Elfsong

Twelve

As soon as the sun set over Waterdeep, Danilo again twisted his ring of teleportation, picturing in his mind the site he had mentioned to Wyn and the others.

He found the party camped beside the pool, in a scene of incongruous peace and beauty. The glowing sunset clouds were reflected in the still water, and in the clearing surrounding the pool, fireflies blinked in and out of view. The elven hermit was off to one side, playing tunelessly upon Wyn’s lyre of changing. Morgalla greeted Danilo with her usual nod, but Wyn rushed toward him. The elf was more excited that Danilo had ever seen him.

“I know how the spell must be undone!”

“You do?”

“Well, almost,” the elf admitted. “I made a copy of the riddle on the scroll. Vartain has been looking at it solely as a puzzle, and I thought that a musician’s eye might find something he overlooked.”

“And?” Danilo found that the elf’s excitement was contagious.

“The ballad on the scroll is a ballad indeed, and it is meant to be sung. Look at the meter: every stanza is regular despite the lack of rhyme.”

A possibility occurred to Danilo, and he sank down on a moss-covered stone. “You’re an expert in Harper lore. Does the name Iriador Wintermist mean anything to you?”

“Oh, yes. She was a Harper who traveled for some time with Finder Wyvernspur’s band. Her name, Iriador, is derived from the Elvish word for ‘ruby,’ and she was so named for her brilliant red hair. She was a notable beauty, and a gifted mage and bard.”

“According to Khelben Arunsun, this woman was half-elven, and the daughter of a famous elven musician. Is it possible that she knew the art of elfsong?”

Wyn recoiled. He stared at the Harper in dismay. “Are you saying that Iriador Wintermist is our elusive sorceress? A half-elf?”

“Yes, in my own inimitable fashion. Now, are you telling me that all this turmoil has been the result of elfsong magic?”

“I’m afraid so,” the minstrel admitted. “I have suspected it for some time, and my suspicions were confirmed when I learned that our enemy possesses the Morninglark. Only a powerful spellsinger can use the harp, so I assumed that the sorceress would be an elf.”

“What can this harp do?”

“It allows the musician to create new spellsongs. This is not an easy matter. Our foe has created a complex spell with several layers. First, as Vartain said, there is magic in the making and solving of riddles. She also drew power from place magic; the sites of the elder barding colleges are steeped in the collective magic of the music played there over the ages. At each site, she gains another power toward her ultimate goal.”

“Which is?”

“To restore the honor to bardcraft.”

“Strange way to go about it,” Danilo observed. “Her concept of honor requires a good deal of preliminary destruction. How can these spells of hers be undone?”

“By singing the ballad in its entirety. Throughout the riddle are sprinkled hints to its performance. Many of these are hidden in other clues.”

Danilo thought this over, nodding as something occurred to him. “The key to the spell,” he repeated softly. He looked up at Wyn. “Remember the riddle that opened the scroll?

The Harper spoke the riddle quickly, and shook his head in astonishment at his own shortsightedness. “The key to the spell was the letter E, right? Answering the riddle opened the scroll, but it also gives the key in which the spell must be sung.”

“I hadn’t noticed that particular double riddle,” Wyn admitted, “but there are several others.”

“By Milil,” Danilo swore, invoking the god of music, “this bard of ours has a twisted mind. We’ll have to look at every phrase and line from three different angles just to put the pieces of this spell together.”

“That is so. But I’m afraid this puts you in a great deal of danger, my friend.”

“This whole adventure has not been lacking in danger,” Danilo observed. “But why me, specifically?”

“You probably know the legend of Heward’s Mystical Organ. If this artifact could be found, one could theoretically cast an infinite number of spells by playing tunes upon its keys.”

“If one survived the effort,” Danilo said dryly. “Also according to legend, those whose research is faulty or whose musicianship is not up to the task will end up dead or mad.”

The elven minstrel nodded gravely. “That danger is present in the casting of any powerful spell, and this one will be no exception. This spell was cast by wedding elfsong to the power of the Morninglark. The magic is therefore doubly powerful, and it must be undone by singing the entire ballad and playing upon the Morninglark itself.”

“Which only a spellsinger can do. That’s you.”

“I’m afraid not,” Wyn countered. “Remember, I do not play the harp. The task therefore falls to you.”

