Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

The gathering of Lords was small and somber tonight. Mirt, Durnan, and Kitten were waiting behind untouched mugs. Brian the Swordmaster arrived on Khelben’s heels.

The archmage broke the news. Mirt listened in silence, then nodded and rose to him feet

“Well, I’m off, then,” he said simply.

Durnan grasped his friend’s plump wrist. “Give me an hour to see to the tavern, lad. A lot of years have been washed downstream, but I’d be proud to ride with you again.”

The retired mercenary shook his head, declining the offer of his friend and former comrade-in-arms. “Stay, Durnan, and see you to the city. There are too few of us left.” With those words, Mirt disappeared down the ladder with an agility astonishing for a man of his size and years.

Mirt’s words seemed to echo in the room. “He’s right, you know,” Kitten pointed out “First Larissa. Now Mirt is called away. Texter is off riding again, and only the gods know where Sammer is.” She took a swig of her ale and grimaced. “Though they can hold their peace as far as that one’s concerned.”

Durnan nodded in agreement The traveling merchant Sammereza Salphontis brought valuable information from the surrounding kingdoms, but he was not well liked by his fellow Lords.

“Got more bad news,” Brian said. “During the past ten-day, I’ve got near to thirty orders for scimitars.”

“So business is good,” Kitten observed, examining her formidable manicure. Although she usually appeared in public looking as tousled and unlaced as if she’d just risen from her bed—or, more to the point, someone else’s—this evening she was as elegantly coifed and gowned as any Waterdhavian noblewoman. “What’s your point?”

The Swordmaster produced a small curved knife from his leather pouch and slapped it down on the table in front of her. “Ever seen one of these?”

Kitten picked it up and examined it, frowning in puzzlement at the dozens of tiny marks carved into the blade. “Looks like someone’s keeping score on this thing.”

“That’s precisely right,” Khelben said, taking the knife from her hands, his face set in tight, grim lines. “Southern assassins often use such knives. The more marks, the more illustrious the career. How did you get this, Brian?”

The man shrugged. “Got me a new apprentice. The boy needed work. He can’t swing a hammer worth a tin coin just yet, but he can pick pockets quicker’n a halfling. The man he lifted this off ordered six of those scimitars.”

“Which are favored weapons in the southern lands,” Khelben added wearily. “So we may have an influx of southern assassins. Someone should tell Piergeiron at once; he’s the usual target”

Kitten chugged the rest of her ale, then rose to her feet with a rustle of brocade and lace. “I’ll go; I dressed for the palace, since I planned to look in on Larissa.” She disappeared through one of the room’s four doors.

“That’s it for tonight, then,” the archmage said, rising from his chair.

“Before you go, Khelben, there’s something you ought to hear,” Durnan said. The innkeeper opened the door that led into the tavern’s storeroom. Khelben and Brian exchanged puzzled glances, but followed him. They made their way past barrels and neatly stacked crates to the taproom. Durnan cracked open the door and beckoned the men closer.

“I say it be truth!” argued one drunken voice from beyond the door.

“Nay, how could it? That’d make the wizard more long-lived than a dragon,” countered a second man.

“It’s true, all right,” stated a petulant female voice, “and Danilo ought to know. He’s kin to Khelben, and he loves family history. He tells the most amusingly ribald story, don’t you know, about his great aunt Clarinda Thann—”

“Shut up, Myrna.” Galinda Raventree’s distinctive husky voice was unusually sharp as she silenced her rival. “Khelben is always chastising Dan for those cute, harmless little spells, and this song is just Dan’s way of tweaking the old man’s beard.”

“Well said, miss,” agreed a rumbling voice with a touch of Cormyrian burr. “The young bard tells a good story, I’ll grant you, but the song is nothing more or less than that.”

“Let’s have it again!” demanded another.

The sounds of a lute stilled the debate, and after a few rippling notes a woman began to sing in a deep, raw voice that was uniquely seductive and feminine. Khelben recognized the dark voice as that of the Masked Minstrel, a mysterious woman who wandered the Castle Ward, often giving open-air concerts in Jester’s Court of a nice summer’s eve. Her name and origin were matters of heated speculation in the city: she was variously thought to be a mad noblewoman, a Zhentish spy, or a Harper agent. Whatever else she might be, her song left no doubt in Khelben’s mind that she had succumbed to the curse upon the bards.

Durnan probed Khelben’s ribs with an elbow. “They say your nephew wrote that song, but I can’t believe it of the lad. It has a lot to say about you, and Elminster as well, and it puts you both back some two hundred years. Who would do such a thing?”

“I wish I knew,” Khelben muttered, gesturing for silence so that he might hear the words. The verses that followed were not reassuring. The song was indeed based on one of Danilo’s, and the incident it referred to was the Harpstar Wars, a dark time that had occurred more that two centuries past Khelben had seen to it that Danilo was versed in Harper history and lore, but the song Danilo had written was no more than veiled allegory; the words of this ballad went on to describe the battles, name many of the Harpers who’d fallen in the war, and warn of the continuing threat offered by the few shapeshifting Malaugrym that survived. Whoever had changed the words might well have been there, Khelben noted with a growing sense of dread.

The archmage searched his memory for the names of the Harpers who had survived those times, and those who might still live. Perhaps one survivor of that long-ago war had turned away from the Harpers’ path, becoming so twisted that he or she outlived death as a lich. That would explain much, for an extremely powerful undead wizard might be able to command a spell that could change the minds and memories of the bards.

The ballad raised another concern as well. Khelben had done all he reasonably could to suppress the ballad about Laeral’s misadventure with an evil artifact, but the song was everywhere, spreading speculation and distrust. There were many other things in Khelben’s life that were best left untold, yet someone seemed determined to air them. Although Khelben’s parentage was a matter of record and his genealogy open to all who cared to inquire, his history had in fact been borrowed from another. Few knew his true age, or the secrets of his past, or the extent of his power. In truth, Khelben controlled the affairs of Waterdeep much less than he was capable of doing, but few would believe this if all his secrets came to light.

The final stanza of the Masked Minstrel’s ballad took Khelben’s troubled thoughts and put them to music: