destruction of Myrkul,” Cyric prompted impatiently. He unsheathed Godsbane, for some part of him knew the answer before Bevis gave it.
“Midnight killed Myrkul,” the illuminator whispered, rolling his eyes back until the whites showed. “But it hurts to think that now, even though the other book said it was true. And Cyric waited in the tower and ambushed Midnight and Kelemvor and the other one, the scarred priest. And he stabbed Kelemvor in the back and stole the Tablets of Fate. He ran away because Midnight would have-“
The crimson blade pierced the man’s side, cutting off his rambling reply. Bevis had time to gasp once as Godsbane drained every drop of blood from him. Then Cyric reached into the corpse and yanked the soul free. Phantasmal and shimmering, the soul seemed to be formed of light, but once he was in the City of Strife, Bevis would be as corporeal as all the other shades - and as vulnerable to eternal torture.
One hand tight around the soul, the Lord of the Dead turned eyes brimming with hellfire on the three mortals in the crypts. “We will start again three days from now, at sunset,” he shouted. “Have a scribe ready in the usual place. Find the one who penned this piece of rubbish-” he pointed Godsbane at the gatherings, and the ink disappeared from the pages “-and add his skin to the parchment for the next volume. I’ll send a denizen to collect his body when you’re done flaying him.”
Xeno dropped to his knees. “But we’ve no more scribes in the temple,” he said, his voice quavering. “We’ve even used up all the guild members we arrested.”
The soul in Cyric’s grasp burst into flame. “This one said he had a daughter who could write,” the god shouted over Bevis’s cries for mercy. “If you have no one left, find her. I’ll decide if she’s worthy of serving me when I meet her.” And with that, the Lord of the Dead vanished.
Lord Chess waved his scented handkerchief before him, trying vainly to drive away the stench of charred flesh. “This book will be the ruin of Zhentil Keep yet,” he mused, though his voice betrayed little concern.
One silvery eyebrow raised in suspicion, Xeno Mirrormane said, “Sounds to me like you’re doubting the god’s powers, Chess. I could have you killed for that.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Fzoul snapped. “He’s only stating the facts of it. If Cyric can find the right scribe and the right wording for his book, he’ll have the perfect weapon to convert everyone in Faerun - in the world, even.” He thumbed through the blank parchment gatherings. “He was close this time. The artist nearly believed the whole thing, even though he’d read the truth before.” Fzoul shook his head. “Read the Cyrinishad and believe in it, no matter what it says. Why do you think Mystra denied Cyric the magic to create the book himself? Or why Oghma denied him the services of his eternal scribes? Without worshipers, the rest of the pantheon will disappear, just as if they never existed.”
Xeno pulled the pages from Fzoul’s hands. “Mystra and Oghma cannot stop Cyric’s faithful from creating this tome. And there are many who believe everything His Magnificence tells us even without the Cyrinishad. To us, there are no other gods.”
“That’s the most frightening thing of all,” Fzoul said and turned to leave the crypts.
III
POINT OF VIEW
Wherein Mystra meets with the Circle of Greater
Powers to censure Cyric and discovers that, even
in the heavens, guilt and innocence
are a matter of perspective.
To each of the gods, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as something different. Sune Firehair saw a vast hall filled with mirrors to reflect her perfect beauty. Tempus envisioned a planning room deep within a fortified redoubt. Maps and charts of legendary wars fought by the Lord of Battles covered every wall, every table. The Great Mother, Chauntea, perceived the place as an endless field fertile with wheat. The crops
“Midnight killed Myrkul,” the illuminator whispered, rolling his eyes back until the whites showed. “But it hurts to think that now, even though the other book said it was true. And Cyric waited in the tower and ambushed Midnight and Kelemvor and the other one, the scarred priest. And he stabbed Kelemvor in the back and stole the Tablets of Fate. He ran away because Midnight would have-“
The crimson blade pierced the man’s side, cutting off his rambling reply. Bevis had time to gasp once as Godsbane drained every drop of blood from him. Then Cyric reached into the corpse and yanked the soul free. Phantasmal and shimmering, the soul seemed to be formed of light, but once he was in the City of Strife, Bevis would be as corporeal as all the other shades - and as vulnerable to eternal torture.
One hand tight around the soul, the Lord of the Dead turned eyes brimming with hellfire on the three mortals in the crypts. “We will start again three days from now, at sunset,” he shouted. “Have a scribe ready in the usual place. Find the one who penned this piece of rubbish-” he pointed Godsbane at the gatherings, and the ink disappeared from the pages “-and add his skin to the parchment for the next volume. I’ll send a denizen to collect his body when you’re done flaying him.”
Xeno dropped to his knees. “But we’ve no more scribes in the temple,” he said, his voice quavering. “We’ve even used up all the guild members we arrested.”
The soul in Cyric’s grasp burst into flame. “This one said he had a daughter who could write,” the god shouted over Bevis’s cries for mercy. “If you have no one left, find her. I’ll decide if she’s worthy of serving me when I meet her.” And with that, the Lord of the Dead vanished.
Lord Chess waved his scented handkerchief before him, trying vainly to drive away the stench of charred flesh. “This book will be the ruin of Zhentil Keep yet,” he mused, though his voice betrayed little concern.
One silvery eyebrow raised in suspicion, Xeno Mirrormane said, “Sounds to me like you’re doubting the god’s powers, Chess. I could have you killed for that.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Fzoul snapped. “He’s only stating the facts of it. If Cyric can find the right scribe and the right wording for his book, he’ll have the perfect weapon to convert everyone in Faerun - in the world, even.” He thumbed through the blank parchment gatherings. “He was close this time. The artist nearly believed the whole thing, even though he’d read the truth before.” Fzoul shook his head. “Read the Cyrinishad and believe in it, no matter what it says. Why do you think Mystra denied Cyric the magic to create the book himself? Or why Oghma denied him the services of his eternal scribes? Without worshipers, the rest of the pantheon will disappear, just as if they never existed.”
Xeno pulled the pages from Fzoul’s hands. “Mystra and Oghma cannot stop Cyric’s faithful from creating this tome. And there are many who believe everything His Magnificence tells us even without the Cyrinishad. To us, there are no other gods.”
“That’s the most frightening thing of all,” Fzoul said and turned to leave the crypts.
III
POINT OF VIEW
Wherein Mystra meets with the Circle of Greater
Powers to censure Cyric and discovers that, even
in the heavens, guilt and innocence
are a matter of perspective.
To each of the gods, the Pavilion of Cynosure appeared as something different. Sune Firehair saw a vast hall filled with mirrors to reflect her perfect beauty. Tempus envisioned a planning room deep within a fortified redoubt. Maps and charts of legendary wars fought by the Lord of Battles covered every wall, every table. The Great Mother, Chauntea, perceived the place as an endless field fertile with wheat. The crops
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