Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (36 page)

“But Mystra is a fiend!” Adon staggered back, then stopped when Jergal’s disembodied gloves caught his arms. The patriarch paid his captor no attention. “I have seen her true face! She cares nothing for her worshipers!”

“Even if that were true, it would make no difference to me.” There was a catch in Kelemvor’s voice, and he avoided Adon’s gaze. “As long as they remain Faithful to her, I cannot touch them. You, on the other hand, have placed yourself entirely in my hands, and you must suffer for it.”

Adon’s haggard expression changed from bewilderment to anger. “But you promised to be fair and just! You promised you would not torture the damned!”

Kelemvor glared down, his eyes burning red. “Neither your madness nor our past friendship gives you leave to speak to me as you have, and this is the last time I will warn you. As for my promises, I decide what is just, and there is no need for me to torture the damned. They shall do that themselves.”

Adon’s jaw fell. “What happened to you?” His shoulders slumped, then his face curled into a mask of lunacy. “I should have known! You always were Mystra’s-“

“That is enough!” Kelemvor underscored his command with enough force to drive Adon to his knees. “I have warned you-“

Kelemvor was interrupted by a thunderous peal of laughter. “Your warnings mean nothing to Adon, Thronethief!” A huge, crimson-tinged skull appeared in the air. “In fact, I demand to know where you are taking him. Adon is one of my Faithful!”

The patriarch’s eyes grew wide with horror, and beneath the One’s head appeared a skeleton covered here and there by pieces of armor and patches of leathery hide. The avatar stood half-again Kelemvor’s height, though of course size means nothing at all to the gods.

“Adon, is Cyric’s claim true?” Kelemvor asked. “Have you ever prayed to him?”

“Never!”

Cyric smiled patiently and shook his skull. “Tsk, tsk, Adon. You must not lie. Only I can save you now.”

Adon scurried to Kelemvor’s side, dragging Jergal’s shadow-filled cloak behind him.

Cyric reached down to take them both, but Lord Death lashed out and caught the One by the wrist. Then Kelemvor dared to lock eyes and grow just as large as the One and All, and Jergal pushed Adon through the city gates without bothering to open them.

“Give him back, Kelemvor!” hissed Cyric. “Call him out now, or I will see you locked in Helm’s prison with your whore!”

“You have no claim on Adon,” Kelemvor replied evenly. “If you did, he would have called you instead of me.”

“Adon is mad!” Cyric exploded. “That makes him mine!”

That makes him your victim, not your worshiper. Tyr will see the difference, if you care to call him.”

Cyric jerked free and stepped back. From the wrist down, his hand remained in Kelemvor’s grasp, but such things are of no consequence to the gods.

The One shook his stump in Lord Death’s face. “You cannot cheat me out of my prize, Kelemvor! He is my proof!”

“Proof?” Kelemvor discarded Cyric’s severed hand as though it were nothing but trash. “Proof of what?”

“Of my guilt!” The One’s hand dragged itself toward its master, the bony fingers rising and falling like spider legs. “The charge against me is innocence by insanity. I am no innocent! Could an innocent steal Mystra’s patriarch?”

Kelemvor shook his head. “You stole nothing except his life. Adon’s prayer makes him False and Faithless to Mystra-not Faithful to you.” He grew just tall enough to look down upon the One. “Adon is mine now. And so is this realm.”

Cyric extended his stump, and in the next instant his severed hand flew to Lord Death’s throat and clung there like a fiend. “You have not heard the last of this! Tyr is on my side!”

“Then get him.” Kelemvor pulled the One’s hand from his throat, tearing out his own larynx in the process, and thrust this whole mess at Cyric. “Until you do, leave me alone. I have much to do before the trial.”

The wound in Kelemvor’s throat healed as he spoke. He turned his back on the One, returning to his work on the perfect mirror, and watched Cyric’s reflection vanish in a burst of black steam.

Jergal returned at once, dragging Adon’s astonished spirit with him. “I await your command, Lord Death.”

Kelemvor stared across the empty plain. “I wonder, will Cyric return?”

The shoulders of Jergal’s empty cloak rose and fell. “It hardly matters. You were well within your rights.”

“All the same, Lord Death,” said Adon, “I thank you for not turning me over to him.”

Kelemvor glanced down at the patriarch. “Do not thank me until you have heard your sentence.” He turned his gaze upon the yellow eyes floating beneath the hood of Jergal’s cloak “Take him to the Crystal Spire and put him at the end of the line. See that he stays there.”

