Elfsong

Seventeen

The sun was setting as Danilo raced toward the elven temple. Wyn and Morgalla followed close on his heels. Huge gray and indigo clouds continued to rove the sky, pelting parts of the city with rain and hail. The western horizon was streaked with spires of vivid purple and crimson, and the sun peered over the Sea of Swords like a single flaming red eye.

The three friends rounded the corner to the temple courtyard just as Elaith started up the broad, white marble steps of the main building. He was alone, and the Morninglark harp was tucked under one arm. Danilo pulled his sword and hailed the moon elf. Elaith spun about and fixed a look of pure malevolence upon the Harper.

“Do not hinder me, fool! Too much is at stake.”

“My point precisely,” Danilo said in a voice that was equally cold. “The Knights of the Shield are earning a foothold in the city, the archmage has been brought low by a charm spell, music-wielding monsters feed upon farmers and travelers, and the bards have become unwitting tools of evil.”

“That is a problem for you and yours, Harper. It has nothing to do with me.”

Danilo advanced a step. “Really! Then you are content to rear the Lady Azariah in the type of world I’ve just described?”

The elf’s face turned white with rage. “You must never speak that name,” he commanded. “No one in Waterdeep can know of her. I have many enemies who would pay dearly for such information. Many of my associates, for that matter, would not hesitate to seize her for ransom or harm her in revenge against me.”

Elaith put down the harp and drew his own sword, advancing with menacing slowness down the steps. “I have the harp now. By the terms of our agreement, my search is over. Our partnership is at an end.”

“No, it isn’t,” Danilo responded, taking a battle stance and raising his sword in guard position. “By your word, I was to undo the spell before turning over the harp to you. Or doesn’t your word matter?”

“Azariah is all that matters.”

The Harper brought his sword up in time to meet Elaith’s first lightning-fast strike. “So she’ll be our little secret, is that what you’re saying?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The elf’s smile was grim, and he advanced with a flurry of blows that stretched Danilo’s swordsmanship to its limit and beyond. The Harper had little doubt that Elaith could kill him at will, but the elf was not content with a fast strike. The battle between them had been too long in coming.

“Why isn’t your faithful dwarven guard dog coming to your aid?” the elf taunted, tossing his silver head in the direction of the grim and watchful warrior.

“This is between you and me. Morgalla understands the concept of honor.”

Elaith laughed unpleasantly. “If that allusion was intended to draw blood, you failed sadly, Harper.” He drew a long dirk and advanced on the Harper, keeping his attacks deliberately slow so that Danilo could fend off both blades. The elf was openly, blatantly toying with his prey.

“Honor,” Danilo repeated pointedly. “Consider the nature of your quest. Can your daughter’s honor be won through dishonor?”

The elf recoiled, glaring at the Harper with naked hatred. He snapped his blades into their scabbards and pulled the magic knife from its wrist sheath. Slowly, he raised his arm for a killing throw.

Wyn wrapped a restraining arm around Morgalla’s shoulders, and for a long moment all four stood frozen in tense indecision.

Elaith flung the blade at Danilo. It hit the street at the Harper’s feet, embedding itself in the narrow crack between two large pieces of marble. The magic knife quivered there for the span of five heartbeats, then it disappeared.

“Take the accursed harp, then, and cast the spell—if you can.” The elf stalked to the edge of the temple courtyard and folded his arms.

On a gusty sigh of relief, Morgalla released the breath she’d been holding, and Wyn’s lips began to move in prayer to his elven gods.

The Harper sheathed his sword and walked slowly up the stairs to the ancient harp. He sat down on the step and tentatively stroked the strings. With a quick intake of breath he snatched away his hand, unprepared for the shock of power that had coursed through the silent strings at his touch.

“Get on with it!” Elaith demanded.

The memory of Khelben’s stern face filled Danilo’s mind, and the young bard immediately took the harp in his arms. Whatever became of him through the casting of this spell, Dan resolved to do whatever he could for his uncle and his mentor.

