Elfsong

Ten

Danilo and his elven companions lingered in the Lusty Wench through the evening hours and long into the night. When the black night sky began to fade to indigo and the last of the stars disappeared, many patrons of the Lusty Wench festhall and tavern were still enjoying the justly famed fortified wine, the exotic entertainment, and the company of the tavern’s resident escorts. The Harper and his associates walked out into the dark and silent streets of Sundabar considerably poorer of coin, but with a good deal of information.

The freak summer storm had covered only a part of Sundabar. The trades district was hardest hit—Danilo privately noted that the site of the barding college was located in the very center of this area—with violent thunderstorms and hail. Various explanations were offered, but most of the tavern’s patrons considered the strange Midsummer weather to be an evil omen.

More important, sentries had spoken of a bard who had entered the city that morning, carrying a small dark harp and riding a snow-white asperii. No one could give details of her appearance, except that she was small and swathed in a light cloak.

“A sorceress of power could command an asperii,” Danilo mused as they walked down the dark street, “but an asperii will not willingly serve one who embraces evil. It’s hard to believe that our foe has the benefit of the Northlands in mind!”

“We’ve learned all we can here,” Wyn said impatiently. “Let’s return at once. I need to have a look at the riddle scroll.”

Danilo stopped and studied the minstrel. “What do you expect to find?”

“I’m not sure. I just feel that we may have been missing something important,” was all that the elf would say, shooting a pointed glance in Elaith’s direction. Danilo took the hint and left the matter for a later discussion.

The Harper led the elves into a nearby alley and again called upon the magic of his ring. When the whirling light faded, they found themselves in the ruined garden where they’d met up days before.

The signs of battle were still visible in the faint light that preceded dawn. Three mounds of soft earth marked the places where they’d buried the fallen mercenaries, and at the far corner of the garden a bonfire had reduced the dead harpies to a pile of foul-smelling bones and ashes.

“Why have you brought us here?” Elaith snarled, taking in the scene with distaste. “We were supposed to meet the others near Ganstar’s Creek!”

“Magical travel is reliable only if the destination is known. I could have tried for the creek, but at the risk of ending up being a permanent part of the landscape. Imagine a tree wearing your ears for knotholes, and you’ve got the general idea.”

The elf hissed with exasperation and turned to leave.

“Wait!” shrieked a voice behind them, edged with hysteria. The elven hermit came loping from an abandoned building, his tattered rags fluttering around him. “Coming along I be,” he said, casting a pleading look at Elaith. “You be seeking the Morninglark, and dance to the harp I do.”

Wyn Ashgrove looked sharply at the disheveled elf. “The Morninglark! What have you do to with the Harp of Ingrival?”

The hermit’s ravaged face suddenly appeared very sane, and his violet eyes held a lifetime of sadness. “I have nothing more to do with the harp, but it has everything to do with me. Hayed it I did.”

Wyn looked closer. His lips moved in a silent oath, and his eyes widened in awe. “You are Ingrival, are you not?” he asked the hermit in a tone of great respect

“It may be that I am. I remember not my name,” came the sad response.

“What’s going on, Wyn?” Danilo asked softly.

“The Morninglark is an ancient elven harp, an artifact crafted in the early days of Myth Drannor,” the elf said in an aside. “It is considered too powerful to be played by any but the most skilled spellsingers. For centuries it has been safe in the possession of Ingrival, a famous musician. He went into seclusion and has not been heard from for many years. The harp was thought to be lost”

Wyn turned to Elaith, who had been standing by listening impassively. “This is what you seek, isn’t it? The Morninglark?” he demanded in an accusing voice.

“What is that to you?”

“The harp is sacred to the People. It is not a treasure, and it is not a tool. Its power is not to be used for gain!”

“My motives are not your concern,” Elaith said with icy finality.

