by Troy Denning
Mask lowered his eyes. “In the past I have had a weakness for intrigue, I admit.” His shadowy head took the form of a two-faced human, one visage turned in Tempus’s direction, the other keeping watch for the Chaos Hound. “But I am better now. That is why I came to you directly, instead of trying to … ‘arrange’ the trial through other means.”
A great moan rolled through the hall, echoing off the iron walls rather than passing through them, and Tempus knew the Chaos Hound had entered his palace.
Mask started forward, holding out the parchment scroll.
Tempus raised a gauntlet, bidding him wait. “And when Cyric is stripped of power, you will be there to claim what he loses?”
Mask glanced toward the dark corner from which he had come. “I want only what I lost to him—my dominion over Intrigue—and perhaps the small boon of Lies, if my service proves worthy.”
“That is not in my power to grant,” Tempus said. “Even if the trial goes against him—”
“I ask only that you suggest it” Mask’s words were soft and quick, and his shadowy figure changed with every one, as though switching forms might hide him from the keen nose of Kezef. “And I ask that you stand by your charges. Once you lodge your complaints, it will be too late to change our course.”
A deep, profane snarl rumbled through the battle hall and drowned out the din of clanging steel. A beast the size of a war-horse emerged from the far corner. It resembled a giant mastiff with black-crusted fangs and a shimmering coat of maggots.
Mask trembled so violently his form grew blurry and indistinct, but he did not flee. “Do I have your promise?”
The Chaos Hound cocked his head, then swung his massive snout toward the Shadowlord and snuffled. Threads of poison-laced drool fell from his chomping maw.
Tempus nodded. “I give you my word.”
Kezef charged.
Mask tossed the scroll at Tempus and leaped over a pile of warriors and disappeared into a shadowy corner.
The Chaos Hound streaked between two ranks of charging cavalry, then bounded over a knot of grappling footmen. He shoved through a tangle of blood-spattered knights, flashed past Tempus’s throne, and disappeared into the shadows after Mask.
The Battle Lord sat watching the Eternal War for a moment, then opened the scroll Mask had thrown him. The Shadowlord’s plans always made him uneasy, but Tempus would convene the Circle of Twelve. The Battle Lord rarely gave his word, but when he did, he always kept it.
Three
The great gods of the Circle of Twelve gathered in the Pavilion of Cynosure—eleven in all, for Cyric the One was not among them. The Battle Lord Tempus arrived first, followed by Mystra, Lady Magic, and her lover Kelemvor, Lord Death. Then came Talos the Destroyer and Shar the Nightbringer, Goddess of Loss and of all the wicked things men do under cover of darkness—a pair upon whose support the Battle Lord was counting. And too there was Chauntea, Goddess of Bountiful Nature, along with her paramour Lathander the Morninglord, who appeared in a streak of golden light. Never to be outshone, Sune, Goddess of Beauty and Love, appeared in a flash of flame as red as her hair. Silvanus Treefather, God of Wild Nature, also saw fit to attend, as did Oghma, thieving God of Wisdom. Tyr, the eyeless God of Justice, came to act as judge. Though many called him Tyr the Evenhanded, this was something of a joke, as his right arm ended in a stump.
The gods did not “arrive” in the pavilion so much as turn their attention upon it, for deities are more energy than body and can manifest themselves anywhere with little more than a thought. By dividing their concentration, they can perform many tasks at once, or “travel” between locations in an instant. But their abilities are not entirely without limits; they can divide their attention only so many times, and the greater their exertion in any one place, the more of their attention they must concentrate there.
The Pavilion of Cynosure appeared different to each god. Chauntea the Great Mother perceived it as a lush and fragrant garden, burgeoning with dew-kissed blossoms of impossible brilliance. Shar the Nightbringer saw a dark cavern where no light could shine, filled with barbed stalactites and hidden abysses that seethed with pains long buried but never forgotten. To Mystra, Lady of Magic, the pavilion was an alchemist’s laboratory, strewn with simmering beakers and jars packed with arcane spell components.