Danilo rested the Morninglark harp against his shoulder. Quickly he tried the strings, learning their arrangement and ensuring that all were in tune. One misplayed note, one out-of-tune string, and the powerful spell could fail. If that were to happen, the patriarch Evindal Duirsar might find the temple burdened with yet another mad ward.

“You can do it,” Morgalla said softly.

He gave his dwarven friend a reassuring nod, and raised his hands to the strings. The lilting dance melody filled the courtyard. He played it through to the end, then began to sing the riddle-filled spell in harmony with the harp’s melody. Once again, Danilo felt the full power of the music course through him, as it had in the High Forest.

From the corner of his eye, the Harper saw a flash of silver in the alley. Six men, clad in the light-eating black garments favored by the southern assassins, burst into the temple courtyard. Each man wielded a long, curved scimitar.

“Keep singing. We got ’em,” Morgalla assured him. She tossed aside her spear and pulled her axe. Wyn, too, drew his long sword. The two took a stand at the foot of the stairs, determined that none would get past them.

Danilo’s friends fought hard, but they were badly outnumbered, and the assassins were skilled fighters. Morgalla fought with an abandon that was at once grim and gleeful, but even the fierce dwarf was not equal to the assassins. Over to the side of the courtyard, Elaith stood with his arms crossed, watching the fight with apparent amusement

“You could help out, you long-eared, orc-souled cur!” Morgalla shouted at him. “Yer still partners ‘til the spell is done!”

Her words struck home, and indecision shimmered over the elf’s face. Elaith’s chest rose and fell with a resigned sigh, and he drew his magic knife. A flick of the wrist, and the assassin battling Wyn fell to the ground clutching his chest. The moon elf then waded into the thickest part of the battle, his blades flashing in streaks of silver and streams of red.

Danilo sang on, and the spell coursed through him, stretching his mind and his skills to encompass the power of the elfsong. When the final notes of the spell rang over the courtyard, he felt the sorcery dissolve suddenly, pulling back in upon itself and sucking magic after it like a vortex. He collapsed, gasping from a force only he could feel.

The visible results of his spell were equally dramatic. The unnatural clouds simply disappeared, and the skies cleared to an even, placid shade of silver. The hail and rain stopped immediately. Most startling was this: the Morninglark harp disappeared from his hands. He rose, looking at his empty hands in disbelief.

Morgalla dispatched the final assassin, then flung herself at Danilo, wrapping her arms around his waist in a bone-crushing hug. “I knowed you could do it, bard!” she crowed, and her blood-streaked face was wreathed in a broad grin.

Danilo returned her embrace, looking over her head at Wyn. “The harp itself was a component of the spell! Did you know that the harp would vanish?”

“I had an idea that it might. Your success was worth the sacrifice,” Wyn said quietly.

“Doubt the elf thinks so,” Morgalla observed, pulling away from Danilo and pointing toward Elaith.

With an oath, Danilo sprinted across the courtyard. Elaith stood over the bodies of the four assassins he had downed, his face set in a grimace and one hand clasped to his shoulder. With a quick jerk, the elf pulled a small knife from the muscle of his upper arm. The Harper reached Elaith’s side just in time to catch him as he collapsed.

Dan called for Wyn, and together they lifted the elf and began to carry him up the long flight of stairs to the temple. Morgalla picked up the knife and sniffed it. “Poison o’ some sort,” she said. “Better bring it along, so’s the priests can figger out what best to do.” She followed the men up toward the temple.

“Lord Thann,” the elf said in a faint voice.

“Don’t talk,” Wyn advised him. “Stay as still as possible to slow the action of the poison.”

“It is important Listen well, Harper. In my bag is a key. It will admit you to my house on Selduth Street See to it that my estate is settled and the means to raise Azariah directed to the temple.” Elaith paused for a grim smile. “Solving that riddle spell will be good practice for unraveling my business affairs.”

A spasm of pain crossed the elf’s face, and beads of sweat began to collect on his upper lip. His amber eyes sought Danilo’s, and the fierce gaze reminded the Harper of a dying hawk. The elf would not submit to the poison, however, until his mind was at ease. “Swear to it! Swear that you will see that my daughter receives her inheritance.”

