Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“Who’s that?” Morgalla demanded.

“That is not a who. That’s a what. If I’m not mistaken, this refers to an old song, L’homme arme —the armed man—which is attributed to Finder Wyvernspur. He was sentenced by his fellow Harpers to centuries of isolation on another plane of existence, and his music was wiped from the land by powerful spells. Our bardic foe used this particular melody as another safeguard.”

“That fits everything we suspect to be true,” Wyn said. “Iriador Wintermist traveled with Finder Wyvernspur and would be familiar with his fate. In fact, his sentence probably gave our foe the inspiration for her own spell against the bards! But how is it, Danilo, that you know this song?”

“In my travels, I ran into Olive Ruskettle, a halfling bard and fellow Harper. Don’t call her that to her face, though, as she has mixed feelings toward the Harpers. When Finder returned to Faerûn, they became friends. Now that the sentence against him has been lifted, she is making a point of singing his music everywhere she goes.”

“And the reference to Canaith?”

“The barding college, of course. The tune was quite popular and was often borrowed as the foundation for other music. I’m assuming that the spell is set to whatever version was popular at Canaith.”

“And you’re sure the halfling sang that particular version?” Wyn asked.

“Wouldn’t that be nice! I’ll be sure after I attempt to cast the spell,” Danilo said with a grim smile. He studied the words of the ballad, humming as he read. He nodded slowly. “The meter fits the melody, that much we know. Apparently I’m to play the first line of the song on the harp, then start to sing in harmony with the harp’s continuing melody.”

“Hmmph. Sounds like yer trying to dig one tunnel east and another west, hopin’ to meet in the middle.”

“Indeed it does, lady dwarf. If I might borrow your lyre of changing, Wyn, I suppose I ought to start practicing,” Danilo said with no discernible enthusiasm as he rose to leave the campfire.

“Hold on, bard. I’ll walk with you a bit,” Morgalla said, hopping down from her perch beside Wyn.

Danilo turned, ready to decline her offer. Something in the set of her face held him back, and he motioned for her to join him. They left the campfire and walked in silence for several minutes. A small path cut through a wooded area on its way toward the travel route, and here Morgalla paused.

“Got a story to tell you,” the dwarf began, keeping her eyes averted. “I come from the Earthfast Mountains, far to the east o’ here. Since my great-grandsire’s time, orc wars have whittled my clan down to so much kindling. My mother was Thendara Spearsinger, a captain in the hearth guard and as fierce a fighter as ever you’d see. Soon as I was old enough to stand up on my own, she put a staff in my hand and teached me to use it. My clan is Chistlesmith, an’ I learnt the clan trade of carving wood into useful stuff. That was my life: I fought an’ I carved, like folks expected, but in me was a wantin’ for more. Had me a taste for adventure, and for the learning of new tales and songs. Dwarves like these things well, but with troubles like ours, there wasn’t much daylight to spare to ’em.

“Times was grim, but of a night folks gathered in the great clan hall for song and stories. I was knowed throughout Earthfast for my singing and stories—and my dancing.” The dwarf cast a sidelong glance at Danilo as if daring him to smirk. The Harper nodded gravely, and she took a deep breath to continue.

“You may know that Princess Alusair—King Azoun’s girl—tarried in the Earthfast, fighting orcs and just generally hiding out She could spin a good tale, and after the war with the horselords, I took me to Cormyr to see with my own eyes the wonders of her father’s kingdom. My craft apprenticeship was almost up, you see, and my fifty-year celebration right around the bend. When that passes, I gotta choose me a mate and set up my own hearth. My time for music and adventure was running short. So I thought to go to the cities of Cormyr, and there make me a name big enough to earn me a place alongside a bard who could learn me what I couldn’t get in Earthfast.

“Full of myself, I was,” Morgalla said with a grim smile, “and sure that all o’ Cormyr would soon know my name. Didn’t work out that way. Tall people can’t picture a dwarf doing aught but swingin’ a hammer or a weapon. Decided I was funny, they did, without takin’ time to listen and watch.”

The dwarf shrugged away the sting of the memory. “Humans got no patience. Tall folk won’t sit still for a story, but they can look at a picture well enough. I took to drawin’, and learnt I could hide a whole lot of words and ideas in one picture. I carved ’em on blocks of wood, stamping out enough copies to make folks mad enough to spit.” Morgalla chuckled, and the music she’d long denied echoed in her low-pitched laughter.

“I’ve wondered why you were so hesitant to sing,” Danilo said. “You are a gifted musician, Morgalla, as all of Cormyr would have realized in time. Even with your artwork you’ve risen above your detractors. Your work is nothing short of inspired.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But that ain’t the point. I lost faith in myself. I fergot who I was, and what I was made to do.”

The dwarf reached high and slapped Danilo on the back. “We who mine the earth have a saying: If someone’s walked a tunnel, and he tells you where it ends up, you already been to the end without taking a single step, so you might as well save yerself the time and trouble of walking it yerself.”

“Ouch! No offense, my dear, but I’ve heard snappier sayings.”

Morgalla shrugged. “As long as you get the point Yer a damn fine bard, and you’d do yerself a favor to keep that in mind.” She turned and sauntered back to the cheery comfort of the fire.

Danilo watched her go, wishing that he could find it in his heart to take the dwarf’s advice. However highly Morgalla might regard him, the fact remained that he’d taken a role that was beyond him, and the demands were greater than his ability to meet them. Unfortunately, he was as short on time was as he was talent, so with a deep sigh he turned his attention to the task ahead.

He found the lyre beside the elven hermit, who had been overcome by his wild dancing and had fallen asleep in the long grass that ringed the pool. Danilo gazed down at the mad elf for a long moment, noting the tear that slipped down the ravaged face. He wondered what sort of dreams tormented the hermit.

The Harper quickly stooped and picked up the lyre of changing. With a word, he transformed it into the driftwood-colored lap harp. He made his way into the wood, seeking a quiet place to prepare and reflect Not far from the camp, he found a small natural clearing in the shadow of a giant oak. Seating himself on the ground, he began to play a lilting dance tune on the harp.

Twilight had deepened into night, but Danilo needed no light beyond that provided by the full moon and the flickering courtship of the fireflies. He had already committed the words of the spellsong to memory. It had long been his gift to retain what he read and heard, and his bardic tutors had worked to foster and strengthen this ability. The music came quickly, too, and after several passes through the melody he joined the harp in a duet. His strong, clear tenor rang out, projecting much more assurance than he actually felt.

If there was magic in the ancient music and the arcane riddles, Danilo couldn’t sense it. Perhaps Wyn had been right perhaps elfsong magic rightly belonged only to the elves. Magic seemed to flow from and through them without effort or artifice. Humans used the weave of magic that surrounds all things, Khelben had once explained, but elves were part of the weave.