Elfsong

Six

By the time the evening meal sizzled on the fire, the dangers of the marshlands seemed far away, eclipsed, perhaps, by the enormity of the task that lay ahead. As fearsome as the amphibious pipers had been, dragons were the most powerful creatures in the land, and green dragons were both evil and unpredictable. Perhaps in defiance of the danger that awaited them, the members of Music and Mayhem seemed determined that the night before the confrontation would be a celebration.

Fresh-caught fish sizzled on the fire, seasoned with herbs from Danilo’s magic bag—“Never travel without certain amenities,” he’d advised Yando, the group’s cook—and the truffles that Vartain had located under a stand of young oaks had been added to the rice steaming in a travel kettle. As the travelers ate, Wyn sang songs he had gathered from years of travels among the Northmen, the Ffolk of the Moonshaes, and from a dozen lands of Faerûn.

Morgalla sat on a log placed a few feet from the fire, munching trail bread and fish as she listened to Wyn sing. Indeed, all seemed to be drawn by the elf’s songs. As Danilo watched the circle of mercenaries, a suspicion entered his mind. Since Wyn was capable of charming the froglike monsters, what effect might his music have on people? Could the power of the elf’s music bend them all to his will?

Wiping his fingers on a handkerchief, Danilo withdrew to the shadows beyond the circle of small fires that ringed the encampment. As much as he disliked his suspicions, he had to be sure that Wyn’s magical ability was not endangering his mission. He began to cast a cantrip, a simple spell that would detect the use of magic.

Wyn stopped playing, and his keen night vision pierced the shadows that hid the mage. “The instrument is magical, the song is not,” he said evenly. The elf rose and held out the silvery instrument “Come. Try it yourself. This is a lyre of changing, and upon command it will take the form of any other instrument of its size, or smaller. But please, not bagpipes,” he said with a tiny smile.

“That goes without saying,” Danilo agreed as he came back over to the circle. He took the lyre with interest; he had heard of such instruments but had never handled one. “A rebec, please,” he said, and the lyre immediately became a long, pear-shaped instrument that vaguely resembled a lute, but was played like a fiddle with a horsehair bow. Danilo spoke again, and the rebec became the most unusual lap harp he had ever seen. The instrument was the pale color of driftwood, and the wood had been intricately carved with tiny seascapes, complete with ships, mermaids, and wheeling gulls. Impressed, Danilo handed back the magic instrument

“I am especially fond of the harp’s music, but I cannot play,” Wyn said wistfully, pressing the harp back into Danilo’s hands. “Would you do the honors?”

“By all means,” Elaith put in smoothly, his lips curved in an urbane smile. “A small task, for one who claims to be a Harper and aspires to confrontations with legendary dragons.”

“Speaking o’ legends, elf, I heared yer name a few times,” Morgalla observed pleasantly. She jabbed at a bit of fish with a wicked-looking hunting knife. “ ’Cept yer always called a snake in the tales. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Serpent,” Vartain corrected. “Named for his grace in battle and speed of strike.”

“If’n it slithers, it’s all the same to me,” the dwarf said with a shrug.

“In answer to your question, Wyn,” Danilo put in hastily, “the harp was my first instrument, although it’s been years since I last played. My first teacher was a bard trained in the style of the MacFuirmidh school. He was adamant that the old songs had to be sung to the original instrument of composition.”

Danilo tried the strings and found that the memory of the music was still in his fingers. After a moment’s thought, he began the introduction to a dwarven ballad, an old song taught to him by a bard visiting from Utrumm’s Conservatory in Silverymoon. It was a sad but dignified lament for a people and a way of life that was slowly fading from the land.

To Danilo’s surprise, Wyn Ashgrove began to sing the dwarven song with genuine feeling. After a moment, Morgalla also joined in, singing harmony in a rich alto. The deep tones of the dwarf’s voice encompassed about the same range as Wyn’s soaring countertenor, and the two voices blended as well as any duo Danilo had ever heard. As he played, the Harper listened with awe to the singers. In the elf’s silvery tones was the beauty of the sea and stars, while the rich, feminine strength of Morgalla’s voice seemed to spring from the earth and the stone: opposites, perhaps, but together forming a whole.

The last notes of the harp faded away, leaving an invisible bond between the two singers that neither had considered. Their gazes clung for a moment, then slid away, a little self-conscious. Morgalla took a deep breath and raised her eyes to Danilo. Her expression was defiant, quickly becoming bewildered as the circle broke into applause.

“Beauty, brawn, and talent!” Balindar whooped, raising his tin traveling cup to the dwarf in a salute.

“Morgalla, my dear, your voice is remarkable,” Danilo told her. She shrugged and looked away.

Wyn reclaimed his instrument from the Harper and held it out to the dwarf. “Do you play as well as sing?”

She snorted and held out her stubby-fingered hands for inspection. “With these?”

“There are instruments—even stringed instruments—that would suit you well,” Wyn told her. “Have you never heard of a hammered dulcimer?”

“Hammers, you say?” The dwarf looked interested despite herself.

