Free Prince of Lies by James Lowder Page B

attention of every facet of her divine intellect. She reeled at the force of the million stern voices rebuking her, the myriad angry flashes filling the darkness around her.
    Know you now that Cyric and Mask did murder Leira, Ao boomed. Yet they have done nothing that is outside their natures. Cyric is Lord of Murder, so he should strive to blot out even the lives of gods. Mask is Lord of Intrigue, so he should strive to conceal such deeds.
    The facade of a wizard’s laboratory began to reappear before Mystra’s eyes, and the voices of her faithful grew stronger. The stars faded, leaving phantom afterimages burned into her mind. Ao offered a final warning, full of dark portents: It is your responsibility to stand against Cyric - just as it is his to destroy you if you fail. Such is the way of the Balance. Mystra knew the words were meant for her more than any of the others in the pantheon.
    In the center of the pavilion, Cyric crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there anything else?” he asked smugly.
    Tyr took a step toward the Lord of the Dead, his fist raised before him. “There will be justice done for this crime.”
    “Didn’t you hear Ao?” Cyric scoffed. “There was no crime. Leira died because I willed it.” He drew Godsbane and leveled the blade at the God of Justice. “Any of you could be next. That’s my place in the Balance: To weed out the weak from this pathetic pantheon.”
    Dutifully Torm stepped between Godsbane and his patron. A sword appeared in his hand, gleaming silver and edged sharply enough to slice a rainbow into separate bands of color. He tapped the blade in warning against Godsbane then planted his feet in a practiced fighting stance. “We will not fall as easily as Leira.”
    Mask flinched as the gods flicked the tips of their swords together. “This isn’t the time, Cyric,” he counseled, “not in the open, not when there are so many against you.”
    “Spoken like a true coward,” Torm snarled. “You might as well try your luck now, Mask. From this day forward we’ll remain vigilant against your treachery.”
    Lowering his pen and parchment to the table before him, Oghma raised empty hands to both Cyric and Torm. “We cannot bring Leira back, but perhaps we can reach some agreement. Release the souls unfairly imprisoned, and we-“
    Cyric laughed bitterly. “I will do with Gwydion the Quick as I wish. I may release him; I may torture him forever.” He slowly lowered Godsbane and sheathed her. “But none of you will influence his fate. Until now, I have occasionally welcomed you or your envoys into my domain. No longer. As of this moment, the City of Strife is completely closed to the pantheon.”
    “You asked before what we could do against you because of your crimes,” Mystra said. Her words were edged sharper than Torm’s sword. “I have your answer - and yours as well, Mask. As Goddess of Magic, I forbid you both from drawing on the magical weave.”
    “What!” Cyric shrieked. “You can’t deny me magic. I must answer the prayers of my faithful. And the City of Strife-“
    “Is not my concern,” Mystra interrupted. “Your minions may still use magic, and your worshipers will be granted spells, but you, Cyric cannot draw the magic for a single cantrip.”
    Mask bowed his head, hiding his glowing red eyes from Mystra. “I acted only by my cursed nature, Lady. I can do little but plot intrigues and further the place of thieves in the world. Is there no way I can escape this punishment?”
    “Forswear any alliances with Cyric,” Mystra said without pause. “Swear that you will not aid him again.”
    The Lord of Shadows replied just as quickly. “Of course, Lady.”
    “You cowardly bastard,” Cyric shouted.
    He started toward Mask, but Mystra gestured grandly. A shimmering wall of force blocked his path. The Lord of the Dead struck the wall, and the robe of magic he wore began to fade. The brilliance drained from the raiments like water. The cast-off