Richard Meyers: Murder in Halruaa

“I figured,” he said quietly, moving toward the chair she had once knocked him into.

“Of course, I hardly believed you when you told me your plan in the workshop while the halfling was doing your bidding with the inquisitrixes.”

“I could see that,” he told her. “I hated to do it so soon after after all that had happened, but there was no other time.”

She still didn’t look up from the fire. “I think I hated you then

… for your deceptions and lies and machinations… but I could still see your passion and, more importantly, your compassion. You were as trapped in this plot as I was. More so, in fact, because it was truly your life at stake.” Finally she looked up at him, his eyes filling with hers.

“I knew I had to take a leap of faith,” she said, almost smiling, “both to trust you… and to jump from the ship.”

“Which you did,” he said, overcome with her courage, understanding, and beauty. “Magnificently. Both, I mean. Trusting and jumping.”

She stepped forward, turning her extraordinarily intelligent and insightful face up to him. “I almost didn’t,” she revealed. “But only when you were struck by lightning. I thought… I was afraid you might be dead.”

He smiled kindly at her, fingering the cloak clasp. ‘Your father saw to it that I wasn’t. He was looking out for me… for both of us.”

Tears began to move down both her smooth, clear cheeks. “As… as Devolawk lay in my arms… before you came over to us… my father spoke to me.”

Pryce stood straight, his face showing concern, but only for her feelings.

“He swore you were a good man. He said he loved me. Then he was gone.”

She lowered her head and closed her eyes, although the tears were flowing freely now. When she opened her eyes again, he was holding her. She wrapped her own arms around him and held on for dear life.

“Even Greila Sontoin herself said I should trust you,” she said as she rested her head against his chest. ‘That you had a clear eye, good intentions, and a sharp wit.” His cloak clasp was right against her ear. She looked up at him. “But who are you, really?” she asked with emotion.

Pryce opened his mouth to speak but could say nothing. He was born with the name Pryce Covington, but he really wasn’t that person anymore. But neither was he the real Darlington Blade. But then again, who was? The person Geerling Ambersong wanted the halfling to be, or the truly evil halfling himself? Or was it the legend Gamor Turkal had created in Lallor… the man who Greila Sontoin wanted him to be?

Finally he looked down at her, seeing his reflection in her eyes. That gave him all the strength he needed. “We cannot see our own faces,” he said, paraphrasing the first words he had ever spoken to her. “So I am truly whoever you see.”

She kissed him, holding the back of his head and filling his mind with an ardor that reduced the kiss of Chimera in the Mystran castle to what it had truly been… an illusion.

“Thank you,” she finally said softly. “Thank you for avenging my father’s death and making things right… Darling.”

He smiled down at her, happier than he had ever been in his life. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Dear.”

They stood that way for a long time, until the blazing fire diminished to a slow and steady heat.

‘You know,” she finally said, “there are still many mysteries in this city… mysteries that may require the clear eye and the sharp wit of a man with good intentions… but also the magic of the Ambersongs.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But you are not a man of good intentions.”

She laughed. “And you,” she reminded him, “are no Ambersong magician.” Pryce considered the odds. Without her, his lack of magical knowledge would soon become apparent. But without him, her magical knowledge would soon be discovered, melodrama or no melodrama.

He could make a show of teaching her, he supposed, but that would take time… time to enjoy the plush surroundings and infinite respect of Lallor. It certainly seemed like a cushy job… if not for life, then near enough.

Then he considered Dearlyn Ambersong. She was indeed cushy, certainly courageous, and most definitely interesting… but he had better watch out for the sharp edges of her magic and her gardening implements.

Mustering all his wit and strength, he finally came up with a totally logical reply: a massive, spine-stretching yawn.

“My goodness,” she said, letting him go and stepping back. “Have you slept at all since your arrival in Lallor?”

“Well, actually,” he drawled slowly, “except for some time unconscious from a head wound… no.”

“You must be exhausted!” she exclaimed, hurriedly moving toward the sleeping quarters and beckoning him to follow.

Pryce stood in the main room dreamily. He suddenly realized that he had been called a good man by no less a source than Halruaa’s highest priestess and even the haunt of Labor’s primary mage. And at this point, he would accept being a good man over being a great Blade. While he might have quibbled with everyone’s Pryce estimate in the past, he now had to admit he had reason to be pleased.

After all, he had actually resolved a puzzle that was unique in the history of the mystery. A murder conundrum in which the victim, the killer, and the detective were all the same man.

He had solved his own murder in Halruaa, as it were.

Pryce wandered slowly over to the sleeping quarters, taking off his cloak as he went. He leaned on the door and watched Dearlyn turn back the bedcovers.

‘This is only temporary, of course,” she said to him quickly.

“You’ll have your own room soon.” He resisted the temptation to express his disappointment, but she continued regardless. “Father would have wanted it that way. To tell you the truth, I miss having someone to cook for… it’s sometimes so sad to cook for one. And I can help you understand father’s work, and we can oversee the inventory of father’s workshop, and”

Darlington Blade drowsily put his forefinger to his lips with one hand and waved her back with the other. “Moot,” he said, trudging forward. “All moot until I awake. Besides,” he concluded, standing beside her radiance amidst the most wonderful house he had ever known, “I still have to see whether or not this is all really a dream.”

Dearlyn Ambersong smiled widely at him, anchoring him with a look that promised many interesting moments. “No,” she said. “It’s no dream. But thanks to you, at least the nightmare is over.”

He wavered in place for a moment, then gave the bed a sleepy smile.’Ah, well,” he said, “that’s just the Pryce you have to pay.”

He was happily asleep even before she gently covered him with Darlington Blade’s cloak.