Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (45 page)

“Assuming that it remains in your power,” Tyr reminded her.

Mystra nodded. “Assuming it does.”

“It was only three years ago that the Circle censured her for denying the Weave to me!” It was a sign of the One’s madness that he did not even wince after he said this, for everyone in the room recalled that Mystra had cut him off in an attempt to prevent him from making the very book they now feared so terribly. “I think we have heard this before!”

The voice of Shar drifted down to my ears like a blanket of whispers. “It would have been better if we had let Mystra do as she wished.” The Nightbringer glanced at the dark book on the evidence table, then added, “I, for one, will accept Lady Magic at her word-if she will join me and some others in demanding that Tyr disallow any reading of the Cyrinishad.”

“That cannot be!” the Just One stormed. “The accused has a right to make his own defense!”

“And we have a right to defend ourselves against his lies!” countered the Battle Lord Tempus.

As all this occurred, a sliver of shadow appeared beside the True Life. I glanced into the vaulted dome above our heads, expecting to see some source of light shining behind the translucent alabaster, but of course the Pavilion of Cynosure is beyond such mundane things as suns and moons. I lowered my gaze and happened to glance toward Mask, who stood only about half as tall as the enormous figures of the great gods. He was shifting from the form of a burly one-armed firbolg into that of a lanky one-armed verbeeg, and this arm was the only part of his body that was not rippling with change. The God of Thieves was reaching for the True Life of Cyric!

If any of the other gods also perceived this, they pretended to be too engrossed in the trial to notice. As for me, I kept quiet and debated the wisdom of letting the Shadowlord succeed, reasoning that I could always steal it back later-when I would not have to read it before so many of the One’s inferiors.

While I watched the shadow creep up the edge of the book, the Battle Lord addressed Mystra. “Lady Magic, I once offered to withdraw my charges if you would consider the possibility that war benefits Faerun. I cannot repeat that offer because of my earlier promise to Mask, but I do stand ready to assure a verdict in your favor-if you will guarantee to never again place such restrictions on the use of the Weave, and promise to stand with us against the reading of the Cyrinishad.”

Mystra removed the sacred starburst from around her neck, then tossed it across the chamber to Tempus. “Here is my guarantee; the Weave will not be restricted. But I cannot stand against the reading, even if it means my freedom.” She turned to face Tyr. “I have already taken too many liberties with the Circle’s justice; I must abide by Tyr’s guidance.”

Mask’s shadow began to creep farther across the True Life’s cover. Still, I could not bring myself to act.

The Goddess of Beauty stepped to Mystra’s side, bathing the Harlot in the blush of her flattering radiance. “I say we find in favor of Lady Magic. It would hardly be appealing to judge her by the past when we have already made allowances for Kelemvor.”

Oghma nodded. “It is not the Circle’s place to punish any god for past mistakes. Our only concern is the safety of the Balance, and we may feel more assured than ever that Mystra will serve it well.”

Again, a chorus of voices filled the pavilion, but this time Cyric was not alone in condemning the Harlot. Despite her pledge to keep the Weave accessible, Talos, Shar, and Tempus were making good on their unspoken threat: Mystra had refused to join them in opposing the reading of the Cyrinishad, so now they stood against her. Tyr spoke against Mystra as well; he had not forgiven the goddess for fleeing his sacred justice.

The Circle’s vote was tied. And now only Kelemvor was left to break it.

“How say you, Lord Death?” asked Tyr. “Will you favor Mystra and spare yourself as well-or find against her and suffer the same punishment?”

There was a time when the answer would have been as obvious as it was quick, but Kelemvor did not reply at once. Instead, he turned his gray orbs upon the Goddess of Magic and studied her a long time. She met his gaze and did not flinch, though the sorrow caused by his hesitation was plain upon her face. And then even this sorrow faded.

Lord Death motioned Adon forward, then picked up the trembling patriarch and let him stand in the palm of his hand. There is no need to fear. Look into my eyes, and tell me what you see.”

Adon did as he was commanded. A pearly haze spilled out of Lord Death’s eyes to engulf him, and deep within the fog, a silhouette appeared. She had long black hair as fine as silk and a clear radiant face with high cheekbones and full lips. Though her eyes were as dark and deep as the night, they sparkled with the warm light of a sacred starburst, and she was dressed in a flowing robe of twilight.

