Elfsong

One

In the very heart of Waterdeep, in a tavern renowned for its ale and its secrets, six old friends gathered about a supper table in a cozy, private room. Thick walls of fieldstone and ancient beams muffled the sounds coming from the tavern kitchen and the taproom beyond, and in the center of each of the four walls stood a stout oak door. On each door was a lamp that glowed with faint blue light. The lamps, magical devices that kept any sound from leaving the room, also barred inquisitive mages from scrying in. In the center of the chamber was a round table of polished Chultan teak, and the deeply cushioned and well-worn chairs around it spoke of many long, comfortable visits. A dome of pale, incandescent azure surrounded the supper table, ensuring that no words would pass the magical barrier. In a city whose lifeblood was equal parts gold and intrigue, multiple privacy spells were not unusual. In all, the scene was common enough; the friends were not.

“I learned of this just last evening,” said Larissa Neathal, a striking red-haired woman who, despite the early hour, was draped in white silk and ropes of pearls. She circled the rim of her wine glass with one slender finger as she spoke, idly coaxing a clear, ghostly note from the singing crystal. “I was entertaining Wynead ap Gawyn—a prince of one of those lesser Moonshae kingdoms—and he spoke at length about crop failures on one of the islands. The fields and meadows for miles around Caer Callidyrr withered mysteriously, almost overnight!”

“That’s a misfortune and no mistake, but if it doesn’t touch Waterdeep, we haven’t spare tears to shed,” observed Mirt the Moneylender, folding his arms over his food-stained tunic in a gesture of finality.

Kitten, a sell-sword whose hair was a tousled brown mop and whose leathers were cut to reveal abundant cleavage, leaned forward to poke playfully at Mirt’s vast midsection. “So say you, Sir Beer-Belly. Those of us with more refined tastes—” here she paused to cast a coy, hooded glance around the table “—we know this news bodes ill for Waterdeep in more ways than Elminster has pipes.” She began to tick off concerns on her red-taloned fingers. “First, the famous herb gardens near the old college. The woodruff there goes to make the Moonshae spring wine that sells so well at our Summer Faire. No woodruff, no wine, eh? Our finest wools come from those parts, too, and the spring shearing will be scant if the sheep lack grazing. You just try to tell Waterdeep’s weavers, tailors, and cloak-makers that that isn’t any of our concern. And what of the merchant guilds? You can’t empty a chamber pot in the Moonshaes without hitting a handful of petty royals, and all of them strive to outdo each other buying our fancier goods. If they have the money, mind. With crops failing, they won’t.” She raised one painted eyebrow. “I could go on.”

“And you usually do,” grumbled Mirt, but he softened his words with a good-natured wink.

“Problems in the South Ward, too,” said Brian quietly, folding his callused hands on the table. Brian the Swordmaster was the only one of their number who lived and labored among Waterdeep’s working folk, and his practical voice and keen eye made him the most down-to-earth of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. “Caravans are losing goods to brigands. Outside the city walls, travelers and whole farm families have been found torn to bits with never a sword drawn in their own defense. Looks like monsters at work, and monsters with magic. Game has fled the woods to the south, and there’s too many empty stew pots. The fisherfolk have troubles, too: nets slashed, catches looted, trap lines cut. What say you about that, Blackstaff? Are the merfolk falling off the job, and letting those murdering sahuagin too close to the harbor?”

All eyes turned to Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, the most powerful—and the least secret—of the Lords of Waterdeep. His age was impossible to guess, but his black hair and full dark beard were shot through with silver, and his hairline was definitely in retreat There was a distinctive streak of gray in the middle of his beard that emphasized his learned, distinguished air. Tall and heavily muscled, he was an imposing man, even seated. Tonight the archmage seemed oddly preoccupied. His goblet sat untouched before him, and he gave scant attention to the concerns of his fellow Lords. “Sahuagin? Not to my knowledge, Brian. No sahuagin have been reported,” Khelben replied in a distracted voice.

“What’s stuck in your craw tonight, wizard?” demanded Mirt. “We’ve troubles enough already, but you might as well put yours on the table along with the rest.”

“I have a most disturbing story,” Khelben began slowly. “A young elven minstrel stumbled upon a mystery at the Silverymoon Spring Faire, and he has been traveling these three months trying to find someone who would listen to his tale. It seems that the ancient ballads performed at the Spring Faire, especially those written by or about Harpers, have all been changed.”

