The Abduction

Forgotten Realms

Double Diamond Triangle Saga: The Abduction

Prelude

Reflections

How has this happened?

In one evening, I have been transformed from Piergeiron Paladinson, Open Lord of Waterdeep, into this … this inward-shrinking worm. Worse—my palace, my city, and my world have transformed around me.

My palace slumps into sand.

Waterdeep melts into air.

Toril sloughs away.

… I blame it on the dust. The will of dust has changed. The chorus of specks no longer sings, “I cling to thee.” Every mote has turned traitor. Rock becomes sand. Sand becomes dust. Dust becomes nothing at all. The particles have denounced their kinship. What once bound all to all is gone….

On, to sleep….

I should have expected transformations. After all, I had chosen to orbit a changeable star.

Eidola. She is changeable in all things—mood and mind, will and wont Only her beauty remains the same.

I comfort myself with the thought of her beauty.

Somewhere, her bright, silvery eyes look upon something. Somewhere, her long auburn hair casts its shadow on some rock or blade of grass. Her smile, with its thousand mysteries and thousand, thousand promises, somewhere enchants someone.

I tell myself that somewhere, she breathes She must breathe. Her beauty is eternal. It is the same beauty that Shaleen had, the beauty that lives on in Eidola….

No, I must not think that. Eidola’s beauty is her own. Eidola’s beauty is immortal.

She will not die like Shaleen.

Will not die, or has not died?What sorrows fill the transforming tense of words!

Oh, to sleep….

I met Eidola in a dream.

I wore full plate armour. My white stallion, Dreadnought, was resplendently barded. Even the summer woods had put on their best: velvet mosses, pendulous cones, carpets of gold…. Insects whispered in the heavy afternoon.

A scream shattered the stillness. It was a high, helpless sound. Someone was cornered, crying out in mortal terror. I halted Dreadnought. I listened. The woods were filled with ghost echoes. Then a damnable stillness settled.

Dreadnought huffed. His satiny back twitched.

A rustling came in the trailside trees. With it came another terrified scream.

A woman, I thought… a beautiful, helpless lady trapped in some old ruined tower… beset on all sides by blackguards… the stuff of dreams.

“Ho, Dreadnought,” I called.

The great stallion was already galloping toward the sound.

When I saw the woman at the tree, I thought of Shaleen. Her hair was the auburn of an autumn evening. Her teeth had the gleam of pearls. She was armoured in well-worn field plate.

And, like Shaleen, she was anything but helpless.

Ignoring me, the woman grabbed a tree in front of her and shook it. Another scream came from above.

I looked up, and saw a scaly kobold clinging there.

“You can’t have your money back!” the puny creature shouted. It shook its lizard like head and angrily jangled a coin purse.

I stepped down from Dreadnought. I walked toward the woman. “Unless that purse holds a fortune in gold, you’d best let him go, Shaleen.”

She cast a silent reproof my way, and shook the tree again.

In apology, I took out my battle-axe and began chopping the trunk. It shuddered with each blow and started to lean. I wiped sweat from my face and chopped again. Only when the tree crackled and fell did I look up toward the kobold.

It was gone. While I had chopped, the woman had used a snip of jerky to coax the thief down. Now, woman and monster sat side by side like old friends, eating meat and watching me sweat

I laughed and joined them.

She had lured a kobold and a man.

I became her willing captive.

Her name was Eidola. Is Eidola. Is, is! What sorrows fill me transforming tense of words!

She is gone. My benevolent captor is gone. My changeable star has fled, comet like, or winked out altogether. Perhaps her will has changed with the will of the dust, the fleeting and incomprehensible migration of minute attractions.

Oh, to sleep…

Laskar Nesher, a fat nobleman with an illicit logging empire, led his family toward the gate to Piergeiron’s palace. The brown waistcoat he wore was just snug enough to make him look like a bratwurst, and his jowls were red from chafing on his lapels. A slender consort clung to his side. She was half his age, one fifth his bulk, and twice as quick with coin. Behind them trudged a teenaged boy who oozed boredom and fashionable disaffection.

Laskar halted before the gate guard and presented his invitation:

Master and Friend Laskar Nesher. and Heir Kastonoph Nesher:

The honor of your presence is requested at the marriage of Piergeiron Paladinson, Open Lord of Waterdeep, and Eidola of Neverwinter, Descendant of Boarskyr. The wedding will take place the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Days of Eleint, this Year of the Haunting.

