Elfsong

Five

Taskerleigh lay two days’ travel behind him, but Danilo had yet to come up with an explanation for his current predicament.

By Dan’s reckoning, Elaith Craulnober would rather wed a troll than travel in his company, yet here they were. Danilo had ruefully dubbed their combined forces “Music and Mayhem,” and the name stuck. That was not, in his opinion, a good omen.

Theirs was beyond doubt the most uneasy alliance the Harper had ever encountered. The elf held all the prejudices of his race and had no love of dwarves, but to Dan’s surprise Elaith treated Wyn Ashgrove no better than he did Morgalla. The elven minstrel was spared the sharp edge of Elaith’s tongue, but he pointedly ignored Wyn’s presence among the travelers. Several times, though, Elaith’s eyes rested on the gold elf, and the pure hatred in their amber depths chilled Danilo. For his part, Wyn treated everyone with the same distant courtesy, and he seemed to take no notice of his fellow elf’s bad manners. If there was a common thread weaving together the disparate adventurers, it was Vartain. The riddlemaster seemed to annoy everyone in equal measure.

But Elaith’s mercenaries, especially the huge black-bearded man known as Balindar, were quite taken with the dwarf maid. When they learned that Morgalla was a veteran of the Alliance War, the men plied her with eager questions. Waterdeep had not sent an army to help turn back the barbarian invaders, and many sell-swords of the Northlands felt they’d missed out on the greatest, most glorious adventure of their lifetimes. The dwarf was hesitant at first, but she warmed to their interest, and by mid-morning of the second day, she was helping to pass the tedium of travel with one well-told tale after another. Dan listened to snatches of their conversations, enjoying the dwarf’s mellow voice and skilled storytelling. He remembered Morgalla’s gruff rejection of the title “dwarven bard,” but to his ears, she deserved to be accounted so even if there was no music in her soul. And that lack, he doubted. Every night since they’d left Waterdeep, Morgalla had persuaded him to play his lute and sing. Never would she join him, but she listened to every air and ballad with a rapt expression of mingled joy and longing on her broad face.

Danilo glanced over at Elaith, who was riding apart from the others, as alert and wary as the silver fox he resembled. He could not imagine what treasure induced the elf to take to the road. It was widely rumored in Waterdeep that the moon elf was wealthy almost beyond calculation. Elaith often hired mercenary bands and sent them on trips of exploration and adventure, but in recent years he had remained in Waterdeep, making his dark deals and reaping the reward from others’ blood and toils. The Harper didn’t trust Elaith for a moment, and the sooner he knew the elf’s hidden purpose, the better his little band’s chances of survival. Danilo reined his bay, a fast and sturdy horse he favored for long trips, over to the elf’s fine-boned black steed.

“How does Cleddish?” the Harper asked, nodding toward a mercenary who had been wounded in the harpy attack. Cleddish was one of five men who had been turned into living statues by the harpy charm song. The effect had finally worn off this morning, and Danilo would long remember the man’s horrible, keening screams when he awoke. Danilo carried a number of tiny vials containing potions that sped healing or countered poisons, and he’d given one of each to Cleddish. This precaution closed the gashes made by the harpy’s filthy talons and would probably stave off putrefaction, but the man had lost a good deal of blood. Danilo suspected that Cleddish had sustained hidden wounds, as well. The mercenary sat his horse with grim, stoic determination, but he had spoken little since the attack, and his face was almost as gray as the single braid of hair that hung over his wounded shoulder. Still, Cleddish was more fortunate than his comrade, a Northman who had been blinded by the harpy’s venom. At Elaith’s order, the blinded man had been put out of his agony and his body left beside the trail.

“Cleddish seems rather subdued, and his color is poor,” Danilo pointed out, “but I don’t know him well enough to judge whether or not this is normal for him.”

Elaith turned a long-suffering gaze to the human, his expression plainly indicating that he tolerated this interruption as but one indignity among many. “Cleddish is a hired sword, not some beloved cousin. You know him as well as I.”

“Ah. Well, that exhausts that topic,” Danilo said dryly.

“I should hope so.”

After a moment’s silence, the nobleman tried again. “In all candor, I can’t envision you joining forces with bards and Harpers.”

