"05 - Crucible- The Trial of Cyric the Mad - Troy Denning 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Avatar Trilogy)

Oghma furrowed his brow, then his eyes grew wide. "We would be obliged to hear it!"
The three were silent, for they all understood the power of the sacred Cyrinishad. They knew that upon hearing its truth they would fall to their knees and pay homage to the One, and they also knew the terrible retribution Cyric would take on them for the many affronts they had heaped upon him in the past.
Kelemvor broke the silence. "Good-we all agree. If Cyric brings the book, the trial is off. We destroy him on the spot."
At this, Oghma gasped and shook his head with such vigor that every sage on Faerun lost the course of his thoughts "No!"
"No?" Mystra gasped. "But the Balance-"
"Would be utterly destroyed," said Oghma. "Better to serve in Pandemonium than rule in a wasteland, which is all that would remain if we unleashed an all-out godswar! What you suggest would make the Time of Troubles look like a mere squabble."
"Never!" So fast did Kelemvor take his feet that it cannot be said that he rose; he was sitting one instant and standing before the next began. "I will destroy myself before I serve Cyric!"
Oghma's eyes grew as hard as diamonds. "The issue is not whether you would destroy yourself, Kelemvor, but whether you would destroy Faerun. As a god, you must put your duty above disputes that linger from your life as a mortal. The fate of a world hangs on your every act, and you would do well to remember that." Oghma glanced at Mystra, then added, "You both would."
Six
The Night of Despair was upon me, for I had met my god, and he was the very Prince of Madness! At my best, I could not have done as he demanded, and I was not at my best, for I had suffered much at the One's hands. Half blind, half deaf, fully a bloodied fool, I saw only my coming failure and certain doom. I threw myself upon the portcullis and cleaved to the bars, and I wept as never before.
How could I save myself? I was too fat to squeeze through an arrow loop and too crippled to scale the tor. And even if such things were possible, I was too clumsy to do either without being caught. My god had asked an impossible penance of me, and now I would be delivered to his eternal enemy to suffer an unbearable destiny. I cursed Kelemvor's name, for he was a jealous coward who groveled in his city of bones and hid from Cyric's wrath and visited his hatred upon helpless souls like me. I also cursed the One, for in my misery I believed he had lost the Cyrinishad through his own folly, and that if I had relinquished my faith after enduring so much, it was more his fault than my own. This is a terrible shame to me now; I admit it only as evidence of the absolute truth of my account.
At length, there arose a clattering behind the gates, and the small wicket door behind the portcullis opened. Two monks bent down to peer out through the bars. Both were dressed for battle, with steel skullcaps on their heads and the bulk of their chain mail showing beneath their violet robes.
"Mukhtar!" exclaimed one.
The guards of the Low Gate called me Mukhtar the Mad, for in all my years outside Candlekeep, I had never given them my true name, knowing this to be the practice of all good spies. "By the Bard! What happened to you?"
I saw no use in lying. "I have been gored by a bull." "Aye, and trampled too, judging by your looks," said one monk, whose name was Agenor. "But the Keeper thinks our enemy is playing a trick. We can't open the gate for you, Mukhtar."
I nodded, for I had expected no less. Indeed I was surprised they had not slain me already, but perhaps they did not know I had betrayed the Cyrinishad's presence to the Caliph.
"Look at him, Agenor," said the other monk, who was known to me as Pelias. "He'll die!" "We have our orders."
"We can raise the portcullis and let him crawl under. What can happen? There isn't a Cyricist within a league!" "Remember what the Keeper said about wooden horses." "Ulraunt has been reading too many epics," replied Pelias. "And what I remember is that Mukhtar is my friend." "Friend?"
I was as surprised by this remark as Agenor. Pelias had shown me many kindnesses, but we had never spoken as I had with my friends in Calimshan, among whom it was customary to talk of the success of one's ventures and the importance of one's other friends. Yet I did not contradict him, for I sensed his words were sincere, and there might be some advantage for me in that.
Pelias was silent for some time. Then he said, "Yes, Mukhtar is my friend. We have broken bread together often enough, and what makes a friendship, if not that?"
Speaking thus, he stepped back and vanished from ray sight.
Agenor followed at once. "Where do you think you're going?"
"To raise the portcullis."
Truly, Pelias's reply made my heart pound like the hooves of the bull that had gored me. It had never occurred to me entry into Candlekeep might be mine for the knocking! Recovering the Cyrinishad would still be impossible, as it was certain to be well guarded, but perhaps my engagement with Kelemvor might be delayed if one of the citadel's healers looked after my wounds.
"Don't concern yourself, Agenor," said Pelias. I could hardly hear him, for both he and Agenor had stepped into the darkness. "I'll take the blame if Brother Risto levies any."
"He will," countered Agenor. "Don't forget that your friend is Mukhtar the Mad. And Cyric is the Prince of Madness."
No more sounds came from within; Agenor's words were having their effect.
"What do you think now?" asked Agenor. "Maybe Ulraunt hasn't been reading too many epics, eh?"
I had to do something or I was lost. "Pelias, Agenor is right!" I called. "You must not open the gate. I have seen Cyric himself upon the plain. He is the one who did this to me!"
"What?" Pelias and Agenor returned to the wicket door in an instant and eyed my bloody figure. "Cyric did that?"
"Not the goring, but all the rest." Among the many things my father had taught me about being a merchant, one was that it is always best to tell the truth, when convenient. "The first time he struck me, my eye shut fast. The second time he attacked, he did this." I raised my chin, displaying the gashes where he had raked my neck. "And the third time he hit me, my ear exploded."