Danilo took a deep breath. He had no choice but to attempt the spell, yet he was not a spellsinger like Wyn, or even much of a bard! His eyes drifted toward the elven hermit, who had set aside the lyre and was now dancing to wild music only he could hear. The Harper knew that if his voice faltered or his fingers stumbled on the strings, the mad elf’s fate could be his. As soon as he trusted himself to speak, he raised his eyes to Wyn’s.

“You promised me a lesson in elfsong,” he said casually. “I believe this would be a good time to start”

Silent as a shadow, Elaith Craulnober picked his way through the debris that littered Twoflask Alley. But for the elf, the lane was deserted; local wisdom had it that no one who’d imbibed less than two flasks of something much stronger than ale would chance the dangerous passage after sunset Raised planks paved the center of the narrow throughway, allowing the foolish, the inebriated, or the intrepid to walk above most of the garbage and sewage that was tossed into the alley from the seedy taverns and storehouses on either side.

The elf’s boots made no sound on the wide boards, and beneath his feet the rats scuttled and snarled undisturbed, busily foraging before the daily sluicing washed much of the garbage—and many of the rats—into the large sewer gratings that dotted either side of the path. There were no gaslights or torches to dispel the darkness of Twoflask Alley, and the elf made his way quickly toward the back entrance of the infamous Thirsty Sailor Tavern in darkness. The patrons of this tavern favored the dark, and they tended to vanish at first light like so many vampires.

The Thirsty Sailor was a dive frequented by brawlers and heavy drinkers, and the deals made and information exchanged in its squalid upper rooms were invariably small, inept exchanges among the dregs of Waterdeep. To Elaith, however, the tavern’s owner was an excellent source of dark information. The elf had spent a long day traveling from one tavern and meeting place to another, gathering news from his vast network of informants. He had learned a great deal, but he had yet to fit all the pieces together. He hurried past the last building on the alley, a low-eaved warehouse stocked with barrels of whiskey and ale for the tavern.

The elf was a few paces from the tavern’s back door when a solid thud sounded behind him, resounding through the wooden planks that paved the alley. From the corner of his eye, Elaith caught the glint of high-held steel.

With fluid, practiced grace, he spun about and caught the assailant’s upraised arm by the wrist. He threw himself into a backward roll, using the force of the intended knife-stroke to help bring the much larger man down with him. As they fell, he planted both booted feet in the thug’s midsection, and at the precise moment, he kicked out hard. The man soared over Elaith, flipped, and landed heavily on his back.

Before the startled “Oof!” died away, the elf was on his feet, a knife in each hand. With two quick throws, the thug’s outflung arms were pinned securely to the boards by the coarse linen of his shirt cuffs.

Elaith drew a larger knife from his boot and walked slowly to stand over the man. This was a favored technique of the elf s, for he’d learned that men—and women, for that matter—were more prone to part with information under such intimidating circumstances.

“As ambushes go, that was rather clumsy,” the elf observed mildly.

Sweat beaded on the trapped man’s face, but he didn’t attempt to move or cry out. “I swear by the Mother of Mask, Craulnober, I didn’t know it was you! It was just a quick cutpurse job, nothing personal.”

The would-be thief had a familiar voice, but the elf’s memory connected the slurred, whining tones with a heavily bearded man who wore his long brown hair in three thick braids. This man was cropped and clean-shaven. Elaith peered closer.

“Is that you, Kornith? Good gods, man, what an appalling excuse for a chin! Were I you, I would grow that beard back at once. Whatever possessed you to molt in the first place?”

“Guild rules,” he muttered. “Can’t stand out in a crowd.” The thief glanced meaningfully at one of the knives that held him immobile. His elven tormenter took no notice of the hint.

“Guild rules?” Elaith’s amber eyes narrowed. There were already rules in place? “Since when is there a Loyal Order of Cutpurses in this town?”

“It’s coming,” the thief asserted. “Assassins’ guild, too. Word’s been put out.”

“By?” The elf took a step closer and stroked the blade of his knife.

“Don’t know.” Kornith licked his lips nervously. “I’d tell you if I knew. Word’s out, that’s all.”

Winnifer Fleetfingers’s revelation about the Knights of the Shield was gaining credibility by the moment, and this deeply concerned Elaith. For all its intrigue, Waterdeep had no single, truly organized crime network, and it was in the rogue elf’s interests to keep things that way.

