Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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