Elfsong

Sixteen

Throughout the night, the wall surrounding Blackstaff Tower was ringed by an assortment of unhappy people. Mages from the Watchful Order stood guard, ready with spells and wands to counter another attack of wizard weather. A circle of bards took turns singing the ballads that had changed the respect many Waterdhavians held for Khelben Arunsun into fear and distrust. The bards’ audience, frightened by the strange Midsummer storm and the reputed disappearances of some of the Lords of Waterdeep, feared that the city’s troubles were examples of anarchy to come. Khelben Arunsun was being blamed for events as varied as the attack upon the courtesan Larissa Neathal and the death of a caravan master from Baldur’s Gate by the hands of overeager cut-purses. Several watch patrols stood by the tower in case the crowd’s emotions spilled over into violence.

Inside the tower, Khelben paced his private chamber. “You should try to get some rest, my love,” Laeral told him, laying aside the book she was vainly trying to read. “You have not slept for days now.”

“Who could sleep with all that noise outside?” he retorted, flinging a hand toward the window. Like all the windows and doors of the tower and the surrounding wall, this one was visible only from the inside, and it shifted location constantly, yielding the wizards an ever-changing view of the crowd outside.

“While Piergeiron pondered matters of diplomacy and trade, Lucia Thione went into hiding,” Khelben fumed. “I sent Harper agents to check all the properties she owns in the city. No one has found a trace of her. That was hours ago, and two agents have failed to report back at all.”

In the corner of the room, a large crystal globe began to pulse with light Khelben strode over to the scrying crystal and passed a hand over it. The face of a well-known shopkeeper came into view.

“Well?” the archmage demanded.

“Greetings, Blackstaff. Ariadne and Rix have been found,” the woman said in a voice raw with unshed tears. “They were outside the walls of Lucia Thione’s estate in the Sea Ward. Both died by garotte, and the bodies were left as if in warning.” She stopped and cleared her throat several times before she could proceed. “Their eyes had been closed, and a large gold coin placed on each eyelid.”

“Hhune’s mark?” Khelben asked, his voice low.

“Yes.”

The shopkeeper’s face faded from view, but the archmage did not move or speak. As the minutes ticked by, Laeral studied her love with growing concern. Always he was hard hit by the death of Harpers who acted at his bidding, but this time she feared that Khelben’s broad shoulders could not bear another such burden. He was overextended and exhausted, frustrated by his inability to control this situation or solve the city’s problems.

With a sudden fierce swing, Khelben backhanded the scrying crystal. The globe flew across the room and shattered against the wall. He snatched up a cloak and the black wooden staff for which he was famed and feared. Before Laeral could respond to the uncharacteristic outburst, the archmage vanished.

Khelben materialized in the ballroom where Lucia Thione had recently held her lavish party. The room looked quite different at this hour of the night, almost austere without its crowd of merry revelers. It was lit only by the moonlight that filtered in from the garden beyond, casting silvery shadows upon the pale marble of the floor. The night air was scented by flowering vines that climbed trellises over each window alcove and arched door, and the silence was heavy with the memory of gay laughter and rollicking music. The archmage stood there a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts and to decide how to follow through on his impulsive action.

Like the ghost of a forgotten melody, a thread of silvery harp music reached out to him from the shadows at the far side of the ballroom. The archmage followed the sound, and his footsteps echoed in a somber counterpoint to the lilting little song.

The music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and as Khelben drifted through the ballroom in search of its source, he felt as if he were moving in a dream, or trying to grasp a shadow. Finally he came to a large arched door that led out into the garden. There sat a small woman, clad in an elegant gown the color of sapphires. Her graying hair was tucked behind slightly pointed ears, and she played a small harp of dark wood.

“It has been many years, Iriador,” he said softly.

The half-elf continued to play. “Much has changed, Khelben, and not for the better,” she said. She looked up at him and smiled. “Attack me,” she suggested. “Or try. If you do, you will not be able to move. Nor will you be able to speak, although there is little you could say that would matter now.”

Magic, with the full force of the power he had wielded for centuries, welled up within the archmage in response to his silent command. Khelben willed his fingers to shape the spell, but his mortal frame proved to be less obedient than his magic. With astonishment and growing rage, he realized that the former Harper had spoken the truth.

