Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  Larson caught a passing barmaid's elbow. He ordered borscht and bread for Quintish, and asked for an empty goblet. When the meal came, Larson produced a small flash from his travel bag.

  "This is a specialty from my homeland," he said cheerfully. "In the monastery where I trained, the priests kept bees and brewed a fine mead — dry and full and scented with raspberries. "Larson carefully poured a measure of the brew and, cupping Quintish's hands around the goblet with his own, he helped him take a sip.

  The strong drink seemed to rally Quintish, for he emptied the goblet and avidly devoured the soup. When the meal was finished, however, the older bard turned his attention back to the locket. Larson made a few attempts at conversation. Finally, regretfully, he crept away and left Quintish to his sorrowful meditation.

  "That was kindly done," observed a silver-toned voice at his elbow.

  Larson spun and looked into a woman's upturned face. Like most natives of Kartakass, she had fair hair and delicate features. Her pale face was dominated by dark blue eyes, as vivid as violets blooming in snow. She nodded toward the grieving bard.

  "It is a sad thing. At last winter's solstice, Master Quintish was brilliant. Now he has forgotten all he knew of music and lore. What is left for such a man?" she said with deep compassion.

  "Has he seen no physician, no priest?"

  The girl gave a short burst of humorless laughter. "There are few of either in Kartakass."

  Larson thought of the pendant he wore under his tunic: the symbol of Oghma, patron of bards. It had been given him in his tenth year, when he first came to train at the monastery. "Perhaps I can do something for him."

  Her smile brought rare loveliness to her face. "I wouldn't be surprised. Such compassion is rare in this land. You are different from most men of Kartakass," she mused. Her violet eyes searched his face. "You haven't the look of a Kartakan. From whence have you come?"

  Larson paused, wondering how best to answer this. "I came from a land called Cormyr," he said slowly. "How far it is from here, I do not know. As a scholar and bard, I travel much. One day while I was rowing a skiff, a strange mist covered the river. When it lifted, I found myself — "

  Slender fingers sealed his lips, cutting off his words. "We have many superstitions in Kartakass," she said lightly, but there was real fear in her eyes. "It is best not to speak of such things within walls."

  "Ah. "Larson bowed an apology. "But dancing is permitted? "

  "Encouraged," she responded with a smile.

  Ellamir — for that was her name — was graceful in his arms, and as they danced, her expressive eyes warmed with invitation and promise. Larson knew he should thank Oghma for his good fortune, but his gaze kept straying to the table where Quintish sat. The older bard listened to the dance music with a mixture of puzzlement and longing on his ravaged face.

  When the dancers stopped, happy and exhausted, they settled down to drink and listen to the singing of ballads. Two tales were sung, then someone called for Ellamir. Murmurs of approval and anticipation rippled through the crowd as she picked up a small harp and made her way to the center of the circle.

  She put her slender hands to the strings. A sad silver melody flowed from her fingers, and then another, and then the two entwined in a complex, compelling dance. Larson had never acquired more than the bare rudiments of the instrument, but he considered himself a fair judge of harpers. Seldom had he heard Ellamir's equal. Despite her youth, she was a harper of uncanny skill.

  Then, when Larson was convinced that never had music been so exquisite, Ellamir began to sing. Her silvery soprano floated through the room like the chime of fairy bells. He listened entranced, forgetting for the moment even his concern for Master Quintish.

  Then the words of Ellamir's song caught Larson's attention. It was a woman's lament for a lost love, a bard who had scorned her. She died, but her obsession did not. From her shattered dreams rose the Lhiannan shee —

  "Silence!"

  The indignant baritone command shattered the silvery web of Ellamir's song. The village meistersinger leapt to his feet, his blond mustache quivering with rage. Many of the bards in the circle shifted uncomfortably. Some made signs of warding. Ellamir's hands dropped to her lap, and two bright spots of color flamed on her pale face.

  Larson cleared his throat to break the uneasy silence. "I am a stranger here," he said slowly," but I don't see how Ellamir has done wrong! The song was lovely and her voice superb, even by the high standards of Kartakass."