Larissa let out a peal of silvery laughter. “Now, there’s news indeed! Every street and tavern singer changes a story, adapting the tune and words to suit his own whim and the tastes of the listeners.”

“That is so,” the archmage agreed. “At least, that is the custom of street and tavern performers. True bards are another matter entirely. Part of a bard’s training is memorizing the traditions and lore, which are passed down, precise and immutable, for generations. That’s why so many Harpers are bards: to preserve a knowledge of our past.”

“I don’t often disagree with you, Blackstaff.” Durnan, a retired adventurer and the owner of the tavern in which they met, spoke for the first time. “Seems like we’ve got enough to concern ourselves with in the here and today. Let the past take care of itself.” The other Lords of Waterdeep murmured agreement.

“Would that it were so simple,” Khelben said. “It appears that the bards themselves have fallen under some sort of powerful enchantment Magic that far-reaching can only mean trouble to come. We need to know who cast the spell, why, and to what end.”

“That’s your end of the ox, wizard,” Mirt pointed out. “The rest of us know little enough about magic.”

“Magic can’t provide the answer,” Khelben admitted. “I’ve examined several afflicted bards. They are telling the truth as they know it, and magical inquiry yields no answers. As far as the bards are concerned, the ballads are as they’ve always been.”

Kitten yawned widely. “So? The bards are the only ones who care about such things, and as long as they’re happy, what’s the harm in it?”

“Many bards may die happy,” Khelben said. “Not only have the old ballads been changed, but new ones have somehow been grafted into the bards’ memories. The elf minstrel brought to my attention a new ballad that could lure many Harpers to their deaths. It urges Harper bards to seek out Grimnoshtadrano for some insane riddle challenge.”

“Old Grimnosh? The green dragon?” Mirt grimaced. “So this is more than a fancy prank; it’s a fancy trap. Any idea who’s behind it?”

“I’m afraid not,” the archmage admitted. “But the ballad mentions a scroll. If a bard can retrieve it from the dragon, I may be able to trace the spell’s creator.”

“Well, there you go,” Kitten said. “Bards are easy enough to come by.”

Khelben shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Every available Harper bard in the Northlands seems to be afflicted, and therefore any one of them could be an unwitting tool of the spellcaster. Therein lies the problem. Who’s to say that an enspelled bard won’t take the scroll to his hidden master? No, we need a bard whose wits and memories are his own.”

“What of the elf, the one who brought you this tale?” Larissa suggested.

“For one thing, he’s not a Harper,” the archmage said. “But more important, to succeed in this quest, a bard must understand both music and magic. The scroll mentioned in the ballad is most likely a spell scroll, and if that is so, reading the scroll means casting a spell. The elven minstrel has had no wizard training. And you know what would likely occur if I sent an elf to face a green dragon.”

“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner would occur,” Kitten said flatly, “depending on the time of day. So what are you going to do?”

“I’ve sent out inquiries, hoping to find someone farther afield whose gifts are unchanged.” The archmage’s frustration was almost palpable.

The friends sat in silence for a long moment. Brian stroked his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. “Seems to me you’ll have to do like the rest of us, Blackstaff; make do with what you can get. Maybe there’s a mage among the Harpers who could pass as a bard. Know you anyone like that?”

Khelben Arunsun stared at the swordmaster for a long moment. Then he dropped his head into his hands, slowly shaking his head as if in denial. “Lady Mystra preserve us, I’m afraid I do.”

Far to the south of Waterdeep, a young man strode whistling into the entrance hall of the Purple Minotaur, the finest inn in Tethyr’s royal city. He nodded to the beaming innkeeper and made his way through the crowded gaming hall on the inn’s opulent first floor.

Many pairs of dark eyes marked his passing, for Danilo Thann was something of an oddity in the insular and sometimes xenophobic southern city. His manner and appearance clearly proclaimed his northern heritage: he was tall and lean, and his blond hair fell in thick waves to his shoulders. Mischief lurked in his gray eyes, and his face wore a perpetual smile and an expression of open friendship and guileless youth. Despite his callow appearance, Danilo had recently established himself as a successful and popular member of the wine merchants’ guild. He was also vastly wealthy, and not at all loathe to spend money. Many of the regular patrons glanced up from their cards or dice and greeted him with genuine pleasure, and a few called out invitations to join in the gaining. But this evening Danilo’s arms were piled high with neatly wrapped packages, and he seemed particularly eager to examine his newly acquired treasures. Tossing back greetings and banter as he went, he hurried toward the curving marble staircase near the back of the gaming hall, and he bounded up the stairs three at a time.

