J. King: The Diamond

Khelben Arunsun looked up at the sword tip. The tune he'd been humming stopped abruptly, and his mustache quirked in surprise. "Kastonoph! What are you doing here?"

Noph lowered his sword. "Lord Mage, thank the gods you've come! Someone's enchanted the whole garrison! I'm the only one not affected. They're down there; they think they're fighting Entreri and Trandon, though as you can see…" He gestured at the closed cell doors.

"Yes," the archmage agreed, keys jangling as he raised them from his belt. "Worry not about the guardsmen. None will be truly injured. They'll fight bravely, and the spy and the assassin will be slain. No offense, Trandon."

"None taken," the tall mage replied levelly.

"Slain?" Noph asked.

"Fireball. These underways and cells are too small for fireballs, especially the augmented one you'll cast, Trandon. It backfires on you, burning you and Entreri to piles of ash." Khelben fitted a key to the lock on the wizard's door, turned it, and swung it wide, adding, "You really must be more careful."

"It won't happen again," Trandon said calmly, stepping from the cell.

Noph raised his sword. "Wait-what's this?"

Khelben raised an eyebrow. "A jailbreak."

The sword flashed from one mage to the other, and back again. "I can't allow that," Noph snapped. "I'm the only guard left, and I'm sworn to keep these prisoners in their cells until dawn. Back in with you, Trandon!"

"Oh, come now, Noph." Khelben's voice was almost paternal. "He doesn't deserve to die in the morning, does he?"

"No, I was going to talk to you about that. But a jailbreak?"

"Desperate times, lad; d'you honestly believe he'll get justice from the Magisters and Watch, come morning?"

"No, but… you're the Lord Mage. You're supposed to protect Waterdeep, to serve the city loyally. And I'm supposedly one of the heroes of Doegan. Some hero I'll be if I let Trandon just slip away."

Khelben looked grim. He pushed aside Noph's sword to lay a hand on the young man's shoulder. "In the end, Kastonoph, the true hero is not someone who clings blindly to what he's decided is true, but someone who, despite a thousand assaults and the uncertainty of standing in the midst of chaos, acts always to help rather than to hurt. Real heroes are not hidebound moralists seeking always to be righteous. True heroes are committed pragmatists who do what must be done for the good of all. Unless you release this man now, you-knowing what you do of his innocence and Waterdeep's judgment-will be his murderer."

Silence fell. Noph's gaze swung thoughtfully from his blade to one motionless mage, then to the other, and back. Eventually he lowered his blade and sheathed it, bowing to Trandon. Slowly he said, "It has been an honor fighting beside you."

"I feel a similar honor," replied the mage, "to have fought at your side."

"Good, then," Khelben said briskly, sliding a key into the lock of Entreri's cell.

Noph's head snapped around. "Him, too? I don't know if it's right he should die, but… he is an assassin, and he did plan to kill Eidola."

Khelben turned the key. The lock clicked. He swung the door open and stepped into the cell, shrugging. "Yes and yes, but I thought it would be bad form to let him die, given that I'm the one who hired him."

" You? You hired him to kill Eidola?"

"She is a greater doppelganger," Khelben murmured as he bent over the assassin, "or didn't you know that?"

For a moment, it was all Noph could do to yammer incoherently. "You mean you knew? You? You knew who- what — she was before sending us out to get her back? That she wasn't a helpless maiden but an evil monster?" His voice was as high and shrill as a hurt child's. Noph lowered it an octave and asked accusingly, "You risked all our lives sending us to rescue a monster?"

" 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."

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.

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 sticking their candles to it. Piergeiron's grieving bodyguard sat within easy reach of both, but was too lost in sorrow to take notice. It wasn't until the red wax of one of their perched candles snaked down beside Madieron's face-cooling just fast enough to trap a lock of his hair against the glass-that the man lifted his head. His scalp lost the sudden tug of war for the lock of hair. He growled something to the boys, and his great armspan allowed him to deliver simultaneous cuffs to their heads.