Adon whirled around to face Mystra, then fell to his knees in Kelemvor’s hand. “Goddess! Forgive me, I pray you!”

“I never blamed you,” Mystra replied. “Only Cyric.”

Kelemvor passed the patriarch to his goddess. “Adon is yours by rights. Do with him what you will. I say you are as worthy a god as any who stands in this room.” Lord Death’s words bore no trace of fondness, as if he offered nothing but cold fact.

Mystra held her fingers above Adon’s head and let a shimmering rain of magic sprinkle down upon his shoulders. The patriarch faded from sight, gone to await his goddess in her palace Dweomerheart.

Tyr declared, “The charges against Kelemvor and Mystra are repudiated.”

“Fraud!”

So loud was Cyric’s shriek that even the gods cringed, and I clasped my ears. Although the shadow on the True Life now covered nearly half the book, it quavered and looked as though it might retreat.

“Kelemvor has changed nothing but his face!” Cyric stormed. “He never meant to damn Adon!”

Kelemvor turned his mask toward the One. “I meant to treat Adon as any other, but those intentions are no longer relevant. Like you, I only allowed the mortal to see Mystra through my own eyes. If he prayed to her as his goddess, that was his doing, not mine.”

Cyric looked to Tyr. “Rescind the verdict!”

“On what basis?”

“They cheated!”

The Eyeless One shook his head. “The Circle has spoken, and now the time has come to consider the charges against you.”

I stared at the True Life. Now the shadow covered all but a quarter of the book. I caught Talos eyeing the book as he scraped at the rail with his sharp fingernails, and when he quickly glanced away, I realized that he also knew what was happening. Perhaps he and Mask had even planned it.

After glaring at Tyr for a moment, Cyric shrugged. “As you wish, then; consider the charges.” He shot a smirk across the circle. “In the end, we will do as I wish anyway.”

A disgruntled murmur rumbled through the Pavilion, and I knew my time was running out. Cyric’s own trial was at hand, and he had already begun to raise the ire of his enemies. I found my courage, and my arm shot up. “Thief!” I pointed at Mask. “He is stealing the book!” Mask’s shadow left the True Life before I had spoken my second word, but even he was not quick enough to escape the Great Guard. In a blink, a pair of matching Helms had seized the Shadowlord, one by his squirming arm and the other by a writhing leg. A third Helm now stood at the evidence table, prepared to strike down anyone who dared reach for the True life.

Talos shot me a look that said I would do well to be wary of lightning for the rest of my life. Tyr stepped over the golden railing-it would not have been right for him to ignore any aspect of his own courtroom-and strode forward to confront the God of Thieves.

“Explain yourself!”

Mask assumed the shape of a hook-nosed troll and shrugged. “I am the God of Thieves. You cannot fault me if I steal.”

“But I can banish you from this court.” Tyr looked to the Helm holding Mask’s arm. “Take this thief outside. I will summon you if he is called to witness.”

“I am more than a witness in this trial!” Mask objected. “I have a stake in it, too.”

Tyr looked doubtful. “And that would be?”

“Intrigue.” A shudder ran down Mask’s troll form, and then he became a one-legged ogre pointing in the One’s direction. “When you strip Cyric of his godhood, I demand dominion over intrigue. I have earned it.”

Forgetting in his anger to make his body insubstantial, Our Dark Lord stepped forward and crashed through the golden rail. “After the Circle confirms me as its leader, I will strip you of your very life!”

The One hurled a bolt of dark-clotted energy at Mask’s form, but Helm raised his axe and caught the attack on the flat of the blade. The weapon withered into a twisted twig, then dissolved into smoke.

Tyr stepped between Mask and the One. “We have not confirmed you yet, Mad One. Go back to your place, or I will find you incompetent to speak in your own defense.”

Cyric’s eyes flashed at the threat, but he knew no other god would ask me to read the Cyrinishad, and so he did as the Just One requested.

Tempus the Battle Lord straightened his shoulders. “We may dispose of Mask’s request quickly enough. When he came to me with his scheme, he assured me he had learned better than to let his plots spin out of hand.” The Foehammer waved his gauntleted hand at Mystra and Kelemvor, then at the evidence table. “If that were true, he would not have interfered with the defenses of Lady Magic and Lord Death, nor would we be faced with listening to Cyric’s vile book of lies in the first place. No matter the trial’s outcome, I say Mask has no claim on intrigue. Let him be happy with his stolen sword and being free of the Chaos Hound.”

