Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

"Perhaps. But his name will figure prominently in the tomes that tell the history of Faerun, whereas your mortal name will one day fade away." Oghma smiled. "I see by your face you're not concerned with history, though you should be. After all, control of history is at the heart of Cyric's mad plans. It's the reason he strives to create his much-feared book."

"Pardon me," a deep voice interrupted, "but Cyric is concerned merely with power. The Cyrinishad is a means to that end." Torm the True bowed formally to Mystra, then Oghma. "I do not mean to challenge your conclusions, Binder of All Knowledge, but I've had much traffic with the Prince of Lies of late, and I believe-"

"We are not here to discuss what you believe, Torm," said the blind man who had suddenly appeared in the pavilion's center. His features were square and unforgiving, like the cut of the magical robes Mystra perceived as his raiments. In his left hand he held a silver balance. His right hand had been chopped off at the wrist. "We are here to discuss the facts of Cyric's transgressions, the things you say you witnessed in his realm. When that's done, we shall bring the full weight of the law against him."

Talos paused in carving his name into the tabletop before him. "I say we just waylay him and spread his remains across the planes," he joked, twirling his silver dagger menacingly.

Tyr, the blind God of Justice, prodded his long white beard with his stump and turned sightless eyes on the Destroyer. "You will be given your turn to speak. Hold your peace until then." For a reply, Talos snorted and sliced a long sliver of wood from the tabletop.

"And so begins another conference of the Circle of Greater Powers," Oghma whispered to the Goddess of Magic. "Rather similar to every other meeting, don't you think?"

Mystra had to admit that Oghma was right. The greater powers met infrequently, since problems rarely arose that concerned all of them. Yet, in each of the few meetings Mystra had attended, Tyr had presumed to take control of the Circle, and Talos had disrupted it. Then, as now, Oghma had placidly noted every word and every action of his fellow immortals, while Tempus impatiently suggested his divine army be mustered to solve even the most delicate dilemma with sword and shield.

Mystra realized then that this was the very conclusion Oghma had been laboring to get across: after centuries of interaction, the gods had become predictable. Tyr could be counted on to promote all causes furthering law and good in Faerun. Talos would just as surely oppose such measures, striving to create chaos and, at least as Tyr defined it, evil. In the same way, the viewpoints of Talos and Lathander made it difficult for them to find any common ground.

Difficult, she decided, but not impossible. Surely the gods could break these patterns, could realize that theirs was not the only perspective in the universe.

Slowly Mystra scanned the Pavilion of Cynosure. Ten of the eleven greater powers were in attendance — all save Cyric. Most of the gods had gathered around tables crammed with flasks and beakers and spell components. The trio of deities devoted to chaotic pursuits — Tempus, Talos, and Sune, the Goddess of Love — fidgeted in their seats or roamed around the perimeter. In the center of the room, Tyr held court from a podium, methodically listing the rules by which the gods would proceed with the hearing. To his right stood Torm. The God of Duty was only a demipower, but Tyr had sponsored him to speak to the Circle because of his recent conflicts with Cyric.

"And I think it best for us to begin with the testimony of Torm the True," Tyr droned, "for his charges against the self-styled Prince of Lies bring us together now."

As Torm took the podium, Mystra paused to consider her own position in the room. The pavilion resembled laboratories common in Halruaa and Cormyr and Waterdeep, places civilized enough to support schools where mages could be taught the rudiments of the Art. Tyr, and now Torm, had taken the place reserved for the instructor. The other gods were students. As in any school, some paid careful attention to the lecturer — like Oghma — while others waited for the time to pass so they could escape.

In her version of the pavilion, Mystra had not cast herself in the role of either teacher or student, but as an impartial monitor. In the mage schools she'd seen in her youth, the most powerful sorcerer never taught. He or she sat quietly in the back of the room, watching the class, ready in case someone should cast an enchantment that misfired or grew dangerous.

"Cyric is a threat to all of Faerun," Torm began, gesturing broadly. The robes of magic Mystra perceived hanging from his square shoulders were dimmer than those of the greater gods, signifying his lesser status. "As all of you know-"

"If we already know, why tell us again?" Talos shouted impatiently.

Tempus stopped poring over his maps long enough to snort his agreement, and the Goddess of Love giggled into her dainty hands. Of the remaining gods, only Tyr really seemed offended by the outburst. The God of Justice sneered in the direction of the Destroyer's voice then motioned for the God of Duty to continue.

"What you don't know," Torm said sharply, glaring at Talos, "is that Cyric has been impersonating other gods, causing mortals weak in spirit to kill themselves with reckless acts. He chooses only those men and women who have yet to earn a god's favor through devoted worship. They die before their time and become prisoners in the City ofStrife."

Torm went on to describe how Cyric had fooled one particular sell-sword, a Cormyrian named Gwydion the Quick. He dealt with the heart of the incident briefly, but his speech didn't end there. In detail, he described how Cyric's offenses assailed the honor of each and every god. Torm followed this diatribe with his expected tirade on duty, calling the Circle of Greater Powers to stand against the blackguard Lord of the Dead.

As Torm spoke, Mystra found herself wondering exactly how the God of Duty saw the pavilion. Breaking into the demipower's thoughts proved much easier than the Goddess of Magic expected. His mind was a simple and orderly fortress of purest white stone, built around a vast temple to duty and honor. Armored knights stood silent vigil upon the walls. Whether they didn't sense Mystra's presence or dismissed her as an ally was unclear, but they let her pass through the gates unchallenged. Once inside, she could look out through Torm's eyes.

To the God of Duty, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as a pillared extension of his own castle. Marble columns lined the hall, with thrones at the foot of each. In these rested the gods, huge armored warriors with shields bearing their holy symbols. Some, like Tyr, wore bright plate mail, magnificent and glittering. The less the god supported law, the dimmer the gloss on his armor, the shabbier his cloak and boots and gloves.

Torm kneeled in the center of this impressive gathering. His plate mail shone less brightly than Tyr's, but it was much more ornate and weighted with badges of honor. Mystra was awed by the overwhelming sense of duty that pressed down on the demipower. And as the goddess looked closer, she saw thin chains of shimmering gold linking the God of Duty to each of his fellow deities. Some chains were thicker than others, but these links of obligation extended from Torm's hands to every other god in the pavilion.

"What says the Goddess of Magic to Torm's proposal?"

The words registered in another part of Mystra's mind, a section she had left focused on the demipower's speech. Like all the other deities, Mystra possessed an intellect capable of performing a hundred different tasks simultaneously. While a small part of her mind had explored Torm's perspective, another facet listened intently for the prayers of her faithful. Others kept vigil over the magical weave surrounding Faerun, or monitored the progress of Cyric's book, or catalogued each new spell and enchantment created in the world. The most important of these facets, the nexus of her being, controlled the various lesser incarnations, creating or destroying them as necessary.