When Danilo reached his bedchamber, he tossed his purchases onto the embroidered pillows that were heaped on the Calimshan carpet He snatched up a long, slender package and unwrapped it, revealing a gleaming sword. After admiring the sheen and workmanship for a moment, he snapped into a guard stance and made a few flamboyant lunges at an invisible adversary. A nasal, droning voice immediately filled the room as the magic sword broke into a Turmish battle song. The young man dropped the sword as if it had burned his fingers.

“Egad! I pay two thousand gold pieces for a singing sword, and it has a voice like Deneir’s donkey! Or should that be Milil’s mother-in-law?” he mused, scratching his chin as he considered which bardic god might best be invoked under such circumstances. After a moment, he shrugged.

“Well, you get the general idea,” he said, whimsically addressing the discarded sword. “So. What am I to do with you?”

The sword had no opinion on the matter. It had been fashioned to sing when wielded, inspiring fighters to new levels of courage and ferocity. It also warded off the magic of creatures that do mischief through music, such as sirens and harpies. Conversation was not among the sword’s talents.

Danilo crossed the room to a reading table piled with books. He took up a slender volume bound in crimson leather and leafed through it. “This one is worth a try,” he murmured, scanning a spell he had devised to add additional tunes to the repertoire of an enspelled music box. With a brisk nod, he set down the book and his hands flashed through the gestures of the spell. That done, he fetched his lute down from its wall peg and settled down cross-legged on the carpet near the sword. He began to play and sing a ribald ballad. After a few minutes of silence, the sword began to hum along. When it joined in, it imitated not only the words and tune, but the ringing, resonant tones of Danilo’s well-trained tenor.

“You’re a baritone, but I suppose that can’t be helped,” the young mage commented, but he was vastly pleased with the success of his spell. Danilo had studied magic since the age of twelve, under the stern eye of his uncle Khelben Arunsun. At first Dan studied in secret to avoid a public outcry—his early attempts to learn the craft had resulted in a number of colorful mishaps—but he showed remarkable talent, and Khelben soon wished to make the apprenticeship official. Danilo had demurred. Even then, he’d had the notion that he might accomplish more if the full extent of his abilities were kept secret His wealth and social position—the Thann family was among the merchant nobility of Waterdeep—gave him access to places denied most Harpers. Few suspected that he was anything more than what he appeared to be: a dilettante and dandy, an amusing dabbler in music and magic, a fop and a bit of a fool.

Seated on the intricate carpet amid heaps of embroidered pillows, Danilo Thann looked the part he had chosen to play, and quite at home in his luxurious surroundings. He was even dressed to match the rich purple shades that filled the chamber. His leggings, silk shirt, and velvet jerkin were all a deep shade of violet, and his knee-high suede boots had been dyed to match. The outfit, according to his Harper companion, made him look like a walking grape, but Danilo was well satisfied. Upon joining the guild of wine merchants, he had ordered an entire new wardrobe made up in shades of purple, for this was the favored color of the land. Wearing purple was a sign of goodwill, and it pleased the many tailors, cobblers, and jewelers Danilo patronized. All told, a new wardrobe and a small hoard of amethyst jewelry was a small price to pay for the popularity he enjoyed in Tethyr.

Danilo sang until the sliver of new moon rose high into the sky. After the magical sword had learned the ballad to Danilo’s satisfaction, the mage returned the weapon to its scabbard, which he attached to his weapon belt. That done, Danilo again picked up the lute and began to play and sing. He was known among the Waterdhavian nobility for the amusing songs he composed, but since no one was around to hear and wonder, he played the music that pleased him best: airs and ballads by the great bards of ages past.

A magical alarm sent an insistent pulse sounding through the room, shattering Danilo’s reverie and drowning out his song. The shrill warning of danger seemed strangely out of place, but Danilo immediately set aside his lute and rose to his feet. One of the magical wards he’d placed around the inn had been triggered by an intruder. He strode to a table near the open window and picked up the small globe. At his touch, the alarm stilled and a picture formed in the heart of the crystal. The scene it showed him brought an involuntary smile to the young mage’s face.

A slender, feminine form stalked the roof two stories above him, a length of rope in her hands. She made no sound and was barely discernible against the dark sky; only the crystal’s magic enabled him to see his potential assailant. With his free hand, Danilo reached for the decanter of elverquisst he kept for just such occasions.

