Elfsong

Eight

Astride her magical asperii, Garnet sped through the sunrise clouds on her swift journey northward. Far below, she could see the spires of Silverymoon gleaming in the soft pink light, and the sight filled her with dark satisfaction. More than three moons had passed since she had last visited the wondrous city and cast the spell that bound the bards to her will. They had done their part admirably, and would soon prove the power of bardcraft.

From the vantage point of her wind-riding mount, Garnet spotted a narrow brown ribbon, the main trade route leading east from Silverymoon to Sundabar. She sent a silent command to her horse. The asperii followed the command without comment or complaint, but the telepathic creature’s thoughts were tightly closed to her. For a moment this irritated Garnet, but she had far too much on her mind to concern herself overmuch with her surly steed’s mood.

Before highsun the bard saw below her the stout gray walls that surrounded Sundabar. The city had been built long ago by dwarves and was still a heavily armed fortress. Once the site of the barding college known as Anstruth, it was still renowned for the fine wooden instruments crafted there. The city sat at the crossroad of the River Rauvin and the trade road, and beyond it were the thick forests that yielded lumber for the city’s craftspeople. More exotic woods were carried on the barges that traveled the busy river. From Garnet’s height, the cargo boats looked to be about the size of water bugs.

Another command from the bard sent the asperii into a spiraling descent Garnet landed openly on the trade road and entered the city without challenge, for bards were welcomed almost anywhere for their music and the news they carried.

As she traveled down the narrow cobblestone roads past the homes and shops of busy tradespeople, she found that Sundabar was greatly changed since she had last walked its streets, almost three hundred years before. As a very young noblewoman she had studied at Anstruth on her path toward the degree of Magnum Alumnus, the highest honor afforded a bard. Her years of study did not bring her to that goal, however, for a charismatic young bard had persuaded her to join the Harpers. While she ran about the Northlands doing the bidding of politicians such as Khelben, the barding colleges began their final slide into decline.

That Garnet could never forgive. The Harpers had originally been created, at least in part, to sustain tradition and preserve history, yet their efforts were ever directed to this or that political end. She would repay the lords and rulers in their own coin. Let Khelben and his ilk see what happened when music and history no longer served them and furthered their political games!

Finding her way through Sundabar was more difficult than Garnet had anticipated. The city through which she rode was now more concerned with commerce than art, and to her dismay she found that only one of Anstruth’s original buildings still stood: a concert hall whose stone walls had survived the passage of time. Rage coursed through the bard when she realized that the once-beautiful building had been gutted and turned into a common warehouse.

Nevertheless, she tied her horse outside and made her way to a door at the back of the building. Within she found stacks of lumber, and at one end of the vast room was a workshop equipped with lathes and bores that transformed wood into the fine musical instruments for which Sundabar was famed. A number of unfinished recorders, shawms, and wooden flutes lay on various work tables, but she was alone in the vast room.

The workers had just left, probably to take a highsun meal. Garnet’s sharp eyes—part of her inheritance from her elven mother—perceived the blurred and quickly fading shadows of warmth they had left behind. She had little time to complete her task. Garnet pulled up a low stool and seated herself in the midst of the workshop. Once again, she began to play the melody that bound magic and music together, singing the interwoven riddles that formed the words of the spell.

When the spell was complete, Garnet picked up her harp and hurried into the back alley. Impatient to test her new power, she set down the harp on the cobblestones and with her right hand plucked a single string. Her left hand she flung upward, lightning sizzled upward, disappearing into a low-hanging bank of clouds.

The rain began immediately. Garnet closed her eyes and raised her face to the soft shower, smiling as she imagined the reaction another such storm would cause in Waterdeep. Rain on Midsummer’s Day was such a rare event that it was considered a dire omen. She would use this superstition to fuel the growing discontent in Waterdeep, and she would spread rumors that the freak weather was due to the twisted wizardry of Khelben Arunsun. A small thing, perhaps, but Garnet knew that rulers had lost favor for less than this.

A stinging blow slapped Garnet’s cheek, and then another. Her eyes snapped open, then widened in disbelief. The rain had turned to hail! She ducked back into the doorway of the warehouse, out of the way of increasingly larger pieces of ice. As the appalled half-elf watched, the sky darkened to the color of slate and hail began to accumulate on the stone-paved alley.

Garnet hurried through the warehouse to the front post where she had left her asperii. She quickly untied the frightened, battered horse and drew it into the building, soothing it as best she could with soft words and projected mental assurances. The asperii quieted, and it fixed its liquid brown eyes on its mistress. For an instant the veil that the asperii had cast up between their two minds parted, and Garnet caught a glimpse of the horse’s fear and indecision.