“There is no need for that,” Danilo said quietly. He nodded to the faint blue glow emanating from Elaith’s left side. The magic stone on the hilt of the moonblade was alight with inner fire. “You have accomplished that yourself.”

Elaith reached over and touched the moonblade with awe. A look of utter peace crossed his face, and at last his eyes closed as darkness claimed him.

“In death, he has regained his honor,” Wyn said, regarding the magic elven sword with wonder in his green eyes.

“He’s won a second chance,” the Harper corrected, noting that the elf still breathed. “How he chooses to use it remains to be seen.”

Beneath the most dramatic sunset in living memory, the people of Waterdeep ventured out, heading to the marketplace for the Twilight Meeting that marked the official beginning of Shieldmeet.

All the portable booths had been removed from the open-air market, leaving ample room for the thousands who gathered in the vast area. A raised platform stood in the center of the marketplace, and a faint bowl of light surrounded it, providing illumination and amplifying the voices of those who would speak. There were sixteen thrones on the platform, one for each of the Lords of Waterdeep.

This was a matter of much speculation among the crowds, for the fate of the Lords seemed in no way certain. Most of the conversation, however, involved the events at the Field of Triumph. Dragon attacks were hardly common events.

The people recovered their equilibrium quickly, for Waterdhavians had seen it all and were as irrepressible and adaptable as any people in Faerûn. Everywhere they were arguing about the identity of the strange bard, whether she or Khelben Arunsun was responsible for the wizard weather, and even whether they should confirm the rule of the Lords of Waterdeep or seek other solutions to their problems.

Vendors wove through the crowd, offering refreshments and—considering all that had transpired—herbs, simples, and potions to soothe the nerves and dull the pain of minor injuries. The wealthiest visitors and citizens settled into the raised, curtained seats that ringed the outer edge of the market, and servants tended to their needs and carried messages and wagers between the booths of various noble and wealthy families. Those of lesser station gathered in the middle of the marketplace, and soon the entire area resembled a living, closely woven tapestry.

In her hiding place over a nearby weapon shop, Lucia Thione could hear the sounds of the crowd as the throngs passed by on the way to the meeting. Elaith Craulnober had made all her travel arrangements, and had bid her to wait there for her armed escort. Lucia hated to leave Waterdeep, for she had lived in the city most of her life and had enjoyed her position here. Yet much of her wealth was secreted elsewhere, and she had substantial holdings outside Waterdeep. She would want for nothing, and she would start again.

As the twilight deepened into evening, there came a knock on the door in the elaborate code that the moon elf had prearranged.

Lucia nodded to her guard, and the man unlocked the door. A tall, red-haired man ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel. He entered the room and affixed her with a sad, steady gaze. Lucia gasped and fell back from him.

“Your surprise is understandable, lady, considering the circumstances of our last meeting,” said Caladorn. “I understand that you will be leaving our city, and I believe that you have already met your traveling companion.”

A portly, dark-skinned man with a look of extreme satisfaction on his black-bearded face strolled into the room. The noblewoman’s heart plummeted when her eyes settled on Lord Hhune.

Lucia threw herself into the young man’s arms. “Caladorn, you love me! You cannot do this to me. If only you’ll listen, you’ll know that I—”

He broke off her despairing plea with a simple shake of his head, then took her shoulders and gently put her away from him. “No more. I am breaking the law by allowing you to go. You know as well as I the penalty for impersonating a Lord of Waterdeep.” Caladorn took her hand and bowed deeply over it “Farewell, Lucia.”

The young man turned to Hhune, who was studying Lady Thione with an unreadable expression in his black eyes. “The Knights of the Shield are neither welcome nor tolerated in this city,” Caladorn said. “I have been instructed to say that you must never return to Waterdeep. Shieldmeet is a time of truces: you would do well to be far from these gates when this day of peace is over. Remove your thieves and assassins, and the city is prepared to honor its trade agreements with your shipping guild.”

“You are most generous, Lord Caladorn,” Hhune said in inscrutable tones. “I accept your offer and will comply with its terms. And as the elf requested, I will see my countrywoman safely out of the city.”