The gods saw each other as differently as they saw the pavilion itself, each in accordance with his or her own nature. Mystra saw her companions as wizards of awesome power, cloaked in robes spun from the shimmering energies of the Magic Weave. In turn, Tempus envisioned her as a valkyrie armored in gleaming plate of the purest silver. Oghma the Wise viewed her as a young sage, while Talos the Destroyer saw her as an annihilating whirlwind of magic that left havoc wherever she went.
But Mystra did not know how Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, saw her—perhaps as a skeleton of polished ivory, or a mummy wrapped in golden silk. She had asked him once, in a quiet moment alone, and he had refused to answer, saying only that he regretted some things about becoming a god.
When these eleven had come to the pavilion as gods do, they waited. Two places remained empty in the circle. The first was a large gap between Oghma and Chauntea; it was always left open in acknowledgment of Ao’s eternal presence. A smaller space lay between Talos and Shar, the space reserved for Almighty Cyric, the One and the All. Although the Dark Sun had not deigned to attend any circle in many years, the gods stood in such awe of his power that they did not dare begin before allowing him a few moments to appear.
When it grew clear that Cyric had chosen not to grace their meeting with his presence, Tyr the Evenhanded gazed around the pavilion, lingering upon each of the gods until he caught their eye. Slowly, the chamber fell silent.
Tyr the Just turned his empty eye sockets in the direction of fickle Tempus. “I believe you called us here, Foehammer?”
Tempus walked to the heart of the pavilion, which he saw as a war room cluttered with maps and markers. Most of the other gods remained in their places, arranged in a circle, although some created chairs in which to sit or couches upon which to lie. Ever restless, Talos the Destroyer and Sune Firehair began to wander about, Talos tearing map corners and Sune pausing at every shiny surface to study her own reflection. No god scowled at their behavior, for it was no more in their nature to hold still than it would have been in Shar’s to step into the light.
Tempus raised one armored fist and smashed it into the palm of the other. “I have had enough of Cyric the All!” he declared. “The time has come to strip him of his powers. Give me the word, and I will muster my thousands to storm the Shattered Keep and drag that mad god from his throne!”
Tempus offered no explanation of his charges and presented no evidence to back them up. He had done all that as he summoned the others to the pavilion, and the Battle Lord was not one to repeat himself. He spun in a slow circle, glaring at each god in turn. “Who will stand with me?”
Tempus turned to Shar and Talos, then waved his palm through the air before their eyes, leaving in its wake an image of the plain before Candlekeep. Though the battle between Jabbar and Haroun was not yet an hour gone, already Kelemvor’s carrion-eating harbingers had turned the knoll black with their gleaming feathers. On the plain before Candlekeep, hundreds of bodies lay scattered through the salt grass, struck down from behind as they fled the madness that had seized the Ebon Spur. “Even now, your worshipers lie dying in the field, betrayed by Cyric’s madness.”
“You bound ahead of yourself, Foehammer,” said Tyr the Eyeless. “We cannot levy the punishment without giving a verdict, and we cannot give a verdict until we have debated the charge.”
“Speak for yourself, No-Eyes!” exclaimed Talos. He overturned a table, sending a parchment that was to Tyr a law scroll and to Tempus a war map fluttering to the floor. “We have had too much of Cyric already! We know the charge and we know the verdict. I stand with you, Tempus! My bolts and my quakes will level the Mad One’s twisted castle, my winds scatter his
Faithful to the thousand Planes!”
Tyr waved his stump at the Destroyer. “Your rancor has no place here, Stormstar. Our duty is to preserve the Balance, not annihilate it.”
The Nightbringer Shar leaned forward in her chair, spreading a stain of darkness before her. “In this case, Blind One, it seems clear that what Tempus proposes is in the best interests of the Balance.” Her voice was but a whisper, like a terrible thought that had lain long-buried until a moment of weakness. “It is not Talos’s rage that threatens the Balance, but the Mad One’s neglect. Cyric has fallen victim to the lies in his own book, and now he can think of nothing but himself.”
Tyr sat back and made no reply. The discussion had swung to deliberating the charges, and he was content to let it proceed.