The elf smiled faintly. “More like spoons than hammers, and wielded with more delicacy than one would employ at a forge, but the idea is the same. Let me show you.”

A word from the elf changed the lap harp into a small wooden box, wider at one end than the other and crisscrossed with strings. Wyn took two small beaters and began to tap the strings, showing Morgalla how the notes were arranged and then playing a snatch of the melody that they had just shared.

“Now you,” Wyn said, and handed her the beaters.

The dwarf began to play, hesitantly at first but with growing delight as she picked out one tune after another. The instrument was uniquely suited to her, combining the dwarven love of percussion instruments with Morgalla’s craving for melody. The tiny beaters fit in her hands as if made to order.

Danilo listened to Morgalla’s music with pleasure and more than a little guilt. The dwarf had come to him wanting to learn more of bardcraft, and he’d done little to fulfill her expectations or to earn her loyalty. Granted, he’d invited her to sing a couple of times, but he was quick to accept her refusal and too preoccupied to wonder what might be behind her hesitation. Wyn Ashgrove had proven to be more perceptive and thoughtful, and Danilo was grateful to the gold elf.

Dan leaned closer to Wyn and murmured, “That was kindly done. You seem to have made a conquest.”

The elf let the teasing remark pass. “Morgalla’s love of music was plain to see; her talent you can judge for yourself. She needed but the means and a little encouragement. As for the others”—Wyn nodded toward the mercenaries—“this music will help keep their minds from the dangers ahead.”

Morgalla finally stopped, heaving a sigh of deep satisfaction. So absorbed in the music had she been that she’d forgotten about the others, and at the applause she looked up, flushed and flustered.

“Take a bow,” Danilo advised her, smiling. “Surely one with your gifts knows how to acknowledge an appreciative audience.”

“It’s been awhile,” the dwarf said wryly. “You play, bard.”

Sensing it best not to push her, Danilo got out his lute and regaled the adventurers with a ribald tale about a priestess of Sune—the goddess of love and beauty—who aspired to become the most infamous and popular hostess in Faerûn. The priestess was well satisfied with her success until a visiting ranger, unimpressed by her wild party, advised her to seek out the satyrs and take a few lessons on debauchery. She did so on a Midsummer night, and the rest of the song told about the competition of priestess and satyrs to outdo each other in merriment. It was, without doubt, the most obscene song in Dan’s considerable repertoire of off-color tales.

After the laughter and bawdy comments had died away, Danilo played a very different ballad. This was a historical tale about a long-ago battle between the Harpers and a drow elf queen who enslaved humans to work her mines. He sang the old song as it had been passed down in to him in strict bardic tradition, and doing so was an act of defiance against the power that had enspelled the bards and altered their record of the past Wyn nodded slowly, understanding the Harper’s gesture and approving.

When the tale was told, Danilo put aside the lute and motioned for Vartain, who sat just beyond the circle of firelight, gnawing at a bit of dried meat “Your turn, riddlemaster. Give us a story.”

Vartain wiped his fingers on his tunic and came into the circle. His bald pate reflected the firelight like some small, bronze moon, and the play of light and shadows across his face exaggerated the gaunt angles and prominent features. Morgalla nudged Danilo and handed him a scrap of paper. Sometime during the trip, she’d sketched Vartain as a potbellied vulture. Danilo swallowed a chuckle.

“There is an ancient tale from my homeland,” Vartain began in a rich, carefully modulated bass voice, “about a wealthy man who was blessed with two sons. As do we all, the man grew old, and he knew his time was short. He called his sons to him, saying he could not decide which of them would be his heir. This they would determine by a race. The sons were to set forth the next morning for Kaddisht, a town some twenty miles away. The son whose camel was the last to arrive would be accounted his father’s heir.

“When the sun arose, it found the two men ready for the race, dressed for travel and mounted upon their best camels. Their father gave them his blessing and wished them well, and the race was on. Each son employed every method he could think of to remain behind the other, while the beasts grew restless and the sun sank low behind the dessert. By the end of the day, the two men had gone less than a hundred paces!

“Deeply troubled, the two brothers took shelter at an inn. There they shared wine and discussed their troubles. Each man was wealthy by his own labors, and each had business affairs and families to tend. The task their father had given them had no clear end in sight In pursuing their inheritance, the men were in very real danger of perishing in the desert that lay between the inn and the town of Kaddisht The men told the innkeeper their dilemma. After a moment’s thought, the innkeeper gave them two words of advice.

“The next morning the brothers again set forth for Kaddisht, but this time they rode as fast as they could. Tell me, then, what advice did the innkeeper give them?”

There was a long silence around the campfire as the companions thought this over. One after another, they shrugged their defeat.

“The two words where these: Change camels,” Vartain said. “The father specified that the son whose camel arrived last would become heir. Therefore, whoever won the race would now win the fortune as well.”

“Good tale,” Mange admitted. The scrawny mercenary took a swig from a tin flask and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Me, I’ve always liked riddles. Second best way to pass the time of a cold winter night!”