The elf responded with an enigmatic smile. “Let’s say that I’ve become a patron of the arts.”

“Most commendable. I must say, it was a surprise to learn that you’ve taken up adventuring again. I trust your expedition to Taskerleigh was a success?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be so trusting.” The rejoinder was offered in silky, pleasant tones, but it was nonetheless a warning.

Danilo decided not to take it “Hit a nerve there, did I?” he said cheerfully. “Well, if your men expected treasure and were disappointed, one way of keeping up morale would be offering them a green dragon’s hoard.” He left an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“A gracious offer.” Elaith made the Harper a small, mock bow. “On behalf of my men, I accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me, one of us should watch the road.” The elf kicked his horse into a trot, putting several lengths’ distance between himself and the Harper.

Danilo grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. That went about as well as he’d expected. Still, the elf had a point The terrain through which the adventurers rode was rugged and inhospitable, and caution was definitely in order. The village of Taskerleigh lay near Ganstar’s Creek, in hilly and fertile land northwest of the Goldenfield temple farms. The roads through it had fallen into disrepair, for rumors of monsters and the disappearance of more than one adventuring party had discouraged resettlement. The main road that led westward from the deserted village was also lightly traveled, for only the heartiest travelers ventured into the High Forest, and even fewer emerged. The path that Music and Mayhem followed skirted the rock-strewn hills marking the grave of the Fallen Kingdom, a long-ago settlement of humans, elves, and dwarves. The land had long since become wild: fields had been reclaimed by scrub forest, buildings had been reduced to occasional heaps of stone, dwarven tunnels had either collapsed or become home to underground monsters. To Danilo, the scene was an ominous suggestion of what befell humans, elves, and dwarves who tried to cast their lots together.

The sun cast long shadows before them as they climbed a particularly high and rocky hill. At the summit, Elaith signaled a halt. The riders came together to survey the land before them. Near the bottom of the hill was a fork in the road. The southern branch, Danilo knew, led toward the town Secomber, where it connected with a major trade route. The northern fork was a narrow path into the High Forest Far to the north Danilo could see the rapid waters of Unicorn Run, and beyond the river lay the dense green wilderness. A section of the road ahead went through marshlands, and the bed had been built up with soil and stone into a narrow causeway. This road had been built many years before by an adventuring party known as the Nine, and it ended at their famed stronghold in the southern part of the High Forest But the Nine had retired long before Danilo’s birth—some rumors had most of them rolling in wealth on another plane—and the causeway had crumbled.

Danilo considered the marshlands with a dubious expression. Sunset was hours away, yet already the songs of frogs and other, unknown swamp creatures drifted toward them. He had fought lizard men once in the dreaded Marsh of Chelimber, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat “I, for one, am for making camp right here,” Danilo said.

“There is no water here, nor fodder for the horses,” Vartain pointed out, predictably enough. No matter what idea was presented, the riddlemaster usually had a better one. “If would seem the best course to ride on. At a good pace, we could be past the wetlands before nightfall. The best and safest campsite would be near the river, but not in the forest itself.”

Elaith gave a curt nod of agreement, and Danilo, despite misgivings, gave in.

They rode hard, reining their horses to a walk only when they reached the narrow causeway. Caution was needed, for though some parts of the path had room for two or three to ride abreast, large chunks of the road had been reclaimed by the marsh. They picked their way along, riding in silence.

The chirping of the frogs grew louder as they rode, with an unearthly, reverberating sound that made the marsh seem to close in around them. Danilo found it unnerving. When they were near the middle of the causeway, he leaned close to Morgalla and whispered, “Reminds me of the effect I get when singing Tantrasan opera in a small bathchamber.”

“Yeah. I don’t like it,” the dwarf responded grimly.

“Tantrasan opera is an acquired taste,” the Harper quipped.

Morgalla nodded absently. “That, too.” Her brown eyes searched the shallow water for anything that might signal danger. After a moment she smacked Danilo’s knee to get his attention, then pointed to their right A stand of thick, oat-colored reeds swayed in the breeze. The tops of many had been partially severed, and they emitted a strange, hollow whistle as the wind blew across them. When the riders passed, the flow of air was interrupted and the mournful sound ceased. “An alarm?” the dwarf suggested.