He poured generous portions of the ruby-colored elven liqueur into two goblets, keeping his eyes on the magical crystal. As he watched, the tiny figure reflected therein leaped far out into the night. The rope she held snapped taut, and she swung like a pendulum toward his open window. Danilo set down the alarm and picked up the full goblets.

A half-elven woman landed before him in a crouch, quiet and nimble as a cat. Her blue eyes swept the room, and a ready dagger flashed in one slender hand. Satisfied that all was safe, she tucked the dagger in her boot and rose to her full height, just three inches shorter than Danilo’s six feet.

Arilyn Moonblade had been his friend and partner for almost three years now, yet Danilo never ceased to marvel at her talents—or her effortless beauty. Her raven curls had been tossed by the night wind, and she was dressed for concealment: her pale oval face had been darkened with ointment, and she wore leggings and a loose shirt of an indistinct dark hue that seemed to absorb shadow. To Danilo’s eyes, though, the half-elf outshone every overdressed Waterdhavian noblewoman he’d ever met Once again Danilo had to remind himself of the importance of their working relationship.

“Lovely night for second-story work,” he observed in a casual tone, and handed her a goblet. “That jump was most impressive. But tell me, have you ever miscalculated the rope’s length?”

Arilyn shook her head, then absently tossed back the contents of the goblet. Danilo’s eyes widened. The elven spirits had a kick more powerful than that of a paladin’s mount, but his delicate-looking companion might as well have been drinking water.

“We’re leaving Tethyr,” she stated, plunking her empty goblet on Danilo’s table.

The Harper mage placed his own goblet beside hers. “Oh?” he asked warily.

“Someone has placed a bounty on your head,” she said in a grim tone, giving him a heavy gold coin. “These were given to any assassin willing to take on the job. One hundred more to whoever makes the kill.”

Danilo hefted the coin in a practiced hand and then let out a long, low whistle. The coin felt to be about three times the normal trade weight; the amount Arilyn named was a substantial sum. He glanced at the markings on the coin’s face; it was artfully embossed with an unfamiliar pattern of runes and symbols. “It would seem I’m attracting a better class of enemies these days,” he observed wryly.

“Listen to me!” Arilyn clasped both his forearms and gave him a little shake. The intensity in her blue eyes drove the last bit of mirth from the young man’s face. “I heard someone singing your ballad about the Harper assassin.”

“Merciful Milil,” he swore softly, at last understanding the situation. He’d written the ballad—an appalling bit of doggerel—about their first adventure together. The facts were well and truly disguised, and although it did not identify either Arilyn or him as Harpers, the very mention of that society of “meddling Northern barbarians” could create a good deal of resentment in the troubled land of Tethyr. For months he and Arilyn had worked to undermine a plot to replace the ruling pasha with a guild alliance, he from within the wine merchants’ guild, and she in the dark underworld of the assassins’ guild. All this he had undone with an ill-considered ballad. Danilo silently cursed his own stupidity, but out of habit he hid his emotions behind a frivolous quip.

“The locals express their musical preferences rather forcefully, wouldn’t you say?” He cut off Arilyn’s exasperated rejoinder with an upraised hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. Force of habit. You’re right, of course. We must ride north at once.”

“No.” She reached out and touched one of his rings—a magical gift from Danilo’s uncle, Khelben Arunsun, that could teleport up to three people back to the safety of Blackstaff Tower, or elsewhere if the wielder so chose.

Danilo knew from experience how much Arilyn hated magical travel. If she was willing to resort to it, the situation must be grave indeed. He snatched up his swordbelt and affixed to it the magic bag that held his wardrobe and travel supplies, and he quickly thrust his three spellbooks into the bag. He absently dropped in the assassin’s coin and then reached for her hand.

The half-elf took a step backward and shook her head. “I’m not coming with you.”

“Arilyn, this is no time to be squeamish!”

“It’s not that” She took a deep breath as if to steady herself. “Word came from Waterdeep today. I’ve been assigned another mission. I leave in the morning.” The magical alarm began to pulse again. Arilyn snatched up the magical globe and peered into it. Three shadowy figures moved toward the edge of the roof, just two stories above them. Arilyn tossed the alarm aside and cast a glance toward the open window. “There’s no time to explain. Go!”

“And leave you to face them alone? Not bloody likely.”