“Riddles are far more than that,” Vartain countered severely. “In ancient times, battles were fought through riddle challenges, and heirs to kingdoms selected. Magic can be cast through the giving or the solving of riddles.” His cleared his throat, and continued in a pedantic tone. “There are many types of riddles, conundrums, puzzles, and mysteries. All of these challenge the mind, develop the character, and train one to observe keenly and to think with clarity and precision.”

“Here’s a good one,” Mange continued as if Vartain had not spoken at all. “How many halflings can a troll eat on an empty stomach?” He punctuated the question with a resounding belch.

Several guesses ensued, and Mange shook his head at each. Finally he turned to Vartain with a smug grin. “You wanna take a stab, riddlemaster?”

Vartain lifted his beaky nose. “Base jests have nothing to do with a riddlemaster’s art”

“One!” Mange answered gleefully. “A troll can eat one halfling on an empty stomach. After the first, his stomach ain’t empty!”

“I got a good one!” put in Orcsarmor, a thin archer named for the rusty hue of his graying whiskers. “Whaddaya call a contest between two wizards?”

“That one, I know,” Danilo said. “A spelling bee.”

Every member of the circle groaned, and several of the men pelted the would-be riddler with travel biscuits. Orcsarmor ducked the good-natured missiles and grinned.

Vartain looked far less happy. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire,” he said in a stony voice. The riddlemaster stalked over to his bedroll and lay down, his back to the revelers.

“Retire, eh? He don’t take competition real well,” Morgalla quipped. The mercenaries guffawed, all too happy to share a laugh at the riddlemaster’s expense.

“Time for a song,” Danilo said to Wyn, nodding toward Vartain’s rigid back. As intelligent as the riddlemaster was, he seemed to have no idea how he was perceived by others. This, Danilo mused, was definitely not the time to enlighten him. Perhaps he would speak to Vartain about it someday, but the riddlemaster needed all his confidence and concentration focused for the challenge ahead.

So the minstrel took his lyre and sang an air about the elven homeland, an island of beauty and magic and peace. During the first part of the song, Elaith leaned against a tree at the edge of the encampment, with practiced ease twirling a small jeweled knife through and around his fingers. As Wyn sang on, the moon elf’s angular face softened, taking on an almost wistful expression. At the song’s end, Elaith came into the circle of firelight.

“I notice you carry a crystal flute, of the sort that is grown in the caves of Evermeet’s wild elves,” he said quietly, pointing to the translucent green flute that hung from the minstrel’s belt. “Do you, by chance, know any of the sword dances famous on the north shore of the island? The Ghost of Elmtree, perhaps?”

In response, Wyn took the gemlike flute from its protective bag and played a few notes. “Yes, that’s the one,” Elaith said, pleased.

The elf turned to his men. “I’ll need your swords. Dirks and daggers as well, if you please.”

Puzzled, the mercenaries handed over their weapons.

“Considering the company I’m keeping these days, I prefer to keep both of my swords within reach,” Danilo said cheerfully. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“By all means,” Elaith returned just as pleasantly. “Much good may they do you, of course.”

Morgalla’s brown eyes narrowed at the insult to Danilo. “That elf is startin’ to wear a hole in the sole of my boot,” she muttered, watching as Elaith arranged the weapons in an intricate pattern of crosses and circles.

When that was done, he nodded to the elven minstrel and took his place in the center of the design. Wyn began to play a slow, lyrical tune. The moon elf went into the dance, stepping lightly between the crossed swords, alternating heel and toe.

As Danilo admired the elf’s fluid grace, he noted that Elaith had not added one of his own weapons to the arrangement. As did Danilo, the elf wore a sword at each hip. Something about Elaith’s second blade was familiar.

The Harper’s eyes narrowed as he realized the nature of the weapon worn by the rogue elf. It was a moonblade, an ancient elven sword that was passed from one generation to the next. A moonblade could judge character, and it would become dormant rather than trust its magic to an unworthy heir. Danilo had known that Elaith owned such a sword, and that the sword’s rejection of the elf had been the seed that bore fruit in a life of treachery and evil. Why would the elf wear it now?

Danilo puzzled over this question as the music moved faster and faster. A strange mixture of elegance and menace, the elven dance was compelling to watch. The moon elf’s pale face was rapt and intent as he whirled and leaped in time to the crystal flute’s song. His silver hair glinted in the firelight, and he himself seemed transformed into a beautiful and deadly weapon. Then the elf flicked one booted foot, sending a dagger high into the air. It spiraled down like a falling star, catching the firelight as it tumbled. Effortlessly he caught it and sent it spinning upward again. The pace became more frenzied now, and one by one Elaith kicked the weapons into flight Leaping and ducking, he avoided the falling blades, catching some and allowing others to land in an ever-shifting pattern before sending them up again with a deft flick of wrist or boot. It was an amazing display of artistry and agility, and Danilo found himself watching with bated breath and rapid heart Elaith was as sinuous and graceful as the serpent for which he was named, and as quick.