Yet he would get no more information from Kornith, of that he was certain. Elaith hooked the toe of his boot under the hilt of one of the knives that held the thief immobile, kicking it up and easily catching it as it fell. Kornith rolled to the side and tugged the other knife free. He leaped to his feet and backed away, his face suffused with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

“Thought I was a stinkin’ corpse, Craulnober,” he said, as he continued to put distance between himself and the deadly elf. “Never supposed you’d show a man mercy, but I’m grateful and I owe you.”

Elaith froze. The very sincerity of the thief’s words stirred the confusion brewing in the elf’s heart. Kornith had every reason to fear him, for no one who had threatened Elaith Craulnober’s life still drew breath. The elf had built a fortune on his dark reputation, yet here he was, prepared to let this thug walk away. Indeed, a year earlier he would have not have been content to ruin the man’s shirtsleeves, but would rather have pinned him to the walkway through the palms of his hands. The elf’s fury turned quickly inward, and he cursed himself for the uncharacteristic lapse. At the same moment, he swung back his hand and with a deft underhand toss sent the knife he held spinning upward.

The weapon sank deep, just below Kornith’s rib cage. The thief slumped against the wall of the warehouse, grasping the hilt with both hands. Bubbles of blood formed at the corner of his mouth, and he slid slowly to the filthy walkway. His lips twisted into an expression of self-contempt, and he sought the elf’s face with eyes that were rapidly glazing over. “I shoulda run. Forgot what … you was,” he gasped out.

Elaith stepped closer, and with a vicious kick he drove the knife still deeper. Kornith’s last breath was swallowed in a blood-drenched gurgle.

The elf stood over the fallen man, eyeing his handiwork in silence. “For a moment,” he said softly, “so did I.”

At Morgalla’s request, Balindar, Mange, and Cory dragged a log into the circle of light cast by a roaring campfire. Bribing the burly mercenary captain had put a considerable dent in Danilo’s supply of gems, and the Harper had learned it was more economical to channel his requests through Morgalla. Balindar had grown so fond of the dwarf—and he was so guilt-ridden over Elaith’s order to hold her hostage to ensure Danilo’s cooperation—that Dan had little doubt that the mercenary would dive into the pond and catch fish with his teeth if Morgalla expressed a desire for seafood. For her part, Morgalla lingered with the three surviving sell-swords, repaying the favor with a tale of battle waged against a horde of orc invaders. Left alone, Danilo and Wyn studied the copy of the ballad by the dancing firelight

“The final stanza gives more hints about the song’s performance,” the elf noted. “Here, for example. ‘First the harp, then the singer circles twice.’ Does that make sense to you?”

“I think so,” Danilo said thoughtfully. “That would indicate that the ballad must be sung as a round, with the harp beginning the melody. The entire song must be sung twice.”

“What’s a round?” Morgalla put in, coming to sit beside Wyn.

“It’s a type of simple harmony,” Wyn told her. “One person begins a song, the second begins at a certain point, and so on. Dwarven music is not much given to such devices, as I understand.”

“So how d’you know where to join in?”

“I can answer that one,” Danilo broke in. “The melody determines that, but usually the round begins after the first line of verse. For example.” Danilo cleared his throat and began to sing:

The Harper paused. “Then the second time through, you would join in after I sing the first line. Now then, altogether!”

The dwarf eyed him with a dour expression. “Yer gittin’ a mite punchy, bard.”

Wyn nodded in agreement. “This discussion does raise a valid point, though. We must know the melody to which these words were set”

“I think the riddle gives that, as well,” Danilo said, getting back to the scroll with reluctance. “Look at the final line of the ballad. It says the song must be sung to the armed man of Canaith.”

“Who’s that?” Morgalla demanded.

“That is not a who. That’s a what. If I’m not mistaken, this refers to an old song, L’homme arme—the armed man—which is attributed to Finder Wyvernspur. He was sentenced by his fellow Harpers to centuries of isolation on another plane of existence, and his music was wiped from the land by powerful spells. Our bardic foe used this particular melody as another safeguard.”

“That fits everything we suspect to be true,” Wyn said. “Iriador Wintermist traveled with Finder Wyvernspur and would be familiar with his fate. In fact, his sentence probably gave our foe the inspiration for her own spell against the bards! But how is it, Danilo, that you know this song?”

