Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

Lord Chess waved his scented handkerchief before him, trying vainly to drive away the stench of charred flesh. "This book will be the ruin of Zhentil Keep yet," he mused, though his voice betrayed little concern.

One silvery eyebrow raised in suspicion, Xeno Mirrormane said, "Sounds to me like you're doubting the god's powers, Chess. I could have you killed for that."

"Don't be melodramatic," Fzoul snapped. "He's only stating the facts of it. If Cyric can find the right scribe and the right wording for his book, he'll have the perfect weapon to convert everyone in Faerun — in the world, even." He thumbed through the blank parchment gatherings. "He was close this time. The artist nearly believed the whole thing, even though he'd read the truth before." Fzoul shook his head. "Read the Cyrinishad and believe in it, no matter what it says. Why do you think Mystra denied Cyric the magic to create the book himself? Or why Oghma denied him the services of his eternal scribes? Without worshipers, the rest of the pantheon will disappear, just as if they never existed."

Xeno pulled the pages from Fzoul's hands. "Mystra and Oghma cannot stop Cyric's faithful from creating this tome. And there are many who believe everything His Magnificence tells us even without the Cyrinishad. To us, there are no other gods."

"That's the most frightening thing of all," Fzoul said and turned to leave the crypts.

Wherein Mystra meets with the Circle of Greater

Powers to censure Cyric and discovers that, even

in the heavens, guilt and innocence

are a matter of perspective.

To each of the gods, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as something different. Sune Firehair saw a vast hall filled with mirrors to reflect her perfect beauty. Tempus envisioned a planning room deep within a fortified redoubt. Maps and charts of legendary wars fought by the Lord of Battles covered every wall, every table. The Great Mother, Chauntea, perceived the place as an endless field fertile with wheat. The crops waved slowly in the autumn wind, eternally ready for harvest.

The gods in the pavilion saw each other with disparate faces as well. Lathander Morninglord viewed the powers gathered there as either shafts of light or dark clouds, forces that augmented or obscured the glorious sunrise of renewal he fostered in the world. For Talos the Destroyer, bellicose Master of Storms, the gods devoted to good or law were islands of annoying calm in the roiling thunderheads before him.

As one facet of her consciousness manifested in the pavilion, Mystra noted with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment that, as always, Lathander and Talos had positioned themselves as far apart as possible. To the Goddess of Magic, the other gods appeared as human mages. Their gorgeous robes were drawn from the magic weave that surrounded Faerun, the web of enchantment from which all sorceries originated. The pavilion itself was a wizard's workshop, filled with bubbling beakers and jars of every arcane substance known to man or god.

"Tell me, O Lady of Mysteries," asked a melodious voice, "have you ever considered why the Morninglord and the Destroyer can't seem to put their differences aside, even for an instant?"

Mystra turned to find Oghma at her side. The God of Knowledge and Patron of Bards bowed and took the goddess's hand. Her dainty alabaster fingers glowed like streaks of moonlight against his dark skin as he raised them to his lips.

The Goddess of Magic smiled at Oghma's gallantry. "Their feud is no mystery," she replied. "It's simply a function of their offices. Renewal and destruction are not particularly complementary pursuits. It's nothing more than that."

"Really?" Oghma said. "When you look around you now, what do you see?"

"A workshop for training mages," she replied.

"And what do the others see — Talos and Lathander and the rest?"

The goddess balked at the insistent tone in Oghma's voice. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm the God of Knowledge," Oghma said dismissively. "Just exercising my divine curiosity."

From the slight smile on the god's lips, Mystra could tell the reply was hardly the whole truth. Still, there was little to be lost in answering him. If nothing else, it might lead her closer to discovering the real purpose for his prying.

The Goddess of Magic took Oghma's arm in hers and moved gracefully to one of the circular tables scattered about the workshop. The train of her blue-white dress floated behind her like gossamer wings. "Since I see a mage's laboratory, the other gods probably see the pavilion as something familiar to them. Their minds put a facade over the bland reality of the place, making it into something that reflects their office in the pantheon. I suppose you see a library of some sort."

Oghma nodded. "But if I wanted to see the pavilion as something else, or see the reality that underlies the facade my mind has created — what then?"

"You could will your consciousness to do so," Mystra said.

"You're certain it's that simple, are you?" A flicker of disappointment crossed Oghma's expressive features. He fell silent for a moment, then noted abruptly, "Not to change the subject, but I have considered your proposition concerning the Prince of Lies. I don't think it would be wise of me to take a more active stand against him at this time."

"But the Cyrinishad, and Leira's disappearance-"

The God of Knowledge held up a restraining hand. "I won't go back on my word to you. The scribes in my domain, and any who worship me in the mortal realms will not aid Cyric in completing the book."

Oghma frowned severely, and his voice took on a decidedly pedantic tone. "But beyond that, I think any open challenge to Cyric — about Leira's disappearance or anything else — would be ill-advised for both of us. You don't understand the way the rest of the Circle thinks, and until you do, any direct confrontation might very well strengthen his position."

"So that's what your little interrogation was about," Mystra said coldly. "You presume a great deal, milord. Don't think the fact that I was once mortal prevents me from understanding the politics of the pantheon."

"I would never slight your humble origin," the Patron of Bards replied. "In fact, I believe the mortality you once faced grants you a rare and wonderful trait for a goddess: humility. Since you aren't so foolishly certain of your own perspective, you might be able to understand how the gods limit one another, how their nature binds them."

"Ever the accomplished bard," Mystra scoffed. "If you offend someone, immediately dole out a compliment to assuage any hurt feelings."

"I count many painfully honest scholars amongst my faithful, and not all the bards who do me worship are flatterers," Oghma replied. His voice was both musical and precise, a chorus of master storytellers speaking in harmony. "Some of the greatest harpers in my kingdom lost their lives because they couldn't tell a king he was handsome or wise or generous when it was not so."

Oghma clasped Mystra's hands in his. "Your name alone shows the truth of your mortal humility," he said. "When Ao raised you up from the mortals, you could have remainedMidnight. But you chose instead to adopt the name of the goddess who preceded you."

"It was a political move," she replied ingenuously. "It insured the church's stability. As I said, I'm not as naive as you think."

Oghma ignored her blunt claim. "Because you call yourself Mystra, there are some in the world who say Midnight of Deepingdale never existed, that she is a myth."

The Goddess of Magic shrugged. "There are also some who say Cyric is a myth, though he's spent the last ten years forcing his name upon the worshipers of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul. At this moment there are forty-eight bloody battles being fought in the Heartlands because of his pride, his vanity, worshipers killing worshipers over the true name of their god. That's simply foolishness."