Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (43 page)

Cyric snatched me up and shook me as a mongoose shakes a snake. “You will rue the day you betrayed me, Malik!”

The One hurled me against the wall, and a mighty rumble shook the chamber and another loud crack sounded from the ceiling planks, and a steady trickle of splinters and dust showered down on my head.

“Do you think I fear this trial? I welcome it! The day is at hand when I will stand at Ao’s side, and all the others will look to us as brothers!”

I gathered myself up and lunged for the True Life.

Cyric caught my ankle and jerked me to a halt. My face slammed into the floor, but my devotion to the One was too great to let him stop me now. I thrust out my hands and caught the corner of the book and pulled it into my grasp. As the One and All dragged me back across the planks, I flipped the cover open and began to leaf through the blank pages. Rinda had written that once a person saw the first word, he could not stop reading until he had perused the entire chronicle; if I could but whirl around and thrust the first page into the One’s face, Oghma’s foul words would do the rest.

As soon as Cyric saw the book, he stopped pulling. “What have we here?”

The tome lay about a third open, and the parchment was still blank. The One snatched it from my hands and closed the cover, scrutinizing the black suns and the death’s-heads embossed around the sacred starburst-and-skull. He turned the book over to inspect the back, and his putrid heart filled my ears with such a nervous swishing I hardly heard him ask, “Malik, what is this?”

Of course, I could not answer. Instead, I sat up and reached for the book, intending to open it to Oghma’s history. Vile as it was, I had to make the One read the account before the trial.

Cyric jerked the book away. “Is this the book you came for?”

Fearing that Mystra’s magic would dispel Fzoul’s and cause me to blurt out the entire truth, I did not even nod.

“You say nothing,” said Cyric, “just as when you left on your quest.”

The black orbs beneath the One’s brows flared, and he stumbled back against the wall and sat down amidst the fragments of the shattered bookcase. Dust and pebbles rained down from the splintered ceiling, and the sagging joists complained with an ominous creaking, but he did not care. And why should he? Such things mattered less to him than to a mortal such as me.

“It bears no resemblance to the Cyrinishad, but how could it be otherwise? Oghma’s magic would prevent…” Cyric let the thought trail off, then looked at me. “Malik, do you remain loyal to me?”

I nodded eagerly, for this was as true as ever.

The One let his bony jaw sag in a gruesome farce of a smile, then opened the book to the first page. “Blank!”

A great knot formed in my stomach, and I prayed to Tymora he would flip to the pages in back.

Instead, Cyric turned to the next sheet of parchment, and then the next, a single page at a time. “All blank-but how else would it look to me? Oghma’s magic still works. If I could read the book, I would know that I held it in my hand.” He turned the tome on edge and shook out the grit that had fallen into it from the ceiling. “You have assured my verdict, Malik! When you read this at the trial, even Oghma will bow to my brilliance!”

At the trial? I had to cure the One’s madness before the trial or he would only anger his fellow gods and ensure that the verdict went against him. I shook my head and shouted a silent

No!

Cyric closed the tome with great tenderness. “And we must do something about your voice. The trial begins in an hour.”

I pounded on the floor and spread my hands as though they were an open book, then gazed at the One imploringly.

“We have no time for that now.” Cyric rose and extended his skeletal hand. “Come along, Malik. I will let you bask in my shadow.”

Forty-Eight

Mystra appeared in the temple of Iyachtu Xvim and found Ruha lying spread-eagled upon the black altar, her limbs stretched over the edges by four taut ropes. Over the witch stood Fzoul Chembryl, wearing a twisted mask called the Cowl of Hatred and waving a thin-bladed skinning knife. He was droning a deep-throated dirge, and his Faithful were singing chorus and dancing slowly around the ebony hand on the floor. In the midst of their circle writhed a pillar of shadow with flashing green eyes and a halo of mordant black smoke.

All this Mystra saw in the blink of an eye, and at once she stood at Fzoul’s side, towering high above his head. He cried out and whirled on her, his weapon raised to strike.

Moving faster than any mortal eye could follow, Mystra caught the High Tyrannar by the forearm and lifted him off the ground. “Do not dare!”

Fzoul’s mouth gaped open. The chorus fell silent and left their pillar of shadow to writhe alone. Mystra plucked the knife from the High Tyrannar’s grasp, then closed it in her huge fist; the dagger melted and dribbled onto the floor.

