in the night It is the silver margin between dark and day. 'Tomorrow.'
The sound of that single word makes my heart break. “Tomorrow,' I echo.
Apologies and fears well up inside me, but no words. There is only gushing emotion-shame, longing, regret, passion, hopelessness…
“Tomorrow, I am a woman,' Shaleen says.
She nestles against me. At her touch, the dread and fear amalgamate into something greater, something new. My trembling stops. I draw a long, contented breath. 'Tomorrow, Iam a man.' The music begins, unstoppable.
The trump sounds.
The drums cadence like thunder.
The fragmented sanctuary returns around me.
I am dizzy.
I am lost, here in my own palace, my own wedding, my own life.
It is tomorrow.
Everything has changed, for better or for worse.
Chapter 4
The sanctuary glowed with the light of a thousand candles.
They stood ensconced along the limestone walls. They topped candle stands, lit aisles, and flickered in votive constellations at the feet of statued heroes. They bathed everything at the human level in suffused light, but left the heads of the statues, the vault above, and every other heavenly thing in darkness.
Benches of black walnut bent ever so slightly beneath the burden of nobles, guildmasters, ambassadors. The sanctuary was full, and only half the guests had been seated. The others would stand in the narthex, craning to hear and see.
Pipes, trumpets, and drums blasted out the bridal march. The ceremony had begun.
It was too late to stop the shapeshifters.
By the time Captain Rulathon had found Khelben in the wedding crowd and warned him that one or all of the bride's attendants were shapeshifters, Eidola was walking down the sanctuary aisle.
Khelben cast quick magics to win past the elaborate wards that masked the women.
'You are right. She is accompanied by eight monsters ' said the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, incredulously watching the attendants sashay down the aisle.
The shapeshifters glided along beside the bride. None was more than a claw's length away from her, a breath away from their prey,
'What do we do?' Rulathon whispered. 'Can't you flash them all away into sifting soot?'
Khelben grimaced. 'No. They are too close to the bride, and the guests. Still, we might have a chance if…' His words fell to mutterings, Rulathon gazed intently at the mage's face.
'It's a long walk up the aisle, girls,' Khelben thought aloud. 'If I can't beat you, I may as well join you…'
He murmured something else and swept an arcane gesture down his torso. With a pop that was barely audible over the pipes and trumpets, the black-robed and greybearded mage was replaced by a slim ivory-garbed attendant.
The lass gave Rulathon a very Khelbenesque wink. She hurried forward, her stride somewhat more businesslike and determined than those of her comrades. She caught up to the smiling cluster and began her own smile.
It was a toothy grimace. Through it came a growled warning, magically sounding in the ears of the attendants:
Hello, shapeshifters. This is the Blackstaff speaking to you. Congratulations for living this long. Stay in your current forms and fall back behind the bride's train, and you will live longer, still. There was no sign that the creatures had heard him, except that their pace slackened. Eidola moved forward, out of arm's reach.
Unfortunately, thought Khelben, shapeshifters have a knack for growing things longer than arms.
Very good. Sisters, the Blackstaff hissed to them. You've no doubt felt the spell blades I've conjured within your bellies. As long as you make no sudden moves and stay in your current forms, those daggers probably won't cut anything vital.
The pace of the party slowed even more.
Khelben's smile deepened. Now, let's chat about who you are and what you are doing here. Piergeiron thinks you are malaugrym. I have a notion you are somewhat worse. Am I right?
Eight coiffured heads nodded on their lovely necks.
I thought so. And as to what that something is… let's repair to the crying room for a little talk…
Bagpipes shrieked their solemn songs, drummers cracked sticks against skins, corpulent and decadent nobles turned about in their seats to gawk at the spectacle of flower-decked maidens and flag bearers. The bride and her attendants glided down the aisle. Benches groaned when Waterdeep's powers-that-be rose on their own legs to nod benevolently…
Standing among them, Noph saw his father a few rows back. Laskar's sycophantic smile was worst of all. His teeth seemed to spell out the word blackmail.
Noph felt ill. He looked away from his erstwhile father, and also from the bride. Her secret past, whatever it was, made her white gown a travesty. Surely there was someplace in me sanctuary he could stare without getting sick.
The Eye of Ao. The ancient panel of stained glass hung high in the wall above the chancel. The huge eye was a splendid piece of craftsmanship, backlit by a loft of flickering candles. The eye was luminous, alive. Even its pupil glinted with capricious light.
Its pupil? The Eye of Ao was supposed to have an empty pupil. The hole symbolized the place of dark mysteries through which all mortals flew after death.
How could an empty space reflect light?
Then Noph saw: the triangular glint of light came from an arrowhead poised in the opening.
'Damn' Noph swore aloud.
The nobles around him turned and glared. Noph turned curse into a cough. The guests blinked and looked away. Noph continued coughing, sputtering, gagging. He pulled out a kerchief and tried unsuccessfully to contain the fit
'Excuse me,' he muttered hoarsely, and pushed his way toward the side aisle.
Nobles happily let him pass, some shying from him as though he carried a plague. In moments, Noph was free. He hurried down the side aisle toward the nearest door. It led to a set of stairs going up.
Noph bolted up the stairs, hoping he could find his way to the Eye of Ao before Lady Eidola flew through it in death.
Piergeiron stood uneasily at the front of the sanctuary and watched his bride approach. She moved with constant, stately grace. The smile on her face seemed one part joy and one part wry discomfort. He wondered if she felt as troubled as he…
Something was very wrong here. Piergeiron could not dismiss the dizzy dread. It was almost unbearable. Worst of all, he could do nothing to combat it. He could only stand, smile distressedly, and hope-hope that whatever plots had been hatched would fail, or would not come into being until he and Eidola were lawfully wed.
Beyond Eidola, her attendants slowed and stopped. They curtseyed once, their bodies rigidly upright, and began to back slowly away.
Where were they going? They were supposed to accompany Eidola to the altar. Did they back away because
