"See through my wards? Impossible, unless he's bearing focus items-and those we'll have off him, 'for his own protection,' of course, before we start." Golskyn's beholder eye seemed to glow, just for an instant. "After we do the graft, he'll either be dead or ours, won't he?"
Father and son stared into each other's eyes for a moment, then nodded in curt unison.
Together they turned to face Beldar Roaringhorn.
"My son is concerned with the magic that has been expended in this room and the state of the warding-spells around it," Golskyn announced. "Do you still want to forever lose one of your eyes-at some small risk to your life-and gain a beholder's eye in its place?"
Beldar raised an eyebrow. "After willingly walking into a beholders' den to get it? Of course."
"Then I am willing to do it. Here and now. Are you also ready?"
The youngest Lord Roaringhorn nodded, folding his arms across his chest to hide his nervousness. "I am."
"Mrelder," Golskyn murmured, "fetch what we'll need."
Beckoning the noble with two of his tentacles, he pointed at the floor. "Remove every item you wear or carry that bears the slightest magic," he ordered, "and leave them outside the doorway before you lie down here. Everything. If you're not sure about something, remove it: The intrusions of stray spells can be disastrous."
Beldar stared at him then began disrobing. He was down to little more than a silken clout before he was done.
By then, Mrelder had cleared ruined furniture out of the way and laid a clean cloth on the floor, carefully keeping his distance from the silent, motionless beholder all the while. A silent crowd of Amalgamation believers had gathered at the doorway. Golskyn held up a hand to keep them there.
Beldar settled himself on the cloth as the priest and his son peered at the immobile gauth.
"That one, that, and this are sufficiently extended," Golskyn murmured. "I believe I recall what those two hurled my way; what do you recall?"
"That one wounds by spell, not fire," the sorcerer replied, pointing.
"Then that's the one we want," Golskyn decided. He glanced at Mrelder, who held up the delicate ring. Bound into the graft-practically in Beldar Roaringhorn's brain-the Guardian's Gorget would give him control over the Walking Statures, and spells would give the priest control over him. If Mrelder's spells were laid deftly enough, Roaringhorn need not know that until it became necessary to violently force him to do something-or refrain from doing something.
Stepping back, Golskyn ordered, "Begin."
Mrelder carefully set the ring on what was left of a table behind him, spread his hands, and muttered the incantation that would attune him to the least of the many wards in this chamber-the only one Golskyn had allowed him to cast.
It responded, the air itself seeming to shift in silent, ponderous solidity in a far corner of the room. Sweat suddenly glistened on Mrelder's face as he turned the unseen ward with slow, deliberate care, bringing it toward the trapped gauth at just the right angle.
Wards crafted in a certain way, with sharp edges rather than a fading, clinging field, could cut like the sharpest sword-if, that is, a sword could shear through anything: stone, metal… beholder eyestalks…
Golskyn held out his hands, palms up, and muttered the prayer that would cause one of the other wards to gently catch and hold the severed eye.
Beldar Roaringhorn lay on his back, waiting, the air cold on his skin, wondering how much this was going to hurt and if it was his first step toward glory or if he was making the worst-perhaps the last-mistake of his life.
Mrelder drew in a loud, shuddering breath. Sweat was almost blinding him, now, dripping off his nose in a steady stream. He blinked furiously; until that ward was back in place, bonded once more to its neighbors, he dared not flinch or falter-unless he wanted to bring the house down in a deadly heap of falling stones that would kill everyone in it and probably open a new shaft down into deepest Undermountain, too…
A tiny chip of stone Golskyn knew nothing about was ready in Mrelder's belt, the putty that would hold it inside the oval of the ring already stuck to it-and one of his father's hairs was thoroughly tamped into that putty.
He'd cast seven spells on that lone hair, trusting in something he'd read at Candlekeep. Each magic captured his father's hand, or reflection, or some deed or property of Golskyn of the Gods as if from Golskyn's own viewpoint. If Watchful Order magists, or Mystra forefend, the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep, probed the ring in time to come, Mrelder wanted them to see nothing at all of a certain young sorcerer and a lot about a man who called himself Lord Unity.
That time of reckoning might not be all that far off. From what little he'd seen of the high and mighty of Waterdeep-not the strutting nobles, but those who held real power at the Palace and over magic and the defenses of the City of Splendors-Mrelder was stone cold certain of one thing: any attempt to control a Walking Statue would instantly awaken the full awareness and wrath of the Lords, the City Guard, and the Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep.
When that happened, the son of Lord Unity wanted his father and his fellow ambitious fools of Amalgamation to face the spell-storm-not Mrelder the sorcerer.
Golskyn was on his knees, hands spread like reaching claws over Roaringhorn's face. He allowed only himself to do the deft spell-surgery that would cost the noble his right eye, and bind the beholder orb floating bloodily at hand into its place.
Magic flared up bright and white, the priest murmured, "Close your left eye and keep it closed," and blood fountained.
Everyone standing in the doorway drew in a breath at the same moment in what was almost a gasp.
Then a trembling, sweating Beldar Roaringhorn strained suddenly against the knees-Mrelder's-that were pinning down his wrists. As the grafting began, he gasped out a ragged curse.
The sound of distant temple bells drifted in through the open windows of the Dyres' front room, the sixth chiming since highsun. Lark polished the silver candlesticks one last time and stepped back to survey the funeral spread critically.
Neat rows of mugs stood ready beside a barrel of ale, and heaped plates of almond cakes were arranged down the polished table. Naoni and Faendra stood ready to serve the traditional fare, clad in softly flowing gray gowns, the traditional family mourning hue.
That was Naoni's idea, and Lark thought it clever. When Master Dyre's workmen came from the City of the Dead, they'd see how Cael was being honored and hear the silent message that they, too, were regarded as family. Given such encouragement, they should linger long and drink freely.
Lark turned to her mistresses. "You're certain you don't want me to stay?"
Naoni shook her head. "Things are well in hand." Leaning close, she whispered, "Faen'll serve the men warmly; she knows how fine she looks in that gown."
They traded grins. "Off with you, then," Naoni added more loudly. "'Twon't do to be late on your second night at the Notch."
Lark undid her apron and put it in Naoni's hand. "There's something you should know," she said softly. "All day someone's been following us."
Naoni smiled gently. "My halfling guardians."
"Not so." Faendra's hearing was very keen when she wanted it to be. "I glimpsed him, too-never a really good look, but 'twas a man, not a halfling."
"I see," Naoni murmured, looking at her bruised wrists. "Perhaps we shouldn't tell Father. You saw him when he heard about the street battle; I don't want to worry him."
Lark frowned. "Mayhap you should worry him. If he minded his own family more, he might have less time to poke about in the Lords' business." Remembering Elaith Craulnober's demands, she asked, "Speaking of which, where's he steering the New Day now? He's not one to take deaths of his men lightly."