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  When you begin the trial, one Faerûnian day hence, you will all observe the rules. Now, what charge have you raised against Cyric?

  Tyr lifted his head and studied Cyric’s dark eyes. “The charge shall be Innocence, I think.”

  “Innocence?” So loud and shrill was Cyric’s shriek that several gods cringed. “But I am the Lord of Murder! The Prince of Lies! The Sower of Strife! The Master of Deception!”

  “The charge is Innocence,” Tyr declared. “Innocence by reason of Insanity.”

  THE AVATAR SERIES

  Book I

  Shadowdale

  SCOTT CIENCIN

  Book II

  Tantras

  SCOTT CIENCIN

  Book III

  Waterdeep

  TROY DENNING

  Book IV

  Prince of Lies

  JAMES LOWDER

  Book V

  Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad

  TROY DENNING

  CRUCIBLE: THE TRIAL OF CYRIC THE MAD

  ©1998 TSR, Inc.

  ©2003 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Brom

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6203-7

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  For Matt and Josh

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  This story is rooted in events arising from the Avatar Trilogy and Prince of Lies, and I would like to acknowledge the original Avatar team, including (but not limited to): Ed Greenwood, Jeff Grubb, Karen Boomgarden, and all the creative people in the game department who worked on the project; Mary Kirchoff, who oversaw the novels; Scott Ciencin, author of Shadowdale and Tantras (under the TSR pseudonym Richard Awlinson); myself, author of Waterdeep (the “other third” of Richard Awlinson); and James Lowder, trilogy editor and author of Prince of Lies.

  I would also like to thank the following people for their valuable contributions to Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad: Peter Archer, for his patience and editorial insight; Brian Thomsen, for his invaluable advice; Julia Martin, for reviewing both outline and manuscript; Steven Schend, for disclosing early his work on the cultures of Calimshan and Amn; and most especially Andria Hayday, for her hard work in polishing the manuscript and salvaging Malik’s voice.

  It depends on me, of course. Everything does.

  Who shall live. Who shall die. What is, what shall be.

  Imagine I am watching from above, hovering in the sky as mortals are wont to think we gods do. The vast sea lies below, forever slapping at the rocky shore of the Sword Coast, where Candlekeep’s towers of profane ignorance sit upon the pedestal of a black basalt tor. With a breath, I could blast that bastion of falsity down, powder the mortar between its stones and send its high walls crashing into the sea, scatter its twisted tomes to the bubbling mires and the deep, stinking oceans in the far corners of the world.

  Now imagine I am standing. The sea hangs upright before me, a sparkling green tapestry stretched across the endless expanse of the heavens, its white-capped waves spilling down again and again to taunt the shore below. The world has turned on end, and Candlekeep’s towers hang upon that basalt tor like warts upon the tip of a black, cragged nose. With a thought, I could release the fullness of the sea to swallow that citadel of corruption, to scour that library of lies from the face of the world, to wash its books of deceit into oblivion and rinse from Toril even the memory of their false pages.

  It all depends on me, you see. Nothing is certain until I have beheld it and set it in place, until I have placed myself above it or below, before it or after. Let them keep their temple to Oghma the Unknowing, their shrines to Deneir the Prattler and Gond of the Forgestinking Breath, and even to Milil, Lord of Screeching Racket! Let them scorn me if they dare. I am the One, the All, the Face Behind the Mask.

  I am the Everything.

  * * * * *

  Thus spoke Cyric the All on the Night of Despair, and in my anguish, I could not understand. I was as a child; I heard with a child’s ears and saw with a child’s eyes, and I understood with a child’s mind. I despaired and I lost faith, and for that I suffered most horribly, as you shall see. But know also that the One found me when I was lost, that he returned me to the Way of Belief, that he burned my eyes with the Flames of Glory and Truth until I saw all that occurred in the world and in the heavens, and that he did all this so that in the account that follows, I might set down all the things done by men and by gods in complete accuracy and perfect truth.

  I am the spy Malik el Sami yn Nasser, a famed merchant of Calimshan and a welcome attendant to the royal house of Najron, and this is my tale, in which I relat
e the events that befell me and a thousand others during the Search for the Holy Cyrinishad, the most Sacred and Divine of all books, and tell of my faithful service to Cyric the All in the boundless lands of Faerûn, and reveal the Great Reward bestowed on me for my Valiant Labors and my many Terrible Sufferings.