When no one objected, Tyr nodded. “So be it.”

Helm’s avatar vanished with Mask in his grasp, and then Tyr turned to the One.

“Cyric, you know the charge: innocence by way of insanity. What have you to say for yourself?”

The One smirked at Tyr and his other accusers, then turned his burning gaze upon me. “Read, Malik.”

“Now, Mighty One?”

Cyric glared at me, and a black pit of pain took root in my stomach. Cold beads of sweat rained down from my brow. My moment of truth was at hand, and my knees nearly buckled as I stepped to the evidence table and reached for the True Life.

As soon as my fingers grasped the cover, a white flash split the air and a mighty crack filled the chamber, and a hot bolt struck my chest. I flew across the room and smashed through the golden rail, and I would certainly have crashed through the pavilion wall if I had not hit one of Helm’s avatars first. I dropped at his feet, still clutching the True Life.

I looked up warily. Talos the lightning-shooter was pointing his finger at my chest. Another half-dozen gods came striding toward me-Shar and Sune and Lathander and more, their radiance merging like a raging fire. All had magic crackling in their fingers, and all were determined to keep me from reading the book. Silvanus flipped the evidence table aside and sent my moldy heart rolling across the floor toward Kelemvor’s feet.

I raised my trembling hand to ward them off. “No, wait-“

“Quiet, child!” It was Chauntea who ordered this. No sooner had she spoken than my tongue swelled in my mouth, growing so thick I could hardly breathe, much less speak.

Tyr and four of Helm’s avatars stepped out to intercept my attackers, and then the Nightgoddess Shar raised her hand. The room went as black as a grave, and I lost sight of my heart.

“Stand back!” Tyr ordered. “The witness is under my protection.”

“We mean him no harm.” As the Morninglord spoke, a beam of golden radiance struck my eyes, so that I became at once the only visible thing in the room and totally blind. “It is the book we want.”

From somewhere off to my side, Sune’s dulcet voice called, “Shove it over to me, Malik, and you shall have the love of all the women you desire.”

Now, I could name a dozen women whose affections were worth more than a good stallion, and the adoration of any one of them would have been worth more than the unfaithful love of my own wife, whom Cyric had placed so far beyond my grasp. And yet, I considered Sune’s offer for no more than a breath or two, as I was too loyal a servant to betray the god of my heart.

I heard heavy feet closing in around me, and I prayed that none would trample the pulsing mass Silvanus had so callously pitched from the table.

Tyr said, “Let Malik read the book or face Ao’s wrath!”

From somewhere beyond my attackers, Cyric added, “You have nothing to fear from the truth.”

Talos snapped, “You would not know the truth if you spoke it, Wormbrain.”

“And we fear Ao’s wrath less than we fear joining Cyric in his madness,” said Chauntea. “We cannot see how that would serve the Balance.”

“Does a thing exist only because you see it?” countered Oghma. “It is abiding by a just code that serves the Balance; what you are doing serves only yourself.”

“We have no interest in your sophistry, Binder. We have all agreed.” As Tempus said this, he sounded closer than I would have liked. “Before we let the mortal read the Mad One’s book, we will start a new Time of Troubles.”

“That would be a terrible waste,” said Mystra.

A shimmering sphere of magic appeared around me and lifted me into the domed vault, and I found myself looking down upon a room full of darkness. At once, my swollen tongue shrank to its normal size. I opened the True Life to the back and began to flip through its pages, searching for the start of Oghma’s lying narrative.

“Let him read.” As Mystra spoke, the darkness vanished from the Pavilion below and I found myself looking down upon the heads of the gods. This was less exhilarating than it sounds, for they were all staring up at me, more than a few with murder in their eyes. I spied my heart lying intact beside the golden rail, near Kelemvor’s feet, and the Harlot continued, “No harm will come to us or the Balance.”

“You cannot guarantee that.” Kelemvor raised his hand and drew a silver scimitar from the empty air. “You promised Tyr you would not interfere with Cyric’s defense.”

Mystra stepped to his side and took him by the arm. “I have not broken my promise, but you must trust me.”