“This would not be a good time to make me angry. I am in a hurry.”

The green-eyed shadow guttered like a flame, then hissed, “As you should be, Weave Hag! Leave my temple, now!”

“Or what?” Mystra turned her gaze on Xvim.

The pillar shrank, but the voice remained harsh. “Or I’ll fetch Helm.”

“Soon enough, Iyachtu.” Without taking her eyes off Xvim’s nebulous avatar, Mystra flicked Fzoul Chembryl aside. “Until then, be silent-or I will embarrass you in front of your worshipers.”

Iyachtu’s acolytes gasped at this sacrilege and backed away, for they feared that a battle between gods was about to erupt. But the New Darkness knew better than to attack such a powerful goddess. He could do no more to show his outrage than fill the chamber with the stink of Gehenna.

Mystra cleared the air with a wave her hand, sending both Iyachtu and his stench back to the place from whence they had come. Fzoul’s followers broke for the exits, and even the High Tyrannar himself retreated to a dark corner.

Mystra turned her attention to Ruha, whose skin was clammy and pale beneath the sacrificial tabard. The witch’s shallow breathing betrayed the agony of having her limbs pulled back against their joints. Her muscles still twitched from her bath among the eels, and her purple swollen cheek and black eyes bore witness to the fight she had given Fzoul before being captured. And despite all this, her expression remained as stoic as ever.

“Goddess!” she gasped. “At last… you came!”

Mystra made no move to free the witch. “Do not thank me so soon, Ruha. I have yet to decide whether my purpose in coming to Zhentil Keep includes saving you-I have not forgotten that volcano in the Storm Horns.”

“I do not matter,” the witch said. “Malik escaped!”

Mystra scowled. “You said the Cyrinishad was safe.”

The Cyrinishad is! He came here to steal the True Life of Cyric.” Ruha strained against her bindings. “That little scorpion is as mad as his god. He means to cure the Dark One’s insanity!”

“What?”

“It may be too late already.” Ruha pointed her chin at the ceiling, then gasped, “Cyric was up there … I heard Fzoul say this to his god.”

Mystra glanced into the dark corner where the High Tyrannar was hiding. “Is this so?”

Fzoul nodded slowly. “I don’t know what he wanted with it, but that foul-mouthed little shoat stole the True Life and went upstairs into my private chamber.” The High Tyrannar spoke in a tone at once spiteful and frightened, carefully calculated to placate Xvim’s hateful nature and avoid offending Mystra. “Then I heard Cyric talking. He had a thousand voices, and they all sounded insane.”

This news dismayed Mystra so greatly that her avatar shrank to the size of a normal woman. This was as terrible as any setback she had suffered during the past few days-Adon’s death, Talos’s plot to subvert her worship, even Kelemvor’s betrayal. A sane Cyric might win a favorable verdict at the trial and start spreading his corruption over the world again. Moreover, with Lord Death too absorbed in his “Reevaluation” to help her win the support of the other gods, the Circle seemed more likely than ever to find against her and Kelemvor and insist that they both yield their divine powers.

Mystra shook her head, much disgusted with both the trial and Kelemvor’s strange willingness to believe the charges had merit. If she and he did not protect Faerun’s mortals, who would?

The goddess sent an avatar to watch the Shattered Keep and saw that Cyric had sealed every entrance and posted avatars around the perimeter. Seeing no reason for him to take such precautions unless he had already read the book and was preparing a special rebuttal for his trial, she gave up on the thought of stealing the True Life before he could read it

All this took but an instant, and there was only a slight pause before Fzoul dared to urge, “Perhaps you should go, goddess, Iyachtu Xvim is searching for Helm even as we speak.”

Mystra ignored the warning and continued her conversation with Ruha. “I have only a short time, so I will ask you directly. How did Talos persuade you to betray me?”

Ruha lowered her eyes, much ashamed. “I should have known better… But after the things Malik did in Candlekeep, it was easy to believe you wanted him caught at any cost”

“Me?”

“Yes. When it became apparent I would never catch Malik, you … someone I took to be you … gave me the magic to keep up with him and told me to use it no matter what destruction it caused.”

“Then Talos deceived you?” Mystra sounded more relieved than angry, for proof of Talos’s actions would do much to justify her escape from Helm. “He has been impersonating me, and using my own worshipers to subvert my control over the Weave!”

