The City of Splendors

by Ed Greenwood

  His eyes moved to Naoni. She swiftly undid the fastenings of his tunic. Beneath was a metal vest—not chainmail, but a metal fabric as light and soft as silk. Faendra moved to help, and the sisters eased both garments off him.

  Their gentle handling left Korvaun parchment-white, his face a mask of sweat. “Tell him,” he whispered.

  Naoni quickly told Beldar about the slipshield, what it could do, and how she’d spun it into a new, undetectable form.

  “As long as you live,” Korvaun added hoarsely, “those who gave you the eye will seek you, to slay or enslave. Hold this secret, and use it well.”

  Naoni held up the vest.

  Beldar finally realized what his friend was asking of him.

  Korvaun wanted Beldar to take his place, to take up the mantle of leadership once more.

  “They’ll think you dead,” Naoni whispered tremulously, through tears, “and leave you in peace. It will be hard for you, and harder for your family, yet it’s … needful.”

  Beldar’s thoughts whirled. His monstrous eye might be ruined, but its other magic still held. He could—in secret—join the ranks of Waterdeep’s protectors.

  ’Twasn’t the glorious, sword-swinging heroism he’d dreamed of, but … needful, yes. More than that, it was what the Dathran had foretold. He’d be the hero who defied death. He would become Korvaun Helmfast, who would live on in him.

  Because he could not do otherwise, Beldar inclined his head in agreement.

  “One thing more,” Korvaun gasped, his voice barely audible now. “I pledged that no shame would come to Naoni while I lived. She has my heart, my ring, and my promise. My dearest wish was to give her my name! If she bears my child …”

  “He’ll be raised a Helmfast,” Beldar swore, “and in time will be told the truth about his father.”

  Korvaun managed a smile. “Naoni …”

  “Hush now,” she told him gently, kissing his forehead. “You’ve done all that’s needful, and done it well. All you’ve said will come to pass. Beldar will keep his promises and carry your name with honor—or he’ll deal with my sorcery, and Faendra’s wrath.”

  Korvaun nodded and said with sudden firmness, “Do it. Now.”

  Beldar shrugged off his tunic and slid on the soft, shining vest. Korvaun changed instantly, his blond hair darkening to deep chestnut, his body becoming smaller and more slender.

  Beldar ripped off the eyepatch and found he could see quite well with both eyes. The change wrought by the slipshield must go far deeper than mere likeness.

  The awe on Faendra’s face—and the tearful resignation on Naoni’s—told him his transformation into Korvaun Helmfast was complete.

  Beldar looked down at his dying friend and found himself gazing into his own face.

  “They’ll say of me,” he said softly, “that my death was better than my life.”

  Korvaun struggled to speak, but through his last, ragged breath they heard him say: “Prove them wrong.”

  The whirlwind of magic that had seized Mrelder died abruptly, and the sorcerer found himself sprawled on the cold stones of a well-lit cell with his father beside him. Groans behind him told him that the spell had brought along others of the Amalgamation.

  A tall, silver-haired elf stood over him, leaning on a drawn sword. At his shoulders stood a small army of jackcoats, swords and wands out and ready. “Elaith Craulnober and minions,” he introduced himself pleasantly.

  Mrelder tensed, and the elf waved a languid hand. “Don’t trouble yourself to cast spells or wave weapons; this chamber’s heavily warded, and my companions are more than equal to any challenge by monk, sorcerer, or … whatever.”

  By that last word, Elaith meant the man he was glancing at: Golskyn of the Gods, who’d found his feet with the help of several monster-men. The old priest was staring in wonder at the silver-scaled warrior standing beside the Serpent.

  “A half-dragon indeed,” he breathed. “So many questions! Tell me, how did you come to be? From whence came your draconic blood? Was your mother ravaged, and did your dragon parent mate in elf, human, or draconic form? Did your mother bear you alive, or as an egg? Did she survive the birthing?”

  He rubbed his hands thoughtfully. “If not, I’ll need a number of elf-shes as hosts. And a dragon stud. A host of half-dragons! What warriors! Imagine the savings in coin for armor alone!”

  Eyebrow crooked, Elaith turned to Tincheron. “Would you like to respond appropriately, or shall I?”

  The silver-scaled warrior silently stalked forward and backhanded the old priest’s head.