“But your actions are.” Shaking with indignation, Wyn faced down the moon elf. “You knew, or at least suspected, the identity of this elf. He is exiled not by choice, but by misfortune. That you would abandon anyone—especially a fellow elf—to a life of solitude and madness! That is vile enough, but you turned away from a hero of the People!”

The minstrel spun away from Elaith and spoke to Danilo. “We must take this unfortunate elf with us to Waterdeep. The priests at the pantheon temple will care for him, and perhaps bring him a measure of healing. They are holy elves, and they take in the infirm and the outcast”

From the corner of his eye, Danilo saw Elaith recoil at Wyn’s words. For an instant the rogue elf looked deeply stricken, then his usual expression of mocking humor came down over his pained face like a curtain. Danilo tucked this strange reaction away for future reflection, and he nodded his approval of Wyn’s plan.

“You are welcome in our midst, friend elf,” the Harper said to the one Wyn had called Ingrival. “As it turns out, the patriarch of the elven temple owes me a favor, but I’m sure the good priest would accept you for your own sake.”

The hermit’s face lit up beneath its crust of dirt Then he let out a shriek of pure terror and dove into a thicket of bushes.

Danilo was the first to see the gigantic shadow approach, cast long by the slanting rays of early morning. Instinctively he ducked, then twisted to look up into the sky. Circling high above the abandoned village was an enormous winged creature. Although it looked like a harmless—if huge—lark, it was clearly a bird of prey, for it carried a deer in its talons as easily as a hawk would a field mouse.

“What now?” Elaith muttered as he readied an arrow.

“Hold your fire,” Danilo commanded. He took the lute strap off his shoulder and quickly checked the instrument’s tuning. “Whatever that thing is, it’s too big to be brought down like that”

He began to play the introduction to the song that had lulled the dragon, hoping it would have the same effect on this creature. Wyn took his lyre and joined in with the musical spell. From far above, the magic-bearing melody bounced back to them, echoed by a trilling, avian voice. The eerie sound raised the hair on the back of Danilo’s neck and sent a shiver of fear down his back. Nevertheless, he continued to sing.

As if drawn by the music, the enormous creature dove down into the clearing and landed on the sagging roof of the abandoned farmhouse. Leaving its torn prey draped over a gable, the monstrous songbird swooped into the garden and landed a few paces from the spellsingers.

Roughly the size of a war-horse, the beast had the form and the distinctive gray-and-white-speckled feathers of a mockinglark, a morning lark who imitated the song of other birds. But this creature also had the lethal talons and hooked beak of an eagle, and in the center of its head was a single enormous eye, as glossy and black as obsidian.

It made no move to attack, and it cocked its head quizzically as it listened to the magical song. Again it joined in, warbling along in perfect imitation of Wyn’s soaring countertenor. As the bizarre trio continued, Danilo noticed that the bird was blinking more and more frequently, its enormous eyelids meeting in the center of the shining black orb. The blinking became more languid as the creature sang itself to sleep. Finally the eye stayed closed, and the bird’s song faded into a regular, prolonged chirruping. The avian version of a snore, Danilo noted with deep relief. He ended the song and ran his shaking fingers through his hair.

“The power of elfsong at work,” he said with quiet emphasis, nodding toward the slumbering monster. “This is how it could be used.”

Wyn lowered his instrument and took a deep breath. Before he could speak, Elaith walked up to enormous songbird. The moon elf drew his sword and slashed the sleeping creature once across the throat.

Indignation flooded the minstrel’s face. “That was wanton and unnecessary! The creature was no danger to us, and no elf ever willingly kills a songbird!”

“I am an elf, the bird sang, and it is dead,” Elaith pointed out coldly. “Perhaps you should review the facts and reconsider your conclusion. Now, if you two wish to linger in this charnel house, that is your concern. I’m joining the others at the creek.” With that, the elf leaped nimbly over a broken stone wall and ran lightly toward the south.

Wyn’s green eyes burned with wrath, and he looked as if he did not quite trust himself to speak.

