Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“Riddles are far more than that,” Vartain countered severely. “In ancient times, battles were fought through riddle challenges, and heirs to kingdoms selected. Magic can be cast through the giving or the solving of riddles.” His cleared his throat, and continued in a pedantic tone. “There are many types of riddles, conundrums, puzzles, and mysteries. All of these challenge the mind, develop the character, and train one to observe keenly and to think with clarity and precision.”

“Here’s a good one,” Mange continued as if Vartain had not spoken at all. “How many halflings can a troll eat on an empty stomach?” He punctuated the question with a resounding belch.

Several guesses ensued, and Mange shook his head at each. Finally he turned to Vartain with a smug grin. “You wanna take a stab, riddlemaster?”

Vartain lifted his beaky nose. “Base jests have nothing to do with a riddlemaster’s art”

“One!” Mange answered gleefully. “A troll can eat one halfling on an empty stomach. After the first, his stomach ain’t empty!”

“I got a good one!” put in Orcsarmor, a thin archer named for the rusty hue of his graying whiskers. “Whaddaya call a contest between two wizards?”

“That one, I know,” Danilo said. “ A spelling bee.”

Every member of the circle groaned, and several of the men pelted the would-be riddler with travel biscuits. Orcsarmor ducked the good-natured missiles and grinned.

Vartain looked far less happy. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire,” he said in a stony voice. The riddlemaster stalked over to his bedroll and lay down, his back to the revelers.

“ Retire , eh? He don’t take competition real well,” Morgalla quipped. The mercenaries guffawed, all too happy to share a laugh at the riddlemaster’s expense.

“Time for a song,” Danilo said to Wyn, nodding toward Vartain’s rigid back. As intelligent as the riddlemaster was, he seemed to have no idea how he was perceived by others. This, Danilo mused, was definitely not the time to enlighten him. Perhaps he would speak to Vartain about it someday, but the riddlemaster needed all his confidence and concentration focused for the challenge ahead.

So the minstrel took his lyre and sang an air about the elven homeland, an island of beauty and magic and peace. During the first part of the song, Elaith leaned against a tree at the edge of the encampment, with practiced ease twirling a small jeweled knife through and around his fingers. As Wyn sang on, the moon elf’s angular face softened, taking on an almost wistful expression. At the song’s end, Elaith came into the circle of firelight.

“I notice you carry a crystal flute, of the sort that is grown in the caves of Evermeet’s wild elves,” he said quietly, pointing to the translucent green flute that hung from the minstrel’s belt. “Do you, by chance, know any of the sword dances famous on the north shore of the island? The Ghost of Elmtree , perhaps?”

In response, Wyn took the gemlike flute from its protective bag and played a few notes. “Yes, that’s the one,” Elaith said, pleased.

The elf turned to his men. “I’ll need your swords. Dirks and daggers as well, if you please.”

Puzzled, the mercenaries handed over their weapons.

“Considering the company I’m keeping these days, I prefer to keep both of my swords within reach,” Danilo said cheerfully. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“By all means,” Elaith returned just as pleasantly. “Much good may they do you, of course.”

Morgalla’s brown eyes narrowed at the insult to Danilo. “That elf is startin’ to wear a hole in the sole of my boot,” she muttered, watching as Elaith arranged the weapons in an intricate pattern of crosses and circles.

When that was done, he nodded to the elven minstrel and took his place in the center of the design. Wyn began to play a slow, lyrical tune. The moon elf went into the dance, stepping lightly between the crossed swords, alternating heel and toe.

As Danilo admired the elf’s fluid grace, he noted that Elaith had not added one of his own weapons to the arrangement. As did Danilo, the elf wore a sword at each hip. Something about Elaith’s second blade was familiar.

The Harper’s eyes narrowed as he realized the nature of the weapon worn by the rogue elf. It was a moonblade, an ancient elven sword that was passed from one generation to the next. A moonblade could judge character, and it would become dormant rather than trust its magic to an unworthy heir. Danilo had known that Elaith owned such a sword, and that the sword’s rejection of the elf had been the seed that bore fruit in a life of treachery and evil. Why would the elf wear it now?

Danilo puzzled over this question as the music moved faster and faster. A strange mixture of elegance and menace, the elven dance was compelling to watch. The moon elf’s pale face was rapt and intent as he whirled and leaped in time to the crystal flute’s song. His silver hair glinted in the firelight, and he himself seemed transformed into a beautiful and deadly weapon. Then the elf flicked one booted foot, sending a dagger high into the air. It spiraled down like a falling star, catching the firelight as it tumbled. Effortlessly he caught it and sent it spinning upward again. The pace became more frenzied now, and one by one Elaith kicked the weapons into flight Leaping and ducking, he avoided the falling blades, catching some and allowing others to land in an ever-shifting pattern before sending them up again with a deft flick of wrist or boot. It was an amazing display of artistry and agility, and Danilo found himself watching with bated breath and rapid heart Elaith was as sinuous and graceful as the serpent for which he was named, and as quick.

The flute soared to a final, lingering note, and the dance stopped. Elaith stood in a perfect circle of blades, his arms raised to the stars, his silver hair gleaming and his angular face suffused with ecstasy. Magic lingered about the elf, and every blade seemed to gleam with an intensity that the fading firelight could not explain. With uncanny certainty, Danilo knew that the elf’s dance held the power of rite. Elaith himself was a conduit for some mystical link between stars and steel. The insight flickered in his mind, gone before he could grasp and examine it Danilo realized afresh how little he understood of the elves. With the knowledge came a stab of sadness and a longing he could not name.

The company released its collective breath in a sigh of awe and relief. Hushed conversations sprang up between small groups, and no one made a move to reclaim his weapons. It was plain that no one else would perform this night.

Elaith walked from the circle, his chest rising and falling quickly from the effort of his mystical elven dance. He picked up a waterskin and shook it. It was nearly empty. The elf drained it and looked around for another.

Danilo reached into his bag and removed a small silver flask. “Elverquisst,” he said quietly, and handed it to the elf. Elaith looked sharply at the Harper, as if wondering how well the human understood his own gesture. The rare elven spirits formed a part of many an elven ritual and celebration, and the offer of it now, after the elven dance, was a tribute as well as a gift This Danilo had learned from Arilyn, for she had shared with him the ritual farewell to summer and described some of the other rites that made the elverquisst a celebration as well as a libation. Elaith accepted the flask with a nod. He poured a few drops onto the earth and then drank slowly, savoring the distilled essence of summer fruit and elven magic.

“Fancy footwork, elf,” Morgalla complimented him.

The dwarf’s words seemed to pop the aura of contentment and mystery that surrounded the moon elf. He sat down across from Morgalla and studied her as one would a strange animal that had mysteriously appeared in one’s back yard.