Danilo was about to demur when he noticed a strange stand of reeds several yards ahead. A thick bank of these reeds seemed to have been arranged in several rows. Those in back were long and thick, and each successive row was shorter. The reeds in each row tapered downward to either side. Something about the arrangement struck Danilo’s memory. He reached down and tugged at one of the reeds that grew near the path, but it would not give. He took a hunting knife from his boot and hacked off the bent top. It was hard and rigid. The tops of these water plants had not broken by a passing breeze, of that much he was certain. Danilo motioned for Wyn, and the elven minstrel reined his horse over to the Harper’s side.

“Look at that bank of reeds ahead,” Danilo said softly. “Is it my imagination, or does it remind you of something?”

The gold elf examined the plants politely, then his green eyes widened in astonishment. “A pipe organ,” he murmured. “Some being has fashioned a musical instrument in this marsh!”

“Damn,” Danilo said with feeling. “I was hoping it was my imagination.”

The Harper caught Morgalla’s eye and rested his hand on his sword hilt. She gave a barely perceptible nod, and urged her pony over to Balindar’s side. She whispered something, and the huge fighter passed the hushed message down the line. The mercenaries readied their weapons with a lack of subtlety that made Danilo wince. The gold elf, however, took his lyre from its shoulder strap and quickly checked the tuning of the strings.

Immediately, the “organ” began to play. At first, the whistling tones were indistinguishable from the random, hollow sounds of the windswept reeds around them. The sounds quickened and became higher in pitch, tumbling together into a dancelike melody that set the bank of reeds ahead quivering merrily. There was something oddly like speech in the music, Danilo noted. A moment later, the song was echoed back from the far side of the marsh. He would have given a great deal to know what the little tune said, and even more to avoid learning to whom the music spoke.

Then the largest reeds began to sound. A deep, resonant call rang out over the marsh in macabre counterpoint to the lilting dance tune. Despite his rising fear, Danilo listened to the marsh music as objectively as he could. The sound was very like that of an enormous hunting horn.

“A call to battle,” Wyn said softly, echoing Danilo’s disconcerting thoughts.

Elaith wrapped his reins around the pommel of the saddle and readied his bow. “What are we fighting?”

“I don’t know,” Wyn replied in a tense voice. “Something new, perhaps.”

The organ’s music stopped abruptly. A grim silence hung over the marsh, broken only by the gentle pop of bubbles rising to the surface of the water. Vartain pointed to bubbles on both sides of the causeway. “Whatever they are, they’re all around us,” he observed.

That observation was too much for Cleddish, and his long gray braid whipped from side to side as he frantically tracked the marsh for the unseen musicians. His dappled gray horse sensed the rider’s rising panic, and it shied and pitched. At that, Cleddish snapped. Dropping his sword into the marsh, he flung both arms around his horse’s neck. This increased the horse’s panic and it reared. Its hoofs came too close to the causeway’s edge. Stone gave way, and horse and rider tumbled backward into the marsh. The horse found its feet quickly and scrambled back onto the path, its eyes wild and white-rimmed. Cleddish thrashed about in the shallow water, shrieking hysterically.

“Pull him out!” Danilo called to those closest the fallen man.

Morgalla leaped from her mount and snatched her spear from its holder. Grasping it near the jester’s-head top, the dwarf held the other end out to the hysterical mercenary and planted her booted feet wide. “Grab ahold,” she hollered, but Cleddish was apparently past hearing or reason.

Then the source of his panic became apparent Green hands rose out of the weeds and water, closing around the frantic mercenary’s throat Danilo caught sight of long fingers ending in bulbous tips before Cleddish was pulled under. The water churned madly for several moments. Morgalla flipped her staff around and bared the spear’s tip, dancing back and forth as she tried to decide where to stab.

“Ride on,” Elaith commanded softly. “Stay as far away from the causeway’s edge as possible. Maybe the creatures are like wolves, only attacking those who weaken and fall away from the herd.”

Morgalla spun on her heel. “Yer gonna leave him?” she demanded.

“Yes,” the elf said curtly. “And quickly, before whatever ate him decides to seek a second course.”