The air around the archmage might as well have been solid stone, for he could neither move nor speak. The magic he had summoned had no place to go and it coursed through his body like captured lightning.

Only once before had Khelben known such pain. It circled endlessly through the conduits of power in his mind and body; it burned him as if molten steel filled his veins. With each pulse of anguish, the room dissolved into white light, and even his formidable will began to lose its grip upon consciousness.

Iriador Wintermist saw this, and triumph flared in her brilliant blue eyes. She rose with the harp in her arms and walked over to the man who was imprisoned by her magic and tortured by his own.

“You did not recognize the spell in my song, Khelben Arunsun, or you would have fled from this place. Always you have held bardcraft in little regard, and in your ignorance you prepared no defense against the power of spellsong.”

She moved a step closer. “You deserted the bards, Khelben, and if you do not know your error by now, you soon shall. This I will prove, not by destroying you outright, but by removing you from power through the very force you scorned.”

The woman spun toward the window. A white horse came galloping from the garden in response to her silent command. Quickly she mounted the asperii, and horse and rider disappeared through the arched doorway into the night.

A snatch of melody floated back into the room. Khelben fell to the floor, partially released from the powerful song charm. His release set free the remnants of his own spell, and magic exploded like an alchemist’s nightmare. Pulse after pulse of unchanneled magical energy rocked the ballroom, sending multicolored light streaking into the garden beyond.

From the roof of a nearby mansion, Elaith Craulnober witnessed the light show with growing rage and frustration. He peered down the Street of Whispers. Already, members of the vigilant watch were approaching in response to the disturbance. With a smothered oath, he ran across the roof and leaped into the night, landing lightly on the next building.

With grace and balance that an acrobat might envy, he ran across a high wooden fence and leaped onto the triangular roof that topped the steam house of the Urmbrusk family’s sybaritic villa. He raced across the roof, then summoned all his strength and threw himself into flight The elf soared over Diamond Street, tucked at the last moment, and rolled onto the roof of a low building across the way. Within minutes he had made his way to Lady Thione’s enclosed villa.

Elaith dropped over the wall and rushed through the garden. An armed guard came threateningly toward him. The elf tossed a knife into the man’s throat without breaking stride. He followed the curling, glowing wisps of smoke into the ballroom. The fumes roiled through the room and stung his eyes, but he could see well enough to know that the room was empty but for himself and the man slumped nearby.

He was too late! The sorceress Garnet had gone, and with her was his hope of restoring his child’s birthright.

The elf snatched a throwing knife from his sleeve, thinking to vent his frustration by hurling it into the body. At the last moment, he recognized the fallen man and sent his knife skittering harmlessly across the blackened marble floor.

Elaith knelt beside Khelben Arunsun and turned the wizard onto his back. The man yet lived, but his heart beat faintly. As the elf debated his course, the archmage’s black eyes opened and fixed upon him. The archmage did not speak or move, but he seemed dimly aware of his surroundings.

“A charm spell,” the elf muttered. He rocked back on his heels and ran his hand through his hair. The best person in the city to tend the wizard would be the mage Laeral. He should take the fallen man to Blackstaff Tower at once. A delay, however, could cost Elaith the harp he had sought for so long.

The elf decided. He reached into the bag at his belt and took out a plain silver ring. Vartain was not the only skilled thief in Music and Mayhem, and Elaith had once again relieved his Harper partner of the magic ring when they’d met at the Broken Lance tavern. He quickly slipped the ring on his own hand and twisted it as he’d seen Danilo do.

As the watch patrol burst into the room, they saw the fading outline of a tall slender elf and the archmage of Waterdeep.

In the hours before dawn, clerics of Mystra gathered at Blackstaff Tower to pray for the favor of the goddess of magic. Under their care and through the favor of his goddess, Khelben Arunsun’s battered body began to heal. Nothing could touch the charm spell that held him, though, and after several hours the weary and heartsick Laeral made her way down to the reception hall. After bringing Khelben to her, Elaith Craulnober had left the tower. He’d recently returned and sent up word that he wished to see her as soon as circumstances permitted.

The elf stood when Laeral entered the room. “How is the archmage?”

