Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

She returned to her throne room, at the heart of her magnificent palace. There Mystra buried her face in her hands, trying to banish a chilling image from her memory. She knew it was futile. For the rest of time, the horrid sight would haunt her.

In the instant before Cyric disappeared from the pavilion, Mystra had slipped into his mind, hoping to catch some glimpse of his twisted perspective. The contact was brief. The ever-vigilant spirit of Godsbane had sensed an intruder and pulsed forward, an amorphous red-hued mass of evil. But before the Goddess of Magic fled, she saw for a moment the world from the eyes of the Lord of the Dead.

A red haze of pain mingled with black clouds of strife and despair. At the center of this roiling chaos stood the Prince of Lies. The Pavilion of Cynosure had no other features, the gods and goddesses no faces or forms. They spoke with Cyric's own voice, and their words came to him as unruly comments from his own mind. He was utterly alone.

Wherein the Prince of Lies uncovers clues of

many sorts, and Gwydion the Quick learns

that there are things to fear in the

City ofStrife, even for a dead man.

Cyric sat brooding inBoneCastle's immense throne room, continually replaying in his mind his humiliation at Mystra's hand. Each time he reached the moment when the goddess denied him contact with the weave, Cyric imagined some wildly twisted version of the actual event. In one he shattered Mystra's arcane shield and struck her down with Godsbane, thus adding God of Magic to his growing list of titles. In another the weave itself revolted against Mystra. Or the gods of chaos rallied and descended on her like a pack of winter-starved wolves. Or Ao himself manifested to prevent her from abusing her power so flagrantly…

The variations were endless, and in certain dark corners of Cyric's mind, some of them dropped like seeds into the mire of delusion and fantasy. In days or months or years, as time was measured in the mortal realms, these notions would blossom into false memories. The noisome thoughts would vie with the truth, creeping around it with leafy tendrils, draining it of vitality. Then these lies would become Cyric's only memories of the meeting, transforming it into a triumph.

"Glorious," Cyric muttered as he envisioned himself dripping to the elbows in Mystra's blood. He could almost taste the crimson liquid on his lips.

Revenge will be yours, my love, Godsbane purred. The spirit of the sword pulsed inside the swirling chaos of Cyric's thoughts. Just as soon as you put your plans into motion.

"Eh?" Cyric grunted. "My plans?"

To find Kelemvor. To finish your tome.

The Prince of Lies rubbed the sword's pommel. "Right now a hundred plots are coming to fruition, a thousand agents are on the move…"

His mind raced as he considered the monstrous assassins he'd sent to stalk Mystra's clerics in Sembia. They trailed the goddess's minions from beneath the ground, in the guise of mutated moles, and from the skies as human vultures. Press gangs on the Fugue Plain were also just now grabbing Mystra's faithful. They would be rushed into the City ofStrifebefore the maruts could escort them to paradise. In Zhentil Keep, the search for his new scribe was almost over. The soldiers had learned the whereabouts of Bevis's daughter from a parchmenter. In hours, she would be ready to begin the new Cyrinishad. There were other schemes, too — the desecration of Torm's shrine in Tantras, the disruption of the holy rites of Tyr in Suzail, the betrayal of Mask's agents in the city watch of Waterdeep…

And in every temple dedicated to Cyric, every coven of worshipers, circles of clerics and powerful mages sought the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.

For a decade, Cyric had turned his worshipers' magic to the task. He little believed the mortals would find the errant soul, since only a deity had the might to shield Kelemvor for so long. But each oracle and priest scrying for the hidden shade put the deceitful god's power to the test. Now the number of seekers had been swelled by the faithful of Leira.

It hadn't been difficult to win the cooperation of the church hierarchy — a finely polished tale of their goddess's murder at the hands of Kelemvor had been enough. The truly fervent had been the easiest to convince, the quickest to join the hunt for the renegade soul. The fear of offending the new God of Deception swayed other important clerics, especially the men and women who had dedicated their lives to the art of illusion. Assassins had dealt with those too vocal in their opposition. And once the high priests were brought in line, Cyric could count on the rest of the church to follow them like mindless sheep.

Your Magnificence?

The words echoed inside Cyric's thoughts. It wasn't the cool, feminine purr of Godsbane, but a chilling, inhuman voice. Cyric looked out on the long, narrow throne room and found Jergal before him. The seneschal cast his gaze down to the floor. White-gloved hands floated up and folded palms together in a show of submission. I am sorry to disturb your reverie, but emissaries of the Shadowlord are at the gate again. They beg to deliver a gift from their master.

"Kill them all," Cyric said coldly. "Then send their heads back to Mask, along with their gifts. Sooner or later he'll give up — or run out of emissaries."

Godsbane stirred uneasily. You might be able to use his aid, my love, she said.

"He wants to apologize for his cowardice, not buy back an alliance with me. He fears Mystra too much to break his promise to her — not this soon anyway."

Cyric leaped suddenly to his feet, sending Jergal floating backward to avoid being trampled. The seneschal's empty black cloak fluttered and danced. "There's something odd about this," the Lord of the Dead hissed. "Mask is risking Mystra's ire just sending messengers to me."

Perhaps the gifts hold the key, Godsbane suggested.

"Hmmm. Have you examined the gifts, Jergal?" Cyric asked.

The seneschal nodded. Arquebuses, Your Magnificence. All the emissaries have carried arquebuses. No written message, though all the rifles bear the symbols of both the Shadowlord and the Gearsmith.

"Why would Mask offer me Gondish rifles? Gond himself has sent me a dozen such contraptions in the past He thinks they'll make any army invincible, the dolt." Cyric snorted. "How can they be any threat at all when they blow up in soldiers' faces as often as they fire correctly?" The Prince of Lies rubbed his pointed chin. "Anything else special about them? Are they enchanted somehow?"

Jergal shook his head. No, Your Magnificence. I examined them myself. They are simple contraptions of metal and wood, like everything else the Gearsmith builds. The only thing unusual about the gifts is that the bearers had strict orders from the Shadowlord himself to present them to you in this room.

Face rigid with concentration, Cyric paced away from his throne and down the length of the long audience hall. Chained to the pillars along either wall were three hundred and ninety-seven souls that burned without diminishing — the scribes who had failed in creating the Cyrinishad. One other shade writhed in fiery torment: Bevis the Illuminator. He hung from the ceiling halfway between the throne and the doors, suspended spread-eagle by chains of red-hot iron. As they entered the hall, supplicants would hear Bevis's whimpers. The other Burning Men had long since screamed themselves mute.

Muttering incoherently, the Lord of the Dead stalked through the long shadows warping across the hall. He glanced up at some of the other trophies as he passed them, his mind veering wildly from his consideration of Mask's strange gifts. Here was a ghastly canvas painted by a worshiper of Deneir, the red and brown pigments nothing less than the blood of her children. Next to it hung an axe used to enforce the judgments of a mad king who ruled in the name of Tyr. A glass case at the base of one pillar held a single silver nail with which a man devoted to Sune had blinded himself after receiving a vision of the goddess, convinced he would never see anything so beautiful again.