Please arrive by third watch on the Seventeenth, an hour before sunset. The feasting will begin at nightfall, the masked ball thereafter, as stomachs allow, and the nuptials at the stroke of midnight on the Eighteenth. Sandrew the Wise, Savant of Oghma at the Font of Knowledge, and Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, High Mage of Waterdeep, will officiate.

“Have you brought any weapons?” the guard asked levelly.

Laskar said, “Of course not We’d not bring—”

“I suppose I’d best surrender this,” broke in the youth, handing over a sheathed dagger. “And while you’re peace—stringing mine, you might as well do Fathers, too.”

Laskar Hushed, even redder than before. He struggled at his belt for a moment and handed over his once-hidden blade.

The guard finished tying the youth’s dagger into its sheath and did the same for the father’s. “Anything else?” Before Laskar could answer, a shadowy figure standing in the gateway said, “No. Nor do they bear any harmful magics.”

Startled. the Neshers turned. They had not noticed the black-robed and greybearded mage. The wizard gave a nod of approval to young Kastonoph.

The lad returned the nod, blood draining from his face. “Good evening. Lord Mage Arunsun,” he managed to say.

“Good evening to you,” replied the mage. “For your honesty, you, young Kastonoph, can call me Khelben, or. perhaps, Blackstaff.”

The lad stood a moment longer, gaping in disbelief. His father quickly gathered him in and herded the youth past the hawkeyed wizard and through the open gates.

Beyond lay a hall, high and bright. Slender pillars ran in colonnades along its sides. An elegant fan vault arched overhead. Across the polished floor of marble, silken gowns slid beside worsted robes of state. In one corner of the room, citterns and gitterns and fifes serenaded the guests, who added their happy babble to the music. The place overflowed with the sounds of the best people conversing with their betters.

“Another dull noble wedding.” groaned Kastonoph—or Noph as he was known to all but his father. His amazement was gone, replaced by a practiced mask of cynicism. “Common lads my age are out smiting dragons, making tragic deals with fiends, and rescuing their ladyloves from warlocks.”

Laskar rarely listened to his discontented offspring. For decades, the man had heeded nothing but the jingle of coins. “Please don’t make your presence at this affair more scandalous than your absence would have been.” Laskar had coined this turn of phrase some five years back. He liked it so well, he used it every chance he got.

Noph made a rude sign as he scratched his cheek.

His father’s consort knew the boy at least as well as she did the man. “Noph, why don’t you take a look about?

There’s no more dangerous company in Undermountain than you’ll find here in the palace tonight.”

Noph blinked at her. Though he hated Stelar for openly squandering his father’s money—Noph’s own inheritance the woman was perceptive, shrewd, scandalously fun, and at five years his elder, an honest beauty. Noph knew she was trying to get rid of him, but he halfexpected she spoke the truth about the perils in Piergeiron’s palace.

Nodding knowingly to her, he made a quick exit. The heir of the Nesher estate had just rounded one slim column of the room when be heard his father’s voice ask, “Where’s that brat off to now?”

Stelar’s reply was appeasing. “Oh, off to save Faerun again, I’m sure.”

*****

The white-suited groom, Piergeiron Paladinson, and his eight-foot-tall bodyguard, Madieron Sunderstone, headed past banqueting tables filled with nobles and guildmasters. Or, at least, they tried to head past. Every one of the guests stopped Piergeiron to ask a favor.

The guests had been sitting long enough to become entrenched and fidgety. Forks, knives, and other weaponry lay tantalizingly close. Roasted boar taunted from steaming platters. The very air smelled of opportunity—all of it just out of reach. This combination of heightened appetites and suppressed activities conspired to make the guests aggressive, suspicious, and covetous of Piergeiron’s attentions. Until they could feast on boar, they would dine on groom.

First had been the Neshers—lumber money of the most vulgar kind. Piergeiron noted the conspicuous absence of their ever-prodigal son, Noph, the most pleasant member of an unpleasant crew. Laskar Nesher ended his greeting with a request to be moved closer to the elven nobles of the High Forest. He hoped to “trick the longears” into bartering away logging rights.