“He will live,” the beautiful wizard replied.

Elaith nodded, a look of profound relief on his face. He handed Laeral a large, square box. “You may consider this a gift, a wish for Lord Arunsun’s recovery.”

Puzzled, Laeral peered inside. Within the box was one of the magical helms worn by the Lords of Waterdeep.

“I recovered the helm from Lady Thione. Perhaps you would see that it is returned to its rightful owner.”

“Indeed we will,” the mage said. She affixed Elaith with a penetrating gaze. “Forgive me, but—”

“This seems to be out of character?” the elf finished with an amused smile. “Not at all, dear lady. My own business interests are best served by preserving the status quo in Waterdeep.”

“And Lady Thione?”

“She is in hiding, and under my protection,” Elaith said. “My men will help her escape from Waterdeep.” He smiled pleasantly. “Of course, I have not bothered to mention to her the destination. I’ve arranged to have her escorted back to Tethyr to face the locals.”

Laeral’s eyes flashed silver fire, and she nodded grim agreement with the justice that the elf’s treachery meted out. “Elaith Craulnober, under different circumstances I believe we could have become very good friends.”

High above the canopy of the High Forest, the sky faded to the pale silver that preceded dawn. It was still dark in the Endless Caverns, but the green dragon Grimnoshtadrano felt the coming of day. He eased himself up onto his haunches and flexed his wings experimentally. The stiffness caused by the explosion and the smoke had finally eased, and at last he would be able to fly again. Never would he forget the indignity of crawling back to his cavern after he awoke in the clearing. He was determined that someone would pay dearly for the insults dealt him.

Grimnosh inhaled deeply and blew a long blast of air into his cave. A satisfying stench filled the chamber as poisonous chlorine gas flowed from his fanged maw. For days, he had been unable to muster his breath weapon. Now, it was back and ready to bring to bear on the treacherous bard. The dragon threw back his head and let out a roar of satisfaction.

Dropping down onto all fours, Grimnosh made his way through the labyrinth of caves and passages that led out of his lair. He emerged into the forest clearing where this misadventure had begun, exactly half a year ago, on the shortest day of winter. It seemed fitting that he would end it today on the summer solstice. His enormous green wings beat the air, and the dragon rose steadily into the sky.

With grim determination, the dragon set course for Waterdeep. Dragonflight was faster than lesser creatures could imagine, and his mighty wings and magic would bring him to the city before the day—the longest of the year—came to a close.

Midsummer morning dawned bright and clear over Waterdeep, and the tournament games began as scheduled. To the hundreds of people gathered to watch the meets, it seemed as if the hand of Beshaba, the goddess of bad luck, was over the Field of Triumph.

The grassy plain had been turned into a marshland by the previous night’s rain, and before long the field had become a muddy, slippery mess. Many fighters and several mounts fell, and some of accidents were serious. The magefair contests, always a favorite with the crowd, were if possible even more dispirited than the games. Many of the city’s most powerful mages were at Blackstaff Tower, trying to remove the charm spell that held the archmage. Rumors about what had happened to Khelben Arunsun were whispered throughout the city. It was widely believed that he had fallen due to his own miscast spell, and fear was a more common response to this news than sympathy.

When Danilo heard of his uncle’s accident, he went directly to Blackstaff Tower. He couldn’t get near the tower for all the people around it, and when he tried to teleport in, he realized that his magic ring had once again been stolen.

“Dan.”

Laeral’s musical voice broke into his colorful spate of self-recriminations. He spun to find the mage standing behind him, her lovely face worn with worry and lack of sleep. She took his arm and drew him away from the crowd. “Khelben is held in some sort of charm spell. I believe it is part of the Morninglark’s elfsong spell. You’ve got to find the harp, Dan.”

The Harper was startled by the pleading note in the powerful wizard’s voice. Quickly covering his own distress, he took her hand and bowed low over it. “I never could refuse a beautiful woman anything. I also have a celebrated imagination and season tickets for two to Mother Tathlorn’s festhall. Please bear all those things in mind next time you ask something of me.”

A dimple flashed briefly on the woman’s face. “By Mystra, how you remind me of your uncle! He was very like you when he was younger.”