Her answering smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she touched the gray silk sash at her waist that proclaimed her rank in Tethyr’s assassins’ guild. “I’m one of them, remember? I’ll say you were gone. No one will challenge me.”

“Of course they will,” he snapped. Assassins in Tethyr rose through the ranks by killing someone with a higher-ranked sash. Arilyn had been forced to defend her reluctantly worn sash more than once.

The rope she’d left hanging outside his window began to sway as someone inched down it toward his room. “Go,” Arilyn pleaded.

“Come with me,” he demanded. She shook her head, implacable. Danilo snatched the stubborn half-elf into his arms. “If you think I’d leave you, you’re a bigger fool than I am,” he said, his words racing against the approaching danger. “This is hardly the moment I’d have chosen to mention this, but damn it, woman, I love you.”

“I know,” she replied softly, clinging to him in turn and searching his face for an intense second, as if to commit it to memory.

Arilyn eased out of his arms and lifted one slender hand to stroke his cheek. Then she doubled her other fist and drove it into his midsection. Danilo went down like a felled oak.

As he struggled to draw breath, he felt her fingers on his hand, twisting the ring of teleportation that would send him back to Waterdeep. He lunged for her wrist, intending to drag her along to safety, but the teleportation spell engulfed him, and his fingers closed on a whirl of white emptiness.

When Danilo arrived in the safety of Blackstaff Tower’s reception hall, his first impulse was to return to Tethyr immediately. His magic ring, however, would not grant him that power again until daybreak. Khelben could send him back, Danilo realized, and when he could muster enough breath to move, he lurched up the curving stone stairway to the archmage’s private chambers. Khelben was not at home, nor was his lady, the mage Laeral. Danilo made a quick search of the tower, with the same result. He was alone, and thoroughly stuck in Waterdeep.

The Harper hurried back down to the reception hall and flung himself into the chair at the small writing table. He scratched a quick note to his uncle telling him what had occurred in Tethyr. Danilo cast a spell that made the paper float at eye level near the room’s entrance. For good measure, he placed an aureole of sparkling pink lights around the parchment, so that Khelben could not fail to see it upon his return. Meanwhile, Arilyn was alone in Tethyr, and there was not a thing Danilo could to do to help.

Helplessness gave birth to frustration, and suddenly the Harper could no longer abide the symbolic purple he wore. He stripped off his amethyst rings and thrust them into the magic bag on his belt, but the fact remained that he was still dressed like a “walking grape.” He strode out of the tower and through the second invisible door that allowed passage out of the polished black stone wall surrounding it. At a brisk pace he headed toward the townhouse he’d recently purchased. There he could discard the purple reminders of his mission in Tethyr and await his uncle’s summons. For the last two years, both Danilo and Arilyn had received their missions directly from Khelben Arunsun; surely the archmage could tell Danilo where Arilyn had been assigned to go.

As he walked, Dan mentally kicked himself for leaving his magical globe behind in Tethyr. It was a small scrying crystal that he’d adapted into an alarm, but with it he could probably discover how Arilyn fared. Just before the ring of teleportation had carried him away from Tethyr, Danilo had caught one last glimpse of her. Sword drawn, the half-elf had faced the window in a battle stance, limned in the magical blue light of her sword as she stood to confront his enemies. Danilo could not dismiss that image from his mind, or stop wondering about the outcome of the battle that had surely followed.

Danilo was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he gave scant attention to others on the crowded street He hurried past an alley and bumped heavily into a solid frame. Strong hands caught the Harper’s shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. Danilo focused his attention on the smiling face of his friend and fellow nobleman, Caladorn Cassalanter. The man was several years older that Dan’s eight-and-twenty, also taller and broader. He wore his dark red hair cropped short, and he had a warrior’s callused hands. Caladorn had long been city champion in fighting arts and horsemanship. Of late he’d taken to bouts of seafaring adventure, even dropping his family name until he had “done something do prove himself worthy of it.” With difficulty, Danilo summoned the inane grin his friend would expect and pasted it firmly in place.

“Well met, Caladorn. Fancy bumping into you, as they say.”

The nobleman chuckled and released his grip. “Steady as you go, Dan. The taverns have not been long open, and already you walk as though tacking to a changing wind.” Caladorn’s eyes narrowed. “Or are you ill? You don’t look yourself.”