The flute soared to a final, lingering note, and the dance stopped. Elaith stood in a perfect circle of blades, his arms raised to the stars, his silver hair gleaming and his angular face suffused with ecstasy. Magic lingered about the elf, and every blade seemed to gleam with an intensity that the fading firelight could not explain. With uncanny certainty, Danilo knew that the elf’s dance held the power of rite. Elaith himself was a conduit for some mystical link between stars and steel. The insight flickered in his mind, gone before he could grasp and examine it Danilo realized afresh how little he understood of the elves. With the knowledge came a stab of sadness and a longing he could not name.

The company released its collective breath in a sigh of awe and relief. Hushed conversations sprang up between small groups, and no one made a move to reclaim his weapons. It was plain that no one else would perform this night.

Elaith walked from the circle, his chest rising and falling quickly from the effort of his mystical elven dance. He picked up a waterskin and shook it. It was nearly empty. The elf drained it and looked around for another.

Danilo reached into his bag and removed a small silver flask. “Elverquisst,” he said quietly, and handed it to the elf. Elaith looked sharply at the Harper, as if wondering how well the human understood his own gesture. The rare elven spirits formed a part of many an elven ritual and celebration, and the offer of it now, after the elven dance, was a tribute as well as a gift This Danilo had learned from Arilyn, for she had shared with him the ritual farewell to summer and described some of the other rites that made the elverquisst a celebration as well as a libation. Elaith accepted the flask with a nod. He poured a few drops onto the earth and then drank slowly, savoring the distilled essence of summer fruit and elven magic.

“Fancy footwork, elf,” Morgalla complimented him.

The dwarf’s words seemed to pop the aura of contentment and mystery that surrounded the moon elf. He sat down across from Morgalla and studied her as one would a strange animal that had mysteriously appeared in one’s back yard.

“How does it happen that you venture so far from clan and hearth?” he asked. “With your numbers dwindling and dwarven females so few, I would think you’d be home doing your duty by breeding little miners.”

“Have a care how you speak,” Danilo said in a low voice. “The lady dwarf is not some dairy animal.”

Morgalla leveled her brown eyes at Elaith. “Elves don’t seem to be doing so good in that regard, neither. Lotta half-elves around, but I notice most of ’em got elf dames and human sires. Ain’t nothing wrong with your women, that much we know.” Something flickered in Elaith’s eyes in response to the insult, and the battle-savvy dwarf saw this and went in for the kill. “Yer a fine one to talk. I don’t see no pointy-eared brats followin’ you around.”

“Actually,” Elaith said mildly, “the People keep their children away from dwarves and goblins until such time as they learn to tell these creatures apart. Elves being a highly intelligent race, we’re able to discern these minor differences after, say, twenty or thirty years of practice.”

Morgalla rose slowly to her feet. Firelight gleamed off the two-edged blade and polished wood handle of the axe prominently displayed on her belt. “Yer pushin’ me, elf, and you shouldn’t ought to do that We who mine the earth have a saying: ‘Be careful what you take for granite.’ ”

“Or ye shale regret it,” Danilo murmured, hoping to break the tension building between the two fighters. Neither Morgalla nor Elaith paid him any heed.

“Very pretty,” Elaith said, nodding at Morgalla’s axe. His tone dismissed both the weapon and the wielder.

The dwarf’s eyes hardened. “First and last pretty thing a lot o’ orcs ever seed, if’n you get my meaning.”

“Actually, I find that dwarven subtlety usually eludes me,” the elf returned with knife-edged sarcasm.

Danilo dropped a hand on the angry woman’s shoulder. “Chopping the elf into fish bait is a tempting notion—I’d be the first to admit that Here’s a better idea: draw his picture, instead.”

Morgalla nodded slowly, staring at Elaith for a long moment A glint entered her brown eyes, and she reached for her other weapon: her charcoal pencils. The dwarf plunked herself down on a log several paces away and began to sketch.

“Becoming quite the diplomat, aren’t you?” Elaith said coldly. “If you’re waiting for me to thank you for diverting a fight, you’re in for a long, quiet evening. I need no protection from a mere dwarf.”

Danilo’s answering smile held a touch of irony. “Morgalla is more than mere, but we’ll let that slide for the moment. Your fighting prowess is legendary; I have too much regard for you to see you waste your talents against such an unworthy weapon as Morgalla’s axe.” After a few moments, the Harper walked over to Morgalla and extended his hand. She gave him the paper.

On it was a quickly sketched design that suggested the art of an ancient Moonshae people, in which circles were entwined in such a way that no beginning or end could be discerned. Morgalla’s design, however, was different from any Dan had ever seen in an illuminated text Intrinsically woven together in interlocking circles were two things: a long, slender serpent with elven ears and Elaith’s features, and a lifeless, flaccid sword with a dull moonstone in its hilt.

The Harper lifted his eyes from the paper, gazing at the dwarf in pure astonishment. Once again, she had seen more than her eyes could possibly have told her. Danilo handed the sketch to Elaith without comment.

The elf regarded it in silence, his expressionless face as pale as death.

“As you can see,” Dan said quietly, “her art has a keener edge than her axe.”

“Eh?” piped in Morgalla, clearly miffed at the suggestion. She pulled the maligned weapon from her belt and brandished it “You could shave with this axe, bard!”

In response, Danilo stroked the nearly invisible red down on her cheek. “So could you, lady dwarf, so could you.”

