Down in Waterdeep, tens of thousands of refugees from the battle stopped what they were doing and looked toward the mountaintop. Several thousand correctly guessed that only a god could have spoken so loudly. They began drifting toward the slopes of Mount Waterdeep in the vague hope of glimpsing the speaker. Helm’s voice frightened many others, and they began seeking shelter in basements and cellars. Most citizens simply stood dumfounded and stared at the mountaintop in fear and awe.
Unlike the citizens of Waterdeep, the booming voice did not stun Cyric. He continued running toward the Celestial Stairway. The thief did not think Helm’s command was directed at him. Even if it had been, he was not about to stop until he had delivered the tablets.
The god’s command caused Adon to hesitate, but Midnight did not even pause. Cyric had killed Kelemvor and Sneakabout, had tried to kill her and Adon, and had betrayed them all. The mage did not care who commanded her to spare his life. She continued after the thief, her dagger in hand.
Helm met Cyric at the bottom of the stairway, then stepped in front of him protectively.
“This life is not yours to take,” the God of Guardians said, glaring at Midnight.
“You have no right to command me,” Midnight screamed. She slowed her pace to a walk, but continued toward Cyric.
“He must pay for his crimes,” Adon gasped, coming up behind Midnight.
“It is not my duty to judge him,” Helm said flatly.
Watching Midnight carefully, Cyric stepped to Helm’s side and gave him the saddlebags. “I have recovered the Tablets of Fate,” the thief said.
Helm accepted the artifacts. “I know who recovered them,” he replied, coldly staring into Cyric’s eyes. “As does Lord Ao.”
Adon, who could not see the reproach in Helm’s gaze, cried, “He’s lying! Cyric stole those from us, and he killed a good man to do it!”
Helm turned his craggy, emotionless face toward the cleric. “As I said, I know who recovered the tablets.”
Midnight continued toward the stairway. Her legs felt weak and unsteady. “If you are aware of Cyric’s evil, why do you accept the tablets from him?” she demanded.
“Because it is not his duty to pass judgment,” said another voice. It was hardy and resonant, without hint of anger or compassion. “Nor is it his prerogative.”
A figure two feet taller than Helm stood fifty yards up the staircase. Though his face showed no particular age—he could have been twenty or he could have been a hundred and twenty—his hair and beard were as white as alabaster. The being’s face, neither handsome nor ugly, had even, symmetrical features that would not draw notice on any street in the Realms.
However, he wore a remarkable robe that would have distinguished him in the most elaborate court in Faerûn. It fell as any cloth might, with wrinkles here and pleats there. When she looked at it, though, Midnight felt she was staring into the heavens. The robe was as black as oblivion, dotted by millions of stars and thousands of moons, all arranged in a pattern that was not quite perceivable, but which gave the whole robe a beautiful, harmonious feel. In some places, bright swirls of light lit small areas. The swirls were balanced in other areas by regions of inky darkness.
“Lord Ao!” Helm acknowledged, bowing his head in supplication.
“Bring me the Tablets of Fate,” Ao commanded.
Helm opened the saddlebags and removed the tablets. In the god’s mighty hands, the two stones looked small, almost insignificant. Helm took the tablets to Ao, then kneeled on the stairway to await further commands.
Ao studied the tablets for several minutes. In a hundred places throughout the Realms, the avatars of the surviving gods fell into a deep trance as Ao summoned their attention.
“On these artifacts,” the overlord said, sending his voice and image to all of his gods. “I have recorded the forces that balance Law and Chaos.”
“And I have returned them to you,” Cyric said, daring to meet Ao’s gaze.
Ao looked at the thief without approval or disapproval. “Yes,” he said, stacking the tablets together. “And here is what it amounts to!” The overlord of the gods crushed both tablets in his hands and ground them into dust.
Midnight cringed, expecting the heavens to come crashing down. Adon cried out in grief and astonishment. Cyric watched the dust fall from between Ao’s fingers, an angry frown creeping down his face.
Helm jumped to his feet. “Master, what have you done?” the god asked, his voice betraying his fear.
“The tablets mean nothing,” Ao said, addressing all of his gods, no matter where they were. “I kept them to remind you that I created gods to serve the Balance, not to twist it to your own ends. But this point was lost on you. You saw the tablets as a set of rules by which to play juvenile games of prestige and pomp! Then, when the rules became inconvenient, you stole them …”
“But that was—,” Helm began.
“I know who took the Tablets of Fate,” Ao replied, silencing Helm with a curt wave of his hand. “Bane and Myrkul have paid for their offenses with their lives. But all of you were guilty, causing worshipers to build wasteful temples, to devote themselves so slavishly to your name they could not feed their children, even to spill their own blood upon your corrupt altars—all so you could impress each other with your hold over these so-called inferior creatures. Your behavior is enough to make me wish I had never created you.”
Ao paused and let his listeners consider his words. Finally, he resumed speaking. “But I did create you and not without purpose. Now, I am going to demand that you fulfill that purpose. From this day forward, your true power will depend upon the number and devotion of your followers.”
From one end of the Realms to another, the gods gasped in astonishment. In far off Tsurlagoi, Talos the Raging One growled, “Depend on mortals?” The one good eye of his youthful, broad-shouldered avatar was opened wide in outrage and shock.
“Depend on them and more,” Ao returned. “Without worshipers, you will wither, even perish entirely. And after what has passed in the Realms, it will not be easy to win the faith of mortals. You will have to earn it by serving them.”
In sunny Tesiir, a beautiful woman with silky scarlet hair and fiery red-brown eyes looked as though she were going to retch. “Serve them?” Sune asked.
“I have spoken!” Ao replied.
“No!” Cyric yelled. “After all I went through—”
“Quiet!” Ao thundered, pointing a finger at the thief. “I do not care to be challenged. It makes me fear I have made a poor choice for my new god.”
Cyric’s eyes went blank and he stared at Ao in shock.
“It is the reward you sought, is it not?” Ao asked, not taking his eyes off the thief.
Cyric stumbled up the stairway. “It is indeed!” he exclaimed. “I will serve you well, I swear it. You have my gratitude!”
A deep, cruel chuckle rolled out of Ao’s throat. “Do not thank me, evil Cyric. Being God of Strife, Hatred, and Death is no gift.”
“It isn’t?” Cyric asked, furrowing his brow in puzzlement.
“You desired godhood, control over your destiny, and great power,” Ao said. “You will have only two of these—godhood and power—to exercise as you will in the Realm of the Dead. And all of the suffering in Toril will be yours as well, to cause and inflict as you wish. But you will never know contentment or happiness again.”
Ao paused then and looked at Midnight. “But the thing you have desired most, Lord Cyric, will never come to pass. I am your master now. You serve me … and your worshipers. I believe you will find that you now have less freedom than you had as a child in the alleys of Zhentil Keep.”