  "It is not her bardcraft that we fault," the meistersinger said severely," but her judgment."

  "But what is a. . lanan she, that you fear it so? "

  "Enough! That is something of which a bard should never speak. In this land we have a saying: Be careful what you call, for you might receive an answer!"

  "Wise advice," Larson said gravely, but he caught Ellamir's eye and winked. A small, grateful smile touched her lips.

  Hoping to change the mood of the crowd, Larson rose to his feet and lifted high a mug of meekulbrau. He then drained the bitter brew without coming up for air.

  "Feeshka!" he shouted, and tossed the empty mug to a burly, sandy-whiskered balalaika player. The man caught the mug, accepting the challenge with a grin. In the language of Kartakass, "feeshka" meant "little lies", and these tall tales were a passion in this land of long winters and dreaded nights.

  As the evening wore on, many mugs were drained and tossed as the bards strove to outdo each other in absurd storytelling. Larson was delighting the crowd with a ribald story of elves and satyrs when he saw Quintish rise abruptly. With quick, fevered movements the older man made his way toward the back door, and then out into the night.

  Larson improvised a quick ending to this tale, then he slipped away to follow the bard. The courtyard was brightly lit, but Quintish was not to be seen. The only sign that the bard had passed through was the sharp staccato of boots on cobblestone. The sound was fading away quickly.

  For a moment Larson paused, uncertain what to do. Calling for help would be effort wasted, for few Kartakans would venture outside during the night. Yet he could not let the bard wander alone. Taking a deep breath, Larson sprinted off in pursuit.

  The city walls shrouded the streets in shadow. A scant half-moon had crested the mountains, but it cast little light. Larson ran as fast as he dared through the dark streets. Once, he stumbled over something he sincerely hoped was a night-prowling cat. Then the sound of Quintish's footsteps stopped, and the city was eerily silent. Larson was beginning to despair when he heard the shriek of wood against wood. He raced down an alley toward the sound.

  There was Quintish, heaving at a thick board barring a door in the city wall. Before Larson could reach the bard, the door gave way and Quintish was off. He hurried through the field, as unerring and unwitting of his surroundings as a sleepwalker.

  A distant howl sliced through the night, and again Larson hesitated. He remembered the Vistana camp that lay nearby. For some reason, wolves seemed to avoid gypsies. Armed with that scant assurance, Larson followed the older bard through the field and into the forest.

  Quintish came to rest in a clearing, a place of quiet and unearthly beauty. Faint moonlight played on the ripples of a small stream, and moss formed an inviting, velvety cushion along the banks. Larson crouched behind a copse of trees some hundred paces away, waiting to see what had lifted the master bard from his strange lethargy.

  A dark-haired woman stepped lightly into the clearing. She was a compelling beauty with an oddly familiar face. Recognition hit Larson like a fist, and he sucked in a quick, startled breath. It was the woman in the locket, the long-dead Vistana whom Quintish mourned!

  Larson watched, barely breathing, as Quintish buried his hands in the rippling mass of the woman's hair and drew her close. She pulled playfully free of the bard's embrace and leapt onto a rock in the middle of the stream. There she seated herself, arranging her skirts seductively as she spoke words that Larson could not hear.
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br />   Quintish began to sing, and his celebrated bass voice lifted in a wrenching declaration of love that seemed torn from the fabric of his soul. Larson listened with awe and longing. Only once before had he heard such a fevered, passionate song. It ended far too soon. The raven-haired beauty leaned toward her bard, offering a kiss in reward for the tribute.

  A cloud passed over the moon, casting the clearing into darkness and granting the lovers a moment's privacy. When the cloud passed, the woman was gone.

  Quintish lay face down in the stream.

  Larson leapt up and ran into the clearing. He dragged the bard onto the mossy bank and turned him onto his back. A silver chain caught the moonlight as it slid from the master bard's limp fingers. Larson picked up the locket and absently thrust it into his own pocket. He bent down and put his ear to Quintish's chest. The bard's breathing was shallow, his heartbeat weak and slow. Larson shouldered the older man and half-ran, half-staggered back toward Skald. Urgency quickened his steps: he had come too far to lose Quintish now!