“Hee, hee,” she chortled, as pleased as any adolescent human lad contemplating his first beard.

In the shared laughter that rippled through the company, no one but Danilo noticed Elaith slip away from the campfire. Although the Harper had won this round, his gray eyes held not triumph, but puzzlement

Stars sprinkled the sky above Lady Thione’s villa, and in the fully enclosed courtyard, rare, night-blooming flowers scented the warm summer night A fountain played softly in the center of the courtyard, the secluded arch of a grape arbor suggested a stolen kiss, and the soft-pillowed gazebo invited longer trysts. The music of a harp filled the air. Yet the woman bent over the strings had no room in her heart for romance. The one passion left to her was for justice.

Pain cramped her hands, and Garnet broke off the song with a frustrated oath. Since the day she had acquired the Morninglark harp from the dragon, she had struggled to harness its powers. She was an accomplished mage, and she could wield magic through both spells and song. An artifact such as the elven harp possessed much magic of its own, and she had devised a spell that would grant her up to seven powers. So far, she had been able to gain only four, and those four she wielded with uncertainty. The fault was not in her sorcery, but in her faded musicianship.

Once again she cursed the Harpers for what they had become, for what she had become in their service, and Khelben Arunsun for his part in both. No longer were the Heralds, the far-traveling keepers of history and tradition, part of the Harper organization. They had split away many years ago, not wishing to compromise their neutrality by pursuing the Harpers’ increasingly political objectives. Then the barding colleges, once bastions of excellence, had fallen into decline and faded into memory. The Harpers had done little to reverse this course. They were kept busy by Elminster and Khelben, fighting wars and guarding trade routes.

Yes, many Harpers were bards still, but these bards were for the most part fighters and informants who happened to play or sing. The once-honored title of “bard” was given to any dolt who could warble a tavern song. The prestige and power of bardcraft had declined, and many people considered bards to be little more than traveling rogues. Bards, once counselors to kings and queens, were likely to be treated like servants who took their dinner in the kitchen between dance sets. This Garnet could not forgive.

Nor could she forget it, not when her own hands had been stiffened by years of fighting and spellcasting in the name of the Harpers. Her final battle for the Harpers had been in the Harpstar Wars against creatures from another plane. Gravely wounded and left for dead in the confusion of battle, she’d been found and nursed to health by an elderly druid. When Garnet recovered and began once again to sing and play, the druid recognized her gift for spellsong and introduced her to a small band of wood elves. Even though she was a half-elf, the forest elves had taken her in and trained her gift. For almost two hundred years Garnet had lived among them, and as her power increased, so did her determination to prove to the Harpers that music was not a force to be lightly regarded.

The whisper of silk interrupted the sorceress’s dark thoughts. Garnet looked up. Lady Thione was poised in the arch of a trellis. This evening the noblewoman was clad in a gown of clinging violet silk, covered with an overdress of quilted satin. Her hair was bound with a velvet snood, and her delicate aquiline features were composed and self-satisfied.

“How does the city?” Garnet demanded, massaging her aching hands.

“Poorly, thanks to you,” Lucia Thione responded cheerfully. “Your musically inclined monsters have been preying on farmerfolk and travelers. The merchants’ guilds have hired mercenary bands to go out against these monsters, as have the Lords of Waterdeep. Even with these precautions, a smaller crowd is expected for the Midsummer Faire. This is matter of much speculation and discontent among the tradespeople and merchants. The crop failures have created a hardship, but for those who can afford the high prices, produce and goods are coming in by sea”

“A hardship?” the half-elf repeated. “What then would constitute a catastrophe?”

Lucia hesitated. “A disruption of commerce.”

“Ah, Waterdeep.” Garnet’s smile was hard. “Well then, see to it”

“Have a care how you speak,” the noblewoman said in a tight voice. “I do not take orders like some serving wench.”

“Of course you do. You serve the Knights of the Shield, and they have assured me that you will cooperate in my plan to remove Khelben Arunsun from power.”

“So you have said. How do I know this to be true?” Lucia demanded.

Garnet spoke a name, and the woman paled. The sorceress had named a Knight of high position and dark power, the man to whom Lucia herself reported. “He sends his regards,” Garnet added casually.

“We will increase our activities against the city,” she continued. “I have some influence with the local merfolk—you’d be amazed at how much music and discontent lies under the sea. We will also remove more of the Lords of Waterdeep to increase the demands on Khelben Arunsun and his powerful associates. Give Lord Hhune the names of three lesser-known Lords. Although Hhune’s methods are crude, he has the resources needed to handle the matter quickly.”

“Hhune is still in the city?” Lucia asked, unable to keep the concern from her voice. Hhune made no secret of his ambition, and nothing would please the Tethyrian merchant more than taking Lucia’s place in Waterdeep.

Garnet shot a sidelong glance at the noblewoman. “What of it? Your superior said I might use any resources at his command. Hhune is a guildmaster in his native land, and he is adept at organizing and recruiting. I have him trying to establish local guilds for Waterdeep’s thieves and assassins. He is unlikely to succeed, but it gives the Lords of Waterdeep one more thing to worry about. Now, which Lords’ names are you giving to Hhune?”