Ever the diplomat, Piergeiron answered with a tactful version of, “Not if Ao himself commanded it.” The elves, perhaps not out of longear-shot, insinuated that at Piergeiron’s next wedding, he should avoid inviting tree killers and stone hackers.

To that, the Open Lord replied enigmatically that many current guests would be excluded, should there be a “next wedding.”

As to the stone hackers—dwarves who considered themselves descended from Delzoun—they requested only prompter refills of their ale mugs. Already, they had drained a quarter barrel apiece!

Piergeiron sighed and ruefully rubbed his shock of black hair. There would be a few more tufts of gray in it after tonight. Surviving his own wedding, and making sure the rest of the celebrants did, would be his greatest feat of statesmanship yet.

“I will arrange for a tapped barrel to be placed on your table,” he told the dwarves before continuing on.

Not all the annoyances were this harmless. After departing the dwarves and before encountering the next barrage, Piergeiron turned to his mop-headed bodyguard.

“Keep your eyes sharp.”

That advice seemed ill-considered, given the sheepdog locks dangling in Madieron’s eyes, but the bodyguard nodded dutifully.

Piergeiron continued. “I’ve gotten wind of plots against the trade pact. It must be sealed tonight. Some factions would cause any disturbance to prevent it. But, more than the pact, I fear for Eidola. Guarding me means keeping one eye on her.”

Madieron’s eyes struggled askew beneath his bangs. “Got it, milord” he said.

The Open Lord nodded dubiously. Madieron was a good man, as steady, strong, patient, and smart as a rock. Piergeiron was his close match in battle, but tonight he’d supply the more cerebral virtues for the pair. Between the two of them, they were ready for anything.

A tremendous clangour of silver tea services and overturned platters rang from the end of the banquet hall, along with a shriek that stilled the chatter and bustle of the party.

With none of their previous decorum, Piergeiron and his bodyguard shouldered past the guests, who were too busy gasping or rising to their feet to detain them. The room went deathly silent except for the scud of chairs, the clank of Madieron’s war-shod feet, and the sound of angry voices—three male and one… one…

“Eidola,” Piergeiron croaked out, rushing toward his bride.

His cry, hoarse though it was, settled all din for a moment. Piergeiron pushed past the wall of gawkers that had formed around the disturbance. Beyond was a strange tableau.

Eidola stood at her place setting, fury on her face. Her ire was directed at a little hooded fellow whose arms were pinned back by a pair of door guards. The centre of Eidola’s magnificent gown was stained with tea—ruined satin amid wet pearls and lace.

In three rapid strides, Piergeiron had reached the cowled man and flung back his hood. The face that appeared had a koboldesque quality—wide-eyed, feckless, and scaled with acne—but it belonged to an all-toohuman wizard

“Forgive me,” the adept pleaded piteously, tears running down his face. “I-I just wanted to help.”

“Help?” raged one of the guards. “Look at the lady’s dress. It is ruined!”

The lad had the smell of honesty about him—honesty in the form of sheer terror. Piergeiron laid a massive hand on his shoulder and rumbled, “Speak, lad—the truth. You’ll be punished for whatever you’ve done here, but will be punished for more than that if you lie.”

Blood drained from the young mage’s cheeks. “Sire, she’d told her maidservant that the tea was cold. I cast a little spell to warm it—”

“Spells are forbidden, as are loose weapons,” Piergeiron said”That alone is grave offence.”

“I know, I know,” cried the lad miserably. “But I only wanted to help. The maidservant was so frightened by my hand gestures, she dumped the platter, all over—” his trembling hand indicated where the tea had landed.

Piergeiron scowled. This lad was either an accomplished actor or a novice adept. “Where is the maidservant?”

The mage glanced from side to side, at a loss. “She was here a moment ago. I could have sworn—”

With an impulsive whirl of her tea-stained petticoats, Eidola spun and hurried off to her chambers.

“Guards, take this man to the dungeons for questioning,” Piergeiron said. He turned to his ever-present bodyguard. “Madieron, you go with them. I’m off on private business.”

The man-mountain nodded his haystack of hair and followed the guards.

Meanwhile Piergeiron turned and stalked after Eidola, his heart rumbling strangely. “I’m right behind you!” he called to his bride. He passed into the vestibule beyond, Eidola’s skirts rustling ahead of him.