As if on cue, a large green head broke the surface of the water several yards from where Cleddish had disappeared. The creature had the bulging yellow eyes and broad mouth of a frog, but as it rose from the water its body appeared to be roughly shaped like a man’s. Its jowls suddenly bulged outward like those of a giant bullfrog, but with one difference: three long green appendages hung from the lower part of its giant air sack. A shrill, droning sound began to issue from the creature, an unmistakable call to battle that struck Dan as hideously similar to the skirl of bagpipes.

More of the creatures rose from the marsh in response to the summons, and the droning became a battle chorus. Elaith and his mercenaries fired again and again, but the agile frogs took cover under the surface of the water and few of the arrows found their marks. The frog creatures closed in, slowly and from all sides.

One of the pipers threw back his green arm and hurled a sharpened reed like a javelin. The rigid shaft sank deep into the flank of Balindar’s horse. The animal screamed and reared, sending the huge mercenary into the marsh.

Again green hands reached out for their prey, but this time Morgalla was ready. She stabbed the creature through the wrist, then gave her spear a vicious tug back and up, pulling the frog creature partly onto the causeway. With its unharmed hand, it gripped her ankle, and its jowls bulged for another sort of attack: it shrieked. If a hurricane had been forced through a bagpipe, the sound could hardly have been less painful. Morgalla froze, her face contorted with agony.

Two streaks of silver flashed toward the dwarf. Elaith’s first knife ripped into the creature’s air chamber, and the shrieking collapsed into a flatulent gurgle. The second knife pierced the creature’s wrist, pinning it to the causeway and freeing Morgalla. She danced back, yanking her spear out of the monstrous frog. Snatching the hand-axe from her belt, she struck deep between its yellow eyes. Morgalla yanked Elaith’s knife free and kicked the dead monster back into the water. Still twitching, it sank, leaving a spreading pool of dark ichor. She nodded her thanks toward the elf, but he had turned aside, sword drawn in preparation for the next attack. Beside Morgalla, Balindar crawled onto the causeway, his shoulders heaving as he rid himself of the brackish water.

“They’re not close enough,” Wyn murmured as he clutched his lyre, his golden face creased with worry.

Danilo shot an incredulous look at the elf. In that moment of distraction, one of the creatures leaped onto the path and grabbed Danilo’s ankle. The dwarf was at his side in an instant, and again her axe flashed. The giant frog bellowed and jumped back, clutching its severed and dripping stump. Danilo drew his long sword and slashed the creature’s throat Three more frogs climbed over the body of their fallen brother, and the hideous creatures began to swarm onto the causeway from both sides.

“Close enough for you now?” Danilo shouted at Wyn as he slashed at the closest frog.

The gold elf was beyond hearing. He strummed his lyre, singing in a voice as high and clear as a woman’s, but unmistakably masculine. The elf’s countertenor voice soared above the sounds of battle and the ghastly drone of amphibian pipes. Looking as calm as if he performed for friends in his own chambers, Wyn sang a gentle, lyric tune. The words were in the elven tongue, but a sense of peace filled Danilo’s heart even as he continued to fight. Only once had Danilo heard such music: after the battle in Evereska, an elven priest had healed the Harper’s seared hand with a song. He felt now the same power, the same awe, and the same humility before a beauty he could not begin to imitate or understand.

Wyn’s music seemed to surround the elf and his horse in an invisible, protective sphere, and any frog who came near him fell back. Gradually the area of calm expanded, and the deadly frogs dropped their reed weapons. They ceased their raucous battle-skirl, as if the better to hear the elven song. Finally the pipers retreated into the marsh, sinking low in the water until all that could be seen of them was their bulging eyes. Still singing, Wyn began to ride forward along the causeway.

The others fell in behind him, and as they rode through the deepening twilight their path was brightened by the light of dozens of unblinking yellow eyes.

As vast and mysterious as Waterdeep might seem to a visitor, the city possessed layers of history and intrigue that were beyond the imagination of most of its citizens. Beneath the city’s streets and buildings was a network of secret tunnels and passages that defied efforts at mapping or exploration. Even deeper were the mines of a long-dead dwarven nation, and beneath that, it was rumored, lay the cavernous lairs and abandoned hoards of dragons. There were also stories of tunnels into other planes, but most considered these tales best left untold. Waterdeep was well run despite its secrets, or, perhaps, because of them.