“In this particular matter, I wouldn’t be too hard on our silver-haired friend,” Danilo said. “I’ve learned enough about elven traditions to know how you folk feel about the destruction of living trees and harmless creatures, but you’ve got to admit that this was no ordinary songbird. Perhaps Elaith’s reaction was extreme, but it was not entirely unwarranted.”

“It’s not that alone. Elaith Craulnober violates elven mores and traditions at every turn. He is lawless and amoral.”

“Really! Just picking up on that, are we?”

“But he is an elf!” The protest burst from Wyn with the force of a shattered icon.

Danilo sighed heavily. “You left Evermeet when you were very young, did you not? Since then you have traveled exclusively among mankind.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“The eyes of youth perceive only sunshine and shadows. A thing is right and good, or it isn’t.” The Harper smiled ruefully. “I am prone to that sort of thinking myself, so I do not judge you. As I am fast learning, sometimes one must simply do the best thing possible under the circumstances. If humans have a strength that sets us apart from elves, it is that knowledge. Of course, that is also our weakness,” he added in a wry tone. “You’d do well not to trust the moon elf, but perhaps you should understand why he is what he is.”

In a few words, Danilo told the story of Elaith’s dormant moonblade and his self-imposed exile from Evermeet. “What drives him now I do not know, but of one thing I’m sure: in his heart Elaith Craulnober is as deeply and fully elven as you are. No one who saw him dance the magic linking star and steel could doubt that. Unfortunately, being an elf and being virtuous are not necessarily one and the same. Most people tend to forget that, and this is one reason why Elaith’s career has been so successful.”

“You have made your point.” Wyn studied the Harper. “You seem to know and understand a good deal about the elven people.”

“I ought to. For two years, I traveled with a half-elf who was raised in Evereska, amid elven people and customs. She considers herself more elf than human, although in my opinion she embodies the superlatives of both races.”

“I see.” Wyn smiled faintly. “It can be difficult to love someone so different from oneself.”

“Wait a minute. Did I say that?”

“You didn’t need to. Your loss is recent and deep, and it is in your eyes whenever you sing. Perhaps that accounts in part for your wisdom.”

“If I were all that wise, I wouldn’t be standing around in a place like this, blathering on like a five-copper sage,” Danilo said, distinctly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. “Let’s get back to the others. Come with us, friend elf,” he called, and at his summons the hermit promptly crawled out from his hiding place in the bushes.

The three of them walked in silence for some time, each deep in his own thoughts. At the crest of a large hill, the camp came into sight, nestled in a clearing bounded by Ganstar’s Creek to the west, and thick woodland to the east. Apparently Elaith was impatient to be off, for the horses were saddled and the gear packed. The cookfire had been doused, but the scent of woodsmoke and roasted fish lingered in the air.

Wyn paused at the crest of the hill and laid a hand on the Harper’s shoulder. “Elaith Craulnober was correct about one thing: it is time for me to reconsider my thinking about elves and humans. You would wield the Morninglark with more honor than either Elaith or the elf who now possesses it I will do all I can to help you recover the artifact And if you still desire to learn elfsong, Danilo Thann, then it would be my honor to teach you.”

Before the startled Harper could answer, Wyn’s face turned ashen, and he pointed to the sky. “The asperii! There it is!”

Danilo squinted in the direction Wyn was pointing, but his eyes were not as keen as the elf’s. He thought that the small moving spot could just as well have been a bird. “You’re sure?”

“He’s sure,” the elven hermit said, peering up at the sky. “Flying horse, no wings. See you later!” He scampered off into the woods nearby.

Wyn’s golden face clouded with concern. “The campsite below is surrounded with trees. From this hillside we can see much farther than the others! If this is an attack, they’ll never see it coming.”

“Maybe the sorceress is just passing by on her way to Waterdeep?”

Wyn shook his head and ran one hand through his ebony curls in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “Look. The asperii is circling.”

