Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

Danilo pushed aside his doubts and threw himself into the music, marshaling the intense concentration he had learned in his years of magical studies.

Drawn by the sound of the young man’s voice, Wyn made his way into the woods. Earlier that evening he had taught the Harper some of the principles of elfsong, but one important lesson remained. Danilo had proven himself a worthy pupil, and Wyn had little doubt that the Harper could master and cast the difficult spell. At first the elf had doubted the possibility of explaining elfsong to someone who’d been trained to consider magic a laborious, arcane art, who dealt in chants and runes and elaborate gestures and ridiculous spell components. What he himself had forgotten was this: The magic was in the music itself, and in the heart of the musician. That is what Danilo must understand and remember.

And so Wyn reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth a tightly folded piece of paper, the sketch Morgalla had drawn of Danilo days earlier in Waterdeep. The archmage had entrusted it to Wyn, understanding that his nephew was not yet ready to see himself through the canny dwarf’s eyes.

Wyn drew near the giant oak. Danilo was utterly absorbed in his task, his gray eyes closed in concentration as he played and sang.

“Despite all that has happened, despite all the arguments you yourself have put forth, you do not believe that elfsong can be yours,” Wyn said softly, breaking into the song.

The Harper jumped and fell silent, startled by the unexpected interruption. Wyn handed him the sketch. “Perhaps you will accept Morgalla’s vision, if not your own.”

Danilo looked down at the paper. The dwarf usually relied on a few telling, exaggerated details to get her point across, but this drawing was a careful and realistic rendering. As Morgalla depicted him, he was dressed in an adventurer’s weathered and practical gear, but the tilt of his head somehow gave the impression that he was a lord traveling in disguise. There was a bit of humor lurking at the corners of his lips, but the eyes were serious, touched with sadness. He played a lute, but surrounding him was an aureole of tiny motes and stars that suggested magic as well as music. Most startling of all was the way Morgalla had managed to portray a man in command of his powers, at peace with his own contradictions. It was captioned only “The Bard.”

“The magic is in the music, and also in the heart of the bard. The lady dwarf got the instrument wrong,” Wyn said quietly as he pointed to the harp at Danilo’s side, “but I believe she’s right in all other particulars.”

Danilo said nothing, and after a moment the elf added, “The night grows late. You should try to get some rest, for we must leave for Waterdeep at sunrise.”

On the day of Midsummer Eve, Khelben Arunsun was up before the sun. The archmage paced the courtyard between Blackstaff Tower and the surrounding wall as he awaited his nephew’s return.

The day before, Danilo had reconstructed the scroll from memory and had left a copy at the tower. Khelben had studied the scroll well into the night, but finally it had been Laeral who recognized it as a variant of elven spellsong. She was one of the few humans welcome on Evermeet, and she was familiar with the ways of elves. Khelben had never paid much attention to spellsong magic, for there was no music in his hands, and far less in his voice. Laeral was not a musician, either, and neither of the wizards knew a spellsinger.

The task of casting the spell would of necessity fall to Danilo. Whether the lad was up to it, Khelben could not say. His own knowledge of music was insufficient to the challenges of the riddle, and he had no way of evaluating what Danilo and Wyn might be able to discern between them.

“Good morning, Uncle!”

The archmage spun. Danilo stood behind him, an insouciant smile on his face and a rather battered lute slung over his shoulder. With him were Wyn Ashgrove and Morgalla. Khelben noted absently that the dwarf had not taken well to magical travel: her face was set and pallid, and she gripped her staff with one white-knuckled hand and clung to the elf’s arm with the other.

“So you made it,” the archmage observed, hiding his relief behind a scowl of stern disapproval.

“As usual, you’ve got a firm grip on the obvious,” Danilo quipped lightly. “Bless you, Uncle, are those sweet rolls I smell?”

“Porridge,” Khelben said absently, heading toward the tower. “Well, come in, all of you.”

“With a welcome such as that before us?” Danilo sniffed. “I think not. Had I known that porridge was on the horizon, I would have teleported to Ackrieg’s Bakery, instead.”

“We can all discuss the spell while you eat,” Khelben said, taking no notice of the young man’s teasing.

Danilo elbowed the dwarf. “What would you say to a nice gobbet of roasted venison and a mug of ale for breakfast? There’s an inn near the tournament field that understands hospitality and serves a splendid morning feast. Raspberry pastries are a specialty, and the almond cakes are also very good.”

“Make it three mugs, and you got yerself a deal.”

“Done!”

Morgalla loosed her grip on Wyn’s arm, and she and Danilo headed toward the black granite wall. As inconspicuously as possible, the elven minstrel flexed his fingers to aid the return of feeling to his hand.

The archmage stared after the retreating Harper. “You’re not serious.”

“Actually, I am. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” Danilo tossed the words cheerfully over his shoulder. “Wyn can tell you all about elfsong, and why we need the Morninglark harp. Since we’ve got less than two days to find it, I’m off. Hot on the trail, as they say. Right after breakfast” So saying, the Harper dragged the dwarf through the invisible door, and they both disappeared into the city.

“What now?” Khelben muttered, shaking his head.

“The scroll claims that a lord would fall on the field of triumph. The young bard is doubtless headed to the city’s tournament field to seek clues that will lead him to the elven harp,” Wyn said softly.

The archmage met the elf’s steady, green-eyed gaze. “The young bard, eh? So Morgalla’s sketch came close to the truth?”

“If anything, it fell short of the mark.”

Khelben digested this news in silence. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, that’s settled, then.”

“Whatever path is given him to walk, your nephew does you credit,” Wyn said in a quiet tone. “You have trained him well; his memory is remarkable and his discipline impressive. I assume his command of magic is equally strong.”

“It had better be,” the archmage said darkly. “Wizard or no, there’s Nine Hells of a spell to be cast And now, what is this elfsong that my boy was talking about?”

The early morning sun sent slanting rays across the farmlands east of Waterdeep, making the scattered whitewashed buildings gleam like so many nesting doves. It was the day before Midsummer, and the fields and orchards should have been lush with fruit and jeweled in the deepest green of the year. From her perch on the asperii, high above the farmlands, Garnet could see that vegetation was sparse. Yet some crops grew, despite her spells and as if in testament to the stubborn resilience necessary to survival in the Northlands. A few farmers were headed toward Waterdeep, their carts laden with produce for sale in the markets there.

Garnet guided her wind steed toward the River Gate, the eastern entrance to Waterdeep’s trade district. They landed out of sight of the city-bound travelers and the wall sentries, then joined the other early morning arrivals on the road to the city. She felt more secure once the asperii was on firm ground. The magical horse was becoming increasingly skittish, and Garnet feared that the horse would soon go into open revolt This would result in the asperii’s death, for the creature was bound to Garnet for life. She did not wish to go through the trouble of obtaining and training another mount, for asperii were hard to come by. She brushed aside the niggling doubt that no other asperii would accept her as master.