One of the most secure of these secret tunnels ran between Piergeiron’s Palace and Blackstaff Tower. Deeply troubled, Khelben Arunsun made his way back through it toward his tower home, trying without success to bring to mind an image of Larissa Neathal’s beautiful face, as it once had been.

Mirt had found the courtesan in her home, barely alive and battered almost past recognition. Rarely had Khelben seen the former mercenary weep. Now, having seen Larissa, Khelben felt near tears himself. She had been taken to the palace as soon as the physicians felt it was safe to move her, and there she remained under the best care—and the best protection—the city could offer. Healing potions and clerical prayers seemed to have eased her suffering, but nothing could touch her deathlike slumber. She had been too badly hurt, and in too many ways, for such methods to prevail. His friend’s life was truly in the hands of the gods, and for all his power, the archmage was helpless to intervene.

Khelben climbed the stairs to his tower. The door was flung open at his approach, and Laeral stood at the top of the stairs. She was dressed as usual in a clinging, seductive gown, and her luxuriant silvery hair spilled over her bared shoulders. For once, though, her face lacked merriness, and her dimples were nowhere in evidence.

“How does Larissa?” she asked. Even through her concern, her voice was sultry as a summer breeze.

“She sleeps,” Khelben muttered. “That is the best that can be said.”

Laeral held out her arms, offering what comfort she could. For a long moment the powerful wizards clung to each other. Khelben drew back first, smoothing his lady’s silver hair and giving her a small, grateful smile.

“A message came from the Lady of Berdusk while you were gone,” Laeral said quietly, producing a small scrying globe from the folds of her gown. Such devices required powerful magic, and were used by the Harpers and their allies only in time of immediate need. “Asper has been captured by a band of brigands. They demand ransom, and will take it only from her father’s hand.”

Khelben drew in a long, steadying breath. Asper was a fighter currently working near Baldur’s Gate as a caravan guard. She was a tiny young woman, pert and dark and merry, but none the less deadly for her happy nature. She was also the adopted daughter and the heart’s-blood of his friend Mirt. Although Mirt was a retired mercenary who could still provide a respectable fight, he was getting on in years. Khelben feared what this news would do to his friend, coining as it did so close to Larissa’s tragedy. Still, he must be told.

“I’ll let Mirt know at once,” he said.

“I’ll come with you,” Laeral offered, but the archmage shook his head.

“No, it’s better that someone remain here in case there’s more word on Asper. I was planning to meet Mirt at the tavern, anyway”

“Ah. I’d forgotten it was the Like-Minded Lords’ night out,” Laeral said with a tiny smile. These six Lords of Waterdeep met regularly, sometimes to plan strategies and share information, but often just to enjoy their friendship.

Again the archmage descended the stairs into the city-beneath-a-city, this time taking a tunnel that led toward the Yawning Portal, the tavern owned by his friend Durnan. Khelben quickly made his way through a labyrinth of doors and passages and ladders that led him into the secret back room of the tavern.

The gathering of Lords was small and somber tonight. Mirt, Durnan, and Kitten were waiting behind untouched mugs. Brian the Swordmaster arrived on Khelben’s heels.

The archmage broke the news. Mirt listened in silence, then nodded and rose to him feet

“Well, I’m off, then,” he said simply.

Durnan grasped his friend’s plump wrist. “Give me an hour to see to the tavern, lad. A lot of years have been washed downstream, but I’d be proud to ride with you again.”

The retired mercenary shook his head, declining the offer of his friend and former comrade-in-arms. “Stay, Durnan, and see you to the city. There are too few of us left.” With those words, Mirt disappeared down the ladder with an agility astonishing for a man of his size and years.

Mirt’s words seemed to echo in the room. “He’s right, you know,” Kitten pointed out “First Larissa. Now Mirt is called away. Texter is off riding again, and only the gods know where Sammer is.” She took a swig of her ale and grimaced. “Though they can hold their peace as far as that one’s concerned.”

Durnan nodded in agreement The traveling merchant Sammereza Salphontis brought valuable information from the surrounding kingdoms, but he was not well liked by his fellow Lords.

“Got more bad news,” Brian said. “During the past ten-day, I’ve got near to thirty orders for scimitars.”