High above Ganstar’s Creek, Garnet ordered her exhausted asperii to circle the camp. From her vantage point in the sky, the adventurers looked like so many ants as they moved busily about the clearing. The half-elf’s blue eyes narrowed as she considered the site. The camp was surrounded by verdant woodland. She smiled slowly, and silently bid the asperii to begin a spiraling descent.

The bard took the Morninglark harp into her arms and began to play, singing the words that had laid waste the Moonshaes’ vineyards and the farmlands around Waterdeep. In response to her song, the trees surrounding the encampment shuddered and died. It was as if autumn came in the span of two heartbeats, and a hundred trees cast their leaves.

Next, Garnet struck a single string on her harp and pointed a finger at the camp. A stream of air spiraled downward toward the clearing.

“Damn,” Danilo said emphatically, as he and Wyn squinted up at the circling asperii. “If you know an elfsong suitable for the occasion, I suggest you sing it!”

Wyn looked dubious, but he took up the lyre. The first blast of wind tore the magical instrument from his hands and knocked his feet out from under him. Danilo threw himself flat and gripped the elf’s ankle. He barely had time to lock his own ankles around a young birch before the maelstrom began in earnest.

Howling as if in torment, the wind tore through the trees, growing in volume and speed until it threatened to suck the slight elf into its vortex. Danilo closed his eyes against the churning dust and debris, and he held on to the airborne minstrel with all his strength.

“As Mielikki is my witness, I hope this elf has a competent cobbler,” Danilo muttered as he clung to Wyn’s boot with both hands.

Flying high above the wind, Garnet watched as the giant whirlwind engulfed the clearing. The tiny figures huddled together in the eye of the magical storm, while the tunnel of air around them sucked in leaves and broken branches. The sorceress waited until the whirling debris formed a massive wall. Then, with a quick snapping motion, she clenched her outstretched hand. The wind tunnel collapsed, burying the dangerous riddlemaster and his traveling companions in a pile of rotting foliage.

Garnet commanded the asperii to swoop down closer, and she nodded in satisfaction at the size of the pile. No one could survive in there for more than a few minutes. She urged the asperii away from the clearing, and as they flew she sang the song that twisted living creatures into music-wielding monsters. A cricket the size of a moor hound crawled out of the blighted woodlands, burrowing into the pile of debris in search of food.

Not yet satisfied, Garnet flew northwest toward the hills that hid the harpy lair. She could command musical monsters as well as create them. If someone managed to crawl out of the pile, it wouldn’t hurt to have a flock of vengeful harpies guarding the perimeter. When Danilo Thann and his elven companions arrived, they would have more than one surprise awaiting them. With that thought, the sorceress turned her path toward Waterdeep.

The windstorm ended as abruptly as it began, and Wyn and Danilo fell face-forward onto the hillside. The Harper groaned and spat dust Every joint and muscle ached from his struggle against the buffeting wind. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, flexing stiff fingers. He gave his birch tree anchor a grateful pat, and then offered a hand to the gold elf, who looked as dusty and battered as Dan felt

“By the sea and stars!” Wyn spoke the oath softly as Dan pulled him to his feet.

Danilo followed the line of the elf’s gaze. “Moander’s mountain,” he swore in turn, for the heap of rotting, steaming vegetation that covered the clearing looked like the handiwork of the erstwhile god of corruption.

The moment of shock passed quickly. “Morgalla’s in there,” Wyn said in a hollow voice. He took off after Danilo, who was already hurtling down the hillside, half running, half sliding.

When they reached the camp they began frantically tossing aside the branches that covered the pile, then they dug into the rotting leaves. Danilo’s hand closed on something soft, and he held up Morgalla’s jester doll in triumph. He and Wyn tore at the loamy mass with their hands, and in seconds they’d uncovered a pair of small, iron-shod boots. They each grabbed an ankle and tugged. Morgalla slid out of the pile gagging and choking, but still holding fast to the oak staff of her spear. She wiped slime from her face and waved Wyn aside, motioning for him to keep digging. As soon as she could stand, she started working beside them.