  It took all Larson's eloquence to persuade the owner of the Fireside Feeshka to open the door for them. Once they were inside, the village meistersinger took over. He had Quintish carried to his room, and the inn's herbalist roused from slumber. Many suspicious glances were sent Larson's way, but he answered questions with a frank, open manner. He told them that he'd been distressed by the bard's confused state of mind and unwilling to let him wander alone in the night. He described the gypsy woman, but out of respect for Quintish he omitted the tale of a long-lost love. When all the questioners were satisfied, Larson hurried upstairs and took up a vigil outside the master bard's door.

  It was there that Ellamir found him. She had listened to Larson's story with a growing sense of dread. Quintish had once shown her a picture of his long-dead wife, and the Vistana woman Larson described sounded far too much like Natalia for Ellamir's peace of mind. The words of her own song haunted her, and she felt as guilty as if she had summoned —

  "A Lhiannan shee," she breathed.

  Ellamir shook her head in self-recrimination. Why had she not seen it sooner? It would explain the strange malady that had stolen Quintish's songs and drained him of life. Sometimes called the Ghost of Obsession, a Lhiannan shee was an undead vampiric spirit that feasted upon living bards. The creature could appear in any form that might appeal to its chosen victim, usually that of a beautiful woman or half-elf. Once enspelled, a bard could think of nothing but his nightly meetings with his love. An enthralled bard willingly, eagerly gave up his essence to the seductive creature, one kiss at a time.

  A door creaked, and the herbalist stalked into the hall. Larson rushed forward and demanded news of the bard.

  "Dead," the herbalist muttered as he brushed past Larson. "Poisoned."

  Relief swept through Ellamir. Death by poison was a sad end to the master bard's life, but infinitely less fearsome than the one she had imagined. She turned to Larson. The naked anguish on his face stunned her.

  The young bard sank to the floor. "Too late," he mourned. "To travel so far, all for naught!"

  Ellamir knelt beside him and encircled his shoulders with her arms. "I share your loss," she said sincerely. "You cannot know what I have lost," Larson murmured through his hands. "All that Quintish knew, the wealth of songs and stories!"

  An ugly murmur rose from the taproom below. Ellamir rose to her feet, her lovely face creased with worry. "What now?" she muttered, and quickly fled down the steps. She returned but a moment later. "Some of the men will go to the Vistana camp at first light to seek the woman you described. They will demand justice."

  "Master Quintish is dead, for all that," Larson observed dully.

  "And that is a great loss," she agreed. "Still it is not so grim as it might have been. "She quickly confided her fears to Larson. "Think of it! At a gathering such as this, a Lhiannan shee could choose any bard here as her next victim." Larson stared at her for a long moment. Slowly the light returned to his eyes. "Thank you, Ellamir," he said fervently, and drew her into his arms. "In my land we have a saying: There is no night so dark that morning will not come."

  To a woman of Kartakass, such words of hope were as rare as roses in winter. At that moment, Ellamir lost her heart to this man, so different from anyone she had known. She framed Larson's face with her hands. "Morning will come, but not for a while," she whispered.

  The sun's first rays stole across Ellamir's face, awakening her as if with a kiss. She stretched like a cat, smiling as she remembered. A moment passed before she realized that she was alone in Larson's room. Puzzled, she threw back the covers and quickly dressed.

  Once she was in the taproom, however, Ellamir could not bring herself to ask anyone about Larson's disappearance. She could not bear the ribald jesting usually directed at festival liaisons. Reluctantly, she accepted an invitation to join several other bards for morningfeast. A sleep-eyed barmaid brought to their table small loaves of freshly baked bread, soft cheese, berries, and ale.

  Ellamir broke open her loaf without much interest and idly watched the fragrant steam rise. As she lifted her eyes, she saw Larson walk through the front door. He seemed deeply distracted; she called his name several times before she got his attention. Instantly his charming, boyish smile lighted his face. He came over to the table and claimed half of Ellamir's loaf. While they shared morningfest, he regaled the group with amusing, irreverent stories of his early life in a monastery.