Danilo recoiled and dropped her hand. “I’ll find the damn harp,” he said in an aggrieved voice. “There’s no need to insult me.” He stalked away, and was gratified to hear the mage’s laughter follow him.

Danilo met Wyn and Morgalla at the gate to the Field of Triumph, and they split between them the task of searching the huge arena for any who might fit the description of their bardic foe.

As they searched, Danilo kept an anxious eye on the field. By highsun, Caladorn had yet to show up. Danilo was surprised and more than a little worried. Perhaps his friend had taken his warning to heart and confronted Lady Thione. The Harper made inquiries of the fighters and stable hands, but no one seemed to know where the swordmaster had gone. First Vartain had disappeared, and now Caladorn!

The afternoon was nearing its close when Danilo finally caught a glimpse of Vartain, several stands away and very close to the raised dais used for announcements and awards.

“What could that blasted riddlemaster be up to?” he murmured aloud.

“I’ve no idea, but you can rest assured he’ll suffer for it,” announced a familiar voice behind him.

Danilo turned to face Elaith Craulnober. “No harp, I see. It would appear you’ve done no better than I have.”

The elf pretended to wince. “What a concept! I shall remember those words, and use them whenever I need to express utter and abject failure.”

“Now then, there’s no need to take that tone. Save your venom for our mystery bard.”

“I assure you, I’ve plenty to spare.”

The Harper shrugged. “Much as I’d like to exchange pleasantries with you, I’ve got to get that scroll from Vartain.”

Before Danilo could move away, Elaith’s hand closed on his arm like a vise, and the elf nodded toward the dais. “The time for that has passed. You might as well stay for the festivities.”

Lord Piergeiron walked to the center of the platform, raising his hands for attention. Two mages stepped forward, casting the spells that would send the First Lord’s voice throughout the arena. The crowd fell silent, for no other individual in Waterdeep could command their attention as could Piergeiron. The First Lord was not given to oratory, but he had a simple direct way about him to which people responded.

“I declare that the tournament games are over, and that the Midsummer festivities are at an end. We will begin Shieldmeet with the traditional affirmation of the Lords of Waterdeep.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Elaith murmured, gazing intently into the clouds.

Danilo followed the elf’s gaze. “Don’t tell me: it’s an asperii.”

“I’m afraid so. With Lady Thione out of the way, the sorceress will no doubt try to depose Khelben herself.”

“The sorceress has the power to influence crowds through song,” Danilo murmured, remembering the riddle spell. “Let’s get down there.” He began to elbow his way through the crowd.

Elaith followed him, but he looked doubtful. “What do you propose to do?”

“Don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”

The asperii swooped down over the arena, drawing gasps of wonder from the crowd and diverting all attention from Piergeiron. The noble wind steeds were rare and considered a blessing from the gods. No one thought of attacking the horse and its rider any more than they would have fired upon a unicorn that suddenly appeared in their midst Even on the dais, the city dignitaries fell back to give the magical horse room to land.

The white horse landed lightly on the dais. Its rider dismounted and took her harp from its fastenings.

“With your leave, Lord Piergeiron,” she said in a clear voice that carried to the farthest corner of the arena, “by law and by custom, until sunset the day is to be given to contests, festivity, and song. Shieldmeet does not begin until that time, and any contracts and agreements made before that time do not bear the force of law.”

“That is true, lady bard,” Piergeiron responded, and bowed to the half-elven woman. “We await your song.”

“We’ve got to stop that song!” Danilo exclaimed, pushing aside a pair of rough looking half-orcs. One of the thugs bared his tusks in a scowl, then quickly subsided when he caught sight of the silver-haired elf at the human’s side.

“I challenge the bard!” demanded a resonant bass voice.

The afternoon sun glinted off Vartain’s bald pate as the riddlemaster pushed his way toward the platform. He spoke to the guards and was allowed to come forward.

“I challenge the mage and riddlemaster Iriador Wintermist of Sespech, who is currently known as Garnet the bard, to a challenge of riddles.”

“That orc-sired buzzard!” Elaith muttered as he and Danilo pushed forward. “What in the Nine Hells is he doing?”

“Don’t complain. He’s stopping the song,” Danilo retorted.