Tempus said, “Cyric fosters his creed only among his own Faithful and neglects his duty to spread his tenets to the rest of Faerûn.” He faced Mystra’s side of the table. “Strife and murder, lies and intrigue, deception and betrayal—all these are becoming things of the past. Even his own worshipers spend all their energy slaying and plotting against each other.”
“And while the Church of Cyric devours itself, our Faithful suffer,” added Shar. “If wives never lie to their husbands, nor husbands betray their wives, if men never covet their kin’s treasure, nor clansmen murder one another in the night, how then can I nurture the hidden jealousies and secret hatreds that inspire men to greatness? How can I feed the dark bitterness of their souls, that ever keeps them striving for more glory, more gold, more power?”
“All you say is true,” said Chauntea. The Great Mother spoke in a voice both warm and reassuring. “Yet I cannot support your solution. Would it not be better to help him, to guide him out of this maze in which he has wandered?”
“Absolutely not!”
It surprised Mystra to hear her own voice echoing off the pavilion’s pillars, for she had not meant to shout—or even to speak. As much as she despised Cyric, the mere fact that Tempus, Shar, and Talos demanded his downfall made her reluctant to join the call. They formed a triad of war, darkness, and destruction, and whatever they were planning, she did not think it likely to benefit the people of Faerûn.
“Would you care to elaborate?” asked Oghma. He stood beside Mystra, on the side opposite Kelemvor, and he spoke in a voice as smooth and melodious as the strings of the bards who sang his praises. “Perhaps you want Cyric to stay the way he is?”
“Perhaps I do. He is more dangerous sane than mad.”
“Dangerous to the Balance, or to the people of Faerûn?” asked Lathander. As always, the Morninglord stood beside the Great Mother Chauntea, eager to lend his support to her every word. “We all know how much better life has become for mortals since Cyric began to neglect his duties. Whether he is replaced or cured, their lot can only grow harder.”
“A hard life can also be a good life,” observed Chauntea. “Yet, Lady Mystra is like a mother who loves her children too well. She cannot bear to see them hurt, and so would prefer to keep matters as they are.”
That was exactly what Mystra would have preferred, but she knew better than to say so.
“Well?” prompted Oghma.
“We all know what would have happened if we had let Cyric keep the Cyrinishad,” Mystra replied. She turned a stern glare on Talos, who was casually splintering a chair with his fingernails. “Which only makes me wonder why Talos and Shar were trying to help him recover it.”
“Yes,” said Oghma. “I’d like to hear your explanation.”
The Destroyer shrugged. “It was something to do.”
“As for me,” hissed Shar, “I was only trying to help. Surely, you can all see that our best hope of saving the Mad One is to lure him back with his precious book.”
“I suspect you were less interested in saving Cyric than in bribing him to support your war against the Moonmaiden,” said Oghma. “That is a dangerous game to play, Nightbringer—a very dangerous game.”
“Which is all the more reason to destroy him,” said Tempus. He stomped across the pavilion to stand before Kelemvor, who had not yet spoken. “How say you, Death Lord?”
Before Kelemvor could reply, Oghma leaned in front of Mystra. “Think well, Kelemvor. Remember who you are, not who you were. Old grudges have no place here.”
Of all the deities gathered in the pavilion, the God of Death hated the One most fiercely. Long ago, Kelemvor, Cyric, and Mystra, who was called Midnight at the time, lived on Faerûn as mortals. With them walked a priest named Adon, now the high priest of Mystra’s church. Then came the Time of Troubles, when two gods stole the Tablets of Fate and Lord Ao grew so angry that he cast the gods from the heavens. Through a strange turn of events, the four mortals discovered the Tablets. Cyric saw at once that he and his companions might demand anything they wished in return for these artifacts, but his cowardly friends did not share his vision. They tried to stop him, and the One was forced to kill Kelemvor. Ao rewarded Cyric by making him the God of Death, and the One arranged for the woman Midnight to become Goddess of Magic. Seething with jealousy, Kelemvor’s dead spirit lurked hidden for many years, until the moment came when he took his vengeance by rising up and leading the spirits of the dead in rebellion against the One. Thus did Kelemvor overthrow Cyric and usurp the Throne of Death, claiming for his own the fickle heart of the harlot Mystra.