Jergal’s eyes flashed gold, then he bowed. “As you command.”

With that, the seneschal split into two avatars. One pushed Adon into the City of the Dead, this time opening the gate first, and the other remained behind with Kelemvor.

“If I may have your permission to suggest it,” said the seneschal, “I believe there is a solution to your quandary-one well within all these rules you have made for yourself.” Kelemvor cocked an eyebrow. “I am listening.” “Let Adon see Mystra through your eyes. Your perceptions should be powerful enough to counter those of Cyric.” Kelemvor sighed. “I wish it were that easy, Jergal, but love is not the same as worship. Adon must see Mystra as a goddess, and to me, she is still as human as I am.”

Forty

Halah kneeled in the alley behind us, gnawing on a thighbone and making a dreadful noise. Fortunately, most passersby only gave a start and scurried past without looking down the murky lane. But once, three burly guardsmen had stepped into the shadows to see what was causing such an awful snarling, and Svanhild and the other acolytes had been quick to guarantee that they would cause us no trouble.

Why Halah could not have stayed at the temple and finished her meal there was a mystery to me. After the Friar’s death, I had demanded that we leave immediately to find Fzoul Chembryl, and the acolytes had led me to a secret tunnel. Halah had insisted on following, crawling through the cramped passage on her knees and hocks and dragging along Fornault’s entire leg. Her companionship had forced us to traverse the length of the city through alleys and byways; even in Zhentil Keep, flesh-eating horses were a rarity, and we had no wish to alert Fzoul’s spies to our approach. And now I stood watching the South Force Gate, wondering how we were going to sneak a blood-smeared mare past the sentries.

“What are you waiting for?”

Though the question came from behind me, I knew at once who had asked it; the alley had suddenly gone cold and it smelled of death, and a thousand voices filled my ears. I spun on my heel and found myself facing a bloody wraith in black leather armor. Cyric’s bare jaws worked back and forth, grinding his teeth together and filling the alley with a terrible growl, and in the bony sockets beneath his brow, the black orbs of his hallowed eyes burned darker than ever. If he noticed the sixteen stunned acolytes kneeling behind him, he did not show it. Halah herself seemed unimpressed; she continued to gnaw on her bone and paid him no heed.

Cyric raised three fingerbones. “Three days to trial.”

I did not answer, fearing the Harlot’s spell would force me to say something unwise, such as the truth: A thousand pardons, most honored god, but I cannot do as you ask because I am busy doing what you require; I am seeking a way to cure your madness.

Cyric laid a skeletal hand on my shoulder. “Good news, Malik: I tricked Mystra into attacking Mask, and now she is locked in Helm’s prison.” Truly, it was a testament to the One’s cunning that all the other gods believed this a result of the Harlot’s own folly. “She will trouble us no more, but I need the Cyrinishad more than ever.”

At mention of the hallowed book, Svanhild and several other acolytes raised their heads.

The One squeezed my shoulder so tightly my clavicle ached, then continued, “That pusdrinker Kelemvor stole my evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Adon’s soul. I took him from Mystra.”

“The Harlot’s patriarch prays to you?” I was very excited, as I knew nothing at that time about the One’s efforts to subvert Adon. “How wonderful!”

“He does not pray to anyone.” The One released my shoulder, then looked down the street. A stream of filthy masons and dayworkers were pouring through the gate, returning across the Force Bridge to pass the night in the safety of Zhentil Keep. “That is my point. I drove him mad, and he disavowed Mystra, and now he never prays. If that does not make him mine, what does?”

“I don’t know.” I had let this slip before I realized I did know, and of course the Harlot’s magic compelled me to say more than was wise. “I don’t know why you think driving him mad makes him yours. If he prays to no god, then he is Faithless and belongs to Kelemvor.”

In the next instant, I flew into the wall behind me and dislodged a dozen blocks and brought them crashing down on my head; without Tyr’s protection, I would certainly have been killed on the spot. Though I did not see Cyric move, I suddenly found his bony hand pinning me to the fractured wall, and my eyes were staring down into the orbs of black ice beneath his brow.

“I am tiring of your honesty, Malik.” “As am I, Mighty One. I will try to do better.” “Just get the Cyrinishad,” hissed the One. “Otherwise, you’ll be joining Adon in the City of the Dead-and sooner than you like.”

