Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“Greetings, Magda Someone has located the elf for us?”

“I have Winnifer Fleetfingers with me,” the crone said, and stepped back to make room for the thief.

Winnifer leaned over the scrying bowl. “I told Elaith everything I was supposed to say,” she reported. “He identified the Knights’ mark on that coin, and from what he said, I think he believes that the Knights and your sorceress may be in alliance.”

“Good work,” Laeral said. “Elaith Craulnober knows the dark side of Waterdeep better than anyone. If the elf can’t ferret out the Knights’ agent, no one can.”

“That spell scroll you’re looking for? He doesn’t have it on him,” Winnifer added.

Laeral’s silver brows flew up. “You’re certain?”

The beautifully thief sniffed scornfully, and Laeral acceded to Winnifer’s expertise with a nod.

“All right He doesn’t have it Magda, get in touch with all those in the network and change their instructions. Elaith Craulnober is not to be stopped. He must be observed, but allowed to go wherever he will. Make note of everyone he contacts. As for the scroll, start looking for one Vartain of Calimport”

As soon as the sun set over Waterdeep, Danilo again twisted his ring of teleportation, picturing in his mind the site he had mentioned to Wyn and the others.

He found the party camped beside the pool, in a scene of incongruous peace and beauty. The glowing sunset clouds were reflected in the still water, and in the clearing surrounding the pool, fireflies blinked in and out of view. The elven hermit was off to one side, playing tunelessly upon Wyn’s lyre of changing. Morgalla greeted Danilo with her usual nod, but Wyn rushed toward him. The elf was more excited that Danilo had ever seen him.

“I know how the spell must be undone!”

“You do?”

“Well, almost,” the elf admitted. “I made a copy of the riddle on the scroll. Vartain has been looking at it solely as a puzzle, and I thought that a musician’s eye might find something he overlooked.”

“And?” Danilo found that the elf’s excitement was contagious.

“The ballad on the scroll is a ballad indeed, and it is meant to be sung. Look at the meter: every stanza is regular despite the lack of rhyme.”

A possibility occurred to Danilo, and he sank down on a moss-covered stone. “You’re an expert in Harper lore. Does the name Iriador Wintermist mean anything to you?”

“Oh, yes. She was a Harper who traveled for some time with Finder Wyvernspur’s band. Her name, Iriador, is derived from the Elvish word for ‘ruby,’ and she was so named for her brilliant red hair. She was a notable beauty, and a gifted mage and bard.”

“According to Khelben Arunsun, this woman was half-elven, and the daughter of a famous elven musician. Is it possible that she knew the art of elfsong?”

Wyn recoiled. He stared at the Harper in dismay. “Are you saying that Iriador Wintermist is our elusive sorceress? A half- elf?”

“Yes, in my own inimitable fashion. Now, are you telling me that all this turmoil has been the result of elfsong magic?”

“I’m afraid so,” the minstrel admitted. “I have suspected it for some time, and my suspicions were confirmed when I learned that our enemy possesses the Morninglark. Only a powerful spellsinger can use the harp, so I assumed that the sorceress would be an elf.”

“What can this harp do?”

“It allows the musician to create new spellsongs. This is not an easy matter. Our foe has created a complex spell with several layers. First, as Vartain said, there is magic in the making and solving of riddles. She also drew power from place magic; the sites of the elder barding colleges are steeped in the collective magic of the music played there over the ages. At each site, she gains another power toward her ultimate goal.”

“Which is?”

“To restore the honor to bardcraft.”

“Strange way to go about it,” Danilo observed. “Her concept of honor requires a good deal of preliminary destruction. How can these spells of hers be undone?”

“By singing the ballad in its entirety. Throughout the riddle are sprinkled hints to its performance. Many of these are hidden in other clues.”

Danilo thought this over, nodding as something occurred to him. “The key to the spell,” he repeated softly. He looked up at Wyn. “Remember the riddle that opened the scroll?

The Harper spoke the riddle quickly, and shook his head in astonishment at his own shortsightedness. “The key to the spell was the letter E , right? Answering the riddle opened the scroll, but it also gives the key in which the spell must be sung.”

“I hadn’t noticed that particular double riddle,” Wyn admitted, “but there are several others.”

“By Milil,” Danilo swore, invoking the god of music, “this bard of ours has a twisted mind. We’ll have to look at every phrase and line from three different angles just to put the pieces of this spell together.”

“That is so. But I’m afraid this puts you in a great deal of danger, my friend.”

“This whole adventure has not been lacking in danger,” Danilo observed. “But why me, specifically?”

“You probably know the legend of Heward’s Mystical Organ. If this artifact could be found, one could theoretically cast an infinite number of spells by playing tunes upon its keys.”

“If one survived the effort,” Danilo said dryly. “Also according to legend, those whose research is faulty or whose musicianship is not up to the task will end up dead or mad.”

The elven minstrel nodded gravely. “That danger is present in the casting of any powerful spell, and this one will be no exception. This spell was cast by wedding elfsong to the power of the Morninglark. The magic is therefore doubly powerful, and it must be undone by singing the entire ballad and playing upon the Morninglark itself.”

“Which only a spellsinger can do. That’s you.”

“I’m afraid not,” Wyn countered. “Remember, I do not play the harp. The task therefore falls to you.”

Danilo took a deep breath. He had no choice but to attempt the spell, yet he was not a spellsinger like Wyn, or even much of a bard! His eyes drifted toward the elven hermit, who had set aside the lyre and was now dancing to wild music only he could hear. The Harper knew that if his voice faltered or his fingers stumbled on the strings, the mad elf’s fate could be his. As soon as he trusted himself to speak, he raised his eyes to Wyn’s.

“You promised me a lesson in elfsong,” he said casually. “I believe this would be a good time to start”

Silent as a shadow, Elaith Craulnober picked his way through the debris that littered Twoflask Alley. But for the elf, the lane was deserted; local wisdom had it that no one who’d imbibed less than two flasks of something much stronger than ale would chance the dangerous passage after sunset Raised planks paved the center of the narrow throughway, allowing the foolish, the inebriated, or the intrepid to walk above most of the garbage and sewage that was tossed into the alley from the seedy taverns and storehouses on either side.

The elf’s boots made no sound on the wide boards, and beneath his feet the rats scuttled and snarled undisturbed, busily foraging before the daily sluicing washed much of the garbage—and many of the rats—into the large sewer gratings that dotted either side of the path. There were no gaslights or torches to dispel the darkness of Twoflask Alley, and the elf made his way quickly toward the back entrance of the infamous Thirsty Sailor Tavern in darkness. The patrons of this tavern favored the dark, and they tended to vanish at first light like so many vampires.