“Sad to say, all I’m suffering from is a bit of a headache,” Dan lied, pressing his fingertips delicately to his temple. “You know you’re getting old when you feel this bad the day after you’ve had no fun the night before.” He paused, as if slightly dizzied by his own observation. “Or words to that effect”

Caladorn laughed and clapped Danilo on the shoulder. “That’s my lad. You know the Lady Thione, do you not? Lucia, my dear, I am remiss. Allow me to present my old friend, Danilo Thann. Despite appearance, he is harmless!”

Danilo turned his attention to the woman at Caladorn’s side. Tiny and slight, she was dressed in a gown of rich purple and crowned by gleaming chestnut hair arranged in thick coils about her shapely head. Her dark eyes observed Dan with a touch of amusement, and her delicately aquiline features held the unmistakable stamp of the Southlands. Dan stifled a sigh: he was not going to escape his memories of Tethyr tonight Lucia Thione was a prominent member of Waterdeep society, and as a distant relative of Tethyr’s ousted royal family, she often wore the traditional purple to flaunt her exotic and royal background. Danilo disliked this sort of posturing, but he knew the rules of court behavior and could follow them as well as any. He took Lucia Thione’s hand and bowed deeply.

“Caladorn is a fool, dear lady. Where a beautiful woman is concerned, no man should be considered harmless.” He smiled at his friend, taking the threat from the words and leaving behind only the compliment

“In that case, I’ll consider myself forewarned, and well take our leave,” Caladorn said in a jovial tone, encircling Lucia’s shoulder with one massive arm.

Dan watched them go, noting the solicitous manner in which Caladorn bent over the tiny noblewoman. So that’s why Caladorn was lingering in Waterdeep rather than going off to pursue adventure somewhere, Dan noted. Although Danilo was not exactly envious, he was in no mood to be confronted with other people’s happiness. Feeling very alone and in sudden need of a stiff drink, Danilo ducked into the nearest tavern.

He regretted his choice immediately. The scent of a rain-washed forest greeted him, and the taproom’s roof soared up at least five stories to accommodate the live trees that grew here and there in the room. Gentle, floating motes of blue light drifted among the clientele, who were almost exclusively elven. The reason for this was immediately apparent: a pair of well-armed gold elf sentinels guarded the door like a pair of glowering bookends. They looked him over, considering.

“I know you,” one of them finally said. “You’re that … mage that was discussed in the last innkeepers’ guild meeting.”

Dan smiled at them in his most engaging fashion. “You’ve obviously heard about that unfortunate incident at the Fiery Flagon. Rest assured, I’ve paid for the damage in full. Except for the dwarf’s beard, of course—hard to determine a market rate on those, don’t you know—but it should grow back in, say, another decade or two. Not that the spell would affect any of your clients, of course; no one here appears to be bearded, so having ale suddenly turn to flame couldn’t set anyone’s beard afire. If I cast that spell, that is, which of course I won’t.”

The elven guards seized Danilo by his elbows and spun him toward the door. From the corner of his eye, the Harper saw an ancient elf lift one long-fingered hand in a peremptory gesture. Immediately the guards halted. The elf—marked by his fine white robes and platinum torque as a personage of some importance—whispered a few words to his hostess, Yaereene Ilbaereth. Her delicate face lit in a smile of genuine pleasure, and she came to meet Dan with outstretched hands. The door guards melted away at her approach. Dan noted this development with puzzlement He had fully expected to be thrown out of the tavern, and indeed he had no wish to linger, but he could hardly ignore the regal elven woman who approached him.

Yaereene was tall and slender, with the silvery hair and eyes common to moon elves. She wore a sparkling gown that was alternately blue or green, for it changed color to match the whim and color of the tiny faerie dragon perched on her shoulder. The creature grinned and flapped its gossamer wings as the pair approached, and its jeweled scales were echoed by the fine blue topaz woven into the intricate silver mesh of the elf’s necklace.

“Welcome to Elfstone Tavern,” Yaereene said, holding out both hands to Danilo in a manner common to ladies of the Waterdhavian court It was a gracious gesture, accepting the human by his own custom. Danilo took her hands and kissed the slender fingers, and then responded in kind. Holding both hands, palms up, before him, he bowed low to her in a uniquely elven gesture of respect. Yaereene’s smile widened and then turned into a delighted laugh when Dan addressed the faerie dragon with a few words in its own tongue. In response, the tiny creature graciously craned its jeweled head to one side, allowing Dan to scratch its neck as he would that of a house cat.

