Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (46 page)

“Not anymore.”

Kelemvor shook her off, then raised his scimitar and grew tall enough to reach my magic bubble. At once, Tyr and all of Helm’s avatars swelled to an equal size and moved to stop him, and I lost sight of my heart beneath their many feet Tempus the Battle Lord drew his great sword, and Talos filled his hands with lightning bolts, and Lathander’s fingers began to glow with golden fire, and they all moved to stand with Kelemvor. The One filled his hands with black, venom-dripping daggers and began to circle around toward their backs, and I found the page at last. My hands began to shake so badly that I could hardly make out the letters on the page, and my ears filled with such a terrible sluicing I would not be able to hear the words when I read them.

Oghma rushed in between the battle lines. “Wait! We cannot do this!” The Binder raised his hands, as if he really believed such a pair of bony arms could stop the coming carnage. “A war between us will destroy Faerun!”

“Out of the way, old fool!” Tempus commanded.

When Oghma did not obey, Tempus smashed the hilt of his sword into the Binder’s head and sent him sprawling to the floor. Cyric raised his hand to throw his first dagger, and I saw that in the coming tumult, my words would never reach the ears of the One. I could not allow all my efforts to be for naught.

“Wait, you witless jackals!” I yelled this at the top of my voice, and my audacity so shocked the gods that I could raise the True Life and yell, “This is not the Cyrinishad!”

A stunned silence fell over the pavilion and the gods stayed their hands for an instant, and it was only Cyric’s astonished shriek that extended this instant into a moment. “What?”

The One snapped his hand forward, and in the next instant his black dagger sliced through Mystra’s magic bubble. I am sure that it was Tyr’s protection and not my own reflexes that raised the True Life in front of my face. The venom-dripping blade sliced through the leather cover and halted just a hair’s breadth from my cheek, then my stomach rose into my throat and I plummeted toward the floor.

I did not even notice when I hit. I only shifted my gaze away from the knife and began to read:

“Though men may try to wrest the reins of their destiny from the gods, they are all born at the mercy of Nature, bound in a hundred ways to those around them. This is how the gods insure mortals are tied to their world of toil and sorrow. Cyric of Zhentil Keep was no exception.

“In the hottest Flamerule to ever grip the Keep, Cyric was born to a destitute bard so lacking in skill she could not earn a single copper. …”

Cyric grasped his ears. “No!”

The force of the cry hurled me against the wall and made my ears ring with the shriek of a thousand banshees, yet I continued to read. Indeed, I could not have stopped if I wished; Mystra’s spell compelled me onward just as mercilessly as it had when I stood in the same chamber and recited from Rinda’s journal.

I continued to read, describing how Cyric was sold as an infant to a Sembian merchant and raised in a life of luxury, and how Our Dark Lord repaid the man’s kind upbringing with betrayal and murder. When I came to the part about returning to Zhentil Keep in the chains of a slave, the One let out a bloodcurdling shriek, then raised his hand and filled it with black darts.

“Liar!” As he cried this, he brought his arm forward and hurled the darts. “Betrayer!”

One of Helm’s avatars lowered his battle-axe before ray face, catching the darts on the flat of his blade. Then two more aspects of the Great Guardian seized Cyric’s arms and held him motionless.

I finished the tale, describing the Dark Sun’s escape from slavery to a thieves’ guild, his many adventures with Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and finally his quest to recover the Tablets of Fate during the Time of Troubles. Of course, every word I read was a sacrilege and a vile lie, but this endless string of blasphemies seemed to calm the One. By the time I reached the part telling how he stole the tablets from his old companions and used them to win Ao’s favor, Our Dark Lord stood motionless in Helm’s grasp. He glared at me with an expression more lucid than I had ever seen on his face and said nothing, and when I finished the loathsome account and looked up, he only shook his head.

I closed the cover and flung the foul book away, then hurled myself on the floor at his feet. “Mighty One, do not punish me! I only did this horrid thing on your account, so that you might recover your wits and defend yourself at this farce of a trial!” I embraced his huge foot and showered the boot with kisses. “I swear it gave me no pleasure, and you know I cannot lie!”

Talos sent a gusty snicker across the chamber, but Tempus the Battle Lord was quick to cuff the Destroyer’s shoulder. This is no time for mirth. Not when we have been standing at the very brink of the Year of Carnage.”