Cyric released me. My legs buckled and I dropped to my knees, and when I looked up, the One was gone.

The acolytes bounded to my side like a litter of puppies, kissing the ground where the One had stood and the cloth where he had touched my filthy robe and the stones where he had slammed me against the wall. Only Svanhild and Thir seemed less than thrilled by the visit of Our Dark Lord, but still they pressed themselves tightly against my body.

Svanhild proclaimed, “To speak to Our Dark Lord in such tones and survive! Malik must be very close to him indeed!” She made certain to look at each of the other acolytes as she said this, for the contest to replace Fornault had already started. “Aren’t we fortunate I recognized him at the gate?”

“As long as the One does not blame us for his failure,” countered Oda, who also wished to be the new Friar. She pushed her way forward and pointed an accusing finger at me. “If you wish to recover the Cyrinishad, what are you doing here? We sent letters to every temple in Faerun saying Rinda had taken it and fled the city!”

How else could I answer, except to slap Oda in the face? I could hardly have said I was trying to cure the One’s madness-she would have fallen to her knees and betrayed me to Cyric at once. So I did what I had to do and shoved her into Svanhild’s arms, and Svanhild’s quick dagger was to thank for the rest.

By the time Oda’s body slumped to the ground, Svanhild had whirled around to face her fellows. “I am sorry about Oda, but she had no right to question the Favored of the One.”

Of course, this was only an excuse for eliminating her rival, but the acolytes were quick to accept the explanation-especially while Svanhild’s dagger remained unsheathed. Oda’s death seemed to upset only Thir, and she turned her wrath on me.

“Are you afraid to do your own killing, Malik? First I must slay Fornault for you, and now Svanhild must murder Oda! I am beginning to think you are an imposter!”

I slapped her as I had slapped Oda, then shoved her into Svanhild’s arms, expecting the same speedy solution to my problem. This time, my ally’s arms were too slow, and Thir sprang back at me with a thin stiletto in her hand. The weapon snapped the instant it touched my breastbone, thanks to Tyr’s protection.

Svanhild pulled my attacker away, but this time she stayed her bloody blade. “Forgive her, Malik. Thir meant no harm. Oda was her closest friend.”

I scowled at this, then looked into Thir’s angry eyes. “I have enough to worry about. If I let you live, you must give your word on the One to make no more trouble.”

“Oh, I promise.” Thir’s smile grew as sweet as her eyes were angry. “On my soul as a True Believer.”

I was much relieved at this. I did not have the stomach to do as I had threatened, and I knew better than to think the rest of the acolytes would continue to abide someone else doing my killing. I nodded to Svanhild, who smiled and pushed Thir into the waiting arms of the other acolytes.

Then Svanhild glanced up at the sky, which was growing purple with twilight, and motioned her fellows out of the alley. “We must hurry, or the guards will close the gate.”

The acolytes filtered into the street. I continued to stare at Oda’s corpse, and I could not help thinking that if I became a problem, Svanhild would deal with me just as efficiently.

“Malik, are you coming?”

“Of course!”

I jerked my gaze away from Oda’s body and saw that the other acolytes had disappeared into the crowded street. I stepped to the mouth of the alley, where Svanhild stood waiting, and Halah rose to join us, still gnawing on Fornault’s thighbone. Svanhild took one look and shook her head in disgust, though I could not say whether this was directed at me or my faithful mount.

“Can’t you do something about your horse?” This was a command, not a question. “With that bone hanging from her mouth, the gate sentries are sure to notice us.”

I turned to Halah. “Halah, can you leave that behind?”

“You’re asking her?”

“Halah is a very temperamental mare.” In truth, I did not know what would happen if I tried to take the bone away, for I had never forgotten the One’s warning to let her eat whatever she wished. “You have seen her power.”

Svanhild scowled. “And you have seen how Zhents treat True Believers.” She gestured at the workers flooding back into the city across the Force Bridge. “Do you really want to start a Believer’s Shower as we go out to seek the tower of the Great Annihilator? Or perhaps you think Fzoul won’t notice?”

I glanced at the mass of burly men coming toward us. Svanhild’s plan called for us to take advantage of the deluge to leave the city while the guards were too busy to pay close attention; the sight of Halah chewing on a human femur would certainly make us conspicuous. Reasoning that Tyr’s protection would shield me, I took a deep breath, then snatched the bone from the mare’s mouth and threw it on a roof.