Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“Hush, girl,” the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife’s name was invoked.

One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary luck his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage.

“Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions,” the cleric said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drink with you.”

The man turned and strode from the room. One by one, chairs scraped across the wooden floor as the other patrons followed suit The taproom emptied quickly. Only Imzeel and his employees remained, eyeing the archmage with fear and uncertainty.

Khelben Arunsun came over to the bar, and his footsteps seemed to echo through the deserted room. He placed a small leather bag on the polished wood. “My apologies, Imzeel,” he said in a voice devoid of expression. “Please accept this purse; the gold within should cover your lost business.”

The next instant, he was gone.

“Well, I never,” Ginalee huffed in mock indignation, her voice slightly unsteady but her sense of fun fully intact. “He just upped and disappeared! No flash of light, no puffs of colored smoke, not even a whiff of brimstone! They’ve got more interesting wizards over in Thay, or so I hear.”

“Ginalee,” Imzeel said in a weary voice, “why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”

Danilo and his elven companions lingered in the Lusty Wench through the evening hours and long into the night. When the black night sky began to fade to indigo and the last of the stars disappeared, many patrons of the Lusty Wench festhall and tavern were still enjoying the justly famed fortified wine, the exotic entertainment, and the company of the tavern’s resident escorts. The Harper and his associates walked out into the dark and silent streets of Sundabar considerably poorer of coin, but with a good deal of information.

The freak summer storm had covered only a part of Sundabar. The trades district was hardest hit—Danilo privately noted that the site of the barding college was located in the very center of this area—with violent thunderstorms and hail. Various explanations were offered, but most of the tavern’s patrons considered the strange Midsummer weather to be an evil omen.

More important, sentries had spoken of a bard who had entered the city that morning, carrying a small dark harp and riding a snow-white asperii. No one could give details of her appearance, except that she was small and swathed in a light cloak.

“A sorceress of power could command an asperii,” Danilo mused as they walked down the dark street, “but an asperii will not willingly serve one who embraces evil. It’s hard to believe that our foe has the benefit of the Northlands in mind!”

“We’ve learned all we can here,” Wyn said impatiently. “Let’s return at once. I need to have a look at the riddle scroll.”

Danilo stopped and studied the minstrel. “What do you expect to find?”

“I’m not sure. I just feel that we may have been missing something important,” was all that the elf would say, shooting a pointed glance in Elaith’s direction. Danilo took the hint and left the matter for a later discussion.

The Harper led the elves into a nearby alley and again called upon the magic of his ring. When the whirling light faded, they found themselves in the ruined garden where they’d met up days before.

The signs of battle were still visible in the faint light that preceded dawn. Three mounds of soft earth marked the places where they’d buried the fallen mercenaries, and at the far corner of the garden a bonfire had reduced the dead harpies to a pile of foul-smelling bones and ashes.

“Why have you brought us here?” Elaith snarled, taking in the scene with distaste. “We were supposed to meet the others near Ganstar’s Creek!”

“Magical travel is reliable only if the destination is known. I could have tried for the creek, but at the risk of ending up being a permanent part of the landscape. Imagine a tree wearing your ears for knotholes, and you’ve got the general idea.”

The elf hissed with exasperation and turned to leave.

“Wait!” shrieked a voice behind them, edged with hysteria. The elven hermit came loping from an abandoned building, his tattered rags fluttering around him. “Coming along I be,” he said, casting a pleading look at Elaith. “You be seeking the Morninglark, and dance to the harp I do.”

Wyn Ashgrove looked sharply at the disheveled elf. “The Morninglark! What have you do to with the Harp of Ingrival?”

The hermit’s ravaged face suddenly appeared very sane, and his violet eyes held a lifetime of sadness. “I have nothing more to do with the harp, but it has everything to do with me. Hayed it I did.”

Wyn looked closer. His lips moved in a silent oath, and his eyes widened in awe. “ You are Ingrival, are you not?” he asked the hermit in a tone of great respect

“It may be that I am. I remember not my name,” came the sad response.

“What’s going on, Wyn?” Danilo asked softly.

“The Morninglark is an ancient elven harp, an artifact crafted in the early days of Myth Drannor,” the elf said in an aside. “It is considered too powerful to be played by any but the most skilled spellsingers. For centuries it has been safe in the possession of Ingrival, a famous musician. He went into seclusion and has not been heard from for many years. The harp was thought to be lost”

Wyn turned to Elaith, who had been standing by listening impassively. “This is what you seek, isn’t it? The Morninglark?” he demanded in an accusing voice.

“What is that to you?”

“The harp is sacred to the People. It is not a treasure, and it is not a tool. Its power is not to be used for gain!”

“My motives are not your concern,” Elaith said with icy finality.

“But your actions are.” Shaking with indignation, Wyn faced down the moon elf. “You knew, or at least suspected, the identity of this elf. He is exiled not by choice, but by misfortune. That you would abandon anyone—especially a fellow elf—to a life of solitude and madness! That is vile enough, but you turned away from a hero of the People!”

The minstrel spun away from Elaith and spoke to Danilo. “We must take this unfortunate elf with us to Waterdeep. The priests at the pantheon temple will care for him, and perhaps bring him a measure of healing. They are holy elves, and they take in the infirm and the outcast”

From the corner of his eye, Danilo saw Elaith recoil at Wyn’s words. For an instant the rogue elf looked deeply stricken, then his usual expression of mocking humor came down over his pained face like a curtain. Danilo tucked this strange reaction away for future reflection, and he nodded his approval of Wyn’s plan.

“You are welcome in our midst, friend elf,” the Harper said to the one Wyn had called Ingrival. “As it turns out, the patriarch of the elven temple owes me a favor, but I’m sure the good priest would accept you for your own sake.”

The hermit’s face lit up beneath its crust of dirt Then he let out a shriek of pure terror and dove into a thicket of bushes.

Danilo was the first to see the gigantic shadow approach, cast long by the slanting rays of early morning. Instinctively he ducked, then twisted to look up into the sky. Circling high above the abandoned village was an enormous winged creature. Although it looked like a harmless—if huge—lark, it was clearly a bird of prey, for it carried a deer in its talons as easily as a hawk would a field mouse.

“What now?” Elaith muttered as he readied an arrow.