The Benefits of Cosmic Power (III)

The Friendly Arm Inn was a peaceful place.

You wouldn't know just from looking at it that it used to be a murderclub.

It had trouble with occasional hobgoblin raids, and the iron crisis plus the increased bandit activity in the region had made caravan routes more dangerous, but that only made it more important as a waypoint. Bentley ran a tight house security-wise, even though he allowed visitors to get what lodgings and merriment they could.

Stone-faced guards turned white upon the introduction of the three elders of their motely party. Double-takes caused by Arawn were barely repressed in their wake, but none stopped them until they were near the large, main staircase leading up into the common room.

The main common room was one level above ground. Good defensive placement. Well maintained too, and clean. Completely steeped in bloody history and wisp-like visions of undeath passing in and out of Cyrus' second sight, but at least there were no ghosts, and the energy was hale. Gellana Mirrorshade had done well by this place.

Intimidated bouncers barely kept their voice level as they explained that no animals save for cats were allowed inside the inn itself. Arawn growled and snarled at anyone who got too close.

Fortunately there weren't too many people. It was doubtful that any one of them would have enjoyed being subjected to the temper of a wolf that was now fully capable of killing a werewolf with another werewolf. Cyrus had eventually managed to talk him into waiting outside. The dwarf pondered the odd, nearly human-level intelligence that his wolf possessed, even discounting the spells that had been used to make him better in every way.

Quite an odd case, that. Elminster had commented. I've cast some scans over the past days. Oddly, even with Mystra's Grace I can only speculate, but mine leading theory is a retroactive effect of such and such that will happen at some point in the future. Specifically, thine wolf over yonder will be gaining outright sapience at some point. The Archmage had glanced at him then. Likely at thine hands, given how attached and loyal to ye he is despite all good sense.

As he followed the others through the large doors, the lone dwarf tuned out their introduction and dealings with a certain married couple – Khalid and Jaheira – and the rather astonished innkeeper – bright, optimistic soul stunning in its stability and sanity, highlighting the jarring lack of the latter in Mystra's Chosen, though Khelben's seemed a lot better off than the other one – in favour of checking and re-checking to make sure that the Mind Blank was on, along with the many other empowering spells that had been cast, Wished or applied to them all via potions or magic items earlier that day, just before they left the site of their preparations behind. That and his wolf.

Yes, Elminster had noted after that comment on Arawn's odd behaviour despite no physical or magical reason for it, at least prior to the enhancement. That does, indeed, mean that thou will survive or come back from this. Apologies if thou expected suspense.

At this point it wasn't exactly himself he was worried about inasmuch as he could feel worried at all. He stared at his teacher's back as his Father led him up the stairs to the suite on the very top floor.

You will be perfectly alive and capable of doing it yourself for many years. But since you asked, yes, I promise to take care of your father should the worst come to pass. Whether or not he will be around for me to worry over, however, will be entirely up to him.

Blunt words but honest. Then again, it wasn't surprising from the only one of those three people who'd actually suspected some of the implications in how the enchantments turned out over the years and the fact that Cyrus' level of taint only got higher, not lower.

Nothing I ever thought up even begins to measure up to this situation, however.

And yet the man had pushed forward with the plan anyway and taught Cyrus all the fundamentals he needed to be able to create practically any magic item, from scrolls and potions to weapons, armours, tattoos and anything else.

You deserved all the moments of peace and whatever semblance of life I could give you.

Watching the Waterdhavian assist Elminster and Gorion in writing the three-pronged magic circle into the floor – Bentley would be incensed – Cyrus figured that perhaps he really did possess a ludicrous level of charisma. He doubted it, though, no matter what the spell of Wish said. If he really had such a thing, he'd have been able to say the right thing the right way whenever he wanted rather than just by accident.

He wondered if lacking a full range of emotions gave the Wish spell false positives. Technically emotions played a part in Wisdom and even might, but perhaps Charisma was too abstract to be properly measured without it? Would gaining a full range of emotions make things better or worse?

Those questions would have to wait, unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on one's view. The Ritual Circle was ready.

"Right then," Elminster said, warding the room for silence. "Now we just wait for the best time frame."

Meaning an hour or so past midnight, to make it three days since he produced the ritual notes and proceeded to emulate his father in the fine art of setting forests on fire. So a few hours of everyone spending their hours in silence, checking and rechecking the circle, checking and rechecking the ritual notes, and in Gorion's case sitting with Cyrus on the bedside and hugging him (well, as much as his greater bulk allowed) until there was no more time to wait.