  After all had eaten, the tables were cleared and pushed against the walls to make room for the dancing. One of their morningfest companions took up a viol and played the first few measures of a popular rondeau. He called for Larson to join in.

  A puzzled expression flickered in Larson's eyes, so quickly that Ellamir was not entirely certain she had seen it. Surely she was wrong; after all, hadn't he played that very rondeau just the night before? Suddenly Ellamir thought of Quintish, and there was a horrifying logic to Larson's night-time walk and seeming forgetfulness. Ellamir's hand flew to her mouth. She held her breath and silently willed Larson to play the song, to dispel her fears.

  But the young bard slipped an arm around Ellamir's waist and begged off, saying he preferred to dance.

  "Don't you know that tune?" Ellamir prodded.

  Larson dropped his arm. "If you don't care to dance, you need only tell me."

  She drew back, startled by his harsh words. But Ellamir's passions ran deep, and her concern for Larson far outstripped her hurt. To her knowledge, no one had ever escaped the spell of a Lhiannan shee.

  Ellamir recalled the night before, and her delicate face hardened with determination. Though she did not command the compelling magic of an undead spirit, she was, after all, a living woman. She would do what she could.

  All that day, she remained at Larson's side. He was a charming companion, but as night approached he grew increasingly restive. In desperation Ellamir enticed him up to his room, hoping to detain him with wine and wiles.

  Faint moonlight lit the bard's room, and he drew her close in a tender embrace. For the first time, Ellamir began to hope. When he handed her a goblet of mead, she drank deeply, savoring the ripe with the taste of summer fruit and the warmth of Larson's intense hazel eyes. Setting down the cup, she entwined her arms around her lover's neck. As he returned her kisses, she began to drift into a dark, sensuous haze. Larson lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

  Her violet eyes drifted shut as he lowered her. With a sigh of relief, Larson eased out of her embrace. Once again the strong sedative in the raspberry mead had done its work. He only hoped that he had not misjudged the dose this time.

  Larson began preparation for his next trip to the forest clearing, and every other consideration fled from his mind. All he could think of was the mysterious woman he had met there last night, and his aching compulsion to see her again. For the third time, he hurried out into the night.

  She rose as he entered the clearing, and even though there was no wind, the g
ossamer layers of her gown swirled about her slender form. The woman looked a bit like Ellamir, but she far surpassed human beauty. Silvery hair, purple eyes, delicate features, and elegantly pointed ears proclaimed her fey race.

  The lovely elf beckoned him close. Larson took her hand reverently, and it seemed to him that the scent of flowers rose from her cool satin skin. As she swayed closer to claim her second kiss from Larson, he steeled his will and drew a powerful amulet from his pocket. He raised it high. Blue light burst from the amulet, and the young priest of Oghma began to chant the words of a powerful sacred spell.

  The elf's eyes widened in terror. She tried to wrench her hand away, but Larson's magic held her fast. The amulet in his hand hummed with power and silent song, and the lost, lilting dance tunes of the Kartakan festival flowed back into his mind. The elf began to dissolve as he reclaimed the songs she'd taken from him. Her features melted and flowed into a new shape. She writhed in anguish as her body became more lush and compact, and screamed when her silvery hair burst into a rippling, dark mass of curls. Suddenly, Larson found himself gripping the slender bronze wrist of a Vistana woman. The elf he had loved to the point of madness was gone. Though his heart nearly broke with grief, Larson continued to chant.

  More music flowed into him: the aires, laments, and dances of Kartakass that embodied the essence of the bard Quintish. Again the Lhiannan shee changed form, this time into a beautiful, flame-haired vampiress. From her the bard wrested songs of passion and dark hunger that no human voice had ever sung. A dainty farm girl pleaded and wailed as Larson's magic drained from her the ancient tunes of a shepherd's pipes. A beautiful halfelven minstrel yielded up songs in a language Larson had never heard, but understood, nonetheless. On and on the magical battle raged as Larson took stolen songs from the undead creature.