Without hesitation, Lucia Thione named three business rivals, not knowing or caring whether any of them sat among the Lords of Waterdeep.

“Good.” Garnet nodded with satisfaction and rose from her seat. Her horse came cantering from a remote corner of Lucia’s garden, in response to a summons the noblewoman could not hear. The sorceress secured her harp to the saddle and hoisted herself onto the horse’s back. “I must travel north for a few days. There I will gain an additional power to use against Khelben Arunsun, and on the way I shall dispatch another of Waterdeep’s Lords. I leave the city in your capable hands, and expect to find all in order upon my return.”

Lucia caught her breath as the white steed rose straight into the sky. Like a tiny comet, it streaked away toward the north. “An asperii,” she whispered, realizing anew the extent of the sorceress’s power. Suddenly Garnet’s last words to her seemed less a compliment than a warning.

The cookfire burned low, and one by one the members of Music and Mayhem drew away from the central fire, wrapping themselves in cloaks or travel blankets. Soon the only sounds were the crackle of the outer fires, the distant chirping of insects, and the rustle of leaves as Orcsarmor climbed a nearby oak to take first watch. Morgalla, also on watch, slipped off into the shadows.

Left alone, Danilo idly tossed acorn caps into the dying fire, trying not to remember other nights spent under the stars, his only companion a stubborn, unreasonable, taciturn half-elven assassin. Those, he mused with a wistful smile, were the best times he’d ever known.

Never had the young man felt so alone as he did at this moment, surrounded as he was by snoring mercenaries. For the first time, he understood Khelben’s concern over the close partnership Danilo and Arilyn had forged. One way or another, Harpers usually ended up working alone.

With a sigh, Danilo reached into the bag of holding at his belt and rummaged around for the spellbook his uncle had prepared for him. If all went as planned, they would face the dragon Grimnoshtadrano the following afternoon, and he wanted to be as prepared as possible. A green dragon’s breath weapon was a cloud of noxious gas. He hoped Khelben had armed him with a spell that could create protective spheres.

Actually the book contained but one spell, and it was like none other he’d encountered. Danilo examined it with growing excitement. On the left side was a page of neatly written music: a simple, soaring melody and the basic notation for lute accompaniment On the right side were a few lines of explanation, then the words to the songs, written in arcane runes. This spell used music as the speech component, and the lute accompaniment formed the necessary hand gestures. The result was a charm spell, very much like the elven spellsong Wyn had used. Beyond its application in the morrow’s encounter, the spell fascinated Danilo, for it suggested a way to meld his training in the art of magic to his genuine love for music and lore, and his current role as bard.

Like all his Harper assignments, the task of recovering the dragon’s scroll had been placed upon Danilo by his uncle. For more than two years, the young mage had worked closely with Arilyn, enjoying the challenges she offered and the knowledge that their disparate skills combined into a unique whole, but for the most part he had followed her lead and reacted to situations of her choosing. He would always treasure his time with the half-elf, and some part of him would continue to hope that it had not come to an end. For the first time, however, Danilo began to see a path that he might follow on his own, a path of his own devising. If this spell were not unique, perhaps he could learn the elfsong magic that Wyn had wielded!

Danilo rose, taking the spellbook to the far side of the campsite where Wyn Ashgrove sat gazing into the trees and wrapped in his own thoughts. Despite the minstrel’s abrupt dismissal of him earlier, Danilo felt he had to pursue the matter of spellsong.

“Elaith said that few elves have your magical skills. Is the aptitude lacking, or are the teachers?”

Wyn looked surprised by the abrupt question, but he thought it over. “I imagine that many more elves possess the ability than are trained. I come from a family of musical scholars, so my talents were recognized early, and the means to develop them were at hand. It may be that others are not so fortunate.”

“If such spells could be written down, perhaps many more of your people could learn this art,” Danilo argued, tapping the spellbook. He held it out to the elf for inspection. “In this way, magical arts and bardic training could be combined.”

“The two types of magic are not compatible,” Wyn said firmly, pressing the book back into the Harper’s hands. He rose, signaling plainly that the conversation was at an end.

At that moment Morgalla emerged from behind a clump of bushes, brushing bits of leaves off her shoulders with an expression of glum distaste. The dwarf seemed not at all embarrassed to be revealed as an eavesdropper. “Hate to disagree with you, bard, but I’m with the elf. Magic is fine and well for weapons and clerical prayers, but don’t go mucking up music with it,” she said firmly.

Danilo knew better than to argue with a dwarf, and, since her words brought an unanswered question to mind, he turned to other matters. “Speaking of magical weapons, how did you know what Elaith Craulnober’s sword was, that you could draw such a picture?”

Morgalla shrugged. “I heared yer tale of the elfwoman’s moonblade, remember? It told how the sword is linked to the elf that wears it.” She pointed with her jester’s staff to a spot behind Danilo. “If that be true, yon elf’s got hisself a problem: he can’t use the sword, can’t get rid of it”

Danilo spun, finding himself almost face-to-face with Elaith. The elf cast a glance at the open spellbook in the Harper’s hands. “More parlor tricks?” he said disparagingly.

