Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

  “By all means,” the Harper urged him.

  “The answer,” Vartain said without hesitation, “is the letter E.”

  Even as the riddlemaster spoke, the wax dissolved into red mist and disappeared. Vartain unrolled the scroll. After a moment’s study, he laid it out before the Harper.

  The scroll contained only a few lines, written in the Common trade language. Danilo scanned the words. “This seems to be a single stanza of an unrhymed tale or ballad,” the Harper noted. “The meter has a definite pattern. I have absolutely no idea what the words mean.”

  “The meaning has been carefully obscured,” Vartain said. “These lines contain several small riddles, woven warp and weft like a cloth. If I am not mistaken, this verse is but a part of the entire puzzle.” He read aloud several of the lines:

  “First of seven now begins:

  Tread anew the forgotten path.

  Silent strings send out silvery webs

  To the music all will bend.”

  The riddlemaster stopped and looked up from the scroll. “The phrase ‘first of seven’ suggests that this stanza is but a part of a larger puzzle. ‘Silent strings’ is, I believe, another way of referring to a Harper pin, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Danilo agreed quietly. “That is not widely known.”

  “Indeed. I would therefore surmise that the author of this is either a scholar, such as myself, or more likely a Harper. Or perhaps both, although that combination is exceedingly rare.”

  “No offense intended, of course,” Morgalla said pleasantly.

  The riddlemaster pointed to the third line of text and continued with his explanation, showing a remarkable immunity to sarcasm. “Magic is oft referred to as a weave or a web. Perhaps the author is also a mage of some sort.”

  Danilo reclaimed the scroll and rolled it up. “I agree. I’m taking this to Khelben Arunsun at once, so that he can trace the spellcaster. Wyn, Morgalla, let’s be off.”

  “The horses need rest,” the dwarf pointed out, “and it’s a mite far to walk.”

  The Harper touched a plain silver ring on his left hand. “This can magically transport up to three people and their mounts—quickly and painlessly, I assure you—to the courtyard of Blackstaff Tower.”

  Morgalla blanched. “Did I say it was too far to walk?”

  “Take ease, dwarf. You’re not leaving yet” Elaith’s cold voice cut short Morgalla’s protest.

  Danilo turned, recoiling at the sight of the armed and ready mercenaries who had formed a close ring around them. Firelight glinted from their bared weapons. The Harper stood and confronted the grim-faced moon elf. “What is this about?”

  “You and I had an agreement,” Elaith said. “Until the end of the search, we are partners and will work together.”

  “But my search is complete; we have the scroll we sought”

  “Maybe so. But our original agreement was that I would get a share of the dragon’s hoard. According to Vartain, the author of that scroll possesses the treasure I seek.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?” Wyn demanded.

  “I think I can tell you that,” Dan said slowly. “When we challenged Grimnosh, Vartain requested that the dragon turn over an elven artifact he’d taken from Taskerleigh. Grimnosh said that he’d already traded the item ‘for a song,’ and commented that we were the first to respond to it. Vartain has evidently concluded that the song the dragon mentioned was the Ballad of Grimnoshtadrano, the one that brought us to the High Forest Since this ballad first appeared after the Silverymoon Spring Faire, I assume it was the handiwork of the spellcaster we seek.”

  “That is the logic behind my assumption,” Vartain agreed.

  “Obviously,” Danilo continued, nodding toward Elaith, “our well-armed partner here does not wish us to take the scroll to Waterdeep. If Khelben tracks down the spellcaster, Elaith would not be likely to retrieve this mysterious treasure. He no doubt wishes to find the spellcaster himself.” Danilo turned to the watchful moon elf. “My question is this: why do you need us? You needed a Harper to get the scroll from the dragon, but why now?”

  Elaith was silent for a long moment. He studied Danilo with a measuring gaze. “You are truly a Harper? This is not some ridiculous game of the sort you Waterdhavian nobles like to play?”

  “A game? If I start having fun on this quest,” Danilo assured the elf gravely, “I’ll certainly let you know.”

  “And your pretensions to bardcraft? They are genuine as well?”