While the two made their way toward the stage, Vartain announced his terms: he would put forth a riddle, and if Garnet failed to guess it she would forfeit her harp. After a moment’s hesitation, the bard agreed.

Morgalla fought her way over to Danilo’s side, with Wyn in her wake. “What’s that fool up to?” she demanded as they continued their struggle toward the dais.

“Saving face. We four will have to get the harp if Vartain fails, or if the bard does not honor the terms of the challenge.”

“What four?” Morgalla demanded. “That silver serpent o’ yers took off afore we got over to you.”

Danilo scanned the crowd. There was no sign of Elaith. At that moment, Vartain cleared his throat and gave the riddle challenge:

“Now tell me, why did King Khalzol’s subjects bury him in a copper coffin?”

“He’s daft to try that one agin!” Morgalla exploded.

“Wait a minute,” Danilo said, noting the thoughtful absorption on the sorceress’s face. She was doing precisely what Vartain had done: she was giving the complex riddle all the consideration that a traditional conundrum required. Sure enough, she gave the same intelligent and incorrect answer that Vartain had given the dragon.

Vartain smiled broadly, vastly increasing his resemblance to a buzzard. “The answer to the question, ‘Why was King Khalzol buried in a copper coffin?’ is far simpler that you would make it, and I regret that it has nothing to do with the site of his grave. They buried him because he was dead.”

Garnet snatched up the harp. She struck a single ringing note and flung a hand toward the sky. Instantly the clouds began to gather, and a familiar rumbling sounded over the arena. The people nearest the exits fled at once in search of cover.

Suddenly a vast, green form burst from the roiling purple clouds. With a roar, a full-grown green dragon swooped down upon the city. Pandemonium struck the arena People shrieked, shoving and pushing for the exits.

In the confusion that followed, Danilo caught sight of the rogue elf. Elaith was at the head of a band of rough-looking fighters. The mercenaries pushed toward the platform where the bard stood. Piergeiron’s personal guard moved forward to protect the First Lord. Within moments, a nasty gutter-fight melee surrounded the platform, obscuring the bard and her harp from view.

“Now this is a proper fight,” the dwarf announced with relish. She bared her spear and charged into the fray. Dan and Wyn exchanged a dismayed glance and then drew their swords, guarding the dwarf’s back as she plowed a path toward the center of the battle. Morgalla worked her way forward, yelling colorful dwarven insults as she clobbered a brawling tough with the blunt end of her spear.

Before they could reach the platform, the sorceress mounted her steed and urged it into the sky. With a roar of rage, the dragon bore down. The asperii darted to the side like a huge white hummingbird, barely evading the dragon’s lunge. The horse rose straight up into the air, away from the dragon, but into the midst of the gathering storm.

A streak of lightning flashed past the wind steed. The horse went into a panic-stricken dive, with the half-elf clinging to its neck. Hail began to pelt the frightened wind steed, and the horse’s whinny of fear and protest shrilled through the screams of the people and the regular, thumping whoosh of the dragon’s beating wings.

The asperii reared in midair, sending the sorceress and her harp falling toward the crowd. As she tumbled toward death, Garnet flailed helplessly in a futile attempt to regain the enchanted instrument.

With the precision of a bat snatching a flying insect from the air, Grimnosh swooped down and grabbed the sorceress in his talons. The dragon’s laughter rolled over the city like thunder as he flapped off toward the east with his prey. The harp plummeted to the ground and was lost int the brawl beside the dais.

Garnet was gone, but her spell raged on. Hail bounced off the platform and pelted those who still remained in the arena.

“We’ve got to get the harp!” Danilo said, pressing toward the dais. Their process was easier now, for the crowd was rapidly dissipating. Clerics and healers carried off those who had been trampled in the first rush to escape. Most of Elaith’s ruffians had been subdued, and members of the guard were dragging off those who still showed an inclination to fight. Vartain remained near the platform, his hands folded over his paunch in a triumphant pose and a smile on his bronze face.

Morgalla shoved her way through and leveled her spear at Vartain’s throat. “Where’s the harp, you over-growed halfling sneak-thief?” she demanded.

“It’s not Vartain this time,” Danilo said. “Elaith has the harp.”