The Diamond - J. Robert King [13]
"I was hoping Entreri would reach her before you did." Khelben looked gravely at the unconscious man. "He's near death, but I know a priest who can make him whole-even restore his arm. That was part of our agreement: no death or lasting injuries."
The Lord Mage scooped up Entreri in his arms and carried him to the door. "This whole business of Eidola worked out," he told Noph as he shouldered through the cell doorway. "You figured out what she was. You survived. And you're a hero now."
Feeling puzzled and deceived, Waterdeep's hero followed the archmage into the passage and came to a halt as the Lord Mage mounted the stairs with his burden, Trandon of Cormyr on his heels. "I don't feel like a hero!" Noph shouted after them. "I feel like a gods-damned traitor!"
The Lord Mage did not even turn as he replied, "It's a common complaint among true heroes."
Interlude
Dream and Delirium
At first I was pleased to discover that dead men dream. What other diversion is there for a soul haunting its own everlasting corpse? It provides some respite from a humdrum existence of lying about in cold cellars, counting each new mote of dust as it, with excruciating deliberation, settles out of the air and onto one's nose.
In place of the palace cellar, there is a deep wood: tall, ancient trees like columns, pierced betimes by long, slanting banners of light. There is a deep pool, still and clear, where fish lurk and drift in silvery silence and cold. There is the green and unmistakable smell of verdant life.
What better place to spend the off-hours of afterlife?
So I thought.
Until I heard the long, distant, beautiful, mourning song of the white dove, lost beyond the pool and forest and marching mountains. Until it drew me, and I knew it was the plaintive cry of my irrecoverable love. Until I realized this was not, perhaps, a dream, but the haunted lands of the dead, the places where souls ever pursue and never catch what they have lost.
It is better by far to count the settling dust.
Chapter 3
Death Comes Again for the Open Lord
It was funeral time. The trumpets, glauren and longhorns wailed their dirge, embroidered by the heartrending cries of mourners, both private and professional. The restored chapel gleamed in newness and teemed with dignitaries, every corner crammed with close-packed citizens.
Khelben sat on the same balcony bench as before. Madieron Sunderstone once again slumped like a sheep dog beside the glass-topped casket. Captain Rulathon occupied the same place of honor from which, by gestures and secret signs, he commanded the gathered Watchmen. Nothing had changed, despite the return of two warriors from the Utter East, the attempted escape and subsequent death of two traitors, and the report that Eidola had not yet been rescued. Nothing save golden baskets filled with flowers, resplendent where gold candlesticks enspelled by the Doegan bloodforge had been neatly sawed away.
Unfortunately, no one had told the acolytes. They were only paces away from the caskets when they realized there were no candles to light. The first of the four boys, a freckled redhead who looked at once impish and solemn in his flowing white robe, paused only a moment before continuing to his corner of the funeral dais. There, as his companions found their places, he discreetly pawed among the flowers, seeking a holder for his taper. The black-haired acolyte across from him took the motion to mean that they were supposed to light the flowers. This was harder than one might suspect, since the white sunroods and merestars were still dewy from the morning mist. He succeeded only in getting a wisp of black smoke to curl up from one sprig of fern.
The last two boys, blond twins and kin to Madieron, had by simultaneous inspiration begun dribbling wax onto the glass casket preparatory to