his coin purse before my ravenous mount swallowed it whole. I retreated to the mouth of the alley and, by virtue of my dark aba and disheveled appearance, managed to look suspicious enough that the few passersby who came along crossed to the other side of the street. As I listened to Halah devour her meal, naturally my thoughts turned to my own empty stomach and to the soft bed I would enjoy afterward.

And the moment I thought of a soft bed, I also thought of my wife and of the unfaithful timing of her miracle. Bile filled my throat, my chest tightened, and I grew so angry about matters in Calimshan that I did not even notice the lanky figure in the hooded cloak until he was almost upon me.

I stepped out to meet him, thinking to distract him with the same question I had intended to ask the guard.

“Sir, can you tell me of a good inn?”

“Of course!” The figure spoke in a thousand voices, and when he raised his head, I saw Cyric’s bony face. “But until you find the Cyrinishad, what use do you have for an inn?”

Mystra’s spell compelled me to say, “I am hungry and tired.”

“And?” asked Cyric.

I sighed, for I knew better than to declare I could not continue without rest. The truth was only that I felt sorry for myself and on that account did not want to go on, and who could tell what else I might blurt out?

“Malik, it seems your heart is no longer in your mission.” The One tapped his chest to remind me how he knew this. “Perhaps you have been … distracted?”

“Perhaps,” I said, and then the Harlot’s spell compelled me to add, “I can think of nothing except the shame brought upon my good name by my wife and the prince!”

Cyric smirked, which is a horrible thing for a skeleton’s face, and said, “I thought so.” The One looked away for a moment, then said, “You longer have any need to worry about your wife and the prince. I have eliminated that problem.”

“Eliminated it, Mighty One?”

“Yes, Malik! You understand ‘eliminated,’ do you not? Do not let them trouble your thoughts again.”

Them?” I staggered back, for it was one thing to curse my unfaithful wife and quite another to know that it had been done. Then my wife is … gone? I will never see her again?”

“Not in this life.” The black suns beneath the One’s brow flared to twice their customary size. “I am surprised her death troubles you. How can you think of your wife when I am on trial?”

“Because of the terrible shame she …” Here, my throat seemed to close in on itself, then another reply spilled from my lips: “Because I might miss her.”

The One’s jaw snapped shut, then he glared at me so long I thought he had turned into a statue. Yet, he could be no more surprised than I was, for I had not realized the truth of my words until they spilled from my mouth.

At last, the One shook his head. “I will not return her to life, Malik. She is too much of a distraction.” He laid a bony arm across my shoulders, then pulled me as close as a brother. “But perhaps-if you ride very hard-I will hear her calling from the Fugue Plain. Then, after you recover the Cyrinishad, you can join her in the Castle of the Supreme Throne.”

I did not know whether to rejoice or despair, as he had not mentioned how soon this might be. “That is more than I deserve!”

Cyric patted my shoulder. “Not so, Malik. If you fail me, you will join your wife in the City of the Dead-this I promise.” The One glanced westward, toward the Storm Horns looming beyond the city walls. “Now, think of your wife no more. You have other women to worry about.”

I pushed myself away from the building and peered in the same direction. There, silhouetted against the crimson ball of the setting sun, I saw the distant figure of a hippogriff and its rider. “That witch is a demon from the Abyss!”

“No, Malik,” corrected the One. “She is a Harper.”

Twenty-Nine

When a man is seized by an unreasonable fear and knows it, he begins to fear his reason itself. He doubts what his eyes show and what his ears tell, what he smells and tastes, and even the thoughts that fill his head. He can be certain of nothing except that he is, and that something out there wants him not to be. This was the state of Adon the patriarch.

He lay in his humble bed, clutching the sides of his straw mattress, afraid to turn his eyes upon anything but the coffered ceiling above. When he looked outside, his gaze slipped between the balcony balusters and he saw Mystra’s avatar on the shore of Hillshadow Lake. A cloud of hair floated like black smoke around her head, and her crimson talons were hurling lightning and fire at a many-tentacled monster thrashing about in the water.

But neither the battle nor Mystra’s presence disturbed Adon so much as the certain conviction he was imagining the whole thing. The fight was as silent as a mirage; the lightning and roiling fire did not rumble or crash, and when the slimy beast opened its maw to roar, no sound came at all. This was because the goddess, having no wish to disturb the sleep of her troubled patriarch, had enclosed the combat within a curtain of silence. But Adon did not know this. To him, the fight seemed a dream, except that he was awake. And since he was awake, the dream could only be a hallucination, and since the dream was a hallucination, he could only be mad.

This thought was a great relief to him. Like any fool who ever loved a deceitful woman, Adon preferred ignorance to betrayal; going mad was just the excuse he needed to ignore what he had seen in the eyes of Nadisu Bhaskar. Where before a heart full of adoration for Mystra had beat in his chest, now there was only a gnawing void he could not abide. He had felt such an emptiness once before, when he lost Faith in Sune after a madman’s dagger slashed his face. For months afterward, he had felt hollow and sick inside, and he could not bear such emptiness again.

Yet the prospect was difficult to ignore. When he looked anywhere but the ceiling, he saw Mystra in all her horrible countenance. Her snarling visage was carved into every panel of the room’s immense double door, and her dreadful form was portrayed in grisly scenes sculpted into every wall. Adon remembered choosing these scenes himself, though for some reason he had believed them to portray miracles instead of cataclysms. Had he been crazy then, or was he crazy now?

After several hours, Adon decided to test his madness by looking upon a relief he remembered well. On the wall opposite his bed was a portrayal of the goddess joining the hands of two rival kings. He had once viewed this scene as an illustration of Mystra’s divine love. If he looked upon it now and saw anything else, he would know he had lost his mind. The patriarch tore his gaze from the ceiling.

The instant his eyes fell upon the carving, his vision blurred. He took a breath and squinted, forcing himself to see. He half-expected the goddess to start moving, but she remained as motionless as any piece of stone. His vision cleared, and he sighed in relief. There were no fangs or talons, no bare bones jutting through the flesh of her face.

And yet the carving was as smooth and white as Mystra’s skin had been when she last came to him. The silky long tresses could have been the smoky hair he remembered, and who was to say whether the artist had envisioned teeth or fangs lurking behind her full lips?

Adon’s breath grew fast and shallow, but he forced himself to study other scenes. Was the goddess turning back a fire, or spreading it across the fields? Was she stopping a tidal wave, or summoning it forth?

The patriarch shut his eyes and softly cried out in despair. He was careful not to scream, for he did not want an acolyte to come check on him. They all stank of the goddess’s magic, and the smell made him retch and soil his bed.