David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

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 gossamer 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.