Yaereene claimed Danilo’s arm and led him deeper into the taproom. “Tonight you are the guest of Evindal Duirsar, patriarch priest of Corellion Lathanian,” she said, indicating the aged elf who had interceded in Dan’s behalf. “May we call on you later, after you have supped and shared a drink?”

“Of course,” Danilo replied graciously, although he hadn’t the slightest notion of what he might be called upon to do.

The elven priest rose when the Harper approached, and after the rituals of greeting were accomplished the two settled down before a crystal decanter. “Do you drink elverquisst?” the priest asked.

“Only when it’s available,” Danilo replied in a droll tone.

Evindal Duirsar smiled and signaled for another goblet, which was immediately supplied by an elven servant. The priest’s mood abruptly sobered, and he leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice. “My son is Erlan Duirsar, lord of Evereska. He has told me of your service to the elven people.”

“I see.” Dan settled back in his chair, uncertain of how to proceed. Two years earlier, he had helped to secure Evermeet, the island homeland and last retreat of the elves, by moving a magical gate from the elven settlement known as Evereska to a more secure, secret location. He had no idea how widespread this knowledge was, but, judging from Yaereene’s reception and the number of gracious nods the elven patrons had sent his way, it was a secret poorly kept. “I suppose that would explain my welcome here,” Danilo concluded.

“Not at all.” Evindal shook his head adamantly. “Few know what transpired in Evereska. You are welcome here for other, more obvious reasons.”

“Define ‘obvious,’ ” Dan requested.

The elven priest chuckled and gestured toward the middle of the taproom. There sat a flaxen-haired elfmaid, playing upon a gilded harp and singing. Danilo recognized the tune as The Gray-Mist Maiden, an air that he himself had written. The song likened the magical mist that surrounded and protected Evereska to an elusive lover, and although it was popular with Dan’s friends among the Waterdhavian nobility, to Dan’s ear the words were trite and overly sentimental. He had deliberately written it so. Why would such a thing be sung by the music-loving elves, even translated as it was into Elvish?

“That is a lovely song,” Evindal said admiringly.

“It must have gained something in the translation,” Dan murmured.

Evindal smiled. “Such modesty in a bard is refreshing.” He rose from the table. “I’m afraid my duties call me back to the temple, but please stay as long as you will. Call on me any time, for the People owe you a great debt.”

Danilo lifted his goblet “At the price of elverquisst, we should be even before the night is over.”

The priest chuckled as he walked out of the tavern. Danilo watched him go, a puzzled frown on his face.

“What are you doing here, besides marinating in elven spirits?”

Danilo jumped. He looked up into the stern face of Khelben Arunsun. As usual, the archmage was clad in simple, dark clothing, and wrapped in a fur-lined coat against the sea breezes that chilled Waterdeep’s nights, even now, in the midst of summer. Khelben’s silver-streaked black hair was uncharacteristically rumpled, and his bearded visage looked a shade grimmer than usual. Danilo was one of the few persons in Waterdeep not cowed by the powerful wizard, and he gestured cheerfully with his full goblet

“Sit down, Uncle. I’d ask you to join me in a glass—”

“But you doubt that we’d both fit.” The archmage completed the jest in a sour tone. “Save the nonsense, Dan. We’ve more important matters to discuss.”

“Indeed.” The Harper spoke softly and met Khelben’s glare with a measured gaze of his own. “Let’s start with the most important matter. Where is Arilyn?”

The archmage was silent for a moment, then he nodded toward the decanter of elverquisst. “A mage of your potential has no business drinking anything so powerful. Magic demands keen wits and a clear mind. Or have you forgotten what happened last time you imbibed too freely? I hear that the butler at the Stalwarts’ Club still resembles something from the Abyss.”

Danilo’s eyes narrowed. “I am in full possession of my senses—such as they are—and I was that evening in Cormyr, also. I regret changing the butler’s appearance so drastically, but might I remind you that the episode occurred during the Time of Troubles? Mine was not the only spell to go awry in those days!”

“Defending your art.” Khelben leaned back in his seat and nodded approvingly. “That’s a good sign. May I infer that you’re taking your magical studies more seriously, or would that be hoping for too much?”

