Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (5 page)

“You bound ahead of yourself, Foehammer,” said Tyr the Eyeless. “We cannot levy the punishment without giving a verdict, and we cannot give a verdict until we have debated the charge.”

“Speak for yourself, No-Eyes!” exclaimed Talos. He overturned a table, sending a parchment that was to Tyr a law scroll and to Tempus a war map fluttering to the floor. “We have had too much of Cyric already! We know the charge and we know the verdict. I stand with you, Tempus! My bolts and my quakes will level the Mad One’s twisted castle, my winds scatter his Faithful to the thousand Planes!”

Tyr waved his stump at the Destroyer. “Your rancor has no place here, Stormstar. Our duty is to preserve the Balance, not annihilate it.”

The Nightbringer Shar leaned forward in her chair, spreading a stain of darkness before her. “In this case, Blind One, it seems clear that what Tempus proposes is in the best interests of the Balance.” Her voice was but a whisper, like a terrible thought that had lain long-buried until a moment of weakness. “It is not Talos’s rage that threatens the Balance, but the Mad One’s neglect. Cyric has fallen victim to the lies in his own book, and now he can think of nothing but himself.”

Tyr sat back and made no reply. The discussion had swung to deliberating the charges, and he was content to let it proceed.

Tempus said, “Cyric fosters his creed only among his own Faithful and neglects his duty to spread his tenets to the rest of Faerun.” He faced Mystra’s side of the table. “Strife and murder, lies and intrigue, deception and betrayal-all these are becoming things of the past. Even his own worshipers spend all their energy slaying and plotting against each other.”

“And while the Church of Cyric devours itself, our Faithful suffer,” added Shar. “If wives never lie to their husbands, nor husbands betray their wives, if men never covet their kin’s treasure, nor clansmen murder one another in the night, how then can I nurture the hidden jealousies and secret hatreds that inspire men to greatness? How can I feed the dark bitterness of their souls, that ever keeps them striving for more glory, more gold, more power?”

“All you say is true,” said Chauntea. The Great Mother spoke in a voice both warm and reassuring. “Yet I cannot support your solution. Would it not be better to help him, to guide him out of this maze in which he has wandered?”

“Absolutely not!”

It surprised Mystra to hear her own voice echoing off the pavilion’s pillars, for she had not meant to shout-or even to speak. As much as she despised Cyric, the mere fact that Tern-pus, Shar, and Talos demanded his downfall made her reluctant to join the call. They formed a triad of war, darkness, and destruction, and whatever they were planning, she did not think it likely to benefit the people of Faerun.

“Would you care to elaborate?” asked Oghma. He stood beside Mystra, on the side opposite Kelemvor, and he spoke in a voice as smooth and melodious as the strings of the bards who sang his praises. “Perhaps you want Cyric to stay the way he is?”

“Perhaps I do. He is more dangerous sane than mad.”

“Dangerous to the Balance, or to the people of Faerun?” asked Lathander. As always, the Morninglord stood beside the Great Mother Chauntea, eager to lend his support to her every word. “We all know how much better life has become for mortals since Cyric began to neglect his duties. Whether he is replaced or cured, their lot can only grow harder.”

“A hard life can also be a good life,” observed Chauntea. “Yet, Lady Mystra is like a mother who loves her children too well. She cannot bear to see them hurt, and so would prefer to keep matters as they are.”

That was exactly what Mystra would have preferred, but she knew better than to say so.

“Well?” prompted Oghma.

“We all know what would have happened if we had let Cyric keep the Cyrinishad,” Mystra replied. She turned a stern glare on Talos, who was casually splintering a chair with his fingernails. “Which only makes me wonder why Talos and Shar were trying to help him recover it.”

“Yes,” said Oghma. “I’d like to hear your explanation.”

The Destroyer shrugged. “It was something to do.”

“As for me,” hissed Shar, “I was only trying to help. Surely, you can all see that our best hope of saving the Mad One is to lure him back with his precious book.”

“I suspect you were less interested in saving Cyric than in bribing him to support your war against the Moonmaiden,” said Oghma. “That is a dangerous game to play, Nightbringer-a very dangerous game.”

“Which is all the more reason to destroy him,” said Tempus. He stomped across the pavillion to stand before Kelemvor, who had not yet spoken. “How say you, Death Lord?”

Before Kelemvor could reply, Oghma leaned in front of Mystra. Think well, Kelemvor. Remember who you are, not who you were. Old grudges have no place here.”