For the first time, Garnet understood the significance of the asperii’s withdrawal; each magical horse only formed its telepathic, lifelong bond with a mage or priest of great power, and the asperii would not serve anyone whose goals or motives were evil. Garnet had never before doubted the rightness of her plan, and the quiet accusation in the asperii’s eyes struck her like a physical blow. Pain flashed in the half-elf’s chest and down her arm, and she sank gasping onto a nearby crate.

“I seek justice, not vengeance,” Garnet whispered to herself when the waves of pain had subsided. She looked up into the asperii’s eyes, and saw her twin reflections there as if in a dark mirror. “In all things, there must be a balance,” she said earnestly.

The horse merely blinked and turned its gaze toward the open door. After a moment Garnet also looked out at the plummeting hail. The silence between them was complete as they waited for the storm to play itself out.

It was uncanny, mused Jannaxil Serpentil, but sooner or later every scrap of stolen paper in Waterdeep seemed to come across his desk. The proprietor of Serpentil Books and Folios sold everything from spellbooks to love letters, but this latest find was something quite new.

Deftly sketched on the paper was a picture of Khelben Arunsun. The archmage stood before an easel, dabbing at the canvas with an oversized brush while the faceless, black-robed Lords of Waterdeep stood by, holding his palettes and brushes. By Deneir, it was clever! The artist had caught perfectly the mood and fears of the cityfolk, condensing much gossip and speculation into a single, vivid image.

Jannaxil scratched his thin black beard thoughtfully. The first secret of being a good fence—and he was very good indeed—was to have a buyer for nearly anything. No one in Waterdeep would be so foolish as to attempt to blackmail the archmage, but the fence could think of several people who might have an interest in this sketch.

He affixed the would-be seller, an apprentice instrument builder whose gambling debts far outstripped his earnings, with his most intimidating scowl. “Where did you find this?”

The young man licked his lips nervously. “One of Halambar’s patrons dropped it in the shop. I thought that, perhaps—”

“I doubt that you thought at all!” Jannaxil glanced at the sketch again and sniffed disdainfully. The second secret of success was knowing the value of an object, and then convincing the seller to accept far less. “Who would have a use for such a thing? I can give you three copper pieces, no more.”

Jannaxil pushed the coins toward the young man. “You have brought me a few interesting pieces in the past. These coppers are an investment, for I hope that you might do better in the future.”

“Yes, sir.” Halambar’s apprentice looked disappointed, but he gathered up the coins and left the shop.

Alone is his dusty, book-lined kingdom, Jannaxil finally gave vent to a dry chuckle. He was tempted to keep the sketch himself, although he was certain that the sorcerer Maaril would be delighted by the satirical jab at his more powerful colleague, and that the wizard would pay many pieces of silver to possess it.

The challenge in this transaction, Jannaxil mused, was finding a carrier foolhardy enough to take the drawing to the Dragon Tower. Maaril’s tower was actually shaped like a dragon, standing upright on its haunches with its mouth flung open as if ready to attack. Although the odd tower was a landmark that held great appeal for children and visitors—especially at night when the light within made the dragon’s eyes and mouth glow with a crimson fire—only the most intrepid ventured close enough for more than a peek. The tower was steeped in sinister magic, and even the streets surrounding it were dangerous.

Jannaxil pondered the matter for a long moment, then he smiled. A certain thief of his acquaintance had recently married into a clan of wealthy North End merchants. This family was newly come to wealth and were very conscious of their social position. Jannaxil knew the clan matriarch; she prized respectability above all and would not be accepting of her son-in-law’s colorful past Jannaxil was certain the erstwhile thief would do him this little favor, in exchange for continued discretion.

As Jannaxil had noted before, the secret to a fence’s success was knowing the right price of everything.

Music and Mayhem rode hard throughout the rest of the day, for they wanted to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the High Forest The afternoon fled, and by sunset they had left the marshlands behind.

The moon was high before they found a campsite that Elaith considered reasonably safe and defensible. While the elf and Balindar directed the care of horses and the making of camp, Danilo settled down by the campfire and removed the hard-won scroll of parchment from his magic bag. When Wyn Ashgrove saw what was in the Harper’s hands, he hurried over, with Morgalla close on his heels.

“Open it!” the elf urged, impatience and excitement in his dark green eyes. “Perhaps it will reveal who enspelled the bards!”

Danilo shook his head and pointed to the blob of dark red wax sealing the scroll. “Many spell scrolls are protected. Breaking this seal could set off something lethal: a fireball, a mind-blank spell, an irate redhead.…” Danilo illustrated the last possibility by tugging at one of the dwarf’s long auburn braids, teasing the fierce warrior as if she were a favorite younger sister. Morgalla rolled her eyes skyward and tried not to look pleased.