  Golskyn fell like a sack of meal, senseless and silent.

  The elf smiled at Mrelder. “I trust you’ll prove more sensible?”

  The sorcerer nodded cautiously. “You fought and defeated us. Are you offering swift death or …?”

  Elaith inspected his nails. “A strategic withdrawal.”

  “I—I thank you. May I ask why?”

  “Waterdeep,” the Serpent replied coolly, “is my city, off limits to such as you. That’s not to say that we might not do business elsewhere to mutual advantage.”

  “And what price does your mercy carry?”

  The elf smiled. “You’re quick, sorcerer. In return for your lives, I require the Guardian’s Gorget.”

  Mrelder sighed, surrendered to the inevitable, and told the elf what had become of the artifact.

  A faint groan came from the floor, followed by mutterings about half-dragons.

  The sorcerer glanced down at his father. “I rather wish your … trusted companion had struck a little harder.”

  “Revenge is pleasant, but often wasteful.” The Serpent let his gaze sweep slowly over the surviving beastmen. “Your father’s mad-witted, but he’s caused enough trouble to make his methods worthy of study.” His gaze came to rest on Golskyn. “Even the oldest wagon has parts worth scavenging.”

  Mrelder’s eyes flashed to his father’s fallen but still-mighty form and narrowed in speculation. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Are we free to go?”

  Elaith Craulnober gracefully indicated a door. “That tunnel leads to a shop kept by a man who knows that anyone emerging from it is to be helped to discreetly depart the city. Trust in him, for he answers to me.”

  Mrelder gave a slight bow, in the manner of equals parting in mutual respect.

  Elaith smiled. So much for the gratitude of the conquered whose life has been spared. He watched the cultists go, mulling over a feeling that Mrelder had taken some meaning from his words that he hadn’t intended.

  He turned, nodded, and watched his own forces swiftly scatter into their war-bands and plunge into various tunnels that led under the Purple Silk. Only when he was alone did he open a concealed door to take a hidden way to the festhall only he knew.

  Old habits died hard, and Elaith would no longer deny the duties of his heritage and nature. He was a lord, wherever he chose to live and whatever he chose to rule. By his lights, he’d done Waterdeep many services this night—warning the First Lord of danger, standing guard over Piergeiron lest an enemy use the still-missing slipshield to approach him in the unreadable guise of a friend, casting magic that sent many of the revelers safely away from death from stonefall, helping them find their way out of the tunnels, even culling some deadwood from noble family trees. He had one more service to give, though it irked him to yield such an advantage: the name and nature of he who would be Waterdeep’s next Open Lord.

  It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Mirt and the rest knew their business better than he’d thought possible. Why else would they give such valuable magic as slipshields to a pack of noble pups?

  Elaith hurried through the tunnel, a bemused smile on his face. Though he had lived long and seen much, this city never ceased to astonish and amuse him!

  Suddenly, in silence and without any fuss at all, Amaundra fainted. Her eyes rolled up, her body quivered, and she stopped breathing.

  “Wizard,” Piergeiron snapped, springing up from where
he’d been sitting, “you’re killing her!

  Tarthus, lying flat on his back trembling uncontrollably, didn’t look as if he could kill a fly. He stared up at the Open Lord with eyes of forlorn pain.

  “I can’t accept this any longer!” Piergeiron snapped. “I must fight for Waterdeep! It’s my duty, and I’m needed! Drop the shielding!”

  The golden dome persisted. Piergeiron repeated his order, shouting this time.

  “N-no,” Tarthus gasped faintly.

  Madeiron Sunderstone laid one great, restraining hand on Piergeiron’s arm and bent over the wizard on the floor. “I remind you that your oaths require you to obey any direct order from the Open Lord of Waterdeep.”

  “A higher authority forbids,” Tarthus gasped, eyes still closed.

  “What? There is no—”

  Mirt waved a reproving finger in Piergeiron’s face to quell his outburst, then laid it to his own lips, and pointed down at Tarthus.

  On cue, a very different voice came from the wizard’s trembling lips. “Most of this last bell,” it said in feminine tones all four men knew, “my strength has been holding the shield around you, Piergeiron. Tarthus has been obeying me—and in this matter, I am obeying Mystra herself.”

  “Laeral,” Piergeiron breathed.

  “Holy Mystra,” Madeiron Sunderstone gasped, making a reverent gesture.

