Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad by Troy Denning Read Free Book Online Page A

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 Faerun. 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.
    Despite the rebuke in Ao’s tone, Mystra felt almost relieved. Surely, he would prevent the gods from meddling in Cyric’s affairs, from either curing the Mad One or replacing him with someone more effective.
    You presume to judge what is best for the Balance.
    “We thought it necessary, Lord Ao.” It was Tempus who spoke, and still he sounded confident. “In his madness, Cyric has turned inward. He has grown so self-absorbed that he does not foster the precepts of his godhood outside his own church.”
    “Mad?” came the reply.
    Like Ao’s voice, this one had no certain source. It was shrill and piercing, like an arrow through the throat, and it rang out from everywhere at once. “You call me mad! You, Tempus? You who hide your face behind a steel veil? You are mad, not I!”
    “Cyric,” Mystra whispered. She shuddered, for she could not imagine how the Prince of Madness had traveled to Ao’s realm without being drawn through the Pavilion of Cynosure.
    “Yes, Midnight,” sneered the One’s voice. “I am beyond you now. I am beyond you all-you who dare think yourselves great enough to destroy me-or to ‘save’ me.”
    Mystra shot a glance toward Tempus and saw the Battle Lord’s shoulders sink. Whatever Cyric was doing, it had surprised the Foehammer as much as it had her. She looked next to Oghma. The Wise God’s face paled, and his jaw hung slack.
    Mystra looked away. To catch Oghma in such a state of bewilderment was akin to spying Sune in an instant of ugliness. Without realizing she had reached for it, the Goddess of Magic found herself grasping Kelemvor’s hand. “Lord Ao?” Mystra asked. “Did you summon Cyric?” “Summon me?” scoffed Cyric. “Fellows do not summon fellows!”
    Fellows? boomed Ao. Fellows! You dare compare yourself to me?
    “With whom else?” demanded Cyric. “I have raised myself as far above them as you were once above me!”
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