J. King: The Diamond

J. Robert King Ed Greenwood

The Diamond

Interlude

Musing and Madness

I'm no longer dead, but on some level I must be mad.

Mad with loss, first for my Shaleen, and now for my Eidola. It's the privilege, perhaps the responsibility, of survivors, especially mad survivors, to remember the dead always, to reassemble them not out of trivial facts but eternal verities.

If we must all die-and we must, of that I'm sure-at least let what remains of us in the hearts and hopes and dreams of friends be what was best and brightest. Death can have the rest.

Perhaps I am mad, Miltiades, but let me mourn. Perhaps I am heroic, Noph, but do not overindulge me. Perhaps I am both mad and heroic, for what are humans but those who know they'll die and go on living, madly heroic? Whatever I am does not matter. Whatever she was does not matter. Judge if you wish and come to your own conclusions, Water deep. I ask one thing only…

Mourn with me.

Khelben watched from his all-too-accustomed spot in the balcony of the renovated chapel. There were solemn acolytes, of course, and glauren and all groaning their way through yet another dirge. This rendition of the funeral march, the third in one week, at last captured the true spirit of the music. Ponderous. Torpid. Grating. Bilious. Not merely lifeless but verging on putrific.

Khelben wouldn't have attended, but he had to support his luckless friend Piergeiron in his time of greatest need. He was also on hand to prevent Lasker Nesher from using the chance to grandstand. He would not have come, save that he knew what would inevitably follow.

The rest of Waterdeep had turned out eagerly, almost hungrily. To them, this was the funeral of a princess. Already, gossip had piled tale upon idle tale, building Eidola up into tragic proportions. Folk who had never seen, let alone met, her fell upon each others' shoulders in sobbing grief. More had been spent on flowers in two days than had been spent on shipbuilding in the past two years. The chapel was a veritable garden of white and green, all destined tomorrow to be as dead as the woman they were meant for.

Piergeiron had been right. After all the confusion of the last month, the people needed to mourn, wanted to mourn. So did the Open Lord. Even Khelben felt reluctantly moved by the common sorrow, the grand whelming of heart-pouring loss.

Into the midst of solemn flowers and weeping witnesses came the once-dead Open Lord. Mighty in bright-polished armor, Piergeiron moved with slow reverence up the aisle, bearing a discreetly folded silken cloth that held the hand of his mortal bride.

In the quivering light of the chandeliers, he looked old, wan, and utterly alone. He moved in time to the death march, dignifying its overwrought strains with his patient stride. Khelben suddenly saw how acutely important this was to Piergeiron. He straightened in his seat.

The Open Lord's demeanor had the same effect on the rest of the congregation. He moved slowly forward, a tiny boat drifting past waves that could easily swamp or overturn it. Eyes turned first to the bundle the man held, and then to his face, and last to the floor.

After a last agonized refrain of the dirge, the Open Lord reached Shaleen's gold and glass casket. The music ended, echoing into silence. Not a breath stirred the air. The white-robed priest of Ao waited, eulogy in hand.

No one coughed. No one could be heard to breathe. Piergeiron stood a long while gazing down at the magically restored body of his first love, Shaleen. Her casket had been moved to the center of the funeral dais. Atop it rested a small case of gold and glass, fashioned in the same style as the larger box. This case lay open.

With great reverence, Piergeiron laid the bundle gently into the case. He drew back the silk and arranged it carefully around the hand and the diamond it clutched. Then, with a sigh, he fitted the glass cover down atop the case and turned the lock screws at the corners.

He lifted watery eyes to the priest of Ao, who inhaled deeply to begin his eulogy.

Then it happened. The diamond, bright already between the elegant fingers of Lady Eidola, grew brighter still. It was as though the facets within it were being aligned to focus the light they reflected. Folk gasped as the radiance built swiftly to a lantern-bright blaze. Eidola's fingers, suddenly scaly and black against the glorious gem, caught fire and flared away to ash. Then the silk ignited in a flash that was almost unnoticeable beside the brilliant glow of the gem.

Piergeiron could do nothing but stand in dumbfounded astonishment, gazing at the starlike stone. Then he fell back, faint, into arms clad in black wool. The Blackstaff was behind him, having made his usual descent from the balcony. The mage was whispering into Piergeiron's ear: "… no need to fear. I'd suspected as much. Why would Eidola have a soul-stone at all, unless it contained the very creature upon whom she was modeled? Eidola is gone forever, but another soul is emerging…"

The fire was so hot now that it was melting the gold base of the small casket.

"… used this soul-gem to create Eidola. This, now, isn't her soul, but that of the woman after whom she was fashioned…"

Gold drops rained down from the case into the casket of Shaleen, forming a hot puddle between her feet.

"… they did it again. Yon candle sconces on the casket must be forged from the candlesticks that brought the bloodforge warriors here. They must've melted them down again-trust Waterdhaviansand made the coffer for the hand from some of it. It's a conduit for the soul in the gem. The soul has sensed its own body"

The gem tumbled through the hole it had melted, falling into the puddle of liquid metal. There, it flared so bright that even Khelben fell back, dragging Piergeiron with him. Shaleen's casket became opaquely brilliant. All assembled Waterdeep winced away from it. Then just as suddenly the casket went black.

Piergeiron pulled free of the Lord Mage and stumbled to the foot of the coffin. He saw hands moving, pressing against the inside of the glass.

"Shaken!"

His heartfelt shout shattered the shocked silence, and a thousand throats took up the name in a thunderous chorus. The one they called on clawed at the inside of her coffin just as her husband had done before.

"Right," Khelben called calmly, reminding all who heard it that he'd been through this before. "Crafters, bring your pry bars and augers! Priests: prayers and gauze." He turned to smile at a mop-haired man-giant. "And, yes, Madieron, see if you can't lay hands on a plow horse somewhere."

In the ensuing bustle and excited roar, Piergeiron spun away from the coffin. His eyes were sharp again and piercing. The fog was gone from him. He sought one man: a certain silver paladin with a penchant for hidebound heroism and a hammer as large as all outdoors.

"Miltiades!" Piergeiron cried, reaching the man he sought and clapping him on one ornamental epaulet, "how's about I have a look at your hammer?"

The paladin gaped at him, bewildered. "What?"

"Come now, Miltiades, don't be stingy," Piergeiron roared. "The lads and lasses of three continents are talking about this golden hammer you wield. It's not as though I'd dent it."

Blinking, as stiff as always, Miltiades blurted, "Well, of course not. It's not as if… I mean to say, if you can't be trusted… er, that is-" He unslung the mighty weapon. "Here."

"Thanks," said Piergeiron, his old humor sparkling in his eyes.

He strode back through the carnival of crafters and clergy and gawkers, crowded eight deep around the casket where his wife struggled. His very presence cleared a path.