“So business is good,” Kitten observed, examining her formidable manicure. Although she usually appeared in public looking as tousled and unlaced as if she’d just risen from her bed—or, more to the point, someone else’s—this evening she was as elegantly coifed and gowned as any Waterdhavian noblewoman. “What’s your point?”

The Swordmaster produced a small curved knife from his leather pouch and slapped it down on the table in front of her. “Ever seen one of these?”

Kitten picked it up and examined it, frowning in puzzlement at the dozens of tiny marks carved into the blade. “Looks like someone’s keeping score on this thing.”

“That’s precisely right,” Khelben said, taking the knife from her hands, his face set in tight, grim lines. “Southern assassins often use such knives. The more marks, the more illustrious the career. How did you get this, Brian?”

The man shrugged. “Got me a new apprentice. The boy needed work. He can’t swing a hammer worth a tin coin just yet, but he can pick pockets quicker’n a halfling. The man he lifted this off ordered six of those scimitars.”

“Which are favored weapons in the southern lands,” Khelben added wearily. “So we may have an influx of southern assassins. Someone should tell Piergeiron at once; he’s the usual target”

Kitten chugged the rest of her ale, then rose to her feet with a rustle of brocade and lace. “I’ll go; I dressed for the palace, since I planned to look in on Larissa.” She disappeared through one of the room’s four doors.

“That’s it for tonight, then,” the archmage said, rising from his chair.

“Before you go, Khelben, there’s something you ought to hear,” Durnan said. The innkeeper opened the door that led into the tavern’s storeroom. Khelben and Brian exchanged puzzled glances, but followed him. They made their way past barrels and neatly stacked crates to the taproom. Durnan cracked open the door and beckoned the men closer.

“I say it be truth!” argued one drunken voice from beyond the door.

“Nay, how could it? That’d make the wizard more long-lived than a dragon,” countered a second man.

“It’s true, all right,” stated a petulant female voice, “and Danilo ought to know. He’s kin to Khelben, and he loves family history. He tells the most amusingly ribald story, don’t you know, about his great aunt Clarinda Thann—”

“Shut up, Myrna.” Galinda Raventree’s distinctive husky voice was unusually sharp as she silenced her rival. “Khelben is always chastising Dan for those cute, harmless little spells, and this song is just Dan’s way of tweaking the old man’s beard.”

“Well said, miss,” agreed a rumbling voice with a touch of Cormyrian burr. “The young bard tells a good story, I’ll grant you, but the song is nothing more or less than that.”

“Let’s have it again!” demanded another.

The sounds of a lute stilled the debate, and after a few rippling notes a woman began to sing in a deep, raw voice that was uniquely seductive and feminine. Khelben recognized the dark voice as that of the Masked Minstrel, a mysterious woman who wandered the Castle Ward, often giving open-air concerts in Jester’s Court of a nice summer’s eve. Her name and origin were matters of heated speculation in the city: she was variously thought to be a mad noblewoman, a Zhentish spy, or a Harper agent. Whatever else she might be, her song left no doubt in Khelben’s mind that she had succumbed to the curse upon the bards.

Durnan probed Khelben’s ribs with an elbow. “They say your nephew wrote that song, but I can’t believe it of the lad. It has a lot to say about you, and Elminster as well, and it puts you both back some two hundred years. Who would do such a thing?”

“I wish I knew,” Khelben muttered, gesturing for silence so that he might hear the words. The verses that followed were not reassuring. The song was indeed based on one of Danilo’s, and the incident it referred to was the Harpstar Wars, a dark time that had occurred more that two centuries past Khelben had seen to it that Danilo was versed in Harper history and lore, but the song Danilo had written was no more than veiled allegory; the words of this ballad went on to describe the battles, name many of the Harpers who’d fallen in the war, and warn of the continuing threat offered by the few shapeshifting Malaugrym that survived. Whoever had changed the words might well have been there, Khelben noted with a growing sense of dread.

The archmage searched his memory for the names of the Harpers who had survived those times, and those who might still live. Perhaps one survivor of that long-ago war had turned away from the Harpers’ path, becoming so twisted that he or she outlived death as a lich. That would explain much, for an extremely powerful undead wizard might be able to command a spell that could change the minds and memories of the bards.