“So now what, bard?” she asked.

“There are tiny runes pressed into the wax,” Danilo said, holding the scroll close and squinting at it “The writing itself isn’t arcane, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a spell of some sort I don’t recognize the language.”

“Let me see.” Vartain strode over, extending one hand in a peremptory fashion. “Riddlemasters are of necessity students of linguistics and lore.”

Danilo gave him the scroll. “Read it if you can, but don’t disturb the seal,” he said firmly. “I like to limit myself to one explosion a day.”

The riddlemaster glanced at the runes. “This is a contrived dialect of middle Sespechian, a court language developed some three centuries past but long since fallen into disuse,” he announced in dry, didactic tones. “Upon the death of the ruling Baron of Sespech, the baroness took a young consort from Turmish. The man was reputed to be handsome beyond compare, but lacking facility in language. This bastardized dialect of Sespechian, which every member of court was required to learn, was the queen’s attempt to draw her new consort into the social and diplomatic concerns of court life.”

“The nice thing about dwarves and elves,” Morgalla interrupted plaintively, “is that generally we come to the point after an hour or two.”

“The words on this seal appear to be a riddle, and its title suggests that it is the key to the scroll,” Vartain continued in a stiff tone. “Translated into the Common tongue, making the necessary allowances for rhyme and meter, it would read something like this:

Wyn and Danilo exchanged puzzled glances. “Unriddling can be yet another form of magic,” Vartain informed them. “Solve the riddle, and you will very likely unseal the scroll.”

“By all means,” the Harper urged him.

“The answer,” Vartain said without hesitation, “is the letter E.”

Even as the riddlemaster spoke, the wax dissolved into red mist and disappeared. Vartain unrolled the scroll. After a moment’s study, he laid it out before the Harper.

The scroll contained only a few lines, written in the Common trade language. Danilo scanned the words. “This seems to be a single stanza of an unrhymed tale or ballad,” the Harper noted. “The meter has a definite pattern. I have absolutely no idea what the words mean.”

“The meaning has been carefully obscured,” Vartain said. “These lines contain several small riddles, woven warp and weft like a cloth. If I am not mistaken, this verse is but a part of the entire puzzle.” He read aloud several of the lines:

The riddlemaster stopped and looked up from the scroll. “The phrase ‘first of seven’ suggests that this stanza is but a part of a larger puzzle. ‘Silent strings’ is, I believe, another way of referring to a Harper pin, is it not?”

“Yes,” Danilo agreed quietly. “That is not widely known.”

“Indeed. I would therefore surmise that the author of this is either a scholar, such as myself, or more likely a Harper. Or perhaps both, although that combination is exceedingly rare.”

“No offense intended, of course,” Morgalla said pleasantly.

The riddlemaster pointed to the third line of text and continued with his explanation, showing a remarkable immunity to sarcasm. “Magic is oft referred to as a weave or a web. Perhaps the author is also a mage of some sort.”

Danilo reclaimed the scroll and rolled it up. “I agree. I’m taking this to Khelben Arunsun at once, so that he can trace the spellcaster. Wyn, Morgalla, let’s be off.”

“The horses need rest,” the dwarf pointed out, “and it’s a mite far to walk.”

The Harper touched a plain silver ring on his left hand. “This can magically transport up to three people and their mounts—quickly and painlessly, I assure you—to the courtyard of Blackstaff Tower.”

Morgalla blanched. “Did I say it was too far to walk?”

“Take ease, dwarf. You’re not leaving yet” Elaith’s cold voice cut short Morgalla’s protest.

Danilo turned, recoiling at the sight of the armed and ready mercenaries who had formed a close ring around them. Firelight glinted from their bared weapons. The Harper stood and confronted the grim-faced moon elf. “What is this about?”

“You and I had an agreement,” Elaith said. “Until the end of the search, we are partners and will work together.”

“But my search is complete; we have the scroll we sought”

“Maybe so. But our original agreement was that I would get a share of the dragon’s hoard. According to Vartain, the author of that scroll possesses the treasure I seek.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?” Wyn demanded.

“I think I can tell you that,” Dan said slowly. “When we challenged Grimnosh, Vartain requested that the dragon turn over an elven artifact he’d taken from Taskerleigh. Grimnosh said that he’d already traded the item ‘for a song,’ and commented that we were the first to respond to it. Vartain has evidently concluded that the song the dragon mentioned was the Ballad of Grimnoshtadrano, the one that brought us to the High Forest Since this ballad first appeared after the Silverymoon Spring Faire, I assume it was the handiwork of the spellcaster we seek.”