Talos returned to his place in the Circle, and Tempus followed. As the other gods also returned to their places, the One shook me off his foot.

“I will deal with you later, Malik.” He pointed at the wall, where I was much relieved to see my moldy heart still pulsing upon the floor. “Now, fetch me your heart.”

I sprinted twenty paces across the pavilion and knelt down to cradle the precious mass. It smelled like rotten fruit, and on one side there was a brown bruise where some god had caught it with his boot, but this hardly mattered to me. I scooped it up in both hands and held it as close to my breast as a child. The mold was soft and velvety, and the heart itself seemed almost liquid inside its skin, and still I counted myself lucky. If anyone had stepped on it in this condition, it would have squirted over the floor like a crushed plum.

“Malik! I am waiting for my evidence.”

In truth, I was a little reluctant to give up the evidence. But, as I could not reach into my own chest and return the heart to its proper place, I knew I would have to surrender it sooner or later-and better sooner than later. I jumped to my feet and did as the One commanded.

As soon as Cyric took my heart from my hands, it grew as large as an enormous melon, so that it looked like a pulsing yellow peach in his gigantic hand.

This heart helped me see the truth of my condition.”

Cyric raised the moldy thing so that all could see, then lowered it to his mouth and took a great bite from the side. A flood of watery yellow juice ran down his chin, and I cried out, but no one paid me any heed.

“The truth is that I am still a more worthy god than any of you!” The One spoke with a full mouth, and he smacked his lips between words. “And that is why you are all jealous.”

Thinking my plan had failed, I cried out in despair and flung myself to the floor.

But Cyric continued, “I must admit, however, that I am no more powerful than any of you.” The One turned my heart over as though he would take another bite, then seemed to think better of it and thrust the juicy thing somewhere inside his hauberk. “That was a delusion of the Cyrinishad. A happy delusion-” here, the One glared down at me-“but a delusion nonetheless. We can all agree that I am better now.”

“This is your defense?” scoffed Lathander. “That you are better now?”

The One whirled on the Morninglord as though to attack, then suddenly straightened and shook his head. “Of course not It is a statement of fact.” Cyric crossed the floor and retrieved the golden chalice, which lay on the ground. “My defense is this: even when I was mad, I was worthy of my duties.”

“How so?” Tyr scowled as he asked this.

Before Cyric replied, he looked into the chalice and smiled, for the cups of the gods never spill. He carried it over to Tyr and swirled it under the Just One’s chin. “Look inside.”

Tyr saw two tears rolling around in the chalice, one gleaming black and the other sparkling silver.

“This is all that remains of the love between Mystra and Kelemvor, and it belongs to me now.” Cyric began to round the Circle, swirling the cup beneath each god’s chin. “It was my doing that turned Adon against Mystra, and it was Adon’s Faithlessness that pitted Mystra and Kelemvor against each other, and it was that which destroyed their love. Not much remains, but here it is. I own it.”

The One continued his circuit. When Mystra and Kelemvor looked into the cup, they betrayed no emotion, nor did they glance at each other or give any other hint of the feelings they had once shared for each other.

Cyric smiled a little as he left them, then finished his round and stopped before Tyr. He raised the cup high, then turned to face the rest of the Circle.

“If I can destroy the love of gods, then I can certainly fill the lives of Faerun’s mortals with strife and discord.”

The One raised the chalice to his lips and tipped back his head, for the tears of brokenhearted lovers have always been his favorite libation. After the two drops rolled into his throat, he smacked his lips and smashed the chalice against the floor.

Then he turned to face Oghma. “How say you, Binder? Guilty and sane, or innocent and mad?”

“We must judge you by the same standards as Mystra and Kelemvor, and though you have also made mistakes in recent years, we must all agree you have returned to us as wicked as before.” Oghma looked past the One to address the other gods of the Circle. “And we must all remember not to judge Cyric by his fiendish nature. That is the nature of strife, and he could not fulfill his duties if he were not evil. I say we find for Cyric-guilty and sane.”

“Never!” Sune shook her fiery head, flinging gouts of flame across the chamber. She was the Goddess of Love as well as Beauty, and Cyric’s actions had offended her deeply. “Not after what he did to Mystra and Kelemvor.”