  The nobleman sighed. “You’ve got me there. It’s hard to say yes or no. I’ve trained, certainly, but not in the traditional or even conventional ways. I haven’t attended the barding schools, obviously—they closed before my time—nor apprenticed to a bard of note. But my mother, the Lady Cassandra, is a gifted musician, and she insisted on the best teachers. They were all private, of course. I was much given to mischief as a lad, and several of Waterdeep’s finest schools repented of their decision to accept me as a scholar. In despair, Lady Cassandra took it upon herself to hire an army of tutors, including bards trained in the styles of each of the seven elder barding colleges. None of them stayed long, but I managed to learn a bit here and there.”

  Danilo smiled engagingly. “And now that you know my life story, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this elven artifact you seek. I’d love to hear that tale.”

  “After your life story? Hardly! It is said that there are some acts one should never attempt to follow. Dogs, children, jesters, and the like.” The moon elf’s amber eyes revealed nothing but a touch of mocking amusement

  “Not going to admit to anything, eh? Well, I can understand that. You’ve got to preserve the elven mystique, and so forth. What puzzles me, though,” the young man added thoughtfully, “is what place your moonblade has in all of this.”

  Elaith’s pleasant expression evaporated. “That is not your concern.”

  “It is if we’re going to be partners.”

  “We are partners. I require the services of a mage and a bard. You are not altogether without credentials.” Elaith’s lips thinned in a smile. “As a bard, you are no immediate threat to Storm Silverhand. You are, however, the best we can come up with under the circumstances.”

  “The story of my life,” Danilo murmured.

  “You’ve shown yourself capable of wielding a considerable amount of magic. A dragon has a powerful resistance to charm spells, yet you held him.”

  “So?”

  “The scroll is a riddle of sorts. Vartain can no doubt decipher it, but I have reason to believe that a knowledge of both magic and music might prove helpful to my search. I will spell out the terms of our partnership so that there is no further misunderstanding. We will combine our resources and talents until the scroll is deciphered and the spellcaster found. You may have whatever is necessary to undo the spell upon the bards, but I will take possession of the artifact. When that is accomplished, we part ways. This seems more than reasonable.”

  It didn’t, but Danilo considered his options. He could see no other way to achieve his purpose, yet agreeing meant putting a powerful artifact in the evil elf’s hands. He had no idea what Elaith would do with it, except perhaps …

  The moonblade. Somehow, the elf had learned of a way to restore the dormant magic of his elven sword! That had to be the answer; Danilo could see no other connection. This prospect was daunting, for he knew that each moonblade had unique and formidable powers. If this was indeed Elaith’s motive, one mystery remained: why would the elf go to such trouble to restore a sword he could never wield? He was the last of his line, and the sword would simply return to dormancy in his hand. What did the elf possibly have to gain? Of one thing Danilo was quite certain: Elaith had far too much power already without the added threat of either a restored moonblade or this mysterious elven artifact.

  “Unfortunately, I have a previous commitment. The archmage of Waterdeep is expecting me, and he’s not one to be put off. So if you’ll excuse me?”
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br />   “No. We have an agreement.” The elf’s amber eyes narrowed. “I’m holding you to your word and your honor.”

  Danilo paused, and the struggle of conflicting pledges was clearly written on his face.

  “I’ll make it easier for you,” Elaith offered, and he turned to Balindar. “You seem fond of the dwarf’s company, so I’m placing her in your charge. If Lord Thann proves treacherous, kill her.” The black-bearded mercenary hesitated, then gave a terse nod.

  “This is how you honor your agreements?” Danilo protested.

  “My agreement is with you, not her. If you like, I will swear by whatever oath you choose that I will not raise a hand or weapon against you personally.”

  “That’s vastly comforting.”

  “Whatever else might be said of me, my word is still a pledge of honor,” the moon elf said with quiet dignity.

  Danilo glanced toward Morgalla. She stood with arms crossed, glaring up at the huge mercenary who guarded her. Balindar had a rather sheepish expression on his black-bearded face, but he held a sword on the dwarf and would probably not hesitate to use it The Harper had little choice.