The young mage’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his thick blond hair. “While in Tethyr, I memorized the spells in the book you lent me, as well as several more from a tome of southern magic I purchased there. Beyond my Harper duties, I have acquired over twenty new spells and researched several of my own. Just because I study in secret does not mean I lack purpose,” he concluded in a terse, quiet voice. “Likewise, although I play the fool, I am not so easily distracted as you seem to think. I left my partner alone and in danger, and I demand to know where she is and how she fares.”

“Fair enough,” Khelben conceded, a touch of apology in his voice. “Arilyn is safe, and on her way to her new task.”

“Where is she? And why must she go alone?”

“The task requires someone who can pass as an elf. Where she’s going, you would be too conspicuous. I can tell you no more.”

Danilo received this news in silence. Although he was relieved to learn that Arilyn was safe, he feared that this mysterious assignment would take her far beyond his reach. Always more elven than human, Arilyn would be less likely to consider a human lover when she returned from her time among the elves.

“And I’m human,” Danilo concluded aloud.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” his uncle said tartly. “Fortunately the dragon in question doesn’t know you as I do.”

Suddenly Khelben had Danilo’s full attention. “Dragon, you say?”

Again the archmage paused, and he studied the wall opposite him. “You were trained in music, if I’m not mistaken. Well trained.”

“Many years ago,” Dan said absently, puzzled by the abrupt turn the discussion had taken. “Why?”

“The Harpers require the services of a bard. At present, not one seems to be available.”

“I don’t like where this is leading. I’m supposed to pass myself off as a bard, is that it? On the strength of what?”

Khelben nodded to the elven singer. “That, for example.”

Danilo marshaled his befuddled senses and focused on the ballad. It had a lovely, vaguely familiar melody. He knew just enough Elvish to make out something about Khelben’s lady, the mage Laeral, and the healing power of love.

“That’s very nice. Whose is it?”

The archmage looked at him keenly. “You’re sure you don’t recognize it?” When Danilo shook his head, Khelben gave a grim smile. “Well, that settles that question. The ballad is yours. Very popular tune these days, I’m sorry to say.”

“But—”

“Yes, I know. You didn’t write it that way. There’s a great deal of that going around.”

Danilo listened to the singer for a few moments. “By Oghma, I’m not bad!”

Khelben’s face darkened at the young man’s flippant oath to the patron of letters. “This is serious, boy! Your songs are not the only ones that have been changed.”

The Harper put a solicitous hand on Khelben’s arm. “You may not have noticed this, Uncle, but there’s usually ample room for improvement. Whatever do you wish me to do: change them back?”

“Precisely,” the archmage said, tossing some coins onto the table and rising to his feet “You start tomorrow at sunrise, and there’s much to do. You’ll need travel supplies, an instrument or two—what is it you play, zither?”

“Lute,” Danilo replied absently. He had little choice but to follow his uncle out of the tavern. It finally occurred to him what Yaereene had asked him to do; it was common practice for a bard to play at any tavern or inn he visited. On the way out Danilo bowed to the proprietress, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness as he indicated the glowering archmage. Yaereene forgave him with a gracious nod, and Danilo hurried to match Khelben’s long stride.

“The first order of business is meeting your partner,” Khelben paused and raised one salt-and-pepper brow, “and your apprentice.”

“I have an apprentice?” he said in a dazed tone.

“So she thinks, and I see no merit in convincing her otherwise. You would do well to have a skilled fighter at your side. Whatever her limitations as a bard might be, her credentials as a warrior are most impressive.”

Danilo thrust his fingers into his hair and rubbed his scalp briskly, on the dim chance that he might be able to shake loose the mental cobwebs that kept him from understanding what was apparently crystalline to the archmage. “For argument’s sake, let’s say I’m a bard, apprentice, zither, and all. Who am I supposed to entertain?”

“Grimnoshtadrano,” Khelben replied as he strode toward Blackstaff Tower.

“But isn’t he—”

“A green dragon? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Danilo realized that he was gaping like a beached carp. He closed his mouth and gave himself a brisk shake. “You mentioned something about a dragon earlier, but I’d assumed you were jesting.” He cast a sidelong glance at his uncle’s severe expression, then he sighed heavily. “I suppose I should have known better.”

“This mission requires someone with a knowledge of both magic and music,” Khelben continued. “First thing tomorrow morning, you will set out for the High Forest, challenge the dragon, convince him you’re the bard he’s been waiting for, and get from him by whatever means necessary a scroll that is now in his possession.”

The Harper flashed a rueful smile at the archmage. “If you say so, Uncle Khelben. Now tell me, what would you like me to do after breakfast?”