Lies dwelled upon those; Fzoul’s precise uninteresting explanation for the Zhentarim’s inability to find Kelemvor’s soul lodged itself in another part of Cyric’s immense consciousness.
The Lord of the Dead didn’t particularly trust the Zhentarim. Since the destruction of their immortal patron, Bane, the Black Network had continued to subtly undermine the lawful kingdoms of Faerun by means of spies and assassins. The mages who controlled the group had proved annoyingly loyal to the memory of Bane or, even more infuriating, to the Goddess of Magic. Still, Cyric recognized their usefulness, especially for matters that required the services of talented sorcerers.
“And the oracles can find no trace of Lyonsbane,” Fzoul concluded flatly. “If his soul fled your wrath and hides in the realms of the living, some great power is shielding him from our magic.”
Cyric frowned. “The same as every report for the past ten years,” he rumbled. “Mystra is behind this, or one of her allies. But they won’t keep Kelemvor hidden from me forever, not after the Cyrinishad steals their worshipers away, eh Xeno?”
The patriarch cackled madly and lifted the stack of parchment from the table. “You’re fortunate, Fzoul. Someone else has given the book its first review - part of it, anyway.” He gestured to Bevis with his chin. “We’ll put the brand to him and see if he believes it.”
“Don’t worry, Fzoul,” Cyric murmured as he passed close to the priest. “You’ll get to read the book next if this little experiment proves successful. That’s why I called you here. I want you to be the first to see the error of your ways.”
After shaking Bevis awake, Xeno held the hot iron rod against the man’s bare feet. The pain sent the illuminator into an agonized swoon. As soon as his mind cleared, the smell of his own charred flesh made the gorge rise in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Bevis choked. “I know I wasn’t supposed to read it. B-But once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
Xeno howled triumphantly. “Couldn’t help yourself, you say?” He waved the smoldering iron in front of Bevis’s face. “You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”
“No!” the prisoner shrieked. “P-Please. I won’t tell anyone what I read. I won’t tell them what the book says!”
Rubbing his double chin, Lord Chess scowled and shook his head. “That’s not the point at all. We’d really rather you tell everyone.”
Bevis looked hopefully into the foppish nobleman’s eyes. “Then I will. I’ll stand in the streets and shout the story over and over. Look, my daughter used to be a scribe, an excellent one, too. She quit the guild, but I’ll get her to help copy the text if you want…”
This is getting us nowhere,” Fzoul snapped. He grabbed the red-hot iron from the patriarch. “We want to find out if he believed the book, not if he can be bullied into becoming a town crier for the church.”
At a nod from Cyric, Fzoul Chembryl started a long, systematic torture of Bevis. For more than an hour the illuminator endured the pain. He repeated much of what he’d read from the Cyrinishad, word for word. The passages were set into his memory with brilliance un-dimmed by the priest’s most ingenious use of his dagger or the hot iron - until they came to the death of Myrkul and the battle atop Blackstaff Tower.
“I can’t remember that part of the story,” Bevis shouted through scorched and bleeding lips.
Xeno frowned. “Don’t believe him.”
“Of course not,” Fzoul snapped. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of one hand then flicked the salty liquid onto Bevis’s flayed cheeks. When the illuminator stopped howling, the priest asked quietly, “Who destroyed Myrkul?”
“It - it was in the other book,” Bevis said. “The one about the Time of Troubles I worked on years ago.” He began to laugh uncontrollably. “The only book I read from cover to cover, that history was. I thought-“
“The
The Lord of the Dead didn’t particularly trust the Zhentarim. Since the destruction of their immortal patron, Bane, the Black Network had continued to subtly undermine the lawful kingdoms of Faerun by means of spies and assassins. The mages who controlled the group had proved annoyingly loyal to the memory of Bane or, even more infuriating, to the Goddess of Magic. Still, Cyric recognized their usefulness, especially for matters that required the services of talented sorcerers.
“And the oracles can find no trace of Lyonsbane,” Fzoul concluded flatly. “If his soul fled your wrath and hides in the realms of the living, some great power is shielding him from our magic.”
Cyric frowned. “The same as every report for the past ten years,” he rumbled. “Mystra is behind this, or one of her allies. But they won’t keep Kelemvor hidden from me forever, not after the Cyrinishad steals their worshipers away, eh Xeno?”
The patriarch cackled madly and lifted the stack of parchment from the table. “You’re fortunate, Fzoul. Someone else has given the book its first review - part of it, anyway.” He gestured to Bevis with his chin. “We’ll put the brand to him and see if he believes it.”
“Don’t worry, Fzoul,” Cyric murmured as he passed close to the priest. “You’ll get to read the book next if this little experiment proves successful. That’s why I called you here. I want you to be the first to see the error of your ways.”
After shaking Bevis awake, Xeno held the hot iron rod against the man’s bare feet. The pain sent the illuminator into an agonized swoon. As soon as his mind cleared, the smell of his own charred flesh made the gorge rise in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Bevis choked. “I know I wasn’t supposed to read it. B-But once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
Xeno howled triumphantly. “Couldn’t help yourself, you say?” He waved the smoldering iron in front of Bevis’s face. “You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”
“No!” the prisoner shrieked. “P-Please. I won’t tell anyone what I read. I won’t tell them what the book says!”
Rubbing his double chin, Lord Chess scowled and shook his head. “That’s not the point at all. We’d really rather you tell everyone.”
Bevis looked hopefully into the foppish nobleman’s eyes. “Then I will. I’ll stand in the streets and shout the story over and over. Look, my daughter used to be a scribe, an excellent one, too. She quit the guild, but I’ll get her to help copy the text if you want…”
This is getting us nowhere,” Fzoul snapped. He grabbed the red-hot iron from the patriarch. “We want to find out if he believed the book, not if he can be bullied into becoming a town crier for the church.”
At a nod from Cyric, Fzoul Chembryl started a long, systematic torture of Bevis. For more than an hour the illuminator endured the pain. He repeated much of what he’d read from the Cyrinishad, word for word. The passages were set into his memory with brilliance un-dimmed by the priest’s most ingenious use of his dagger or the hot iron - until they came to the death of Myrkul and the battle atop Blackstaff Tower.
“I can’t remember that part of the story,” Bevis shouted through scorched and bleeding lips.
Xeno frowned. “Don’t believe him.”
“Of course not,” Fzoul snapped. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of one hand then flicked the salty liquid onto Bevis’s flayed cheeks. When the illuminator stopped howling, the priest asked quietly, “Who destroyed Myrkul?”
“It - it was in the other book,” Bevis said. “The one about the Time of Troubles I worked on years ago.” He began to laugh uncontrollably. “The only book I read from cover to cover, that history was. I thought-“
“The
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