A high-pitched giggle momentarily distracted the workers. Standing by the pile was the elven hermit of Taskerleigh. He regarded their labors with a wide, mocking grin on his emaciated face, and his bony hands settled on his hips.

“That be not the way,” the mad elf insisted. He darted forward and deftly snatched the dwarf’s spear from her. Before Morgalla could protest, the hermit climbed the pile and began poking experimentally into the rubbish.

“Use the blunt end, you daft, orc-sired scarecrow,” she shouted.

“Oops!” The hermit giggled again and flipped the spear around. He jabbed a few more times and then nodded with satisfaction. “Soft,” he proclaimed. “Squirmy! Dig here.”

It took all four of them to pull Balindar out of the sludge. “Elaith’s in there, real close,” the huge mercenary gasped out, raking hunks of rotting foliage from his beard.

Morgalla huffed and folded her arms over her chest “Can we pretend we didn’t hear that, bard?”

“Stop tempting me, and dig!”

They found the moon elf, who came out sputtering curses in Elvish. Wyn gritted his teeth at this latest outrage and kept digging, the hermit working close at his side. Mange was recovered, and then Vartain. The riddlemaster was dragged, senseless, from the pile. While the others continued to dig, Danilo bent over Vartain. He put his ear against the riddlemaster’s filthy tunic and heard the faint beating of Vartain’s heart

“Use this,” Mange suggested, thrusting a flask of cheap whiskey into Danilo’s hands. “Should bring him right around. It worked on ’im before, anyways.”

The Harper took out the stopper and sniffed. “Cure or kill,” he muttered as he poured some of the fluid into Vartain’s slack mouth. With one hand he held the riddlemaster’s mouth shut, and with the other he massaged the man’s throat until finally he swallowed. After several tense seconds, the riddlemaster coughed.

Danilo’s relief was short-lived. Two thrumming booms tore through the ravaged clearing, rattling the dead trees and sending bone-deep agony through the Harper with each blast. Incongruously, Dan thought of the musical parlor trick in which glass was shattered by a high, clear note. The explosive pain in his teeth and bones made him certain that this sound, in time, could yield similar results. Struggling against the pain, Danilo drew his sword and whirled to face their latest attacker.

Crawling from the rotting pile was an enormous black cricket, roughly the size of a hunting dog. The monster chittered, its antennae twitching furiously this way and that, and it turned its incurious, multiple eyes on the filthy travelers. Its hind legs, notched like a washboard, rose and moved together like a bow against a fiddle. Again the killing blasts tore through the clearing. The waves of searing pain seemed to melt Danilo’s strength; his knees buckled and his hand lost its grip on the sword. All around him, the fighters fell helpless to the ground. The giant cricket skittered toward its prey.

Elaith was on his feet first The elf drew his sword and slashed at the monster. His strike severed an antenna, but the creature continued to advance. Elaith struck again and again, but the cricket’s hard shell deflected any blow to its body. He shouted for the others to help. The fighters ringed the cricket and hacked at it from all sides. The insect whirled and lunged with jerky movements, seemingly unhurt by the repeated blows.

Leveling her spear and bellowing a cry to the dwarven god of battle, Morgalla charged. The tip of her spear found a vulnerable spot between the plated armor of the cricket’s head and thorax, and it sank deep. The cricket reared up, yanking the dwarf off her feet.

Morgalla held on to her staff and swung herself hard toward the monstrous insect. The momentum drove the spear deeper still. Grimly she held on as the cricket thrashed and twisted, vainly trying to rid itself of its dwarven tormenter. Using each bruising tumble to her advantage, the dwarf dug and twisted her spear in search of a vital spot Danilo and the others circled with drawn swords, but they could not strike the cricket without harming Morgalla.