“That is the logic behind my assumption,” Vartain agreed.

“Obviously,” Danilo continued, nodding toward Elaith, “our well-armed partner here does not wish us to take the scroll to Waterdeep. If Khelben tracks down the spellcaster, Elaith would not be likely to retrieve this mysterious treasure. He no doubt wishes to find the spellcaster himself.” Danilo turned to the watchful moon elf. “My question is this: why do you need us? You needed a Harper to get the scroll from the dragon, but why now?”

Elaith was silent for a long moment. He studied Danilo with a measuring gaze. “You are truly a Harper? This is not some ridiculous game of the sort you Waterdhavian nobles like to play?”

“A game? If I start having fun on this quest,” Danilo assured the elf gravely, “I’ll certainly let you know.”

“And your pretensions to bardcraft? They are genuine as well?”

The nobleman sighed. “You’ve got me there. It’s hard to say yes or no. I’ve trained, certainly, but not in the traditional or even conventional ways. I haven’t attended the barding schools, obviously—they closed before my time—nor apprenticed to a bard of note. But my mother, the Lady Cassandra, is a gifted musician, and she insisted on the best teachers. They were all private, of course. I was much given to mischief as a lad, and several of Waterdeep’s finest schools repented of their decision to accept me as a scholar. In despair, Lady Cassandra took it upon herself to hire an army of tutors, including bards trained in the styles of each of the seven elder barding colleges. None of them stayed long, but I managed to learn a bit here and there.”

Danilo smiled engagingly. “And now that you know my life story, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this elven artifact you seek. I’d love to hear that tale.”

“After your life story? Hardly! It is said that there are some acts one should never attempt to follow. Dogs, children, jesters, and the like.” The moon elf’s amber eyes revealed nothing but a touch of mocking amusement

“Not going to admit to anything, eh? Well, I can understand that. You’ve got to preserve the elven mystique, and so forth. What puzzles me, though,” the young man added thoughtfully, “is what place your moonblade has in all of this.”

Elaith’s pleasant expression evaporated. “That is not your concern.”

“It is if we’re going to be partners.”

“We are partners. I require the services of a mage and a bard. You are not altogether without credentials.” Elaith’s lips thinned in a smile. “As a bard, you are no immediate threat to Storm Silverhand. You are, however, the best we can come up with under the circumstances.”

“The story of my life,” Danilo murmured.

“You’ve shown yourself capable of wielding a considerable amount of magic. A dragon has a powerful resistance to charm spells, yet you held him.”

“So?”

“The scroll is a riddle of sorts. Vartain can no doubt decipher it, but I have reason to believe that a knowledge of both magic and music might prove helpful to my search. I will spell out the terms of our partnership so that there is no further misunderstanding. We will combine our resources and talents until the scroll is deciphered and the spellcaster found. You may have whatever is necessary to undo the spell upon the bards, but I will take possession of the artifact. When that is accomplished, we part ways. This seems more than reasonable.”

It didn’t, but Danilo considered his options. He could see no other way to achieve his purpose, yet agreeing meant putting a powerful artifact in the evil elf’s hands. He had no idea what Elaith would do with it, except perhaps …

The moonblade. Somehow, the elf had learned of a way to restore the dormant magic of his elven sword! That had to be the answer; Danilo could see no other connection. This prospect was daunting, for he knew that each moonblade had unique and formidable powers. If this was indeed Elaith’s motive, one mystery remained: why would the elf go to such trouble to restore a sword he could never wield? He was the last of his line, and the sword would simply return to dormancy in his hand. What did the elf possibly have to gain? Of one thing Danilo was quite certain: Elaith had far too much power already without the added threat of either a restored moonblade or this mysterious elven artifact.

“Unfortunately, I have a previous commitment. The archmage of Waterdeep is expecting me, and he’s not one to be put off. So if you’ll excuse me?”

“No. We have an agreement.” The elf’s amber eyes narrowed. “I’m holding you to your word and your honor.”

Danilo paused, and the struggle of conflicting pledges was clearly written on his face.

“I’ll make it easier for you,” Elaith offered, and he turned to Balindar. “You seem fond of the dwarf’s company, so I’m placing her in your charge. If Lord Thann proves treacherous, kill her.” The black-bearded mercenary hesitated, then gave a terse nod.

“This is how you honor your agreements?” Danilo protested.

“My agreement is with you, not her. If you like, I will swear by whatever oath you choose that I will not raise a hand or weapon against you personally.”

“That’s vastly comforting.”

