Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

Dropping down onto all fours, Grimnosh made his way through the labyrinth of caves and passages that led out of his lair. He emerged into the forest clearing where this misadventure had begun, exactly half a year ago, on the shortest day of winter. It seemed fitting that he would end it today on the summer solstice. His enormous green wings beat the air, and the dragon rose steadily into the sky.

With grim determination, the dragon set course for Waterdeep. Dragonflight was faster than lesser creatures could imagine, and his mighty wings and magic would bring him to the city before the day—the longest of the year—came to a close.

Midsummer morning dawned bright and clear over Waterdeep, and the tournament games began as scheduled. To the hundreds of people gathered to watch the meets, it seemed as if the hand of Beshaba, the goddess of bad luck, was over the Field of Triumph.

The grassy plain had been turned into a marshland by the previous night’s rain, and before long the field had become a muddy, slippery mess. Many fighters and several mounts fell, and some of accidents were serious. The magefair contests, always a favorite with the crowd, were if possible even more dispirited than the games. Many of the city’s most powerful mages were at Blackstaff Tower, trying to remove the charm spell that held the archmage. Rumors about what had happened to Khelben Arunsun were whispered throughout the city. It was widely believed that he had fallen due to his own miscast spell, and fear was a more common response to this news than sympathy.

When Danilo heard of his uncle’s accident, he went directly to Blackstaff Tower. He couldn’t get near the tower for all the people around it, and when he tried to teleport in, he realized that his magic ring had once again been stolen.

“Dan.”

Laeral’s musical voice broke into his colorful spate of self-recriminations. He spun to find the mage standing behind him, her lovely face worn with worry and lack of sleep. She took his arm and drew him away from the crowd. “Khelben is held in some sort of charm spell. I believe it is part of the Morninglark’s elfsong spell. You’ve got to find the harp, Dan.”

The Harper was startled by the pleading note in the powerful wizard’s voice. Quickly covering his own distress, he took her hand and bowed low over it. “I never could refuse a beautiful woman anything. I also have a celebrated imagination and season tickets for two to Mother Tathlorn’s festhall. Please bear all those things in mind next time you ask something of me.”

A dimple flashed briefly on the woman’s face. “By Mystra, how you remind me of your uncle! He was very like you when he was younger.”

Danilo recoiled and dropped her hand. “I’ll find the damn harp,” he said in an aggrieved voice. “There’s no need to insult me.” He stalked away, and was gratified to hear the mage’s laughter follow him.

Danilo met Wyn and Morgalla at the gate to the Field of Triumph, and they split between them the task of searching the huge arena for any who might fit the description of their bardic foe.

As they searched, Danilo kept an anxious eye on the field. By highsun, Caladorn had yet to show up. Danilo was surprised and more than a little worried. Perhaps his friend had taken his warning to heart and confronted Lady Thione. The Harper made inquiries of the fighters and stable hands, but no one seemed to know where the swordmaster had gone. First Vartain had disappeared, and now Caladorn!

The afternoon was nearing its close when Danilo finally caught a glimpse of Vartain, several stands away and very close to the raised dais used for announcements and awards.

“What could that blasted riddlemaster be up to?” he murmured aloud.

“I’ve no idea, but you can rest assured he’ll suffer for it,” announced a familiar voice behind him.

Danilo turned to face Elaith Craulnober. “No harp, I see. It would appear you’ve done no better than I have.”

The elf pretended to wince. “What a concept! I shall remember those words, and use them whenever I need to express utter and abject failure.”

“Now then, there’s no need to take that tone. Save your venom for our mystery bard.”

“I assure you, I’ve plenty to spare.”

The Harper shrugged. “Much as I’d like to exchange pleasantries with you, I’ve got to get that scroll from Vartain.”

Before Danilo could move away, Elaith’s hand closed on his arm like a vise, and the elf nodded toward the dais. “The time for that has passed. You might as well stay for the festivities.”

Lord Piergeiron walked to the center of the platform, raising his hands for attention. Two mages stepped forward, casting the spells that would send the First Lord’s voice throughout the arena. The crowd fell silent, for no other individual in Waterdeep could command their attention as could Piergeiron. The First Lord was not given to oratory, but he had a simple direct way about him to which people responded.

“I declare that the tournament games are over, and that the Midsummer festivities are at an end. We will begin Shieldmeet with the traditional affirmation of the Lords of Waterdeep.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Elaith murmured, gazing intently into the clouds.

Danilo followed the elf’s gaze. “Don’t tell me: it’s an asperii.”

“I’m afraid so. With Lady Thione out of the way, the sorceress will no doubt try to depose Khelben herself.”

“The sorceress has the power to influence crowds through song,” Danilo murmured, remembering the riddle spell. “Let’s get down there.” He began to elbow his way through the crowd.

Elaith followed him, but he looked doubtful. “What do you propose to do?”

“Don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”

The asperii swooped down over the arena, drawing gasps of wonder from the crowd and diverting all attention from Piergeiron. The noble wind steeds were rare and considered a blessing from the gods. No one thought of attacking the horse and its rider any more than they would have fired upon a unicorn that suddenly appeared in their midst Even on the dais, the city dignitaries fell back to give the magical horse room to land.

The white horse landed lightly on the dais. Its rider dismounted and took her harp from its fastenings.

“With your leave, Lord Piergeiron,” she said in a clear voice that carried to the farthest corner of the arena, “by law and by custom, until sunset the day is to be given to contests, festivity, and song. Shieldmeet does not begin until that time, and any contracts and agreements made before that time do not bear the force of law.”

“That is true, lady bard,” Piergeiron responded, and bowed to the half-elven woman. “We await your song.”

“We’ve got to stop that song!” Danilo exclaimed, pushing aside a pair of rough looking half-orcs. One of the thugs bared his tusks in a scowl, then quickly subsided when he caught sight of the silver-haired elf at the human’s side.

“I challenge the bard!” demanded a resonant bass voice.

The afternoon sun glinted off Vartain’s bald pate as the riddlemaster pushed his way toward the platform. He spoke to the guards and was allowed to come forward.

“I challenge the mage and riddlemaster Iriador Wintermist of Sespech, who is currently known as Garnet the bard, to a challenge of riddles.”

“That orc-sired buzzard!” Elaith muttered as he and Danilo pushed forward. “What in the Nine Hells is he doing?”

“Don’t complain. He’s stopping the song,” Danilo retorted.

While the two made their way toward the stage, Vartain announced his terms: he would put forth a riddle, and if Garnet failed to guess it she would forfeit her harp. After a moment’s hesitation, the bard agreed.