“In my travels, I ran into Olive Ruskettle, a halfling bard and fellow Harper. Don’t call her that to her face, though, as she has mixed feelings toward the Harpers. When Finder returned to Faerûn, they became friends. Now that the sentence against him has been lifted, she is making a point of singing his music everywhere she goes.”

“And the reference to Canaith?”

“The barding college, of course. The tune was quite popular and was often borrowed as the foundation for other music. I’m assuming that the spell is set to whatever version was popular at Canaith.”

“And you’re sure the halfling sang that particular version?” Wyn asked.

“Wouldn’t that be nice! I’ll be sure after I attempt to cast the spell,” Danilo said with a grim smile. He studied the words of the ballad, humming as he read. He nodded slowly. “The meter fits the melody, that much we know. Apparently I’m to play the first line of the song on the harp, then start to sing in harmony with the harp’s continuing melody.”

“Hmmph. Sounds like yer trying to dig one tunnel east and another west, hopin’ to meet in the middle.”

“Indeed it does, lady dwarf. If I might borrow your lyre of changing, Wyn, I suppose I ought to start practicing,” Danilo said with no discernible enthusiasm as he rose to leave the campfire.

“Hold on, bard. I’ll walk with you a bit,” Morgalla said, hopping down from her perch beside Wyn.

Danilo turned, ready to decline her offer. Something in the set of her face held him back, and he motioned for her to join him. They left the campfire and walked in silence for several minutes. A small path cut through a wooded area on its way toward the travel route, and here Morgalla paused.

“Got a story to tell you,” the dwarf began, keeping her eyes averted. “I come from the Earthfast Mountains, far to the east o’ here. Since my great-grandsire’s time, orc wars have whittled my clan down to so much kindling. My mother was Thendara Spearsinger, a captain in the hearth guard and as fierce a fighter as ever you’d see. Soon as I was old enough to stand up on my own, she put a staff in my hand and teached me to use it. My clan is Chistlesmith, an’ I learnt the clan trade of carving wood into useful stuff. That was my life: I fought an’ I carved, like folks expected, but in me was a wantin’ for more. Had me a taste for adventure, and for the learning of new tales and songs. Dwarves like these things well, but with troubles like ours, there wasn’t much daylight to spare to ’em.

“Times was grim, but of a night folks gathered in the great clan hall for song and stories. I was knowed throughout Earthfast for my singing and stories—and my dancing.” The dwarf cast a sidelong glance at Danilo as if daring him to smirk. The Harper nodded gravely, and she took a deep breath to continue.

“You may know that Princess Alusair—King Azoun’s girl—tarried in the Earthfast, fighting orcs and just generally hiding out She could spin a good tale, and after the war with the horselords, I took me to Cormyr to see with my own eyes the wonders of her father’s kingdom. My craft apprenticeship was almost up, you see, and my fifty-year celebration right around the bend. When that passes, I gotta choose me a mate and set up my own hearth. My time for music and adventure was running short. So I thought to go to the cities of Cormyr, and there make me a name big enough to earn me a place alongside a bard who could learn me what I couldn’t get in Earthfast.

“Full of myself, I was,” Morgalla said with a grim smile, “and sure that all o’ Cormyr would soon know my name. Didn’t work out that way. Tall people can’t picture a dwarf doing aught but swingin’ a hammer or a weapon. Decided I was funny, they did, without takin’ time to listen and watch.”

The dwarf shrugged away the sting of the memory. “Humans got no patience. Tall folk won’t sit still for a story, but they can look at a picture well enough. I took to drawin’, and learnt I could hide a whole lot of words and ideas in one picture. I carved ’em on blocks of wood, stamping out enough copies to make folks mad enough to spit.” Morgalla chuckled, and the music she’d long denied echoed in her low-pitched laughter.

“I’ve wondered why you were so hesitant to sing,” Danilo said. “You are a gifted musician, Morgalla, as all of Cormyr would have realized in time. Even with your artwork you’ve risen above your detractors. Your work is nothing short of inspired.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But that ain’t the point. I lost faith in myself. I fergot who I was, and what I was made to do.”

The dwarf reached high and slapped Danilo on the back. “We who mine the earth have a saying: If someone’s walked a tunnel, and he tells you where it ends up, you already been to the end without taking a single step, so you might as well save yerself the time and trouble of walking it yerself.”