  “Well?” the elf prompted. One silvery eyebrow quirked at a sardonic angle. “Have we a deal?”

  “Agreed. I suppose.”

  Elaith chuckled. “Such enthusiasm! Perhaps you are the sort who listens to rumors, that you fear to share the supposed fate of my former partners?” he taunted.

  “A bard, listen to rumors? What a notion,” Dan marveled. “But now that you mention it, partner, should I be concerned?”

  The elf thought that over. “Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.

  After instructing Danilo to hand the scroll over to Vartain, Elaith told Balindar to stand down. The mercenary sheathed his sword with a profound sigh of relief, and nodded apologetically to Morgalla. Wyn Ashgrove, pale with fury and outrage, drew the dwarf safely away from the fighters, then he stalked off alone into the shadows. Danilo followed, fearing what the elven spellsinger might have in mind and hoping to calm him. Morgalla took a place at the far side of the camp and began to sketch furiously.

  Left alone with his men, Elaith beckoned them close. “We take no chances,” the elf said in a cold voice. “Balindar, your order is not rescinded. If Lord Thann attempts to go his own way, the dwarf dies. The Harper understands that; see that you remember it, as well. And you,” he said, pointing to another of his men, “at first opportunity, steal Thann’s magic ring and give it to me. We don’t want him grabbing his precious dwarf and blinking out of here.”

  “I?” balked the man.

  “Don’t be coy,” Elaith snapped. “All of us here know that you’re a skilled thief. Use your skills as I command, and there should be no reason for others to share this knowledge. You would hardly be welcomed into the salons of Waterdeep or featured at Lady Raventree’s parties if it became known that you started life as a street urchin. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Quite,” his victim replied with uncharacteristic brevity.

  “Good. Mange, you and Tzadick take first watch. Balindar, guard the dwarf. Vartain, you and Thann start working on that scroll. The rest of you get what rest you can. I fear we’ve a hard road ahead.”

  * * * * *

  In the privacy of his rented villa, Lord Hhune of Tethyr savored a late supper with a few of the higher-ranking agents of the Knights of the Shield. He was almost jovial this evening, delighted with the unusual turn his trip to Waterdeep had taken. His initial dislike of Garnet had been set aside, for the role the half-elven sorceress had given him to play dovetailed beautifully with his own ambitions. Hhune was a guildmaster in his own land, and this splendid northern city had real potential. It lacked guilds for thieves and assassins, and these he was busily putting in place. Waterdeep was in some ways too well run for its own good: there were few powerful crime organizations to challenge Hhune’s activities.

  Even Hhune’s immediate prospects were pleasant, for he was enjoying a thick oyster stew and the report of one of his best agents. The thin, furtive Amnite who was known only as Chachim always seemed to surpass expectations.

  “As you ordered, the merchant named by Lady Thione as a Lord of Waterdeep is dead by my hand,” Chachim announced, predictably enough. “I followed him to the home of the wizard Maaril and slew him nearby. None saw the deed, for few venture near the Dragon Tower. I left the merchant’s body nearby in Blue Alley. If it is ever recovered, all will assume that he fell to one of the magical traps that guard the wizard’s tower.”

  The agent paused and took a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. “This was taken from the merchant’s person. I thought you might find it interesting.”

  Hhune unfolded the paper and burst into belly-shaking laughter. “Oh, but this is priceless! Who is the artist? I could use a hundred like this one!”

  Chachim bowed. “I have anticipated your wish, Lord Hhune. There is a signmaker in the trade ward who will carve this drawing onto a block of wood for the small price of twenty gold pieces. After the block is carved, it is a simple matter to stamp as many copies as you would like.”

  “Good, good!” Hhune nodded to his steward, who counted out the amount and handed it to Chachim. For good measure, Hhune handed the agent one of his own specially minted coins, commonly given as tribute to an agent who’d rendered a notable service. Chachim bowed again and left the chamber with the sketch and the gold.

  The guildmaster chuckled. Although his assigned task was harrying the Lords of Waterdeep through increased criminal activity, he saw only benefit in furthering Garnet’s personal goal: deposing the archmage Khelben Arunsun. Circulating a sketch that poked fun at the archmage and stirred controversy could only secure the favor of the powerful half-elven sorceress.