For his part, Cyrus filled that time with conjuring a detailed and thorough chronicle of everything he'd read off Sarevok Anchev and his henchmen, as well as the more worrisome individuals they'd passed by in the common room. Like that half-orc who'd slaughtered several villages, among other things. That self-absorbed blackguard would have to be taken care of for the peace and justice of everyone else, preferably soon. Khelben would likely be willing to do it, the same way he'd incinerated that duo of Zhent necromancer and halfling assassin he'd mentioned in passing to Gorion while having dinner the eve before the nightmare.

Through it all, said Archmage gradually gathered the entire stack of papers without reading even a word. Then, when they were all finished, he took the whole stack and stored it in a pocket of holding before anyone could say anything.

I won't be reading it and neither will anyone else. If worst comes to worst, I will bring it out. If not, I'll burn the whole thing. Rather extreme and random, I know, but I find myself simply dying to hear it all from you, Little Prince, so mind you don't stay unconscious too long.

Cyrus had stared at the man. Gorion had stared at the man. Elminster had stared at the man. Even Imoen had stared at him.

Possibly seeing something of herself there.

It was an odd contrast for her. Or perhaps it wasn't, not then, seeing as the most unnerving part of it all was that Imoen was completely quiet the whole time since the ritual circle's completion. It made Cyrus wonder about her even more than her apparently arbitrary decision not to sing or play anything since she brought him to his senses in the forest.

Granted, she'd been a bit more subdued than normal since Elminster Wished superlative competence into her, even accounting for the hit in mood from knowing Cyrus was quite possibly going to die or worse, but still.

But as he'd said, there was no more time to wait.

Seeing that Elminster, Khelben and Gorion had taken their assigned spots, the dwarf walked to stand in the middle. He gave himself a few moments to close his eyes and bask in the lights cast by his Father, teacher and… whatever Elminster qualified as. There were many overlapping emotions, but the clearest were stubborn hope, hopeful faith and… well, just simple determination in the case of the foremost of Mystra's chosen, respectively. Technically, for Father – and even Khelben, surprisingly – those were their second most intense emotions, but Cyrus had never been able to feel love even when he so clearly saw it, and this time was no different.

Then Imoen, who was sitting on the edge of the upended bed on the far side of the room, set out her instruments and started to play her lute. Her soul-light was bright enough to reach through him even from that distance, easily, despite her uncharacteristically sombre mood as she sung for him a dirge.

Far from the worn path of reason

Further away from the sane

He battles his shadows and demons

Fighting to light the way

The tension that had descended over the room dispersed due to the surprise of the music, though two of the three Wizards were conflicted on that unexpected development. But while the notes Cyrus had written had excluded Imoen from the ritual entirely, there had been one sheet of paper with one sentence written out in large, bold letters.

And the dust and the dirt cloud his vision

Onward he strides unafraid

He fights the good fight for good reason

A star that refuses to fade

One sentence written out in large, bold letters simply stating "Imoen gets to do whatever, whenever, however she wants."

Still he braves his path...

Still seas only laugh

She was dirty and wild when he found her

She saw him through child's eyes

He fell for the spell she was under

Each day a brand new surprise

And he watches with strange curiosity

He wants so much to believe

Trying to break the chains of reality

Dying to set himself free

Gorion clenched his fists and his mouth tinned in a grim line, but his soul surged into a mighty, enduring blaze of three-fold lavender/gold/blue fire.

Still he braves his path...

Still seas only laugh

Khelben firmed too, soul igniting much the same way, and Elminster readied himself as well no less affected by the tune even if just due to the sheer surprise of how appropriate it was. Then father began casting his last part in the setup and the other two followed.

Though he may appear tattered and broken

His soul is shabby and bare

Still he glows like the flame of a candle

With passion of one who still cares

There was always a rhyme to the reason

Peering out from tired eyes

The truth finally came in treason

So wrong, but so justified...

So wrong but so justified...

Still seas close their eyes…

A stone-hard mien – you can be quite unnerving, son, with the way you gaze at people the way you do – softened despite itself as dwarven eyes drifted completely shut. Whatever happened to those beautiful lies of before? Is this what lullabies are now, little sister?

Then his chest erupted in agony both inside and outside the nightmare as the Dagger of Bone was violently wrenched out.

The pain nearly made him stagger and fall over and the shock nearly sent his soul flailing as it threatened to drown, as it always did when he awoke in the depths of that dead ocean.

That was fine.

Even though the Dagger of Bone unerringly shot at his silver cord.

Even as the dagger reached its target and severed it in one, clear cut.

Even though Bhaal took that chance to weigh on the fact that Cyrus was a killer, one of his – an homage to me through your every act – and put all his will into casting him out.

It was fine.

Nothing happened.

