Read Online Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad by Troy Denning - Free Book Online
Authors: Troy Denning
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and I knew without doubt that I was speaking to Cyric; no mere wraith would dare claim one of the Dark Sun’s thousand names. “I have need of it.”
I smiled with relief. Cyric had already punished me terribly for losing faith, but now he had taken me back. The worst had passed. “As you wish, Mighty One. I shall fetch it right away.”
I turned and looked up toward Candlekeep, but saw only the endless gray rise of the jagged tor upon which the citadel stood. The Low Gate was Candlekeep’s only access. One could not go around it, for it was carved into the tor itself, creating a sort of tunnel, and the cliffs flanking it could not be scaled. Knowing the importance of the gate, its builders had made it impenetrable. The portcullis was made of iron bars no man could bend and no elephant could lift. Then came the gates themselves, gilded with tin and reinforced by a drawbar as thick as a fire giant’s waist. The watch portals of the guards were too small to admit a pixie. I saw no way to break in, yet I continued to study the gate in earnest, so that I might appear eager to obey. I was certain Almighty Cyric would show me how to breach the impervious defenses of the citadel.
Fortunately, the sentries at the watch portals happened to be looking away, as though something inside had caught their attention. Then I noticed they never once glanced back or made any visible movement at all. It was as if they had been frozen solid by Cyric’s cold aura. If this was so, I wondered why he did not walk into Candlekeep and recover the book himself!
When the One spoke, it was not to explain. “The instant you have the Cyrinishad, go to the nearest high place. Call my name three times and fling yourself over the edge.”
“Over the edge, my lord?” I saw my body tumbling down, down toward the sea and shattering like a melon upon the rocky shore.
“And do not forget the book!” The One still spoke in a thousand rumbling voices, but the noise did not disturb the sentries. “The Cyrinishad is everything!”
“Of course, Mighty One. It is sacred. And am I to understand that it will it stop me from hitting-“
“Listen to me, fool!” Cyric grabbed me by the shoulders, and his fingers sank into my flesh to the depth of the first joints. “You must understand how much depends on you.”
“Yes. I am listening.” What else could I do?
The One’s talons dug deeper still. “The Cyrinishad is my only defense! It will make them see. When they read it, they will bow before me and beg the honor of kissing my feet. They will plead for mercy, and even Ao will have no choice.”
“Ao?”
“Yes. He will understand what I have made of myself. He will see that I can watch over Faerun alone, that I do not need them-” Here, Cyric suddenly tore his talons from my shoulders and backed away, and he cast many furtive glances in all directions. Then he straightened, and hissed in a thousand whispers, “It depends on me, of course. Everything does.”
“Mighty One?”
“Who shall live. Who shall die. What is, what shall be.” His dark eyes flashed. “Imagine I am watching from above, hovering in the sky as mortals are wont to think we gods do….”
What Cyric said here I have already told at the beginning, and there is no use recounting it, other than to describe how his words fed the doubts that had already risen in my mind. I listened in dumbfounded awe as he rambled on about how nothing is certain until he has beheld it and set it in place, and I heard with my own ears why all of Faerun called him Prince of Madness. My despair grew as black and bottomless as the Abyss, and I cursed myself for ever praising his name.
When at last he finished, I stood gape-mouthed before him, so stunned I could not even tremble.
Cyric smiled as a father smiles when he sends his son into battle in his own place. “You must be fast, Malik. Very fast indeed. The trial begins at dawn.”
The trial?” I asked hoarsely. I had not yet learned of
I smiled with relief. Cyric had already punished me terribly for losing faith, but now he had taken me back. The worst had passed. “As you wish, Mighty One. I shall fetch it right away.”
I turned and looked up toward Candlekeep, but saw only the endless gray rise of the jagged tor upon which the citadel stood. The Low Gate was Candlekeep’s only access. One could not go around it, for it was carved into the tor itself, creating a sort of tunnel, and the cliffs flanking it could not be scaled. Knowing the importance of the gate, its builders had made it impenetrable. The portcullis was made of iron bars no man could bend and no elephant could lift. Then came the gates themselves, gilded with tin and reinforced by a drawbar as thick as a fire giant’s waist. The watch portals of the guards were too small to admit a pixie. I saw no way to break in, yet I continued to study the gate in earnest, so that I might appear eager to obey. I was certain Almighty Cyric would show me how to breach the impervious defenses of the citadel.
Fortunately, the sentries at the watch portals happened to be looking away, as though something inside had caught their attention. Then I noticed they never once glanced back or made any visible movement at all. It was as if they had been frozen solid by Cyric’s cold aura. If this was so, I wondered why he did not walk into Candlekeep and recover the book himself!
When the One spoke, it was not to explain. “The instant you have the Cyrinishad, go to the nearest high place. Call my name three times and fling yourself over the edge.”
“Over the edge, my lord?” I saw my body tumbling down, down toward the sea and shattering like a melon upon the rocky shore.
“And do not forget the book!” The One still spoke in a thousand rumbling voices, but the noise did not disturb the sentries. “The Cyrinishad is everything!”
“Of course, Mighty One. It is sacred. And am I to understand that it will it stop me from hitting-“
“Listen to me, fool!” Cyric grabbed me by the shoulders, and his fingers sank into my flesh to the depth of the first joints. “You must understand how much depends on you.”
“Yes. I am listening.” What else could I do?
The One’s talons dug deeper still. “The Cyrinishad is my only defense! It will make them see. When they read it, they will bow before me and beg the honor of kissing my feet. They will plead for mercy, and even Ao will have no choice.”
“Ao?”
“Yes. He will understand what I have made of myself. He will see that I can watch over Faerun alone, that I do not need them-” Here, Cyric suddenly tore his talons from my shoulders and backed away, and he cast many furtive glances in all directions. Then he straightened, and hissed in a thousand whispers, “It depends on me, of course. Everything does.”
“Mighty One?”
“Who shall live. Who shall die. What is, what shall be.” His dark eyes flashed. “Imagine I am watching from above, hovering in the sky as mortals are wont to think we gods do….”
What Cyric said here I have already told at the beginning, and there is no use recounting it, other than to describe how his words fed the doubts that had already risen in my mind. I listened in dumbfounded awe as he rambled on about how nothing is certain until he has beheld it and set it in place, and I heard with my own ears why all of Faerun called him Prince of Madness. My despair grew as black and bottomless as the Abyss, and I cursed myself for ever praising his name.
When at last he finished, I stood gape-mouthed before him, so stunned I could not even tremble.
Cyric smiled as a father smiles when he sends his son into battle in his own place. “You must be fast, Malik. Very fast indeed. The trial begins at dawn.”
The trial?” I asked hoarsely. I had not yet learned of
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