“Ouch! No offense, my dear, but I’ve heard snappier sayings.”

Morgalla shrugged. “As long as you get the point Yer a damn fine bard, and you’d do yerself a favor to keep that in mind.” She turned and sauntered back to the cheery comfort of the fire.

Danilo watched her go, wishing that he could find it in his heart to take the dwarf’s advice. However highly Morgalla might regard him, the fact remained that he’d taken a role that was beyond him, and the demands were greater than his ability to meet them. Unfortunately, he was as short on time was as he was talent, so with a deep sigh he turned his attention to the task ahead.

He found the lyre beside the elven hermit, who had been overcome by his wild dancing and had fallen asleep in the long grass that ringed the pool. Danilo gazed down at the mad elf for a long moment, noting the tear that slipped down the ravaged face. He wondered what sort of dreams tormented the hermit.

The Harper quickly stooped and picked up the lyre of changing. With a word, he transformed it into the driftwood-colored lap harp. He made his way into the wood, seeking a quiet place to prepare and reflect Not far from the camp, he found a small natural clearing in the shadow of a giant oak. Seating himself on the ground, he began to play a lilting dance tune on the harp.

Twilight had deepened into night, but Danilo needed no light beyond that provided by the full moon and the flickering courtship of the fireflies. He had already committed the words of the spellsong to memory. It had long been his gift to retain what he read and heard, and his bardic tutors had worked to foster and strengthen this ability. The music came quickly, too, and after several passes through the melody he joined the harp in a duet. His strong, clear tenor rang out, projecting much more assurance than he actually felt.

If there was magic in the ancient music and the arcane riddles, Danilo couldn’t sense it. Perhaps Wyn had been right perhaps elfsong magic rightly belonged only to the elves. Magic seemed to flow from and through them without effort or artifice. Humans used the weave of magic that surrounds all things, Khelben had once explained, but elves were part of the weave.

Danilo pushed aside his doubts and threw himself into the music, marshaling the intense concentration he had learned in his years of magical studies.

Drawn by the sound of the young man’s voice, Wyn made his way into the woods. Earlier that evening he had taught the Harper some of the principles of elfsong, but one important lesson remained. Danilo had proven himself a worthy pupil, and Wyn had little doubt that the Harper could master and cast the difficult spell. At first the elf had doubted the possibility of explaining elfsong to someone who’d been trained to consider magic a laborious, arcane art, who dealt in chants and runes and elaborate gestures and ridiculous spell components. What he himself had forgotten was this: The magic was in the music itself, and in the heart of the musician. That is what Danilo must understand and remember.

And so Wyn reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth a tightly folded piece of paper, the sketch Morgalla had drawn of Danilo days earlier in Waterdeep. The archmage had entrusted it to Wyn, understanding that his nephew was not yet ready to see himself through the canny dwarf’s eyes.

Wyn drew near the giant oak. Danilo was utterly absorbed in his task, his gray eyes closed in concentration as he played and sang.

“Despite all that has happened, despite all the arguments you yourself have put forth, you do not believe that elfsong can be yours,” Wyn said softly, breaking into the song.

The Harper jumped and fell silent, startled by the unexpected interruption. Wyn handed him the sketch. “Perhaps you will accept Morgalla’s vision, if not your own.”

Danilo looked down at the paper. The dwarf usually relied on a few telling, exaggerated details to get her point across, but this drawing was a careful and realistic rendering. As Morgalla depicted him, he was dressed in an adventurer’s weathered and practical gear, but the tilt of his head somehow gave the impression that he was a lord traveling in disguise. There was a bit of humor lurking at the corners of his lips, but the eyes were serious, touched with sadness. He played a lute, but surrounding him was an aureole of tiny motes and stars that suggested magic as well as music. Most startling of all was the way Morgalla had managed to portray a man in command of his powers, at peace with his own contradictions. It was captioned only “The Bard.”

“The magic is in the music, and also in the heart of the bard. The lady dwarf got the instrument wrong,” Wyn said quietly as he pointed to the harp at Danilo’s side, “but I believe she’s right in all other particulars.”

Danilo said nothing, and after a moment the elf added, “The night grows late. You should try to get some rest, for we must leave for Waterdeep at sunrise.”