  At that moment Mirt became aware that someone was standing just outside the shielding. A slender, handsome figure: Elaith Craulnober. Their eyes met.

  Mirt lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. Elaith made a certain swift gesture. Mirt replied with another, and the elf confirmed the silent question with a nod.

  They both made the chopping motion that signified agreement, and the moneylender shuffled forward, went down on one knee beside Tarthus, and firmly cuffed the wizard’s head with one hairy fist.

  That head lolled, the shielding went pale—and as Madeiron looked up and glared at the elf, clapping hand to hilt, Elaith calmly worked a spell.

  Golden radiance fell away into dying sparks that flared into a sudden bright roaring that stabbed into every ear and eye and swept all Faerûn away …

  The first thing that Mirt the Moneylender heard was Piergeiron the Paladin groaning, “What happened?”

  There was a low rumble of bafflement from Madeiron Sunderstone.

  Boom.

  Oh. That sounded all too familiar.

  BOOM.

  Through a glimmering of tears Faerûn 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 his life in service to others.”

  He stared around slowly at tearful faces.

  “That greatest of deeds leaves an obligation upon all who knew him, and upon me most of all. It will henceforth define for me what it truly means to hold power, position, and wealth. Rest well, Beldar Roaringhorn, knowing that we will never forget this.”

  It was a short speech, but he saw in all those faces that it had been enough.

  He walked back to his friends, accepting their nods and handclasps as what they were: warriors raising swords to acknowledge their leader.

  What he once had been, he was again. This time, he would honor his responsibilities by becoming the man he was truly intended to be.

  The summons to the Palace came the morning after Beldar’s funeral. Taeros wasn’t surprised; after all, he’d yet to account for the slipshield entrusted to him.

  He made all haste, but when the seventh set of guards showed him into the room, Taeros found that there was only one vacant chair left—his. Korvaun nodded to him, seated with an exalted trio: Lord Piergeiron, Mirt the Moneylender, and the archmage Khelben Arunsun, who looked somewhat the worse for wear.

  The Open Lord inclined his head. “Well met, Lord Hawkwinter. I trust you know us all? ”

  Taeros cleared his throat. “One only by repute.”

  Khelben fixed him with a stern eye. “Reputations you’ve labored to enhance, young scribbler, as a seabird enhances a statue.”

&nbs
p; Taeros felt his face grow warm as he recalled some of his more biting ballads. “If—if I’ve offended, I most humbly beg pardon.”

  Piergeiron waved a dismissive hand. “Waterdeep has need of men such as you, who make us all laugh and think at the same time. Four out of five snore during sermons, but sharp humor keeps them awake long enough to listen. ’Tis far easier to rule men who listen, think, and laugh than those who do none of those things.”

  A smile came unbidden to Taeros’s face. It would seem he did have a role in the governance of this city, however small.

  “Fewer than a dozen people in Waterdeep know of slipshields,” the Blackstaff said abruptly. “It’s been decided we’ll keep the number small, rather than finding another man who can keep track of his property.”

  Taeros stared at what Khelben Arunsun held out to him then: A tiny shield affixed to leather thongs.

  “Is that …”

  “Against my better judgment, it is. Important in safeguarding this city and its leaders. Secrecy’s vital.”

  Taeros closed his fingers firmly around this second chance. “I gave my vow, and I’ll give it again if you require it.”

  “No need,” said Piergeiron. “You fought loyally when the Statues walked, but understand that carrying a slipshield binds you not only to secrecy, but to service.”

  Taeros found this notion deeply satisfying. “That’s my desire as well as my duty. It’s all I’ve wanted in my life.”

  The three elders of Waterdeep nodded. Mirt then turned to Korvaun.

  “And what of ye, young Lord … Helmfast. What’ll ye make of your secrets? Some lordlings are all too boastful and proud, the more so when in their cups or feeling slighted.”

  Korvaun met the old man’s sharp gaze calmly. “Some young lords are all that, and worse. As for me, know this: I am determined to live up to the name I bear.”

  His words rang across the chamber. After a moment, he added in a softer voice, “I’ve learned that some secrets are worth dying to protect.”

  Emboldened by his friend’s fervor, Taeros said, “When I said my desire was to serve Waterdeep, I omitted something important to me: it’s always been my desire to advise and stand with great men.”