  “Let us drink to Waterdeep, my friends,” the guildmaster said expansively to his cohorts as he hoisted his tankard, “and to the day when the city will become truly ours.”

  Nine

  Late into the night, Vartain and Danilo huddled over the scroll, holding conference amid a circle of sleeping mercenaries. Wyn sat silently nearby, listening to all that was said with an increasingly troubled expression in his large green eyes.

  “The first stanza is solved,” Vartain said at last. “As we surmised, it refers to the spell placed on the bards at Silverymoon.”

  “Why do you keep referring to those lines as the first stanza?” Danilo demanded. “There’s nothing else on the scroll!”

  “Not yet.” The riddlemaster pointed to a faint smudge on the parchment, like the shadow of words. As the incredulous Harper watched, a second stanza began to take form beneath the first “This is not uncommon for a riddle spell of such complexity. The first line of the verse refers to one of seven. As each is solved, the next will appear. This is a device to keep the entire riddle from being solved too easily.”

  “Rather like using a remote dialect of Sespechian to hide the key to the riddle,” Danilo observed.

  “Precisely. All these obscure details, however, tell us something about the spellcaster. He or she—or it, for that matter—is well versed in the riddlemaster’s art The spellcaster is either a linguist or a native speaker of Sespechian. If the latter is true, that would make our foe at least three hundred years old.”

  “Which makes sense, considering that the spellcaster has an interest in an elven artifact Three hundred years is not so old for an elf,” the Harper said. He squinted at the text dawning on the page. “What do you make of this?”

  Vartain tipped the parchment to catch more of the dancing light of the campfire. “The answer to the first two lines is ‘mother.’ Many riddles have to do with family relationships. The mention of woodruff puzzles me,” he admitted.

  “I can explain that,” Danilo said with a tight smile. “My family deals in wines, and a large part of our wealth is due to that herb. It is grown in the Moonshaes and is used to make the famous spring wine that lubricates the Midsummer festivities.”

  “Fascinating.
I would therefore suppose that the mother named here is the Earthmother, the goddess who is synonymous with the Moonshae Isles themselves. Where is the herb grown, precisely?”

  “Where? In the ground, I would imagine. Granted, I’m no expert.… ”

  “That is not what I meant,” Vartain broke in impatiently. “Where is this herb-flavored wine produced? This could be important!”

  Danilo thought it over. “Now that you mention it, my teacher from MacFuirmidh spoke of the vast herb gardens and vineyards that surrounded the college. The school has fallen into decline, of course, but the wineries are a thriving business. At least, they were until this very season,” Danilo added slowly. “Nearly three moon cycles past, there were severe crop failures, and the herb gardens and vineyards were almost destroyed. I was in Tethyr at the time, working among the wine merchants there. The southern vintners were delighted by this development, as you can well imagine.”

  “You know what this means, of course.” Vartain’s tone contradicted his words, and he waited for the young Harper to admit his ignorance.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Danilo said evenly, “but I’m afraid I do.” The riddlemaster’s brows flew upward in surprise, earning a half-smile from the Harper. “At the height of bardcraft, there were seven elder barding colleges, ranked in order of honor and importance. An aspiring bard would attend them all in a specific order, working his way toward the status of master bard. Our mysterious foe seems to be enacting a bizarre parody of this. The first of these barding colleges was Foclucan, which was located in Silverymoon. There a spell was cast on the bards and ballads. I have no idea how it was done. You were there, Wyn; care to hazard a guess?”

  “Not quite yet,” the elf replied in a tight voice.

  “The crops failed abruptly and mysteriously, not long after the events at Silverymoon’s Spring Faire. The event is described in the second stanza, which makes reference to MacFuirmidh, the second of the barding colleges.”

  Danilo paused and took a deep breath. “Two is a coincidence, three forms a pattern. If the third stanza”—he paused and pointed to the spot on the blank page where the words would appear—“if this names the town of Berdusk and the barding college known as Doss, then we will know to expect a total of seven spells. We will also know the path our foe will take.”