Of all the deities gathered in the pavilion, the God of Death hated the One most fiercely. Long ago, Kelemvor, Cyric, and Mystra, who was called Midnight at the time, lived on Faerun as mortals. With them walked a priest named Adon, now the high priest of Mystra’s church. Then came the Time of Troubles, when two gods stole the Tablets of Fate and Lord Ao grew so angry that he cast the gods from the heavens. Through a strange turn of events, the four mortals discovered the Tablets. Cyric saw at once that he and his companions might demand anything they wished in return for these artifacts, but his cowardly friends did not share his vision. They tried to stop him, and the One was forced to kill Kelemvor. Ao rewarded Cyric by making him the God of Death, and the One arranged for the woman Midnight to become Goddess of Magic. Seething with jealousy, Kelemvor’s dead spirit lurked hidden for many years, until the moment came when he took his vengeance by rising up and leading the spirits of the dead in rebellion against the One. Thus did Kelemvor overthrow Cyric and usurp the Throne of Death, claiming for his own the fickle heart of the harlot Mystra.

All this Kelemvor remembered when Oghma spoke to him, and his hatred grew hotter than before. “I stand with Tempus,” he said. “Cyric must die.”

Tempus turned to Mystra. “And you, Lady Magic? How say you?”

To Mystra’s ear, the Battle Lord sounded too certain of himself. He had thought this through with great care, and the rage he affected was not as spontaneous as he feigned.

“I say the matter is not for us to decide,” she said. Mystra glanced at Kelemvor and saw the surprise in his face, but she knew he would not attempt to dissuade her. They were not as Chauntea and Lathander; they kept separate their passion and their business as gods. “When it comes to the Balance, Lord Ao-“

“Has made plain we must follow our own callings,” said Shar. “That preserves the Balance. Stand with Tempus or Chauntea, but you cannot leave matters as they are.”

Mystra glanced at Oghma, hoping to find some support in his dark-skinned visage. As God of Wisdom, his opinion often swayed the Circle’s decision, and she flattered him often enough that he usually supported her. But not this time. Oghma met her gaze long enough to shake his head, then looked away and said nothing.

Mystra turned back to Tempus, feeling that he had put into her mouth the words she was about to say. “I have borne witness to Cyric’s treachery too often to make the mistake of aiding him. Given the choices, Tempus, I stand with you. Destroy Cyric.”

“As I thought.”

Tempus turned away without asking Oghma’s opinion, for he already knew it. In his arrogance, Oghma would not destroy what he believed he could control.

“We are getting ahead of ourselves again,” Tyr protested. “We have barely discussed the charge, and still the Battle Lord is leaping ahead to the punishment.”

“The punishment is all we need discuss!” boomed Kelemvor. “No one disputes Cyric’s condition. The only question is what to do about it.”

When no one disagreed, Tempus looked past Chauntea and Lathander, seeking out the final vote he required. He stopped at Sune Firehair, who was at that moment admiring her reflection in a shield of polished gold. The Battle Lord’s choice was a surprising one. The Goddess of Love shifted her passions like the wind, but she remained constant in the disdain she displayed for the ugliness of war’s destruction.

Still, Tempus seemed entirely confident. “And how say you, Beautiful One?”

Sune acknowledged the compliment with a gleaming smile, then turned back to the golden shield and spoke to her own reflection. “We must do something, I agree that Cyric has eyes for no one but himself.”

“Yes, but what action do we take?” asked Lathander.

The Morninglord rose from his couch and went to stand at Sune’s side, bathing her in the golden radiance of his own smile. Tempus amazed the other gods by remaining silent and allowing Lathander to have his say.

“It would be so much more caring to help him find his way, do you not agree-Most Radiant Star?”

The Morninglord’s adulation evoked a snort from Chauntea, which drew in turn an icy glare from Sune. The Goddess of Beauty raised her chin and graced Tempus with her most ravishing smile.

“I fear the Mad One must be destroyed,” she purred. “Even when he was sane, Cyric never understood the power of beauty.”

Thank you, Beautiful One.” Tempus turned to Eyeless Tyr. That makes six votes in favor of destruction-a clear majority, given Cyric’s absence.”