"By the Bard! How many times did he hit you?" gasped Mas.
These three were the worst, though he also grabbed my shoulders and deeply pierced my flesh, and I am certain those wounds alone will be enough to kill me." I spoke softly and moaned to seem weak. In truth, neither my strength nor my pain had ebbed since the One had poured that vile stuff into my mouth.
"I am only a beggar and have but one thing in this life." I reached inside my cloak and withdrew the small dagger I always carry. "This is why Cyric has killed me. When you hold it in your hand, the gods speak to you."
I cocked my head, as though I were listening to someone even then-do not forget they called me Mukhtar the Mad-then I pushed the knife through the portcullis to Pelias.
"I want you to have it, my friend."
Pelias left the wicket door at once. There was great clamor inside, and the portcullis rose the span of three hands. I lost my grasp upon the bars and fell into the mud. Nor was this any pretense, for I was so delirious with my good fortune that I could not stand. Pelias himself crawled under the iron spikes and dragged me into the gloomy vault beyond. This was the first time I had ever passed through Candlekeep's gates.
Pelias and another man laid me on a litter and started up through the darkness, leaving Agenor and the rest of their number to lower the portcullis and stand guard against Cyric. Soon we passed out of the vault and into the moonlight, and I saw that already we had climbed a small height, for I could turn my head and look out over the plain. The knoll where Most High Haroun and His Deadliness Jabbar had died lay a thousand paces distant, once again blanketed by the feathers of Kelemvor's harbingers. Beyond that stretched a sea of waving grass so vast it made me dizzy.
The trail was narrow and steep, with many sharp bends. Still, my bearers ascended at a brisk pace, without the aid of lanterns or any illumination but the moon. They had passed this way countless times before and could have hiked it in a darkness as black as the Dark One's soul. I, on the other hand, had never been on the trail, and my left eye opened wide as I saw the sheer fall that lay over the edge of my litter. As we climbed higher, I could not bear to watch the ground growing more and more distant. I closed my eye, but the ceaseless shifting of the litter only confirmed my suspicion that I was in danger of sliding off.
Nor did the journey help my injuries. The constant pitching and swaying made my battered head throb and spin, which upset my stomach and caused the wound in my belly to burn with a cold fire. But the pain made me strong in a way I had never before experienced; the more I suffered, the greater my energy. I could have risen from the litter and walked up the path on my own, had I not wished to seem a dying lunatic.
We rounded the tor and traveled for a time far above the crashing waves of the Sea of Swords. When at last we came around to the plain once more, my knuckles ached from grasping the litter. Then I glimpsed the lights of Beregost flickering far in the distance and saw I would live through the night. This thought gave me no comfort, for Cyric's judgment, and my own, would come with the dawn.
I was tempted to offer myself to one of the gods who kept a shrine inside Candlekeep and thereby escape Cyric's punishment, but this was not practical. I was neither scholar nor sage, and so had nothing to offer that would make Oghma overlook my past. The same was true of the others who kept shrines there. Although I can write, my hand is so awful that only those who know its style can read it, and thus Deneir would not have had me; nor would Milil have taken me, for a bull camel sings more beautifully in his rut than I do in a fresh voice; and Gond would only have laughed at my hands, which are soft and unskilled at the building of anything but towers of coins. Seeing that I could not cheat Cyric of his due, I resigned myself to my destiny, swearing only to put it off as long as possible.
At last, the cliff above gave way to the mortared stones of a handmade wall. We rounded a bend and entered a small courtyard that hung like an eagle's eyrie upon the side of the tor. On three sides there was nothing but darkness and wind; on the fourth yawned the gaping mouth of the High Gate, with the jagged teeth of an iron portcullis descending from the roof of its entry arch. Arrow points and crossbow darts bristled from the many loops and watch portals of the gatehouse, and the harsh fumes of burning lamp oil wafted down from its murder holes.
Pelias and his helper carried me to the brink of the gateway and stopped, and I found myself staring up at the sharp teeth of the great portcullis. An iron plate clanged open behind a peephole in the wall, and a man asked, "Pelias, what do you have there?"
"Mukhtar the Mad," answered my friend. "He is grievously wounded and needs a healer."
"Not on my watch, he doesn't!" came the reply. "What's wrong with you? You heard the Keeper's order!"
"Aye, but you haven't heard what happened to Mukhtar. He was attacked by the Foul One." "Cyric?"
"Who else?" Pelias started forward, guiding us toward a dark corner. "Why don't you fetch Brother Risto? I'm certain he and the Keeper will want to speak with Mukhtar themselves."
The iron plate slammed into place, and we waited in the shadows of the archway for a time. I felt many eyes watching me from the darkness and heard soft voices rustling down from the murder holes. I was careful to moan and cry out often, so they would know how grievous were my wounds and not think me capable of doing harm. Now that I was here on the very porch of Candlekeep, there arose in my breast a dim hope that I might find the Cyrinishad, and having found it, a fainter hope that I might recover it and escape the many torments awaiting me in the City of the Dead. This was foolish, but in his despair, a damned man will grasp at any chance.
After a time, there came a faint murmur behind the gate, which soon built to an officious drone. As I had heard a similar noise many times in the Caliph's palace, I knew that Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes himself, was coming with his entourage. I prepared my mind with many fawning remarks, for I had heard the monks speak of him and knew he thought well of himself and that he valued those who did the same.