Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (39 page)

That the One did not strike me dead was but a testament to his limitless compassion, and perhaps to Tyr’s protection. By the time I heard someone more graceful than a corpse skulking about near my head, my blasphemous fury had cooled. I fell silent, listening hopefully as this person stopped beside the pile and moved the limbs of a few cadavers away from my face, and then I saw my betrayer.

“Thir!”

She had changed the hemp robe of the One’s temple for a silken cloak with a plunging bodice. Around her neck she wore a silver amulet shaped like a human hand, with a pair of emerald eyes staring out from the palm-the holy symbol of Iyachtu Xvim. Her face still bore the welts where I had slapped her.

“How nice to see you, Malik. It’s a wonder the Banedead did not kill you.” She smiled sweetly, then spit in my face. When I proved too helpless to wipe her spittle from my eyes, she turned away and added, “He seems harmless enough now, Tyrannar.”

A pair of heavy boots crunched across the rubble, and then the imposing figure I had seen silhouetted against the sky peered down at me. He had a princely face with a square jaw and a drooping red mustache, and his pale eyes were as cold and cruel as the heart slurping in my breast.

“I am Fzoul Chembryl.” He took a cloth sack from his belt and kneeled down to pull it over my head. “I hear you have been looking for me.”

Forty-Three

The City of the Dead was a jewel losing its glitter. Kelemvor stood in the highest pinnacle of the Crystal Spire and watched a gray tide washing across his realm. As the dreary wave spread, the glimmering window lamps winked out, the shining street lanterns went dull, the sparkling candles flickered and faded to black. Only an ashen gleam remained, cloaking the city like the pall of a coffin, illuminating every corner with a pale, shadowless glow. Lord Death was extinguishing the lights of his domain. From that moment forward, no flame would burn within its walls, no sun would shine upon its streets. In the City of the Dead, there would never again be brilliant light or velvet black, only countless shades of gray.

“Kelemvor, I do not think much of these changes.” As Mystra spoke these words, she appeared in the pinnacle beside Lord Death. “I hope you will forgive me for saying so.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Kelemvor turned to face Mystra, revealing that he had changed more than his city. “I did not do it to please you.”

Mystra gasped. She had seen at once that Kelemvor had changed his customary leather armor for a pearly cloak and charcoal hood, but that had not prepared her for what lay within the clothes. Her lover’s rugged face had been replaced by the impassive visage of a silver death mask. His eyes had changed from emerald gems to drab gray orbs that lacked both pupils and irises, and his mane of wild black hair had grown as white and silky as spiderwebs. Even his brawny chest, now hidden beneath a tattered breastplate of scale mail, seemed sunken and hollow.

Kelemvor waved a hand over his new figure. “This appearance is more in keeping with my true nature.”

Mystra raised her hand to her mouth and said nothing, as she could think of nothing gracious to say.

Kelemvor shrugged. “I see that Avner succeeded.”

“Yes. Thank you for sending him.”

“Mask sent him, not I.”

“So Avner said.” Mystra paused. “I wanted to speak with you about that. Avner does not deserve-“

“Avner is now the Seraph of Thieves. What’s done is done, and you have no time to waste on things that cannot be changed.” Kelemvor took Mystra’s arm and guided the astounded goddess across the room. “The instant Helm is free, he will look for you here. Perhaps you should see what you came to see, then leave. You have much to do before the trial.”

Though stunned by the curtness of Kelemvor’s words, Mystra nodded at their truth. “Yes, Talos has been making inroads-“

“Forget Talos, Mystra. Answer the charges!” They reached the other side of the pinnacle, and Lord Death’s tone grew more calm. “If you do not, we are both doomed. Tyr has not separated our charges.”

“Is that your only concern, Kelemvor?” Mystra jerked her arm free. “I had not thought you so selfish. Perhaps you should fetch Adon, and then I will leave.”

“I cannot bring him to you.” Kelemvor pointed through the crystal wall, down to a huge crowd of souls awaiting judgment outside his palace. “Adon stands in line.”

“line?” Mystra pressed her face to the crystal and peered into the shadowless gray light of the City of the Dead. Even to a goddess, the throng was too distant to discern a single soul. “You’re making Adon stand in line?”

“Of course. He rejected you in life; that makes him one of the Faithless. Moreover, he begged me to steal your worshipers from the Fugue Plain, and that makes him one of the False.”

