Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (35 page)

I swallowed about half the contents of the chalice, then lowered the cup. The Friar’s eyes were already as wide as saucers, and his color had gone from pale to ghostly.

“A fine port indeed, Fornault.” My ears were filled with such a gurgling I could barely hear my own words, and my stomach felt as swollen as a woman’s before she gives birth. Yet I could see by the Friar’s reaction I should have been dead before I lowered the cup. “Now, will you tell me where I can find Fzoul Chembryl? Or would you like to finish what’s left of the port?”

I stood and thrust the chalice back into the Friar’s hands. He stared into the cup, trying to decide if his poison had failed or I was as great as Svanhild claimed. My head began to pound. A terrible coldness seeped from Cyric’s gurgling heart into my breast, and this had nothing to do with the poison.

“Your decision?” I demanded.

The chalice slipped from Fornault’s hand and clanged to the floor, spilling red port across the stones. He dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of my robe.

“I was only trying to honor Our Lord of Murder!” He was referring, of course, to the venerable act of killing an unsuspecting guest. “I didn’t know you were Chosen!”

“I did not say I was.” I could barely hear him over the gurgling in my ears. “Now, where will I find Fzoul Chembryl?”

His gaze followed my hand as it slipped beneath my robe and withdrew the shining blade of my dagger.

“Don’t!” he pleaded. “I’ll take you there myself!”

I shook my head, for I knew I was not strong enough to resist the cold yearning in my breast. “Tell me, or I will kill you now and let the One punish your silence in the next life.”

This threat was too much for Fornault. “His old tower! My spies tell me that is where he worships Iyachtu Xvim.”

I looked up and saw the eyes of the acolytes shining in eagerness, for the murder of a master venerates the One even more than the killing of a guest. Svanhild showed her approval by nodding excitedly.

“I can find the tower,” she said. “It’s in the Ruins.”

I glanced around the barren hall, for I had thought we wen in the Ruins, then raised my dagger high. Fornault closed his eyes, knowing he could not resist the Chosen of the One. The viscid mass in my chest squeezed slush through my veins, and I stepped forward to take my vengeance.

Then I imagined Fornault’s spirit down on the Fugue Plain with my wife, calling for Our Dark Lord, and I knew by the cold lump in my chest that Cyric would never answer him. The poisoning had become a great sacrilege, distressing the One’s heart as it had, and this could not be forgiven. The Friar would be hauled before Kelemvor and found to be ignoble as well as False, and then he would be sentenced to an eternity of torment.

My arm would not come down to strike the infidel.

I clenched my teeth and tried harder, and all that happened was that my hand began to tremble. How could I be so weak? It was a terrible impiety to leave Fornault’s treachery unavenged, yet I could not strike, not even when I called upon Cyric’s heart for strength. I cursed the Harlot’s spell, but I knew I alone was at fault. I was so afraid of Kelemvor’s tortures that I could not send another to face them.

Even now it shames me to admit such cowardice. I stood holding the blade aloft so long that all the eager faces turned to looks of puzzlement, and Fornault opened his eyes to gaze up at me piteously.

Svanhild frowned and stepped away from my side. “Well, Malik? Will you kill him or not?”

I tried again to bring the dagger down, but I was too weak - especially with my victim staring up into my eyes.

I shook my head. “No.”

A startled gasp rose from the acolytes. I saw the yearning vanish from Svanhild’s face-then Thir grasped my arm.

“Of course not! Malik has no need to prove his Faith.” Thir took the dagger from my hand. “We’re the ones who must prove ours!”

Thirty-Eight

The Caliph has a saying: If it is not cruel, it is not punishment. In service of this motto, his jailers have devised many implements of ingenious and splendid design. They have constructed machines that can bend the victim backward until his head touches his heels, and have forged little tools that can keep him laughing until he ruins his voice, and have built one hideous device that tightens around the prisoner’s chest each time he exhales. Yet the Caliph would have traded all these treasures for the simple prison in which Helm confined Mystra, which was more brutal than all the racks and hooks in Calimshan.

The goddess sat on a bed of soft emptiness, cursing Tyr for a fate she alone had caused. So cramped was her prison that she could not lift her head without thrusting it into the cold void of the ceiling, nor lie straight without touching the unbreachable nil of the walls. Yet her agony was not physical, for the bodies of the gods can endure any torment with less pain than a mortal feels in bright sun.