  Praise be to Cyric the All, Most Mighty, Highest of the High, the Dark Sun, the Black Sun, the Lord of Three Crowns, and the Prince of Lies. All Blessings and Strength upon his Church and his Servants, who alone shall rule over the Kingdom of Mortals and Dwell Forever in the Palace of Eternity in the time beyond the Year of Carnage! Look kindly upon this Humble Account, O God of Gods, though no passage can measure the expanse of your Might, nor all the words in all the tongues of men describe the Splendor of your Presence!

  Prologue

  In the City of Brilliance lived a young prince, handsome in all manners, but lacking in the virtues of restraint and good judgment. While I was out on business one day, the Caliph sent this prince to my home with a letter to be presented to none but me. My servants bade the prince wait in the shade of the anteroom, and my wife, being a gracious and most cordial hostess, brought him many refreshments and sat with him to keep him entertained. It was there that I found them when I returned.

  Now it is true that no person of modesty would go about the streets dressed as were my wife and the prince when I returned. But, as they were not in the streets, I merely remarked upon the heat and adjusted my own dress to accommodate theirs. My informal manner was a great comfort to the prince, who had at first seemed flustered and unsettled. He presented his letter, and I invited him to take some refreshments while I read.

  The letter was a trivial thing requesting some tariff I had forgotten to pay. As I composed a reply, we had quite a pleasant talk, which I am certain won me no small favor at court, the prince being the eldest son to the Caliph’s first wife. After that day, I received many letters from the royal house, all delivered in person by the first prince. If I found it wise to knock upon my own door before entering the antechamber of my own home, it was a small price to pay for the esteem brought by the prince’s frequent visits, and for the great honor with which he was to later repay my hospitality.

  The day came when the Caliph received a letter telling of events in Zhentil Keep, once a great stronghold of Our Lord Cyric in the distant kingdoms of the barbarians. According to the letter, the Dark Sun himself had composed a sacred history of his rise to godhood, the Cyrinishad. So beautiful and brilliant were the words of the Cyrinishad that anyone reading them saw at once the truth and magnificence of all they proclaimed. In this great book lay the power to convert all the heathens of Faerûn to the True Faith—to drive all the pretender gods from the world and make Cyric the One True Divinity!

  The Caliph’s excitement was great, for it offended him that others failed to believe as he did, and he was always eager to guide them to the Path of Faith. Indeed, he ran about waving the letter and singing the glory of Cyric’s victory for nearly an hour before his chamberlain could catch him and continue reading. I saw this myself, as I was a visitor to the palace that day.

  The second page of the letter explained how Mystra (the harlot Goddess of Magic) and Oghma (the thieving God of Wisdom) feared the Cyrinishad’s power and plotted against Cyric. At the Cyrinishad’s first public reading, Oghma replaced the holy tome with a book of slander, and all who heard its lies lost their faith and turned from the Dark Sun. In that moment, Kelemvor Lyonsbane—a vile traitor whom Cyric had slain years before—escaped from his prison in the City of the Dead to lead a rebellion and steal the Throne of Death from Our Dark Lord!

  Upon hearing these words, the Caliph grew so distraught that he drew his dagger and flung himself upon his chamberlain and cut out the poor man’s tongue. There was so much blood the chamberlain’s replacement could not continue reading until the royal priest made the words legible again.

  The third page of the letter said Cyric’s power was so great that even Oghma and Mystra together could not destroy the Cyrinishad. Oghma gave the tome to a mortal and bade her travel forth and hide, blessing her with a diamond amulet that would conceal her from all the gods of Faerûn. Oghma denied even himself knowledge of her whereabouts, for such was his fear of the One’s cunning that he knew Cyric would trick him into revealing her location.

  The last page of the letter asked the Caliph to send his most loyal spies to watch the temples of Oghma and all his servant gods, Gond and Deneir and Milil, and also the temples of Kelemvor and Mystra and her servant gods, Azuth and Savras and Velsharoon. He asked as well that the Caliph send spies to the places where the Harpers make their secret havens, and to the places where the dead are left for Kelemvor, and to all other places where the servant of thieving Oghma might seek refuge. All this the Caliph did, and more besides, sending word to even his most distant cousins to aid in the great vigil. He drew up long lists so they would waste no effort watching the same places. He said also that if their spies found the book, they should send word to him and not attempt to recover it themselves. This, he did not expect them to do, for any mortal who recovered the Cyrinishad would win great favor in the eyes of the One and All, but the Caliph did not wish to appear forgetful by neglecting the demand.