“But Adon is insane!” Mystra whirled on Kelemvor. “You understand that better than anyone.”

“I must hold even the insane responsible for their choices.” Kelemvor stared down at the throng. His eyes could see individual souls no better than Mystra, but he knew which speck was Adon: the one at the end of the line. “If I do not punish the insane when they turn from their gods, then half of Faerun will go mad. Too many mortals are too lazy to pay their gods the proper worship.”

Mystra spun Kelemvor around and stared into his empty gray eyes. “Have you gone mad yourself? Who are you hiding behind that mask? Cyric? Tempus? Mask?” She backed away, raising her hands to blast the imposter with raw magic. “You cannot be Kelemvor. He would never say such things.”

“This is the same Kelemvor to whom you, Mistress Ariel, paid a very special price on the way to Elminster’s Tower.”

Mystra did not lower her hands. Many people knew that Ariel had been her true name as a mortal, Cyric among them. And Cyric also knew that she had revealed it to Kelemvor during the Time of Troubles, as a sort of payment for accompanying her to Elminster’s Tower. But there was one thing Cyric did not know about the arrangement.

“What was the price, Kelemvor?”

He answered at once. “Your love.”

“It is you.” Mystra lowered her hands, then waved an arm at the dreary city outside. “But why, Kelemvor?”

“Because I am the God of Death.”

“But where is your pity? To condemn Adon-“

“Pity is for mortals, not the God of Death. Adon will be judged according to his words.”

Mystra’s jaw fell. She stared out over the drab city for a long time, and finally turned to Kelemvor. Then I want you to return him to life for me.”

“Return a madman to life? Who would that serve but Cyric?”

“Who is not your concern,” Mystra replied. “It is enough that I ask.”

“No. That Adon will speak against you is your concern, but he has already dared denounce me for being your lover. I will not have him undermining the belief of my own worshipers.”

“I am begging you, Kelemvor.” Mystra stepped closer to Lord Death and took his hands. “In the name of our love!”

Kelemvor shook his head. “Not even for you. I must fulfill my duties as a god-and I warn you to do the same, or it will be the Circle taking your powers, not Talos or Cyric.”

Mystra jerked her hands away. “How dare you lecture me! I did not become a goddess to turn my back on those who-“

Jergal’s shadow-filled cloak appeared between Mystra and Kelemvor. “Excuse me, Lord Death, but Helm demands an audience.”

“Kelemvor, return Adon to life!” Mystra’s words echoed out of the empty air, for no sooner had the seneschal spoken Helm’s name than the goddess had vanished. “Return him to Faerun, or our love is done!”

Then it is done already,” Kelemvor replied, though even he could not tell if Mystra heard him.

“What is done?” Helm appeared behind Jergal, in the very place Mystra had been standing the instant before. “And I warn you, do not try to hide-“

“Do not threaten me, Coldheart.” Kelemvor stepped straight through Jergal’s body, so that he stood nose to visor with Helm. “I am not hiding the goddess Mystra. You may search my realm if you wish, but if you ever threaten me again, it will take Ao himself to save you.”

Helm stepped back and bowed his head. “A search will not be necessary, Lord Death. Your word is sufficient.”

Then the Guardian vanished as quickly as he had appeared-and not only to pursue his prisoner. Something in Kelemvor’s tone had suggested that he was eager for blood, and Helm had no wish to test his prowess against that of a new Lord Death.

Jergal drifted to Kelemvor’s side, and a white glove fluttered up to point at a line of shiny black beads rolling down the god’s cheek. “What are those?”

“Nothing.” Kelemvor’s voice was strained. “All that is left of my mortality, I suppose.”

“Well, I hope you flush it out soon.” The seneschal moved away, as though Kelemvor were diseased and about to cough on him. “It is the oddest thing I have ever seen a God of Death do.”

“Then do not watch!”

It was Kelemvor himself who turned away, and neither he nor Jergal noticed that each teardrop vanished as it hit the floor.

Forty-Four

The Great Fzoul and his handmaiden Thir bound me in chains and dragged me stumbling and staggering through the Ruins. The hood covering my head blinded me, and the short chain between my ankles hobbled me, but my captors pushed and pulled and grumbled as though they did not understand why I could not shamble more quickly. After hours of this abuse, we reached smoother ground, then we descended some stairs into a rocky passage, and the smell of damp stone and burning pitch filled my nostrils.