What troubled Mystra was Adon. Her patriarch was down on the Fugue Plain, crying out in madness and confusion, his voice so full of anguish it muffled the pleas of all her other Faithful. “0 Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead and Judge of the Damned, heed the call of your dead friend Adon! Take mercy on my soul and on all the poor souls who have ever worshiped Mystra, the Goddess of Lies! She is filled with hate and envy, and she deceives all who worship her! She has left us to rot, and I beseech you, the Fair Lord, the Kind and Merciful Lord, to take pity on our wretched souls and give us shelter in the City of the Dead!”

Mystra wailed in agony, for no torture could hurt more than this. She had heard Adon’s treaties a thousand times, and each time she had tried to answer but failed. Helm’s prisons existed outside time and space; any deity trapped inside was cut off from all godly powers.

That Lady Magic could hear the worshipers’ voices was but a courtesy of her jailer, given in acknowledgment that the charges against her remained unproved. Mystra could have asked for silence, but she did not, for she believed Kelemvor would try to free her and wanted to be ready when the time came to escape.

Adon’s plea to Kelemvor droned on for the thousand and tenth time. Mystra let out a great sob and swore that when she escaped, the first thing she would do was comfort her patriarch, then she steeled herself to hear the prayer again.

But Adon’s voice fell silent.

Mystra’s first thought was that he had lost all hope, and she ached to send a harbinger down to comfort him-then she realized that Kelemvor would have heard Adon’s pleas as clearly as she had. Surely, Lord Death had sent one of his own escorts to answer the patriarch’s appeal.

No sooner had Mystra consoled herself than an avalanche of prayers filled the hush left by Adon’s silence.

“… of Mysteries, why have you deserted me?”

“Mother of Magic, I am alone and without guidance …”

“… answer me? Answer my prayers! Answer…”

These prayers came not only from her most devoted clerics, but from ordinary spellcasters as well. The desperation in their voices stunned the goddess. Even with her locked in Helm’s prison, the Weave remained, and any devoted student of magic could still tap it.

“… frightened to use my magic…”

“My light spell blinded half the town! How have I…”

“… the sphere melted the King’s favorite …”

Talos!

The name flashed into Mystra’s thoughts like a lightning bolt. Three years ago, she had started to scale back the magic of devastation. The Destroyer had retaliated by beginning a quiet campaign to subvert her worshipers, secretly allowing the most destructive of them to use him as a conduit to the Weave. Seeing that it was easier to control a plot she knew about than one of which she remained ignorant, the Goddess of Magic had feigned ignorance and allowed Talos to continue.

It did not surprise Mystra to learn that the Destroyer had seized the opportunity of her imprisonment to further his plot, but she did not realize the extent of his success until she heard the prayer of the Harper witch Ruha.

“… sorry for my mistake, Goddess. But if you cannot forgive me, why do you allow Talos to steal your worshipers? I refused his offer, for I did not enjoy being a scourge to the land even when I thought it your will. But many others have not done the same. During the flight from Voonlar to Yulash, I had to avoid five savage whirlwinds, and one time the smoke from the burning forest grew so thick…”

Mystra rolled onto her hands and knees. “Helm!”

The God of Guardians made no response. Like any jailer, he was accustomed to much yelling and screaming from his charges, and he knew the wisdom of ignoring it.

“Helm, you must know what Talos is doing! You cannot allow it to continue!”

Still, there came no response.

“He is stealing the Weave! It is your duty to let me out!”

Helm stuck his head through the wall of nothingness. His visor remained down as always, and so he resembled a closed helmet hanging on a dark wall.

“How dare you presume to tell me my duty! My duty is to keep you here. If you had been doing yours, Talos would not have stolen so many of your worshipers. Even Oghma says that!”

“So many? How many?”

The God of Guardians shook his helmet. “I dare not guess. But many centuries hence, I am sure this will still be known as the Month of Disasters.”

“Helm, listen to me.” Mystra clasped her hands before her. “You must let me out.”

“I cannot. It is my duty to keep you here.”