All this Kelemvor remembered when Oghma spoke to him, and his hatred grew hotter than before. “I stand with Tempus,” he said. “Cyric must die.”
Tempus turned to Mystra. “And you, Lady Magic? How say you?”
To Mystra’s ear, the Battle Lord sounded too certain of himself. He had thought this through with great care, and the rage he affected was not as spontaneous as he feigned.
“I say the matter is not for us to decide,” she said. Mystra glanced at Kelemvor and saw the surprise in his face, but she knew he would not attempt to dissuade her. They were not as Chauntea and Lathander; they kept separate their passion and their business as gods. “When it comes to the Balance, Lord Ao—”
“Has made plain we must follow our own callings,” said Shar. “That preserves the Balance. Stand with Tempus or Chauntea, but you cannot leave matters as they are.”
Mystra glanced at Oghma, hoping to find some support in his dark-skinned visage. As God of Wisdom, his opinion often swayed the Circle’s decision, and she flattered him often enough that he usually supported her. But not this time. Oghma met her gaze long enough to shake his head, then looked away and said nothing.
Mystra turned back to Tempus, feeling that he had put into her mouth the words she was about to say. “I have borne witness to Cyric’s treachery too often to make the mistake of aiding him. Given the choices, Tempus, I stand with you. Destroy Cyric.”
“As I thought.”
Tempus turned away without asking Oghma’s opinion, for he already knew it. In his arrogance, Oghma would not destroy what he believed he could control.
“We are getting ahead of ourselves again,” Tyr protested. “We have barely discussed the charge, and still the Battle Lord is leaping ahead to the punishment.”
“The punishment is all we need discuss!” boomed Kelemvor. “No one disputes Cyric’s condition. The only question is what to do about it.”
When no one disagreed, Tempus looked past Chauntea and Lathander, seeking out the final vote he required. He stopped at Sune Firehair, who was at that moment admiring her reflection in a shield of polished gold. The Battle Lord’s choice was a surprising one. The Goddess of Love shifted her passions like the wind, but she remained constant in the disdain she displayed for the ugliness of war’s destruction.
Still, Tempus seemed entirely confident. “And how say you, Beautiful One?”
Sune acknowledged the compliment with a gleaming smile, then turned back to the golden shield and spoke to her own reflection. “We must do something, I agree that Cyric has eyes for no one but himself.”
“Yes, but what action do we take?” asked
Lathander.
The Morninglord rose from his couch and went to stand at Sune’s side, bathing her in the golden radiance of his own smile. Tempus amazed the other gods by remaining silent and allowing Lathander to have his say.
“It would be so much more caring to help him find his way, do you not agree—Most Radiant Star?”
The Morninglord’s adulation evoked a snort from Chauntea, which drew in turn an icy glare from Sune. The Goddess of Beauty raised her chin and graced Tempus with her most ravishing smile.
“I fear the Mad One must be destroyed,” she purred. “Even when he was sane, Cyric never understood the power of beauty.”
“Thank you, Beautiful One.” Tempus turned to Eyeless Tyr. “That makes six votes in favor of destruction—a clear majority, given Cyric’s absence.”
Tempus had barely spoken before a great trembling seized the Pavilion of Cynosure. The gods saw the chamber around them grow flat and begin to warp, unraveling like a tapestry. The ceiling cracked and shattered, and the columns and the walls melted away. Gasps of surprise arose, but no god cried out in fear or panic. The pavilion did not dissolve often, but every member of the Circle knew what followed when it did: Ao was about to make his presence known.
The gods found themselves floating in a vast sea of emptiness, surrounded on all sides by a twinkling infinity of whirling stars. They began to drift away from the thousand aspects of their minds, from the facets of their being that answered the endless prayers of their worshipers, fulfilled their godly duties, and kept vigil over Faerûn. At last, only the core of their intellects remained, drifting aimlessly in a void so vast that no mere god could comprehend its enormity.
Powers of the Cynosure, you have taken it upon yourselves to condemn one of your own.
The words came from both inside each god and without, from deep within their breasts and down from the countless stars. Lord Ao did not show himself—at least not in any normal sense—yet they could feel him all around, as if he were the fabric that enveloped them, the air itself.