Tempus had barely spoken before a great trembling seized the Pavilion of Cynosure. The gods saw the chamber around them grow flat and begin to warp, unraveling like a tapestry. The ceiling cracked and shattered, and the columns and the walls melted away. Gasps of surprise arose, but no god cried out in fear or panic. The pavilion did not dissolve often, but every member of the Circle knew what followed when it did Ao was about to make his presence known.

The gods found themselves floating in a vast sea of emptiness, surrounded on all sides by a twinkling infinity of whirling stars. They began to drift away from the thousand aspects of their minds, from the facets of their being that answered the endless prayers of their worshipers, fulfilled their godly duties, and kept vigil over Faerun. At last, only the core of their intellects remained, drifting aimlessly in a void so vast that no mere god could comprehend its enormity,

Powers of the Cynosure, you have taken it upon yourselves to condemn one of your own.

The words came from both inside each god and without, from deep within their breasts and down from the countless stars. Lord Ao did not show himself-at least not in any normal sense-yet they could feel him all around, as if he were the fabric that enveloped them, the air itself.

Despite the rebuke in Ao’s tone, Mystra felt almost relieved. Surely, he would prevent the gods from meddling in Cyric’s affairs, from either curing the Mad One or replacing him with someone more effective.

You presume to judge what is best for the Balance.

“We thought it necessary, Lord Ao.” It was Tempus who spoke, and still he sounded confident. “In his madness, Cyric has turned inward. He has grown so self-absorbed that he does not foster the precepts of his godhood outside his own church.”

“Mad?” came the reply.

Like Ao’s voice, this one had no certain source. It was shrill and piercing, like an arrow through the throat, and it rang out from everywhere at once. “You call me mad! You, Tempus? You who hide your face behind a steel veil? You are mad, not I!”

“Cyric,” Mystra whispered. She shuddered, for she could not imagine how the Prince of Madness had traveled to Ao’s realm without being drawn through the Pavilion of Cynosure.

“Yes, Midnight,” sneered the One’s voice. “I am beyond you now. I am beyond you all-you who dare think yourselves great enough to destroy me-or to ‘save’ me.”

Mystra shot a glance toward Tempus and saw the Battle Lord’s shoulders sink. Whatever Cyric was doing, it had surprised the Foehammer as much as it had her. She looked next to Oghma. The Wise God’s face paled, and his jaw hung slack.

Mystra looked away. To catch Oghma in such a state of bewilderment was akin to spying Sune in an instant of ugliness. Without realizing she had reached for it, the Goddess of Magic found herself grasping Kelemvor’s hand. “Lord Ao?” Mystra asked. “Did you summon Cyric?” “Summon me?” scoffed Cyric. “Fellows do not summon fellows!”

Fellows? boomed Ao. Fellows! You dare compare yourself to me?

“With whom else?” demanded Cyric. “I have raised myself as far above them as you were once above me!”

The stars dimmed, as though a cloud of mist had filled the infinite void.

Mystra slipped her hand from Kelemvor’s grasp, and at last she began to feel the proper fear of the One and All. If Cyric could dim Ao’s sparkling light, what could he not do?

The mist cleared, and the stars began to shine as brightly as before. I see.

It was then that Mystra understood even Lord Ao had his limits. Until that moment, Ao had not known how dangerous Cyric could be-and neither had she. Tempus was right; there was nothing to do except destroy Cyric-before he destroyed them.

And that is why they wish to kill you, Cyric? Because you are more powerful than they? Mystra dared to interrupt. “Yes, Lord Ao.” She felt Kelemvor grab her arm and squeeze, urging her to be careful. Mystra would not remain silent. She had to make Lord Ao see that they could handle the situation for themselves, or he might replace Cyric with someone more capable-or worse still, simply cure the One’s madness.

“We must kill Cyric,” Mystra said. “We must destroy him, for he has made himself better than us!”

A sphere of wavering light appeared before Mystra’s eyes, and in it she fancied she could see Cyric’s gaunt face.

“You see how they envy me?” asked the sphere. “Is it any wonder I refuse to grace them with my presence?”

No wonder at all, replied Ao. You have made yourself so much mare powerful than they.

“You sense it, too?” Cyric’s head became solid. The face was white-fleshed and almost skeletal, with sunken eyes that shone from their sockets like two black suns. “You can feel how much I have grown?”

Indeed. And I can see that you are capable of dealing with your inferiors.

“Of course, but-“

Yet, there is one matter that disturbs me. I trust you will forgive me for interfering. Ao paused, as if for emphasis. Tyr!