Mystra began to free Ruha, snapping the taut ropes as though they were threads. Fzoul started to protest the theft of his god’s sacrifice, then thought better of it and remained silent, trusting that Helm would arrive soon to take the goddess away.

Ruha sat up, her face reddening at the folly of falling victim to the Destroyer’s deception. “I learned of my mistake when you cut me off from the Weave, but I was not certain who had deceived me until Talos appeared in Voonlar and offered to restore my powers.”

“And you refused him?” Mystra snapped the last binding. “You did not call on him even after Fzoul captured you?”

“His help carries a high price.” The witch began to rub her wrists. “I would rather die than call upon him.”

“I am touched.” Mystra laid her palm upon Ruha’s cheek, and her magic healed the witch’s bruised face. “So many people have deserted me during these troubles-even Kelemvor. Yet you stand by me, Faithful even after the injustice I did you.”

Ruha took Mystra’s hand from her face. “I pray you will not be angry with me, but I must speak honestly before my goddess.” The witch lowered her feet to the floor and stood on shaky legs, facing Mystra as best she could. “I did not refuse Talos for you. I refused him because I had already seen the terrible destruction that comes with his aid. And you did no injustice in denying the Weave to me. Whether it was you or Talos who gave me the magic to chase Malik, I was wrong to use it.

The Weave is there to use or abuse, and it is the choice we make that determines our fate. I chose poorly, and so I suffered.”

Mystra hardly heard this last sentence, for the witch’s words had already sent the goddess’s thoughts spinning. “Ruha!”

The witch paled, mistaking the blast of Mystra’s voice fora sign of anger. She dropped to her knees and clutched the hem of Lady Magic’s robe. “Forgive me, my goddess. I did not mean-“

“No, Ruha.” Mystra lifted the witch back to her feet. “You have done nothing wrong-but I have.”

Iyachtu Xvim returned in a pillar of swirling black smoke. “Begone, you self-righteous shrew! Helm is coming!” The hateful god sent a wisp of sulfur-stinking fumes across the room to entwine Ruha. “And leave my sacrifice here!”

Mystra severed the foul strand with a pass of her hand, then looked into Ruha’s eyes. “Close your eyes and think of Silvercloud.”

The witch obeyed. In the next instant she was sitting on the hippogriff, back in the same dark stable where she had left him in Zhentil Keep, safe from Iyachtu Xvim and free to return, happily ever after, to her life as a meddling Harper.

“Thieving hag!” Xvim flicked his hand in Mystra’s direction, and a cage of dark smoke rose up to enclose her, the bars turning instantly as solid as iron. “When Helm arrives, you shall pay for that insult, too!”

“I think not.” Mystra walked out of Iyachtu’s prison and did not seem to notice when the bars sliced her body into long strips. “But if I am wrong, you may tell Helm that I will be waiting at my trial.”

Forty-Nine

To make it known he had tolerated the last abuse of his justice, Tyr had cast the Pavilion of Cynosure into the image he favored. Now every god would see it as he did: a round chamber of mahogany walls and marble floors covered by a luminous dome of milky alabaster.

Around the perimeter stood five bailiffs, all avatars of Helm. They wore full suits of plate armor and kept their visors down and cradled naked battle-axes in their arms, and on their belts they carried black manacles of nothingness.

In the middle of the room, the Greater Gods stood in their customary places-though they now waited behind a circular rail of burnished gold. Tyr, as usual, took the place next to the space left empty for Ao. The Just One carried his warhammer thrust into his belt for all to see, and in place of his customary leather armor, he wore a flashing suit of silver plate.

Cyric stood directly opposite the Just One. Our Dark Lord had also altered his appearance, assuming the form of a gaunt young man with white hair and flesh the color of chalk. The blood of countless murdered guests stained the sleeves of his ivory tunic, over which he wore a long hauberk sewn from the flayed skin of Tethyr’s last king. Whenever another god dared meet his burning eyes, he glared at him until he averted his gaze.

Kelemvor wore his new attire, the same silver death mask and pearly robe he had donned when he doused the lights of his city. Mystra stood beside the Usurper, her ankles shackled together by one of Helm’s black chains. She stared at the floor and never looked in Lord Death’s direction; whether this was out of anger or shame, only the Harlot could say.