waved slowly in the autumn wind, eternally ready for harvest.
The gods in the pavilion saw each other with disparate faces as well. Lathander Morninglord viewed the powers gathered there as either shafts of light or dark clouds, forces that augmented or obscured the glorious sunrise of renewal he fostered in the world. For Talos the Destroyer, bellicose Master of Storms, the gods devoted to good or law were islands of annoying calm in the roiling thunderheads before him.
As one facet of her consciousness manifested in the pavilion, Mystra noted with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment that, as always, Lathander and Talos had positioned themselves as far apart as possible. To the Goddess of Magic, the other gods appeared as human mages. Their gorgeous robes were drawn from the magic weave that surrounded Faerun, the web of enchantment from which all sorceries originated. The pavilion itself was a wizard’s workshop, filled with bubbling beakers and jars of every arcane substance known to man or god.
“Tell me, O Lady of Mysteries,” asked a melodious voice, “have you ever considered why the Morninglord and the Destroyer can’t seem to put their differences aside, even for an instant?”
Mystra turned to find Oghma at her side. The God of Knowledge and Patron of Bards bowed and took the goddess’s hand. Her dainty alabaster fingers glowed like streaks of moonlight against his dark skin as he raised them to his lips.
The Goddess of Magic smiled at Oghma’s gallantry. “Their feud is no mystery,” she replied. “It’s simply a function of their offices. Renewal and destruction are not particularly complementary pursuits. It’s nothing more than that.”
“Really?” Oghma said. “When you look around you now, what do you see?”
“A workshop for training mages,” she replied.
“And what do the others see - Talos and Lathander and the rest?”
The goddess balked at the insistent tone in Oghma’s voice. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m the God of Knowledge,” Oghma said dismissively. “Just exercising my divine curiosity.”
From the slight smile on the god’s lips, Mystra could tell the reply was hardly the whole truth. Still, there was little to be lost in answering him. If nothing else, it might lead her closer to discovering the real purpose for his prying.
The Goddess of Magic took Oghma’s arm in hers and moved gracefully to one of the circular tables scattered about the workshop. The train of her blue-white dress floated behind her like gossamer wings. “Since I see a mage’s laboratory, the other gods probably see the pavilion as something familiar to them. Their minds put a facade over the bland reality of the place, making it into something that reflects their office in the pantheon. I suppose you see a library of some sort.”
Oghma nodded. “But if I wanted to see the pavilion as something else, or see the reality that underlies the facade my mind has created - what then?”
“You could will your consciousness to do so,” Mystra said.
“You’re certain it’s that simple, are you?” A flicker of disappointment crossed Oghma’s expressive features. He fell silent for a moment, then noted abruptly, “Not to change the subject, but I have considered your proposition concerning the Prince of Lies. I don’t think it would be wise of me to take a more active stand against him at this time.”
“But the Cyrinishad, and Leira’s disappearance-“
The God of Knowledge held up a restraining hand. “I won’t go back on my word to you. The scribes in my domain, and any who worship me in the mortal realms will not aid Cyric in completing the book.”
Oghma frowned severely, and his voice took on a decidedly pedantic tone. “But beyond that, I think any open challenge to Cyric - about Leira’s disappearance or anything else - would be ill-advised for both of us. You don’t understand the way the rest of the Circle thinks, and until you do, any direct confrontation might very
The gods in the pavilion saw each other with disparate faces as well. Lathander Morninglord viewed the powers gathered there as either shafts of light or dark clouds, forces that augmented or obscured the glorious sunrise of renewal he fostered in the world. For Talos the Destroyer, bellicose Master of Storms, the gods devoted to good or law were islands of annoying calm in the roiling thunderheads before him.
As one facet of her consciousness manifested in the pavilion, Mystra noted with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment that, as always, Lathander and Talos had positioned themselves as far apart as possible. To the Goddess of Magic, the other gods appeared as human mages. Their gorgeous robes were drawn from the magic weave that surrounded Faerun, the web of enchantment from which all sorceries originated. The pavilion itself was a wizard’s workshop, filled with bubbling beakers and jars of every arcane substance known to man or god.
“Tell me, O Lady of Mysteries,” asked a melodious voice, “have you ever considered why the Morninglord and the Destroyer can’t seem to put their differences aside, even for an instant?”
Mystra turned to find Oghma at her side. The God of Knowledge and Patron of Bards bowed and took the goddess’s hand. Her dainty alabaster fingers glowed like streaks of moonlight against his dark skin as he raised them to his lips.
The Goddess of Magic smiled at Oghma’s gallantry. “Their feud is no mystery,” she replied. “It’s simply a function of their offices. Renewal and destruction are not particularly complementary pursuits. It’s nothing more than that.”
“Really?” Oghma said. “When you look around you now, what do you see?”
“A workshop for training mages,” she replied.
“And what do the others see - Talos and Lathander and the rest?”
The goddess balked at the insistent tone in Oghma’s voice. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m the God of Knowledge,” Oghma said dismissively. “Just exercising my divine curiosity.”
From the slight smile on the god’s lips, Mystra could tell the reply was hardly the whole truth. Still, there was little to be lost in answering him. If nothing else, it might lead her closer to discovering the real purpose for his prying.
The Goddess of Magic took Oghma’s arm in hers and moved gracefully to one of the circular tables scattered about the workshop. The train of her blue-white dress floated behind her like gossamer wings. “Since I see a mage’s laboratory, the other gods probably see the pavilion as something familiar to them. Their minds put a facade over the bland reality of the place, making it into something that reflects their office in the pantheon. I suppose you see a library of some sort.”
Oghma nodded. “But if I wanted to see the pavilion as something else, or see the reality that underlies the facade my mind has created - what then?”
“You could will your consciousness to do so,” Mystra said.
“You’re certain it’s that simple, are you?” A flicker of disappointment crossed Oghma’s expressive features. He fell silent for a moment, then noted abruptly, “Not to change the subject, but I have considered your proposition concerning the Prince of Lies. I don’t think it would be wise of me to take a more active stand against him at this time.”
“But the Cyrinishad, and Leira’s disappearance-“
The God of Knowledge held up a restraining hand. “I won’t go back on my word to you. The scribes in my domain, and any who worship me in the mortal realms will not aid Cyric in completing the book.”
Oghma frowned severely, and his voice took on a decidedly pedantic tone. “But beyond that, I think any open challenge to Cyric - about Leira’s disappearance or anything else - would be ill-advised for both of us. You don’t understand the way the rest of the Circle thinks, and until you do, any direct confrontation might very
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