For all that there had been 250 pages on the ritual, the whole setup was ultimately fairly straightforward and simple. A three-fold scheme whose only roles were unbreakably clear.

First, put him to sleep. The unexpected influence of Imoen's song seemed to have allowed him to keep a certain level of awareness of the Prime Material, but the stage had carried out as planned.

Second, keep him anchored in the waking world – I won't let him have you – no matter what Bhaal did. The Vestige of the madman shuddered in shock at the greatest expression of its will being so contemptuously thwarted.

And three, keep his awareness linked to the three Wizards until they finished casting, which they just had.

Yes, ultimately the ritual was rather straightforward and simple, its ultimate goal to enable the Wizards to target his soul rather than the body in his waking world when they synchronously cast Wish.

Wish with the added benefit that whatever fledgling hold he had on the divinity trying to kill him would allow him to see fulfilled the spirit of the each Wish rather than the letter.

The fact that enough spiritual light made it through from the other side to burn the blood inside and immediately around him and allow him to talk – insofar as he could be said to talk when dealing entirely in metaphors – was just a bonus.

Yes.

Three Wishes.

All three for him to use as he Wished.

"I Wish to Live."

The ideal – a star with no room for Shadow due to BELIEF in her right to happiness.

The method – a teacher who changed his entire nature when at last excising paranoia from JUSTICE.

Reason. A Father who gave him CHARITY even before he grew to love him, for all that it barely took any time at all.

The depths of the ocean of blood ignited all around him as light and flame erupted through him. The hole in his heart filled and healed instantly as the countless drops that were the wasted shards of his soul burst into light as well, a field of stars all throughout that giant sea.

"I Wish to Be Whole."

The stars, one and all, shot towards him in a funnelling whirlpool of warm, incandescent light that made him with each new moment feel that he was becoming more and more.

The Vestigial will was reeling from stunned outrage. "You… You are strange among your kin. I should devour you! How do you stand!?"

On his feet. Also, he was floating. And he had one more Wish.

"I Wish for My Claim and Authority to Be Fully Recognised Upon ALL that I Am."

The entirety of that wold-spanning ocean jerked as if it were the water in a crystal ball that had just been shaken. Bhaal's Vestige howled in consciousness-battering shock and a dawning spark of desperation that it tried to pretend didn't exist even though it definitely did.

Then it was like a battering ram had been rammed into him, from all sides, even as his soulfire continued to burn everything around him, turning shadow to light.

That was fine too.

Even though Bhaal's assault was only meant as a distraction.

Even though the Dagger came hurtling from the darkness, right at the spot between his eyes.

His hand lashed out.

The dagger came to an abrupt stop with its tip between his fingers.

That knife, too, had been made from part of All that He Was.

The ocean seemed to stall, not understanding a whit of what was going on.

No more three-fold actions and plans then?

That was especially fine, because he still had one.

CHARITY, JUSTICE and BELIEF rose around him, a closed loop of independent halos spinning concentrically around him like kinetic orbitals. They were Planar Tides meant to keep balance in check. They were light meant to keep the dark at bay. They evoked that little Planar concept known as The Unity of Rings

They were also a distraction.

A son reached out for the blood of his father and, grabbing it more with his mind than his soul-shaped body, pulled inwards.

A stream of Bhaaltaint surged towards him unimpeded by the enfolding Halos – the spinning rings of sunfire cut and stymied the source but never stopped it entirely, keeping only the stream steady and manageable – reached his hand and was absorbed into his own self.

Then kept going.

The desperation so well hidden behind self-righteous outrage suddenly became an eruption.

No! Impossible! NO!

With supreme effort, the remnants of a dead madman brought the whole ocean under control for a moment.

But only a moment.

The next, Bhaal's son mentally grabbed all the essence all around him and pulled.

The dead god's will still held much sway, and the control exerted over the taint grew stronger the farther from Cyrus it went, but that was no reassurance at all to an entity who'd just realized that he did not deal in foregone conclusions anymore.

The dwarf smiled grimly as the endless depths nonetheless begun to drown in him for a change in spite of all the efforts Bhaal, or what was left of him, put into stopping it.

Bhaal's remnant howled without howling and flailed angrily – a storm of violent tides and winding undertows – as he looked for any way to rob his self-disowned son of this one moment.

Even if it meant ignoring him entirely and hurling his hate and rage at the waking world now that said son wasn't able to keep a lid on the link in anymore.

Unacceptable.

Three halos flared with three-fold brilliance as an already strong grip tightened even further on the Dagger of Bone.

Well, Cyrus Anwar. You got what you wanted. You have your will, you have your soul and you have a tiny little knife that's been embedded in your chest since you were a boy.

Now fight a god.