“You are the God of Guardians. Have you no duty to guard Faerun?” Like any harlot, Mystra knew just the words to make a man doubt himself. “In the Time of Troubles, you were the one who kept the gods out of the heavens. Much of what they destroyed has never been repaired. Will you let Talos demolish the rest?”

Helm fell silent, though his visor hid what he was thinking.

“I am the only one who can stop Talos,” Mystra said. “You know that.”

“No! You are the one who neglected her duty, and you are the one who violated her promise to Tyr. If Faerun suffers for that, it is on your head, not mine.”

With that, the God of Guardians withdrew, leaving Mystra to the pleas of her Faithful and her bed of emptiness.

Thirty-Nine

In the Burning Gallery in the Crystal Spire, four of Kelemvor’s avatars sat in four identical thrones, staring out over four endless lines of terrified spirits summoned from all reaches of the City of the Dead. The souls coughed and choked in the black acrid fumes that swirled off the walls of smoldering coal, and many of them murmured in soft tones, wondering why they had been called into this place of smoke and darkness. And when they reached the head of the line and learned the answer, some would cry out in delight and others would wail in despair, and they would fling themselves at Lord Death’s feet and kiss his toes or clutch his legs, but he paid no heed to any of them. The souls would vanish and reappear in their new home, and Jergal would call the next forward and read his history, and Kelemvor would pronounce a new judgment, and the spirit would wail or rejoice and fling himself at Kelemvor’s feet, and so the Reevaluation continued hour after hour, day after day.

In the Hall of Judgment, where the crystal ceiling had turned as brown and smoky as topaz, two more Kelemvors sat passing judgment on all the souls recently arrived in his realm. As these spirits heard their sentences, no laughing or wailing ensued, but only stunned gasps and long, sorry silences.

Out in the city, three more avatars reshaped the many districts and boroughs into ghettos better suited to the realm of the dead. Kelemvor blew a great breath over Pax Cloister, and the shadowy valleys and wooded mountains became a desolate land of howling dust and barren peaks. In the same moment, Lord Death let out a tremendous bellow in the Singing City, and the whole quarter fell as silent as a tomb. He waded into the Acid Swamp and seeded the quagmire with handfuls of pebbles, which swelled into stone islands where the charlatans and swindlers might find refuge from their soggy existences. No longer would Lord Death’s judgments be decrees of eternal bliss or unending agony. Now the dead would make of their lot what they could, just as they had in life, except that they would dwell only with others like themselves, which was certainly enough to make any mortal stay Faithful to his god.

The last avatar stood at the city gate, rubbing the portal’s alabaster face with his bare hand. Wherever his palm touched, the stone shimmered like quicksilver and hardened into a mirror like the one in his Judgment Hall, so perfect that it revealed all the flaws of any onlooker. Now, as the False and Faithless approached Kelemvor’s city, they would see themselves from many paces away and have time to contemplate the flaws that had brought them to the City of the Dead.

It was to this avatar that Jergal brought the spirit of Adon, Mystra’s patriarch. “I have the one you requested, Lord Death.”

Before the God of Death could look away from his work, a voice screeched, “Kelemvor!” Two spindly arms wrapped themselves about his knees. “You have answered my prayer!”

Lord Death turned and plucked up Adon’s wretched figure. The patriarch stood only a quarter as tall as Kelemvor, and he looked as demented as any lunatic. His cheeks were as hollow as bowls and his hair whisked into a tangled mess, and no bruise has ever been as purple as the circles beneath his eyes.

Kelemvor sighed at the spectacle. “Adon, what shall I do with you?”

“What you do with me doesn’t matter!” The patriarch pointed across the white vastness of the Fugue Plain. “It is the rest of Mystra’s worshipers you must save. They are out there praying, and she won’t come!”

“She cannot answer her worshipers.” Kelemvor made no effort to explain further, for he knew Adon’s mind had been touched by Cyric, and that mere words could not undo the cunning of the One. “And it is not my place to aid the Faithful of another god. I sent for you only because your prayers have made you one of the Faithless-perhaps even one of the False, as you have tried to subvert the worship of Mystra. Before naming your punishment, I shall have to decide which one you are.”

Adon gasped. “Punishment?”

“This is the City of the Dead, where the False and the Faithless pay the cost of their shiftless lives. You would not be here if you were not to be punished.”