Fzoul tore the sack off my head, revealing a vast chamber cut entirely from rough-hewn rock. A few torches danced in the sconces upon the walls, filling the air with a smoke so black and bitter that it summoned a flood of tears to my eyes. The center of the room was empty, save for Iyachtu Xvim’s symbol painted on the floor and a black altar at the far end. Along one wall sat all manner of strange furnishings, but in the dim light I could not discern what they were for.

After making this quick inventory, I began in the nearest corner and carefully gazed around the room, searching for an iron box or polished chest or any other container that might hold the True Life of Cyric. The gloom hung so thickly that I saw only strange outlines and vague shapes.

Fzoul started toward the center of the chamber. I shuffled along beside him, cursing the tiresome shackles upon my ankles and the manacles that held my wrists in front of my belly.

“The temple of Iyachtu Xvim.” Fzoul waved his arm around the gloomy chamber. “Not as grand as you’re accustomed to in the Church of Cyric-but then we in Zhentil Keep have had to make do since the Mad One smashed our homes to dust.”

“The Razing was your own fault.” I was not afraid to say this, for I knew Tyr’s protection would shield me from harm. “If Zhentil Keep had remained Faithful-“

“Silence, swine!” Thir pelted me between the shoulders. “I have heard enough of Cyric’s filth to last me a lifetime.”

“No, my dear.” Fzoul reached behind my back and waved Thir off. “Let Malik speak. After all you have told me, I wish to hear what he has to say.”

“I have nothing more to say, except that you are a guttersnipe and a traitor for reading the True Life of Cyric to your city.” Here, I watched Fzoul for any clue to the book’s location-or whether he still had it at all-but the only thing that flashed through his eyes was anger. I continued, “You betrayed the people of Zhentil Keep, not the One.”

Fzoul’s hand tightened on my arm, but he showed no other sign of his ire. “A pity you feel that way, Malik. I certainly bear you no ill will.” Fzoul stopped on the symbol painted on the floor, and I had the unpleasant feeling that the green eyes in the palm were staring up at me. “In fact, I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

Fzoul nodded. “I wish to teach you the truth about Cyric.”

“Nothing could be more wonderful!” I could not contain myself, for I believed he was threatening to read to me from the True Life. “I am ready.”

Fzoul creased his brow, surprised by my enthusiasm, then shook his head. “First, we must cleanse your mind.” He glanced behind me to nod at Thir, then added to me, “The truth will be … better … once your thoughts are pure.”

I felt a knife running down the length of my spine. The blade caused me no harm, of course, but it did terrible things to my clothes. A damp breeze brushed across a region of my body that rarely feels such things, then Thir jerked my tattered robe from my shoulders, leaving me as naked as the day I was born.

“I thought you were going to cleanse my mind!”

“We will, Malik.” Thir said this. “We certainly will.”

She came around to stand in front of me, and I lowered my hands to cover the most private part of my nakedness. Thir slapped me in the face and grabbed my manacle chain and jerked my wrists back to my belly.

“You have nothing to hide from us!”

“All you had to do was ask!” And indeed this was true, for I have always had every reason to be proud in that regard.

Thir raised her hand to strike me again, but Fzoul caught it and shook his head.

“Don’t be too hard on him. Malik has yet to understand.” The High Tyrannar draped a burly arm across my shoulders and guided me toward the wall. “Thir tells me you never feel pain, Malik.”

“Never!” I was only hoping to avoid a senseless waste of time for us both, but Mystra’s spell compelled me to add, “Not in the past few days, anyway.”

“No?” Fzoul grabbed my manacles and jerked them back to my belly, as my modesty had allowed my hands to drift south. “Well, there are many ways to cleanse a man’s thoughts.”

Fzoul stopped five paces from the wall. Before us, in the flickering light of a torch, sat a trio of large and elaborate devices. The Great Annihilator gestured at the first. Four copper balls were suspended above a table equipped with more straps than I could count. A narrow glass tube ran from the bottom of each ball, joining together at a little spigot that hung directly over a wooden neck pillow.

The Drip Torment.” Fzoul waved Thir forward. “Show him.”

Thir stepped into the circle of light and turned the spigot. A bead of water dribbled from the nozzle, landing just above the plow. The next drop fell a moment or two later.