The monster dropped its weight onto its front four legs and marshaled its last defense. Again its hind legs rubbed together, and again its thrumming song boomed through the clearing.

Morgalla shrieked in anguish and clapped her hands over her ears. She flung herself away from the cricket and rolled several times, putting as much space as possible between herself and the killing song. The cricket leaped after her and seized her boot in its pincherlike mandible. It backed away toward the pile, dragging the dwarf along. Morgalla grabbed at the fallen branches that littered the ground, trying to find a handhold. Both Wyn and Danilo instinctively reached for their instruments and found no help there: the elf’s had been carried away in the windstorm, and two strings on Danilo’s lute had snapped. Balindar rose and staggered after the dwarf, shouting and slashing at the monster. Even his vast strength could not stop the cricket’s retreat.

A remembered image flashed into Danilo’s mind as he cast aside the worthless lute and rose to his feet: Arilyn slicing through the inch-thick skull of an ogre with her moonblade. Even without magic, the elf-forged swords were stronger than any steel. Not thinking of the consequences, he turned and snatched Elaith’s dormant moonblade from its sheath. Raising it high overhead with both hands, he raced forward and slammed the sword down on one of the creature’s deadly hind legs. The elven blade bit deep and severed the limb at the joint. The monster released Morgalla and lurched away, listing to one side like a sinking ship.

Balindar pulled Morgalla to her feet The single-minded dwarf brushed him aside and charged after the cricket She grabbed her spear and jerked it free, and with a second quick movement she plunged it into the cricket’s eye. Using the spear like a lever, she flung herself forward. Under the force of her assault, the hard shell gave way with a sickening crack. Morgalla leaped back, wiping a splash of gore from her face as the cricket toppled over onto its side. It twitched a few more times, then finally lay still.

As soon as the immediate danger was past, Danilo dropped the moonblade and turned to Elaith, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. The moon elf took no notice. His face was set in a mask of fury, and he sprang silently at the Harper.

Danilo dropped to the ground and rolled left, hearing as he did the swish of a dagger dangerously close to his right ear. He leaped to his feet and drew his own sword, crouching in a defensive stance. Elaith was already up, the dagger in one hand and a long silver dirk in the other.

Wyn Ashgrove stepped between the fighters. Although nearly a half foot shorter than either Dan or Elaith, the slight elf had a commanding mien that neither could ignore. The fighters involuntarily lowered their weapons.

“In what way, Lord Craulnober, has this human defiled the elven sword?” he demanded, his cool green eyes fixed upon the angry moon elf. “Were not the moonblades forged for great deeds? The Harper saved a life, perhaps all our lives. If his task was unworthy, even a dormant sword would have struck him down. Do not judge where the moonblade did not, for in doing so you dishonor the sword.” The unspoken words more than you have already hung in the air.

Elaith sheathed his weapons and picked up the ancient blade. Without a word, he turned and strode from the camp into the blighted forest

“You’ll fight that one yet,” Morgalla observed. She wrenched her spear free of the monster and came to stand at Danilo’s side. “I owe you, bard.”

“Repay me, then, by letting me fight him alone when the time comes.”

The Harper’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically grim, and the dwarf nodded once in understanding. With a deep sigh, Danilo turned back to the pile.

They dug until all the men had been recovered. Orcsarmor was not found in time, and several other mercenaries—whose names Danilo had never learned—had been slain and partially eaten by the giant cricket After the survivors laid the men in shallow graves, Wyn went in search of the runaway hermit, and the others bathed in the cold, deep waters of the creek.

Following a cursory dip in the stream, Vartain pulled the scroll out of his leather pouch and resumed his study. Danilo came out of the creek dripping and chilly. He discarded his wet tunic and began to remove dry clothing from his magic bag. The others watched agape as he took from the bag a fine linen shirt, a dark green tabard, leggings, linens, and stockings, even a spare pair of boots. The Harper looked up and noted his audience.

