Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

The other gods picked up the evocation, repeating it over and over. Their voices grew louder, the words more strident. They called until they howled like mad things — all save Cyric, who stood mute and sullen in the midst of the riot.

Mystra winced at the discord, yet some part of her reveled in the painful cacophony and drew strength from it. She screamed along with the others until she saw that the Pavilion of Cynosure was trembling. The laboratory her mind had cast as a facade over the place warped, then unraveled like a worn tapestry. The tables melted, then the ceiling and walls. The floor went last, wafting away in a haze of unreality.

The gods found themselves surrounded by a vast sea of emptiness. The prayers of Mystra's worshipers faded in her mind to distant, feeble cries as more and more of her consciousness was drawn into the void. The mortal world became a desert oasis seen through a heat haze, faint and shifting, more ghostly than real. Then, suddenly, the sea of emptiness transformed into a night sky filled with a million stars. And from each pinpoint of light radiated a spectrum of subtle, unearthly hues and a chorus of terrifying heavenly voices.

Keepers of the Balance, you have summoned me needlessly.

The words insinuated themselves into Mystra's mind, demanding the attention of every facet of her divine intellect. She reeled at the force of the million stern voices rebuking her, the myriad angry flashes filling the darkness around her.

Know you now that Cyric and Mask did murder Leira, Ao boomed. Yet they have done nothing that is outside their natures. Cyric is Lord of Murder, so he should strive to blot out even the lives of gods. Mask is Lord of Intrigue, so he should strive to conceal such deeds.

The facade of a wizard's laboratory began to reappear before Mystra's eyes, and the voices of her faithful grew stronger. The stars faded, leaving phantom afterimages burned into her mind. Ao offered a final warning, full of dark portents: It is your responsibility to stand against Cyric — just as it is his to destroy you if you fail. Such is the way of the Balance. Mystra knew the words were meant for her more than any of the others in the pantheon.

In the center of the pavilion, Cyric crossed his arms over his chest. "Is there anything else?" he asked smugly.

Tyr took a step toward the Lord of the Dead, his fist raised before him. "There will be justice done for this crime."

"Didn't you hear Ao?" Cyric scoffed. "There was no crime. Leira died because I willed it." He drew Godsbane and leveled the blade at the God of Justice. "Any of you could be next. That's my place in the Balance: To weed out the weak from this pathetic pantheon."

Dutifully Torm stepped between Godsbane and his patron. A sword appeared in his hand, gleaming silver and edged sharply enough to slice a rainbow into separate bands of color. He tapped the blade in warning against Godsbane then planted his feet in a practiced fighting stance. "We will not fall as easily as Leira."

Mask flinched as the gods flicked the tips of their swords together. "This isn't the time, Cyric," he counseled, "not in the open, not when there are so many against you."

"Spoken like a true coward," Torm snarled. "You might as well try your luck now, Mask. From this day forward we'll remain vigilant against your treachery."

Lowering his pen and parchment to the table before him, Oghma raised empty hands to both Cyric and Torm. "We cannot bring Leira back, but perhaps we can reach some agreement. Release the souls unfairly imprisoned, and we-"

Cyric laughed bitterly. "I will do with Gwydion the Quick as I wish. I may release him; I may torture him forever." He slowly lowered Godsbane and sheathed her. "But none of you will influence his fate. Until now, I have occasionally welcomed you or your envoys into my domain. No longer. As of this moment, the City ofStrifeis completely closed to the pantheon."

"You asked before what we could do against you because of your crimes," Mystra said. Her words were edged sharper than Torm's sword. "I have your answer — and yours as well, Mask. As Goddess of Magic, I forbid you both from drawing on the magical weave."

"What!" Cyric shrieked. "You can't deny me magic. I must answer the prayers of my faithful. And the City ofStrife-"

"Is not my concern," Mystra interrupted. "Your minions may still use magic, and your worshipers will be granted spells, but you, Cyric cannot draw the magic for a single cantrip."

Mask bowed his head, hiding his glowing red eyes from Mystra. "I acted only by my cursed nature, Lady. I can do little but plot intrigues and further the place of thieves in the world. Is there no way I can escape this punishment?"

"Forswear any alliances with Cyric," Mystra said without pause. "Swear that you will not aid him again."

The Lord of Shadows replied just as quickly. "Of course, Lady."

"You cowardly bastard," Cyric shouted.

He started toward Mask, but Mystra gestured grandly. A shimmering wall of force blocked his path. The Lord of the Dead struck the wall, and the robe of magic he wore began to fade. The brilliance drained from the raiments like water. The cast-off magic pooled on the pavilion's floor before vanishing, evaporating into the air like summer rain.

Cyric clutched his head and screamed in impotent rage. His features blurred, and three dozen faces appeared on his head — shouting vile curses, answering his minions' questions, stalking the nightmares of men and women across Faerun. Stunned in his sudden loss of power, the Lord of the Dead had lost all control of his myriad selves. They sprouted from his body like cancerous growths, swearing dark oaths, shrieking their displeasure.

For a time the rest of the pantheon watched in fascinated horror as Cyric fought to regain control. When finally he managed to subdue the warring facets of his mind, he no longer appeared as the lean, hawk-nosed mortal Mystra had known during their quest for the Tablets of Fate. His skin had blistered and hardened into a smooth red hide. His muscles rippled on his thin frame, bands of steel corded beneath his flesh. From his gaunt, almost skeletal face, eyes like dark suns burned with unending malice.

"Without magic, all your incarnations will share this hideous face," Mystra said. "Submit to the Circle's will, and you will be allowed to heal yourself."

"Submit to the Circle?" Cyric repeated, his voice sepulchral. "The Cyrinishad will bring this entire pantheon to its knees." He smiled viciously and leveled a gnarled finger at Mystra. "But while I wait for my mortal minions to complete my book, I'll search for the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane. His suffering will be your particular reward,Midnight."

The Lord of the Dead patted the rose-hued sword at his side and chuckled. "You're leaving me Godsbane? That's surprisingly kind of you."

"I won't destroy something wrought from the weave simply because you own it. Besides, you'd be hard-pressed to stand against a seasoned mortal soldier without something to protect you." She returned his cruel smile. "Now, if you ask nicely enough, I'm certain one of the other powers would be kind enough to transport you back to the Realm of the Dead — unless you plan to walk."

Talos took a tentative step forward, looking to Mystra for some sign of approval. The Goddess of Magic nodded, and the Destroyer took Cyric's arm and disappeared.

"You cannot maintain this ban for long, Lady," Oghma whispered as soon as Cyric had departed. "If he should lose control of the Realm of the Dead…"

Mystra turned to the God of Knowledge. "That's why I left him the sword," she said distractedly. "He can maintain his power with that, but he shouldn't be able to harm any of us. That should give us time to shore up our houses against his next onslaught." The Goddess of Magic bowed hurriedly and excused herself, vanishing from the Pavilion of Cynosure in a burst of blue-white light.