Gods above, he was rebuilding Waterdeep! Beldar grinned into the great cold darkness that engulfed… and was still doing so (there was something about the Statues that made one's thoughts slow and heavy) when his hand was emptied of the last stone. One dwarf and the bar promptly disappeared over the edge of his finger. The last dwarf-the one who'd first been brave enough to leap onto his hand-looked up and gave Beldar a laconic nod of thanks ere leaping down out of sight.

Beldar made the Statue straighten slowly and carefully and then was struck by the whim to look back at himself in the window and see what wayward sons of Roaringhorn look like.

That was a mistake, because something roared and flashed in Beldar's head… and he found himself sprawled over the padded sideboard, sword in hand, back in the shattered room full of cushions and mirrors. Back in the festhall, where Mrelder and Golskyn of the Amalgamation were lurking.

Beldar found his small crimson vial and unstoppered it. He was free for the moment, but who knew when the voice might return? Of one thing he was certain: they must not regain control of the Statues.

With one hand he held his eyelids firmly open-and with the other he emptied the vial into his beholder-eye.

White fire exploded in his head.

Agony like he'd never known… the potion spilled down his face in corrosive tears, searing bubbling furrows.

Darkness swept in, the white light dwindling… somehow Beldar pushed away oblivion and took a step.

The room tilted and swayed. He took another cautious step. Glass crunched underfoot as he felt his way to the doorway.

Tears were glimmering in his remaining eye, but he could- just-see. There was no waiting sorcerer or priest, just a deserted, sagging gallery.

A deep-voiced shout called for more stone. Beldar turned back to the window, wistfully eyeing the Statue. He'd been too quick to destroy the beholder eye-and with it, his connection to the Walking Statues. Another load of stone, just one, might make a vital difference.

To his astonishment, the great construct stooped, gathered up rubble, and lowered it to the waiting dwarves. The Statue still obeyed his unspoken commands!

Too numb and pain-wracked to ponder this mystery, Beldar hefted his sword and staggered out into what was left of the Purple Silks.

If he survived this, he'd have to ask Taeros why ballads never mentioned how tired heroes got or how their victory battles seemed to never end.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The winecellar seemed endless. Beldar picked his way over bodies and more bodies, seeking his foes.

Two halflings faced him, weapons drawn. Beyond them a lantern flickered on the floor, shining on glimmering blue cloth, and showing him two faces he knew: the Dyre sisters.

Blue gemweave…

"Korvaun!" Beldar shouted. Crossed swords barred his way.

"Let him through," ordered Naoni.

Beldar went to his knees beside his oldest friend. It took only a glance to know that Korvaun Helmfast was dying.

The blue eyes gazing up at him were serene and clear. Korvaun smiled. "You're free. Your own man again."

Beldar touched his ruined face. "Such as I am."

"You must lead," his friend said faintly, "and not just the Gemcloaks." A spasm racked him, and he fell still.

Beldar looked helplessly at Naoni and Faendra Dyre. They gazed back, mute queries in their eyes. They were looking to him for guidance! Despite all he'd done and become…

Korvaun whispered abruptly, "I swore to carry this secret to my death. Lady Asper will not mind, perhaps, if I'm… somewhat previous."

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?"