The young man bowed and turned away, quickly disappearing down the stairs and out into the market-bound crowd. With him went the last of Lucia’s hopes. She wondered if he understood the sentence that his mercy had imposed upon her. She had no illusions about her fate in Hhune’s hands, and she turned her gaze to the Tethyrian’s face.

“Well, let us be off,” he said evenly. “We’ve a long journey ahead.”

Moving like one who slept, Lucia followed the guildmaster down the back stairs and into the carriage that waited there. Lord Hhune’s mood—which was neither the gloating triumph nor the violent rage she would have expected, but a cynical and perverse amusement—terrified her.

“What will you do with me?” she asked in a low voice.

“I thought it might be entertaining to bring a member of the hated royal family back to Tethyr,” Hhune mused, his black eyes glittering as he regarded her. “It is fitting, is it not? After all, you should be paid in coin of your own choosing.”

With those words, the Tethyrian tapped the glass on the front of the carriage. The horses lurched forward on the long road southward.

As soon as the elven priests took Elaith into their care, Danilo and his friends hurried toward the marketplace. The Harper was relieved that his task was completed, but he could not be at ease until he learned the full extent of the elfsong spell’s reversal. If Khelben had not recovered when the spell was lifted, the Harper’s victory would be incomplete and empty.

There was little standing room left when the trio arrived. A firm hand settled on Danilo’s shoulder, and the Harper looked up into the grave, handsome face of his friend Caladorn. Relief flooded him.

“Mystra be praised, you’re all right! I can’t tell you how glad I am that I was wrong, Caladorn.”

“You were not wrong,” the young man said softly. “I was, and I wish to make peace with you.” Danilo took the hand offered him and clasped it briefly. “The Lady Laeral has told me all that has transpired, and your part in it,” Caladorn concluded. He smiled faintly. “Finally, Dan, you have a bard’s tale that is worthy of your talents!”

Before Dan could question him about Khelben, Caladorn hurried off into the crowd. With a deep sigh, Danilo turned his attention to the platform. Soon Lord Piergeiron and fifteen masked and robed Lords proceeded in and seated themselves on the raised platform. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, silencing immediately as Piergeiron rose to address the assembly.

“Good people of Waterdeep. It has been a long and troubling day, and much has happened in the last few weeks. Before the Shieldmeet alliances are made, many questions must be laid to rest about these strange events. One of the Lords of Waterdeep has related to me a wondrous tale. I am not an orator, though, and only a bard could do justice to this story.”

The First Lord paused and smiled. “I call upon Danilo Thann.”

This unexpected summons lifted Dan’s heart. Surely this meant that Khelben had been released from his magical sleep, for only Khelben knew all that had occurred! Then he remembered Caladorn’s knowledge of recent events, and this assumption wasn’t good enough for him.

Beside him, Morgalla stamped and hooted, drawing attention to the bard at her side. The people around burst into loud huzzahs and enthusiastic applause, and they made way for Dan to pass.

The warmth and the acclaim strangely chilled the Harper, for it could only indicate that the elfsong spell had not been entirely banished. Shouldn’t his reputation have perished along with the spell?

With Morgalla firmly pushing him from behind, Danilo made his way toward the middle of the marketplace. Seeing that he had no instrument, a beautiful, golden haired elf pressed her harp into his hands, bidding him with an inviting smile to return it whenever he wished.

As he looked at the instrument, inspiration struck Danilo, and he knew how he could ascertain Khelben’s fate. He thanked the elf woman and ascended the platform.

The Harper began to play one of his favorite melodies, and to it he sang an improvised and almost-accurate account of the adventure. Danilo kept the facts in, but he deliberately embellished the tale, adding a comic twist and a ribald suggestion or two.

From the corner of his eye, Danilo saw one of the Lords raise a hand to his helmed forehead in a gesture of exasperation that the Harper knew very well. Joy flooded the young bard’s heart, and the power of elfsong crept unbidden into his voice.

The people of Waterdeep listened to the ballad with deep attention, drawn into the music and the story in a way that, many of them said later, seemed almost magical.