“Preparing for tomorrow,” Danilo said quietly. “It might be well to have a plan in case our large green friend chooses not to honor his side of the bargain.”

“Just so,” Elaith agreed, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels as if reconsidering the human before him. “You realize, of course, that if your dragon wishes to be found, it will find you. Green dragons blend with the forest in more ways than mere appearance. They are difficult to find and nearly impossible to ambush. We can’t split up and search for it, for if the dragon were to first encounter a group unable to play this riddle game, the beast might be less kindly disposed to hearing a riddle challenge from another.”

Danilo nodded slowly. “What do you suggest?”

“Make the dragon come to you. We’ll break camp early and travel north toward the hills. The dragon’s lair is there, hidden somewhere in the Endless Caverns. I know a small clearing nearby. Send out a challenge to the thing—sing that damned ballad, perhaps. If the dragon doesn’t hear you, the forest is full of creatures that will carry your message fast enough. Ask the dragon for the scroll, as well as something to make the exercise worthwhile to the men. A cask of emeralds would do nicely.”

“I should say,” murmured Danilo.

“It would be better to meet Grimnoshtadrano with a small group. The dragon might not take kindly to being approached by our entire party.”

“I had thought to go alone, but for Vartain.”

“You now have a partner to consider,” Elaith reminded him. “If you wish to kill yourself, kindly do so on your own time. Yes, Vartain will go to answer the riddle, but you should at least take the minstrel. Spellsong is a powerful weapon.”

“Not Wyn,” Danilo said firmly. “No elves, absolutely. Green dragons consider you folk a delicacy, and for all we know Grimnoshtadrano might be in the mood for a snack.”

“Point taken,” the moon elf said grudgingly. “We will hold the spellsinger back, out of sight.” His eyes fell on Morgalla, who listened with the mien of one well accustomed to councils of war. “You might take the dwarf with you, though, in case the dragon requires feeding.”

“I doubt I could keep her back,” Danilo said, noting the battle-gleam in the dwarven warrior’s eyes, “and I don’t envy anything that might try to eat her.”

“You got that right” Morgalla agreed. “But what if the beast don’t hold up his side of the bargain?”

“If our large green friend defaults,” Danilo responded, “I’ll challenge it to a second riddle. The riddle is actually a spell, and it will hold the dragon long enough for us to make an escape.”

Elaith looked dubious. “You’d be better off taking the spellsinger.”

“Maybe. I’m curious, Wyn,” Danilo said casually. “Those marsh pipers were on the small side. Have you ever tried to charm something larger than a tavern wench?”

“A dragon, no,” Wyn admitted, a slight twinkle in the green depths of his eyes, “but I did live among the Northmen for a time, and I found their women quite susceptible. Will that do?”

“Close enough,” Danilo admitted with a surprised grin. He’d learned from his time with Arilyn that elven humor tended to be dry and subtle; Wyn’s remark seemed uncharacteristically bawdy, but the elf’s assessment of North-women—whose ample charms were much prized by the ambitious and the athletic—was remarkably apt

“If the spell doesn’t work—and frankly, Lord Thann, we’ve got to consider that as a possibility—I’ve a powder that ignites the dragon’s poisonous gas,” Elaith said, holding up a small cylinder. “If the beast opens its mouth in preparation for attack, we toss this inside. The result is like rather like setting an alchemist’s shop on fire. The explosion will daze the creature and give us time to be away.”

“Who’ll get close enough to do the tossing? You got that good an arm, elf?” Morgalla asked.

“Vartain will handle it,” Elaith responded. “He is a master of the blowgun.”

“Now why am I not surprised,” Danilo commented dryly. “That one’s got more air than the north wind.”

“Indeed,” the rogue elf said in rare agreement.

The dwarf responded with a derisive sniff. “When you two start singing the same tune, it’s past time to get some sleep. Maybe come morning, you’ll have come to yer senses and be back to scrapping.”

“It is late,” Wyn agreed, and the two made their way to the far side of the encampment, leaving Dan and Elaith alone with their uneasy alliance.

“How did you come to have this explosive powder?” the Harper asked cautiously. The elf’s path paralleled his own too closely for comfort, and what he knew of Elaith did not inspire peace of mind under any circumstances. “Did you plan to encounter the dragon?”

“No, but my travels took me close to its lair. Vartain felt it was a possibility and suggested I prepare for it,” the elf answered in apparent candor.

“Farsighted fellow, isn’t he?” Danilo said admiringly, pretending to take the elf’s response at face value. “Does he truly live up to his reputation?”

“He’s as good as you’ve heard, and just as annoying,” Elaith grumbled. “Never have I seen him wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate to herald this fact.”

“Modest sort.”

“You heard him at the campfire. Vartain is firmly convinced of his superiority and inordinately proud of his traditions.”

“Yes,” Danilo said in a dry tone. “For a moment, he reminded me of an elf.”

Elaith’s brows shot up in surprise. “Quite so,” he admitted, not without humor.

