The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [199]
Boom.
Oh. That sounded all too familiar.
BOOM.
Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.
In a manner of speaking.
Boom-BOOM.
There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.
BOOM.
"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"
Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.
The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.
Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"
And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"
The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."
A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.
Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The strangest and most painful day of Beldar Roaringhorn's life was the day he attended his own funeral.
He wore Korvaun Helmfast's form, of course, his fallen friend's blue cape around his shoulder and a pale but composed Naoni staunchly at his side.
It was… odd, watching others mourn him. His family's grief was deep and genuine-and puzzling. How could they mourn someone they'd never really known? All his life he'd felt apart, ignored, even scorned, yet the senior Lord Roaringhorn spoke with tearful pride of his son's accomplishments, his swordsmanship, his riding, and his eloquent knowledge of law. The Roaringhorn heir confessed to feelings of envy-even inadequacy-that his fallen junior had been most fitted to inherit, to lead.
Nearly as hard to hear were the words of his friends-apologies for doubting him, praise for saving Korvaun Helmfast by giving him a potion that transferred his wounds to Beldar himself.
For that was the comfort every mourner held dear, and only three knew to be false: Beldar Roaringhorn had died that a friend might live.
Well, Beldar lived that his friend might live, and he stood in silent tears, iron-determined to leave a legacy that Korvaun would be proud of.
Only the Dyre sisters knew his secret, and Faendra had already cornered him alone, and told him in no uncertain terms that he would treat Naoni well or answer to her. Beldar needed no threat but rather admired the way she'd delivered it. The Dyre girls were superb-as fine as the magic that spilled from Naoni's clever fingers.
He looked at the woman at his side, noting her grace, her quiet strength. Small wonder Korvaun had lost his heart to Naoni Dyre. Beldar was already half in love with her himself. Perhaps, in time, she might…
"Korvaun, they're waiting for you to speak," Taeros murmured.
Korvaun had spoken at Malark's funeral, not so many days past. Those words had honored, comforted, and inspired. Now it was his turn to do the same for his friends and family.
He strode to the coffin wherein Korvaun had been laid to rest, wearing both Beldar's form and-as a shroud-the ruby gemweave cloak. Drawing a deep breath, he began.
"We are none of us quite what we seem. Beldar Roaringhorn had dreams of greatness and perhaps the seeds of it too. He found not lasting greatness but brief glory, when he gave