  So it was that the Caliph summoned his loyal spies to his chambers. It was to the hospitality of my house that I owed the honor of being among them, for the prince suggested I be given the honor of a distant post, where I might endure the great hardships of my mission in the guise of a beggar. At first I was too humble to accept, protesting that my business and my family required my presence in the City of Brilliance. The kind prince replied that he would handle my affairs while I was away, and ensure that no harm came to my business or my wife. Seeing the high regard in which his son held me, the Caliph declared I would watch over the most important and dangerous of all the posts, the great library at Candlekeep.

  At once, I knew I had been blessed. Was Candlekeep not Faerûn’s mightiest bastion of learning, much beloved of envious Oghma and jealous Mystra? And was the Cyrinishad not Faerûn’s greatest work of history, able to make even gods worship the One and All? The Fates themselves had decreed the Cyrinishad would come to Candlekeep—and when it did, I would be waiting.

  Thus assured of my success, and confident that afterward I would be in a position to repay the kindness of the prince, I changed my merchant’s silks for the flaxen rags of a beggar. I hacked all trace of grooming from my hair and dark beard, then smeared my face with mud and in great haste traveled north to the plain outside Candlekeep. There I lurked for years, filthy and unkempt, babbling like a madman and begging food and news from the monks who watched the gate.

  Nor did I seek comfort from Our Dark Lord. The monks kept a temple to Oghma in their citadel, and I feared the Wise God would hear my devotions and have me chased off. So I closed my eyes to my master and lord and lived utterly alone year upon year. I prayed for no refuge from my hunger. I called down no curses upon those who pelted me with stones. I made no appeal, even in my thoughts, to the hallowed name of Cyric the All. I passed seasons huddled in the shelter of the Low Gate’s archway, and pled alms from all who entered, and humbled myself before those who imagined themselves my betters.

  And one evening when the patter of a gentle rain filled my ears with a sound so constant I feared I would go truly mad, there came two strangers splashing up the road, a warrior and a woman. Their tongues wagged in the accent of a barbarian land, and their packhorse snorted beneath a great iron lockbox all bound in chains. I went to beg a coin for my dinner, and the armored warrior gave me a copper to hold their horses. He spoke to the gate monks of close fights and hard rides and enemies left dead upon the road. The woman talked of dark nights and lonely journeys and aid from all who revered Oghma, and she opened her cloak to show a diamond amulet in the shape of Oghma’s scroll.

  Even had I not been watching for that unholy amulet, I would have known! I could feel the darkness welling up inside that iron l
ockbox and smell the musty fetor of human parchment and hear the whisper of dark truths rustling across holy pages. The Cyrinishad was reaching out to touch my mind and my body, and my ears filled with such a rushing I was seized by a fever!

  At once, I could think of nothing but the book, of how Oghma’s thieves stood facing the other way, of how I held the reins to their horses, of how the Cyrinishad lay within my grasp after so many endless months of waiting. With not a thought for my own safety, I slipped my foot into the stirrup of the warrior’s horse, hoisted myself into his saddle, and jerked the reins around.

  Had my father taught me more about turning horses than gold, my account would have ended here, with me earning Cyric’s eternal favor and returning home to repay tenfold the prince’s great kindnesses in looking after my wife and my fortune.

  But this was not to be.

  The war-horse would not turn. The harder I jerked his reins, the more he pulled back. When I thought to force the stupid beast by lashing him between the ears, he protested with a whinny so shrill it nearly burst my eardrums. In an instant, the warrior’s swordtip was pressed beneath my chin. I could do nothing but tumble from the saddle and throw myself into the mud and beg his mercy, and still he spared my life only because a gate monk interposed himself and uttered many stern warnings against the killing of halfwit beggars.

  It was nearly five minutes before the man sheathed his sword and kicked me away, and five more before his wretched companion finished assailing me with sharp words about taking the property of others. (And this from a servant of thieving Oghma!)

  When at last the woman grew tired of her own voice, the monks opened the gate and led her and the warrior inside. I left that very minute to rush to Beregost and send word to the Caliph. As soon as he spread word of my great discovery, I knew that Cyric’s Faithful would rush north to recover the Cyrinishad and punish the infidels for stealing it.

  Surely, my days as a spy were done! The Caliph would call me home and bestow on me a reward fitting for all I had endured, and I would be hailed throughout Calimshan and the world as the Finder of the Book. My name would be honored in temples from Athkatla to Escalaunt, and at last I would be in a position to repay the prince for the many kind attentions he had shown my household and my wife!