Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

A heavy blow landed on Wyn Ashgrove’s back, knocking his magical lyre off his shoulder. The elven minstrel’s first impulse was to reach for the fallen instrument, but years of adventuring had trained him otherwise. He whirled to face his assailant, his fingers tight on his long sword’s grip.

  Wyn relaxed when he looked up—way up—into the beaming, brown-whiskered face of Kerigan the Bold.

  Kerigan, a Northman skald and pirate, had befriended Wyn some ten years earlier, after stripping and scuttling the merchant ship that carried Wyn east from the Moonshae Isles. Northmen hold bards in high regard, so Kerigan had spared the elf and had even offered to deliver him to the port of his choice. Wyn had suggested a better plan. Always eager to learn more of humans and their music—even the crude and earthy music of the Northmen skalds—the elf had offered himself as apprentice to Kerigan. Their time together had been one of rowdy adventure and tall-told tales, and the elven scholar regarded Kerigan as one of his more interesting studies.

  “Wyn, lad! Late to come, but no less the welcome for it!” The greeting rang out above the din of the street, and Kerigan punctuated his words with another hearty swat

  “It’s good to see you again, Kerigan,” Wyn said sincerely as he stooped to recover his lyre.

  “Trouble on the road, was it?” asked the skald. His eyes gleamed, anticipating a new tale of adventure.

  Wyn shrugged an apology. “Ice on the river. We were held up for days.”

  “Too bad,” Kerigan said. “Well, at least you’re here for the big show. That’s not to be missed, if it means putting off your own funeral. Hurry, now.”

  Wyn nodded his agreement and fell into step beside his friend. Silverymoon’s Spring Faire always culminated in an open-air concert on the vast grounds of Utrumm’s Music Conservatory. The school was a fine one and justly famed, built as it was upon the remnants of an elder barding college. All the finest bards had trained at the conservatory at one point or another in their careers, and the spring pilgrimage brought back most of them from all over Faerun and beyond. Other entertainers came as well, to perform, to pick up new songs, or to purchase instruments. The final concert of ballads yielded an excellence and variety that was exceptional even for Silverymoon.

  The skald and the elf made a strange pair as they elbowed their way through the milling crowds. Kerigan was heavily muscled and broad of chest, and he stood nearly seven feet tall on incongruously thin, bandy legs. His helm was decorated with a broad pair of antlers; that, his bulbous nose, and his whisker-draped jowls brought to mind an image of a two-legged moose. The skald sang to himself as he walked, and his voice was a fog-shattering bellow that harmonized perfectly with his uncouth appearance. Wyn’s progress through the crowd was silent and graceful, and his manner so refined that to all appearances he did not notice the stares leveled at his rough companion, nor did he seem aware of the admiring gazes his elven beauty elicited. Wyn possessed the golden skin and black hair common to the high elf people, and his large, almond-shaped eyes were the deep green of an ancient forest His ebony curls were cropped short, and he was elegantly turned out in butter-soft leathers and a quilted silk shirt the color of new leaves. Even his instruments were exceptional. In addition to his silver lyre, he carried a small flute of deep green crystal, which hung from his belt in a bag fashioned of silvery mesh.

  The two ill-matched musicians squeezed into the courtyard just as the herald’s horn announced the concert’s beginning.

  “Where’d you like to sit?” boomed Kerigan, his voice clearly audible above the crumhorn’s blast.

  Wyn glanced around. Not an empty seat remained, and precious little standing room. He knew that this would not deter the brash skald. “An aisle seat, perhaps a few rows from the front?” he suggested, naming the area that Kerigan would have chosen regardless.

  The Northman grinned and plowed forward through the crowd. He bent over two half-elven bards and whispered a threat The bards obligingly abandoned their seats, their faces showing relief to have escaped so easily. With a sigh, Wyn made his way toward the beckoning Northman. At least Kerigan had acquired the seats without drawing steel—probably a first for the Northman, noted Wyn with a touch of wry amusement.

  Wyn’s face lit up when the first selection was announced: a gypsy ballad about a long-ago alliance between the Harpers and the witches of Rashemen. The tale was told entirely in music and dance, and few were the artists who could master the intricate steps and gestures that spoke as plainly as words.

  Applause rang through the courtyard as the musicians filed onto the platform—small, swarthy people carrying fiddles, simple percussion instruments, and the triangular lutes known as balalaikas. The storyteller was a young Rashemite woman, tiny and fey, dressed as was customary in a wide black skirt and embroidered white blouse. Her feet were bare, and her dark hair had been tightly braided and wrapped crownlike around her head. She stood immobile in the platform’s center as the music began with a rhythmic, low-pitched plinking from the huge bass balalaika. At first the storyteller spoke only with compelling dark eyes and small gestures of her hands, but one by one the instruments joined in, and her movements quickened as she danced the tale of magic and intrigue, battle and death. The story-dancing of the Rashemite gypsies held a unique magic, and this woman was among the best Wyn had seen. Yet something about the performance struck him as not quite right.

  The problems were subtle at first a misplaced gesture of the hand, a sinister note in the wailing of the fiddle. Wyn could not guess how this had occurred; the faire’s ballad performers were carefully screened, and only the best, most authentic storytellers were selected.

  Within moments, Wyn realized that the classic tale had been significantly altered. The Harper theme, a wandering arpeggio that was usually played by the soprano balalaika, had been eliminated entirely, and the roguish bass tune that represented Elminster, the Sage of Shadowdale, had been twisted into a halting tune that suggested a doddering and inept menace. As the appalled elf watched, the dancer’s steps faltered, then picked up the thread of the story. Faster and faster she whirled, her bare feet flashing as she followed the new telling.

  Wyn tore his gaze from the stage and glanced up at Kerigan. If the skald noticed anything other than twirling skirts and bare legs, it didn’t show in his broad leer. The troubled elf searched the crowd, expecting to see outrage on the faces of more discerning bards. To his astonishment, every member of the audience watched the ballad with smiles that spoke of enjoyment and, even more disturbing, recognition. When the gypsy dance ended, the assembly burst into huzzahs and enthusiastic applause. Beside Wyn, Kerigan whooped and stomped in loud approval.

  The elf sank low in his seat, too stunned to join in the applause or to notice when it ended. A sharp jab from the skald’s elbow brought Wyn’s attention back to the stage, where a chorus of beautiful priestesses sang a ballad extolling Sune, goddess of love. Wyn noted that this ballad had also been altered.

  On and on the storytelling went, and each ballad was vastly different from the ones Wyn had learned in the bardic tradition, passed down unchanged throughout generations of bards. Yet not once did Wyn see any other bard display the slightest sign of distress. The rest of the concert passed like a dream from which he could not awaken. Either he had gone mad, or the past had been rewritten in the minds and memories of hundreds of the Northland’s most skilled and influential bards.

  Wyn Ashgrove was not sure which prospect frightened him more.

  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.