“I do find in Cyric’s favor,” said Chauntea. “For better or worse, he has returned to us whole.”

“Guilty and sane.” Lathander did not explain himself, for no one expected him to disagree with Chauntea.

Silvanus shook his antlered head. “Not I-sane or insane, he believes he is entitled to do as he pleases with Faerun, and that I cannot abide. I find against him.”

“As do I,” said Shar. “He cannot be trusted to do as he must. I say we strip his powers and divide them among ourselves.”

“Of course you do,” said Tempus. “You would bring all of creation under your black canopy if you could. But I say we could find none better to spread strife across the land-as long as he swears never to read the Cyrinishad again, nor ever to look for it.”

Cyric raised his right hand. “I swear.”

“If you believe that,” crackled Talos, “you are crazier than Wormbrain ever was. I find against him because …” The Destroyer fell silent, then shrugged. “Because I want to.”

“That makes the count four to four,” observed Tyr. “And Cyric cannot vote.”

The One’s face turned from smug to shocked. “Why not?”

“Because that is the Code of the Circle,” Tyr replied. “And I will speak against you now. You have never been a stable god, and I suspect you have been mad since long before you became one of us. You are insane, and therefore unreliable, and therefore a constant danger to the Balance.”

“What?”

Cyric stumbled back against the rail and glanced at Mystra and Kelemvor, and I grew sick to my stomach and quivered with fear. In that moment, I knew all my suffering had been for naught, and I was ready to fling myself on the floor and beg Tyr’s mercy. But not the One; the shock in his face changed to anger, and he whirled on Tyr.

“You backbiting viper! You honey-tongued hypocrite! You-“

“Cyric!” Though Kelemvor barked the word, his voice contained no emotion, neither anger nor anxiety nor eagerness.

The One raised his brow, then snarled at Lord Death, “Gloat if you like. I will be back to do the same over you.”

“I know you will try,” Kelemvor replied. “But what about now? Will you abide by the Circle’s decision?”

The One looked around the pavilion, sneering at each god who had spoken against him. When his gaze returned to Kelemvor, he spat upon the floor and nodded. “What choice do I have?”

“None,” Kelemvor replied. “I only wanted to see if you realized it; you do, and so I must find you sane.”

“Guilty? You find for me?”

The silver death mask nodded grimly.

“Still frightened of me, are you?” Cyric’s smirk returned, for he knew better than to think Lord Death had made his choice out of a sense of duty. “I will not forget this.”

“I am sure you will not,” said Tyr. “But we have not yet found you guilty. The deciding word belongs to Mystra.”

Cyric’s face froze, and I swear the blood in my veins stopped flowing. That Kelemvor had spoken in favor of the One was a thing destined to happen; I could see that now, for the Usurper was a coward and a fool who trembled before the very thought of Our Dark Lord’s vengeance. But what of Lady Magic? She was almost as fearless as the One, and she never failed to press her advantage when she believed she had it.

Cyric turned his glare upon the Harlot and made no pretense of reconciliation, for he knew she would not believe it. Either she would be frightened of his wrath, like Kelemvor, or she would be a fool and attempt to be rid of him.

“Well?” the One demanded.

“Cyric, after what you have done, how can you ask? My hatred for you is greater than ever.”

Oghma took her arm. “Mystra, you are a goddess now. It is long past time to put away this mortal-“

Mystra whirled on him. “I have had enough of your lessons, Oghma! Never again do you need remind me of my duty to the Balance, nor tell me how to carry it out!”

The Binder paled and released her arm, and I began to tremble as a child. The Harlot was anything but frightened; I glanced at Kelemvor’s silver mask and consoled myself, for after the many changes he had made in the City of the Dead, my torments were not likely to be much worse than what I had suffered already in the service of the One.

Yet they call Mystra the Lady of Mysteries for a reason. She looked back to Cyric, and I saw him grin. Then I knew that in his infinite cunning, the One had seen what I could not.

When Mystra spoke, her wrath had softened. “But my hatred is not the issue here-a fact that Lord Cyric knows as well as I. If I bore him no hatred, he would be unfit for his duties. As Goddess of Magic, I am allowed my feelings.” Here, Mystra gave Oghma the same look any person of sense reserves for meddlers, then she continued, “But as a guardian of the Balance, I must act on my wisdom.”