“Whatever else might be said of me, my word is still a pledge of honor,” the moon elf said with quiet dignity.

Danilo glanced toward Morgalla. She stood with arms crossed, glaring up at the huge mercenary who guarded her. Balindar had a rather sheepish expression on his black-bearded face, but he held a sword on the dwarf and would probably not hesitate to use it The Harper had little choice.

“Well?” the elf prompted. One silvery eyebrow quirked at a sardonic angle. “Have we a deal?”

“Agreed. I suppose.”

Elaith chuckled. “Such enthusiasm! Perhaps you are the sort who listens to rumors, that you fear to share the supposed fate of my former partners?” he taunted.

“A bard, listen to rumors? What a notion,” Dan marveled. “But now that you mention it, partner, should I be concerned?”

The elf thought that over. “Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.

After instructing Danilo to hand the scroll over to Vartain, Elaith told Balindar to stand down. The mercenary sheathed his sword with a profound sigh of relief, and nodded apologetically to Morgalla. Wyn Ashgrove, pale with fury and outrage, drew the dwarf safely away from the fighters, then he stalked off alone into the shadows. Danilo followed, fearing what the elven spellsinger might have in mind and hoping to calm him. Morgalla took a place at the far side of the camp and began to sketch furiously.

Left alone with his men, Elaith beckoned them close. “We take no chances,” the elf said in a cold voice. “Balindar, your order is not rescinded. If Lord Thann attempts to go his own way, the dwarf dies. The Harper understands that; see that you remember it, as well. And you,” he said, pointing to another of his men, “at first opportunity, steal Thann’s magic ring and give it to me. We don’t want him grabbing his precious dwarf and blinking out of here.”

“I?” balked the man.

“Don’t be coy,” Elaith snapped. “All of us here know that you’re a skilled thief. Use your skills as I command, and there should be no reason for others to share this knowledge. You would hardly be welcomed into the salons of Waterdeep or featured at Lady Raventree’s parties if it became known that you started life as a street urchin. Am I making myself clear?”

“Quite,” his victim replied with uncharacteristic brevity.

“Good. Mange, you and Tzadick take first watch. Balindar, guard the dwarf. Vartain, you and Thann start working on that scroll. The rest of you get what rest you can. I fear we’ve a hard road ahead.”

In the privacy of his rented villa, Lord Hhune of Tethyr savored a late supper with a few of the higher-ranking agents of the Knights of the Shield. He was almost jovial this evening, delighted with the unusual turn his trip to Waterdeep had taken. His initial dislike of Garnet had been set aside, for the role the half-elven sorceress had given him to play dovetailed beautifully with his own ambitions. Hhune was a guildmaster in his own land, and this splendid northern city had real potential. It lacked guilds for thieves and assassins, and these he was busily putting in place. Waterdeep was in some ways too well run for its own good: there were few powerful crime organizations to challenge Hhune’s activities.

Even Hhune’s immediate prospects were pleasant, for he was enjoying a thick oyster stew and the report of one of his best agents. The thin, furtive Amnite who was known only as Chachim always seemed to surpass expectations.

“As you ordered, the merchant named by Lady Thione as a Lord of Waterdeep is dead by my hand,” Chachim announced, predictably enough. “I followed him to the home of the wizard Maaril and slew him nearby. None saw the deed, for few venture near the Dragon Tower. I left the merchant’s body nearby in Blue Alley. If it is ever recovered, all will assume that he fell to one of the magical traps that guard the wizard’s tower.”

The agent paused and took a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. “This was taken from the merchant’s person. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Hhune unfolded the paper and burst into belly-shaking laughter. “Oh, but this is priceless! Who is the artist? I could use a hundred like this one!”

Chachim bowed. “I have anticipated your wish, Lord Hhune. There is a signmaker in the trade ward who will carve this drawing onto a block of wood for the small price of twenty gold pieces. After the block is carved, it is a simple matter to stamp as many copies as you would like.”

“Good, good!” Hhune nodded to his steward, who counted out the amount and handed it to Chachim. For good measure, Hhune handed the agent one of his own specially minted coins, commonly given as tribute to an agent who’d rendered a notable service. Chachim bowed again and left the chamber with the sketch and the gold.

The guildmaster chuckled. Although his assigned task was harrying the Lords of Waterdeep through increased criminal activity, he saw only benefit in furthering Garnet’s personal goal: deposing the archmage Khelben Arunsun. Circulating a sketch that poked fun at the archmage and stirred controversy could only secure the favor of the powerful half-elven sorceress.

“Let us drink to Waterdeep, my friends,” the guildmaster said expansively to his cohorts as he hoisted his tankard, “and to the day when the city will become truly ours.”