The ballad raised another concern as well. Khelben had done all he reasonably could to suppress the ballad about Laeral’s misadventure with an evil artifact, but the song was everywhere, spreading speculation and distrust. There were many other things in Khelben’s life that were best left untold, yet someone seemed determined to air them. Although Khelben’s parentage was a matter of record and his genealogy open to all who cared to inquire, his history had in fact been borrowed from another. Few knew his true age, or the secrets of his past, or the extent of his power. In truth, Khelben controlled the affairs of Waterdeep much less than he was capable of doing, but few would believe this if all his secrets came to light.

The final stanza of the Masked Minstrel’s ballad took Khelben’s troubled thoughts and put them to music:

The tavern fell into deep, ominous silence. History and legend were full of tales that admonished vigilance against magic grown too proud and powerful, and the final line of the ballad contained a common watchword for disaster. All knew the story of Hellgate Keep, and the ambitious wizards who opened a door into the Abyss. Fiends, imps, and other fell denizens flooded into the light, destroying a kingdom and remaining even to this day, attacking travelers and waging occasional war on Silverymoon. The danger of powerful magic gone awry was real, the possibility soberingly close to home.

“It’s true, I tell you,” Myrna insisted. This time, no one contradicted her.

Durnan laid a hand on Khelben’s shoulder. “If I were you, old friend, I’d be sure to leave by the back door.”

Wyn Ashgrove continued singing the adventurers to safety until the causeway was far behind them and the first stars winked into light. Danilo was the first to break the awed silence.

“That was remarkable, whatever it was. Whatever was it?”

“Spellsong,” Elaith whispered at his elbow. For once, the moon elf’s silky composure seemed shaken, and he gazed at the minstrel with naked awe. “A rare elven magic that can charm any creature that draws breath. I see now why you dare to hunt dragons with an army of three! Few among the elves have such a gift, and never have I seen a feat to rival this one.”

Danilo rode closer to Wyn and asked, “Can the art of spellsong magic be taught?”

“As in any other sort of magic, a certain aptitude is required,” the elf replied. “Likewise, just as in all magic, spellsong is learned through practice and study.”

Danilo nodded, taking this in. “So you’re saying that humans could learn it, too?”

“No, he isn’t!” Elaith snapped, his head held at a haughty angle. He drew a deep breath as if to say more, but his offended expression froze, then disappeared behind an expressionless mask. The moon elf wheeled his horse aside and rode hard toward the banks of the river. He stopped at a level clearing and called for the others to set up camp.

Strangely enough, Danilo understood Elaith’s response. The elven distrust of humans and the desire to keep their culture intact and separate had been trained into him. Elaith Craulnober was the last of an ancient noble family, born on Evermeet and raised as a member of the royal court Wyn’s magic reminded Elaith what he was, and also mocked him for what he was not. Danilo understood, but he firmly believed that he could learn the elfsong magic, with no loss to the elves.

He turned to Wyn, who had been riding silently beside him. The gold elf slumped in his saddle, exhausted by the powerful spell he had cast. “I would like to learn more about such music,” Danilo said wistfully. “Would you be willing to teach me?”

The minstrel did not answer for a long moment, so Danilo prodded. “I trust that you don’t harbor the same hostilities and beliefs as our friend,” he said, nodding toward Elaith, who was already directing the mercenaries at the work of building a circle of campfires to cook the evening meal and to ward off predators. The scene was one of busy cooperation. Morgalla worked beside Balindar, chips of firewood flying from her small axe.

“The hostilities, no,” said Wyn quietly. “Please excuse me.”

With these words, the elven minstrel slipped from his horse and walked toward the workers, calling out to Morgalla in a friendly tone. The dwarf paused in her labor and glanced up, suspicion etched on her broad features.

Left alone, Danilo blinked with openmouthed astonishment. Wyn had been nothing but courteous since their first meeting, but the meaning of his actions was startlingly clear. Given the choice of teaching elven magic to a human, or suffering—indeed, seeking out!—the company of a dwarf he had hitherto avoided, the minstrel did not need long to consider.

“Well, it’s nice to be back on familiar terrain,” Danilo said wryly to himself as he swung down from the saddle. “All that popularity, respect, and acclaim back in Waterdeep was starting to make me nervous.”