Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

Despite his surprise, the Harper’s manners brought him to his feet “Humans are permitted?”

“Under certain circumstances, yes. You are a friend of the People, and you strive to reclaim an elven artifact from one who wields it with dishonor. We must aid you in this quest Also, you have remanded an elven ward to our care. It is only fitting that you meet another ward of the temple, so that you may know how we will honor the trust you have placed in us.” The patriarch led the way to the front door.

“The rain is still coming down in sheets,” Danilo observed.

“Yes,” the elf agreed, and then strode out into the storm.

The Harper followed. In time they came to a sweeping stairway of white marble, leading to a building complex defined by curving lines and surrounded by flowering plants. They hurried up the steps and into the corridor, where an elven servant took their cloaks. Evindal took Danilo down a corridor lined with doors. He tapped gently on one and cracked it open for a peek.

“Come in quietly,” the elf said, disappearing into the room.

Curious, Danilo followed. The room was softly lit by several floating, glowing balls of white light, and was furnished with comfortable chairs, a low table and a tiny stool, and a small bed. No expense had been spared in the room, for the furnishings were fine and costly, and wondrous toys were scattered about. On a velvet cushion near the bed curled a yellow kitten, and in the corner sat a white-robed elven woman. She smiled at Danilo and pointed toward the bed.

The Harper took a step closer and peered down. Sleeping there was an elven toddler, perhaps the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Tousled silvery curls clustered about her face, and a tiny golden thumb nestled in her mouth. The points of her little elven ears were still soft, folding over slightly at the tips. Her features were tiny and delicate, and her skin in the soft light appeared both rosy and golden.

“Who is she?” Danilo whispered.

“May I present the Lady Azariah Craulnober,” Evindal said softly.

Danilo looked up sharply. “Elaith’s daughter?”

“That is so. Last spring, his elven mistress bore him a child. It was a most unexpected pregnancy, troubled from the first. The mother died at childbirth, leaving our mutual friend with an heir. As time went on, it became important to him that his daughter should receive her birthright, and he came to me asking what might be done to restore magic to his moonblade. I bid him recover an artifact and bring it to the temple. He carries the sword now by elven law and tradition. I will not burden you with the particulars.”

“I see,” Danilo said slowly. He recalled Elaith’s stricken face when Wyn Ashgrove mentioned that the elven temple took in the ill and the outcast. Although it was hard to imagine this beautiful child as a social outcast, by Elaith’s actions she was without honor or heritage. Suddenly the elf’s actions made perfect sense to the Harper. He wondered if the true purpose of the quest was as clear to Elaith.

“I suppose he thinks that the artifact is to be rendered in payment, as one would pay a wizard or cleric for a powerful spell,” Danilo said.

Evindal smiled sadly. “You know him well. To find an artifact is a difficult task, and such a quest inevitably changes all who undertake it. It was my hope that as Elaith Craulnober sought the elven harp, he would come to remember who he is. From all you have told me, that seems unlikely.”

They quietly left the elfling’s room. “You should get some rest, my friend,” the patriarch told him. “There is little more you can do this night. You are welcome to stay here in the temple complex for the night.”

The elf smiled suddenly. “It suddenly occurred to me that it has been some time since the temple was graced by the presence of a spellsinger.”

“Life is full of these little ironies,” Danilo murmured.

Evindal’s soft chuckle echoed down the silent halls.

Later that night, a chill easterly wind drove the storm out to sea, and the captive Waterdhavians ventured out of their shelters. The quiet that the storm left behind felt unnatural, and to Caladorn’s eyes and ears the city seemed as dispirited and demoralized as his own fighters.

As he made his way home through the puddles and the swirling mist, Caladorn’s thoughts turned to his seafaring cronies, and he wondered how their ships would fare in the approaching storm. He almost envied them a peril as straightforward as Umberlee’s wrath, for at least the goddess of sea and storm was a force that could be understood and appeased. The threats to his beloved Waterdeep, and to his own peace of mind, were far more complex.

To his surprise, Lucia met him at the door of his townhouse. She greeted him with a warm embrace and a goblet of his favorite wine.

“Where is Antony?” Caladorn asked, looked over her dark head toward the kitchens. The lower level of the townhouse was unusually chill and unwelcoming, not at all what he had come to expect from his competent manservant. Caladorn was tired and hungry and disgruntled with life; in short, he was in no mood to endure domestic incompetence.

“Oh, I gave him the night off,” the noblewoman said airily. “Tonight I will see to all your wants personally.” After giving him another kiss, she drifted off toward the kitchen to see to dinner.

As Caladorn watched her go, Danilo Thann’s accusations rang in his head. He did not want to believe this of Lucia—he did not believe!—but neither could he dismiss the notion entirely. It occurred to him, suddenly, that there were no cooking odors emanating from the kitchen. The lower hall was usually redolent with the scent of roasts, steaming vegetables, and fresh bread.

Caladorn looked down at the goblet in his hand. After a moment of indecision, he poured the wine into a potted plant.

Following a decent interval in the cold darkness of the kitchen, Lucia returned to the front hall to find Caladorn lying on the floor, facedown. Quickly she picked up the goblet It had been drained. Antony had died from half the dose, and the twisted, tormented posture in which her lover lay suggested that he had suffered from the corrosive acid as painfully as had his manservant. Regrettable, but it could not be helped. This was the quickest acting of all Diloontier’s poisons, and Lucia was painfully short of time.

With quick, expert movements she patted Caladorn down for his keys. When she found the small ring of keys, she turned and ran lightly up two flights of stairs. After a few moments, she hurried back down to the front hall, a large square box in her arms and a dark, hooded traveling coat obscuring her face and form. Thus garbed, Lucia Thione left her lover’s home for the last time without a backward glance.

So intent was she on her purpose that she did not notice the quickly withering plant beside the body of her lover.

Silence filled the hall for a long moment. When he was certain that Lucia was gone, Caladorn rose to his feet The pain in his heart and the bleak emptiness in his soul dimmed the memory of any battle wound he’d ever received.

What, then, was he to do? His heart and his hopes were not the only casualties of Lucia’s treachery. Should he treat her like a wily trout, and give her enough line to maneuver, so that she would give proof to her evil intentions? Or should he bring her to instant and immediate justice? As a spy, she would no doubt be tried and executed. Caladorn doubted he had the strength to bring his lady to her death regardless of what she had tried to do to him, or her reasons for doing it.

With a ragged sigh, Caladorn turned and mounted the stairs toward the third floor. If he was to uncover Lucia’s plot, he would have to know what object she considered worth the price of his life.