Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

Now the Goddess of Magic abandoned Torm's perspective and focused more fully on the Circle. Tyr had once again taken the podium. His blind eyes were directed at her. "Do you think we can force Cyric to free this Gwydion fellow and the other souls wrongly imprisoned in the Wall of the Faithless?"

"Possibly," Mystra said.

Torm stepped forward again, blustering happily, "Of course, this great wrong can be righted! The laws established in the Realm of the Dead for the treatment of the Faithless-"

"Were ratified by the Circle of Greater Powers when Myrkul reigned in the City ofStrife," Oghma noted coldly. "Cyric has always claimed himself free of laws established by the trio of powers he replaced."

"Besides, the whole point of forcing Cyric to do anything in his realm is moot," Lathander added glumly. He stood and straightened his robes. "We have no power in the City ofStrife. We can't even enter it unless we're invited. And the Wall of the Faithless is clearly within the boundaries of Cyric's kingdom." He sighed. "Do you think logic or reason will persuade him to free those souls, with no threat of force behind it? I'm not one to abandon hope, but even I see this as futile."

Mystra shook her head in disbelief. "If we band together, we can show Cyric our displeasure. If we're silent, we're tacitly consenting."

She stalked toward the podium. Both Torm and Tyr gave her a wide berth. "When Cyric started work on his infernal book," Mystra began, "I denied him the use of magic to create it on his own. Oghma denied him the services of the eternal scribes to complete it in the heavens. This left him to call upon his worshipers to create the Cyrinishad. These sanctions worked, did they not? The book remains but a dark grail for him."

"I would not discount the possibility of one of his mundane servants writing the tome he desires," Oghma warned. "As you should well know, Mystra, mortals can accomplish a great deal given the right motivation."

The Goddess of Magic nodded, but the resolve in her glowing blue-white eyes never faded. "Nevertheless, we have forced him to work within the code the rest of us follow. We can do so again with the imprisoned souls — " she paused and scanned the faces of the assembled powers "- and we can do so with the disappearance of Leira."

The gods shifted nervously at the mention of the missing goddess. "Let's get back to the matter at hand," Oghma suggested. "The mistreatment of the shade Torm saw-"

"Cyric's crimes against the Balance are the true matter at hand," Mystra hissed. When no one disagreed, she pressed on. "Leira hasn't shown herself since the Time of Troubles. It's obvious to me that she's gone. Someone destroyed her."

"Leira is the Goddess of Deception," Oghma noted. This wouldn't be the first time she obscured her whereabouts from us, simply to prove her power to hide outstrips our ability and patience to seek."

After yawning loudly, Talos dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. "Someone's answering the prayers of her faithful. That's all that matters."

"And if that someone is Cyric?" Mystra asked. "He already has the power of three gods. Do any of you wish to see him take the power of a fourth?"

A subtle shift in Talos's expression told Mystra that even the Destroyer trembled at the prospect of confronting Cyric about Leira's disappearance.

"Someone must be aiding him if he's kept the crime hidden this long," Torm offered boldly. "Mask, perhaps?"

Tyr nodded sagely and ran gnarled fingers through his long white beard. "The Lord of Shadows would have much to gain from an alliance with Cyric. As God of Intrigue, Mask could bury all clues of Leira's murder so deep even a god's eyes might miss them."

"Perhaps," Mystra said. "But if Cyric destroyed Leira and took on her worshipers, he's added God of Deception to the rest of his titles. He might not need Mask's help to hide his crimes."

An uncomfortable murmur broke out in the pavilion, and Oghma turned pleading eyes on the Goddess of Magic. Mystra ignored him, though, and said, "I call upon my right as a member of the Circle. I demand Cyric and Mask be brought before Lord Ao for judgment."

The response to this proclamation was instantaneous; the gods sent countless incarnations winging across the planes to summon the two errant deities. A burst of darkness and a sickening stench of brimstone heralded Cyric's arrival in the Pavilion of Cynosure. His robes glowed almost as brightly as Mystra's, crackling around his thin frame like a cloak of fire. But brightest of all was the enchanted sword at his side. The rose-hued blade burned with such magical radiance Mystra found it difficult to look at it for long.

Cyric sneered at the other gods, his face twisted with hatred. His dark eyes glittered malevolently as he turned to Torm. "You've whined loudly enough to get an audience, I see. That's not so surprising, I suppose — though I can't imagine why the rest of you have bothered to call me here."

"To answer certain charges," Tyr said stiffly.

"Charges!" Cyric scoffed. "If Torm the True told you I'm guilty of breaking some cosmic law, you'd be fools not to believe him. He can't lie, the dolt, and I'm not going to waste my time trying to get you to believe otherwise."

"Then you admit to impersonating other deities," Torm said. He leveled an accusing finger at the Lord of the Dead.

"Of course."

"And of unfairly sentencing souls to the Wall of the Faithless?"

Cyric snorted. "You were there, Torm."

"And of continuing work on your infernal book, intending to use it to undermine all other faiths in Faerun?"

"Didn't I just tell you I admit to everything you can charge me with, you dimwitted tin warrior? The real question is, what can any of you do about it?" Cyric rolled his eyes in disgust and faced Mystra. "He's almost as dull as Kelemvor, ehMidnight?"

The goddess returned Cyric's cold gaze evenly. "What about the death of Leira?" she asked tonelessly. "Do you admit to that?"

One eyebrow arched, the Lord of the Dead leaned back against a table. "Upon whose testimony are you accusing me of harming the elusive Lady of the Mists? As I remember, the Circle of Greater Powers cannot try me for a crime without testimony or evidence."

"We have only our suspicions," Mystra said calmly, "but I've demanded the Circle call upon Lord Ao and ask him where Leira is. Do you have any objections? Actually, they don't matter, so don't bother voicing them."

The Lord of the Dead and the Goddess of Magic stared at one another. The twitch in Cyric's left eye told of barely subdued rage, while the hard line of Mystra's mouth, the tension in her limbs, revealed an overwhelming revulsion for the creature of darkness she had once called friend.

Cyric closed his hand tightly around the hilt of his sword. The gesture's meaning was not lost on Mystra; that blade had nearly drained her life atopBlackstaffTower, after Cyric had used it to kill Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He would repay her for humiliating him before the Circle. Godsbane would taste her blood again.

"We yet await Mask's arrival," Tyr announced. "Only then may we summon Ao."

"Don't delay on my account," said a smooth whisper. The words hissed like a black silk cloth polishing a sharp blade. "I've been here for quite some time."

As one, the gods turned to find Mask standing at the very edge of the pavilion. Darkness clung to him in thin wisps, passing over his bright robe of magic like clouds over a full moon. Black gloves covered his hands, and a loose-fitting mask concealed his features. Only his eyes were visible, twin pools of red flashing and ebbing as he spoke.

"Should I join my fellow conspirator?" he asked glibly. Without waiting for a reply, the Lord of Shadows slid with feline grace past Mystra to stand beside Cyric.

"Hear our plea, great and wise overlord," Tyr began without prelude. "We seek your wisdom."