The Diamond - J. Robert King [16]
Piergeiron's own fists finished the job, punching glass aside in a scintillating shower of knife-edged pieces. Madieron leapt from his saddle through the flying shards, to lift Piergeiron from the riven casket.
"No!" the Open Lord cried again, his voice raw. "No!"
Bleeding and glistening with slivers of glass, Madieron bore Piergeiron to the aisle floor and laid him down. "You're all right," the giant said awkwardly. "You're free. You're alive."
"But she's not," Piergeiron gasped, clutching Sunderstone's tunic. His eyelids strained at their stitches. "She's dead!"
Madieron glanced at Shaleen's glass-topped casket. "Who? Who's dead?"
"Eidola," replied the Open Lord. He coughed, blood spattering cracked lips. "I pursued her across Faerыn, and beyond… through all of time. I pursued her through life, unto death."
Madieron looked up beseechingly to the Blackstaff. Khelben crouched beside the fallen lord of Waterdeep and said, "You've had a long sleep… a short death. You've dreamed."
Piergeiron shook his head, shards of glass and drops of blood raining to the stone floor. "No. I did not dream this. She's dead. Somewhere beneath our feet, she's died."
"Don't speak," urged the Blackstaff.
"I will speak," Piergeiron snarled. "I must speak, or it'll all fade and be forgotten like a dream. It wasn't a dream!"
He struggled to sit up in Madeiron's arms. "I was dead. I've traveled the places of the dead. I've walked other worlds, and journeyed through mirror mazes to find Eidola and bring her back. I've fought tanar'ri and climbed the world tree and plunged into Lethe's waters of forgetfulness; they still cling to me. If I don't tell what befell me now, I'll nevermore remember."
Khelben raised his head to glare at the armsmen, merchants, and nobles crowding around. "I need priests-now!-to heal this man. Are there any tailors or seamstresses here? Someone with a sure hand? The Open Lord needs the stitches out of his eyelids! The rest of you, back! Officers, see to it!"
The Lord Mage leaned back over Piergeiron, shielding the wounded man against any dart or hurled dagger that might forestall the return of the Open Lord to his throne. "Let them tend you, and tell all the stories you wish. Wherever you have been, welcome home, friend."
As folk in their finery scurried to obey Khelben's orders, Piergeiron Paladinson smiled and started to speak.
* * * * *
He surfaced in a deep wood, leaving behind cold, still water. But he was dry, and no water stood nearby, only damp leaf mold. Somewhere beneath it, perhaps, was the deep, eternal darkness he'd ascended through… limitless depths inhabited only by the souls of the dead.
I am dead, he told himself plainly. I am dead.
There were airy dreams of elsewhere: a palace perched above a restless sea, waves as white and loud as clashing swords. Their clamor mingled with bards' songs that wove truth out of thin air. He saw again masked lords and darting daggers, a thousand shadowed conspiracies, saw bright banners fluttering, and heard armsmen shouting a name in jubilant unison-a name also shaped by the hostile lips of those conspirators. A name that belonged to him. Piergeiron. It sounded like some sort of falcon.
Something more came back to him then, lone, shining, and beautiful… a soul that sang his name, high and pure.
What was her name? It was gone with her. She was gone.
He stood alone, in this wood. It was real; the rest were but fading tatters of forgetfulness. It all meant nothing now. The cloak of scars and sorrows, woven in life to encrust and mottle old souls, making them distinct from all others, was gone. He was Pier-He was a falcon. Nay, he was a Paladin.
Paladin looked about.
This was a verdant place. Trees soared to join earth and endless sky. Vines spiraled across ancient bark, leaves catching scraps of light lancing down from above. Birds coursed in silent lines among the trees. The musk of growing things hung strong in the air. The forest quivered with the tremendous murmur of the world growing. Growing.
Then, slashing