Since the elf seemed unusually mellow, Danilo decided to press him for information. He wasn’t entirely sure whether his motive was to exploit the unexpected camaraderie, or to destroy it.

“Speaking of elves and traditions and so forth, that sword dance was remarkable. During the dance I noticed that you carry your hereditary sword. Since this is not your usual habit, I couldn’t help but wonder why you brought the moonblade along.”

The cautious truce dissolved instantly. “That is not your concern,” Elaith said coldly. He spun away, and with silent grace he disappeared into the darkness.

When night faded to the first silver of morning, Texter the Paladin resumed his solitary journey. Although Texter was devoted to the city of Waterdeep and devout in his duties as one of its secret Lords, he could not long abide within walls. He often rode alone into the wilderness to renew his commitment to Tyr, the god of justice whom he served. The silence cleared his mind and allowed him to reach inside himself for strength, and the austere challenges of the road tested and honed his skills as a knight His rides also enabled him to serve the city by seeing with his own eyes how things in the Northlands fared.

Conditions north of Waterdeep were every bit as grim as Texter had feared.

From high astride his huge war-horse, the paladin surveyed the ruined fields around him. At this time of year, the second crop of hay should have been more than hock-high, but his horse stood amid stunted sprouts and brambles. This field, lying as it did near the edges of the wilderness, had been planted to fodder, but the same tale could be told of the food crops nearer the safety of the farming villages. For many days, Texter had ridden through scenes of desolation, and he had noticed a peculiar pattern. Crops had been blighted all around the city, but as he rode north the area of damage narrowed. Whatever—or whoever—caused the blight had left a clear and apparently deliberate path.

Leaving the stunted field behind, Texter headed north toward the first scrubby trees that marked the beginning of the forest. As he rode toward the River Dessarin, he noted that even the woodlands had been blighted along this mysterious path. Ferns withered, mosses turned black on fallen logs, and the nearby trees were eerily silent of birds or small game.

A woman’s scream rang out from behind a small hill. Texter nudged his horse into a gallop and raced in the direction of the sound. As he urged the horse over the hillock, he saw below both the river and the source of the scream.

Near the riverbank, two gray-green orcs were toying with a young woman. They had laid their weapons aside, and were spinning her from one to the other in a cruel game of catch. Their eyes glowed red with the reflected first rays of sun, and tusklike teeth gleamed in perverse delight at the woman’s terror.

Texter drew his sword and charged down the hill. The thunder of the mighty horse’s hooves shook the ground, and the startled orcs shoved the woman aside and dove for their weapons. The first orc grabbed its axe and rolled to its feet just in time to meet Texter’s first swing. With that one stroke, the paladin decapitated the orc. Its head flew into the river and was swept downstream by the rushing current.

The second orc charged forward over the body of its fallen brother, holding high a spiked mace. Texter’s battle-trained steed nimbly sidestepped the downward smash. The paladin delivered a backhanded stroke with the blunt side of his blade, catching the orc on the snout and sending the beast reeling away. Texter’s sword cut back, slashing the gray hide of the orc’s chest and sending tufts of coarse hair flying. His final thrust found the creature’s heart, and the orc crashed backward onto the bloodied ground.

Texter dismounted and strode to where the woman lay, crumpled and sobbing. “Be at ease, lady,” he said gently. “You are safe now.”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, the woman raised sea-green eyes to his. She was surprisingly young, not more than fifteen winters, and fair despite her tears. The girl had thick brown braids and a sweet face with apple cheeks and a scattering of freckles.

A farm lass, Texter noted, probably from the village near Yartar, but far from home. The reason for her travels lay beside her; a basket was half full of the fiddlehead ferns that grew in the calmer water at the river’s edge. These greens were a delicacy, steamed and served with a bit of butter, and all the more needed because of the failed crops.

“I will take you back to your home,” Texter offered, holding out his hand. “Galadin is strong and can carry us both with ease.”

The girl let the paladin pull her to her feet “First I must thank you for saving my life,” she said in a voice that was sweet, clear, and remarkably composed. “I regret I have no reward to offer you but a song.”

Clasping her hands demurely before her, the girl began to sing. In her voice was the music of the wind and water, and the lure of an almost-remembered dream. As she sang, her form shifted from that of a farm lass to a rare and magical creature. Before Texter’s dazzled eyes, her face became fair enough to ensnare a man’s soul. Abundant hair the color of kelp flowed over her shoulders, and slender, webbed hands gestured gracefully in time to the music. Only the color of her eyes remained unchanged: the vivid sea green of a lorelei.

As Texter listened with rapt attention to the lorelei’s voice, the landscape that surrounded them began to blur, the shapes and colors melting together like a painting left in the rain. Soon he was aware of nothing but the enchanting, wordless song, and the soul-deep longing that it stirred in his breast.

Not realizing he did so, Texter again mounted his horse. The lorelei beckoned the paladin to follow, and then she dove into the river. Swimming effortlessly against the fast-moving stream, she began to head north, singing all the while.

Entranced by the lorelei’s siren song, Texter rode along the river’s edge, unaware that the creature was leading him ever deeper into the wilderness.