“It’s a bag of holding,” he commented, and continued to rummage. “An especially roomy one. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s in here. I’ve got something that should suit you, Morgalla, at least until Wyn gets back with your pony and your travel bag. It’s fortunate that you folks had readied the horses and supplies before the sorceress struck. Ah, here it is.”

Danilo drew forth a loose shirt of pale green silk. “This is hardly the gown I would have chosen for you, but it should serve for the time. Here’s a scarf, too, and a gold clasp with a rather nice cluster of peridots—”

“Fancy stuff like this don’t hold up to the road,” Morgalla pointed out, but she took the luxurious garments and headed for the privacy of a cluster of rocks.

The Harper dressed quickly and passed out what articles of clothing he thought might fit the others. Mange looked almost a gentleman in a fine shirt and leggings, with his patchwork scalp covered by a rakish bandanna. Balindar teased his friend unmercifully, and Mange’s self-conscious grin sat oddly on his weathered and battle-scarred face. The riddlemaster, however, absently waved away Danilo’s offer of a fresh tunic.

“The next of the barding colleges is in Waterdeep. I know of no such site,” Vartain said, looking up at last

“The school was called Ollamn. There is no barding college now, but as you know most people involved in the bardic arts register at Halambar’s Lute Shop. Halambar is the master of the musicians’ guild, and this practice gives local and visiting bards a service once provided by the college. What will happen in Waterdeep?”

“According to the riddle, a lord will fall on the field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.”

Morgalla emerged from the rock cluster, clad in green silk. The shirt hung past her knees, and she’d girded it at the waist with the sash and the gold and peridot pin. With her damp, unbraided auburn hair curling about her face and her feet bare, she looked a bit like a very stocky wood nymph.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Danilo said solemnly, and the circle of mercenaries nodded in avid agreement

“I have a question,” the unimpressed Vartain broke in. “Waterdeep is a big town.”

“That’s a question?”

“Enough, Lord Thann!” the riddlemaster snapped. “I am not a man who appreciates levity. During the Midsummer Faire, every traveling entertainer in the north heads for the city. I’m assuming that the sorceress will not flaunt her asperii, and nearly every singer in Waterdeep has a harp of some sort, so how are we to recognize her?”

“Midsummer Faire,” Danilo repeated in a distracted voice. “ ‘The lord falls on a field of triumph, on a day that is not a day.… ’ ” The Harper smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand. “Shieldmeet. That’s it!”

Vartain nodded, his black eyes shining as he followed the Harper’s logic. “Your reasoning is sound. Shieldmeet is not part of any mooncycle, or counted as a day in the roll of the years. It is a day that is not a day.”

“Am I missing something important?” Morgalla asked.

“Shieldmeet is an extra day that occurs once every four years, right after Midsummer. After the tournaments of Midsummer Day, contracts are renewed, betrothals announced, allegiances sworn. Even the Lords of Waterdeep are reaffirmed every four years,” Vartain explained.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Danilo added. “You notice that each of these curses has been brought to bear on Waterdeep. Between crop failures and monster attacks on merchant caravans, Midsummer Faire will be a rather dismal event. A storm on Midsummer Day will play into the people’s fears and superstitions, and a bard who can influence crowds might be able to convince them that the Lords of Waterdeep are no longer able to govern. Rightly done, it could be a near-bloodless coup!”

“But why fuss around with Harpers and dragons? What do the Lords of Waterdeep have to do with a bunch o’ bards?”

“Enough,” Danilo said succinctly. “The two groups work together. Bardcraft and politics are intrinsically enjoined. We must leave for Waterdeep at once! Where is Wyn?”

“Here.” The elf minstrel called, striding quickly down the hilltop holding the leading reins of three horses. The elven hermit followed close by Wyn’s side. “We recovered only three horses, but I found my lyre of changing.”

At that moment, Elaith crested the hill behind Wyn at a run. “Then use it!” he shouted as he dashed toward the others. “A flock of harpies, coming from the north!”