Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

“Honor,” Danilo repeated pointedly. “Consider the nature of your quest. Can your daughter’s honor be won through dishonor?”

The elf recoiled, glaring at the Harper with naked hatred. He snapped his blades into their scabbards and pulled the magic knife from its wrist sheath. Slowly, he raised his arm for a killing throw.

Wyn wrapped a restraining arm around Morgalla’s shoulders, and for a long moment all four stood frozen in tense indecision.

Elaith flung the blade at Danilo. It hit the street at the Harper’s feet, embedding itself in the narrow crack between two large pieces of marble. The magic knife quivered there for the span of five heartbeats, then it disappeared.

“Take the accursed harp, then, and cast the spell—if you can.” The elf stalked to the edge of the temple courtyard and folded his arms.

On a gusty sigh of relief, Morgalla released the breath she’d been holding, and Wyn’s lips began to move in prayer to his elven gods.

The Harper sheathed his sword and walked slowly up the stairs to the ancient harp. He sat down on the step and tentatively stroked the strings. With a quick intake of breath he snatched away his hand, unprepared for the shock of power that had coursed through the silent strings at his touch.

“Get on with it!” Elaith demanded.

The memory of Khelben’s stern face filled Danilo’s mind, and the young bard immediately took the harp in his arms. Whatever became of him through the casting of this spell, Dan resolved to do whatever he could for his uncle and his mentor.

Danilo rested the Morninglark harp against his shoulder. Quickly he tried the strings, learning their arrangement and ensuring that all were in tune. One misplayed note, one out-of-tune string, and the powerful spell could fail. If that were to happen, the patriarch Evindal Duirsar might find the temple burdened with yet another mad ward.

“You can do it,” Morgalla said softly.

He gave his dwarven friend a reassuring nod, and raised his hands to the strings. The lilting dance melody filled the courtyard. He played it through to the end, then began to sing the riddle-filled spell in harmony with the harp’s melody. Once again, Danilo felt the full power of the music course through him, as it had in the High Forest.

From the corner of his eye, the Harper saw a flash of silver in the alley. Six men, clad in the light-eating black garments favored by the southern assassins, burst into the temple courtyard. Each man wielded a long, curved scimitar.

“Keep singing. We got ’em,” Morgalla assured him. She tossed aside her spear and pulled her axe. Wyn, too, drew his long sword. The two took a stand at the foot of the stairs, determined that none would get past them.

Danilo’s friends fought hard, but they were badly outnumbered, and the assassins were skilled fighters. Morgalla fought with an abandon that was at once grim and gleeful, but even the fierce dwarf was not equal to the assassins. Over to the side of the courtyard, Elaith stood with his arms crossed, watching the fight with apparent amusement

“You could help out, you long-eared, orc-souled cur!” Morgalla shouted at him. “Yer still partners ‘til the spell is done!”

Her words struck home, and indecision shimmered over the elf’s face. Elaith’s chest rose and fell with a resigned sigh, and he drew his magic knife. A flick of the wrist, and the assassin battling Wyn fell to the ground clutching his chest. The moon elf then waded into the thickest part of the battle, his blades flashing in streaks of silver and streams of red.

Danilo sang on, and the spell coursed through him, stretching his mind and his skills to encompass the power of the elfsong. When the final notes of the spell rang over the courtyard, he felt the sorcery dissolve suddenly, pulling back in upon itself and sucking magic after it like a vortex. He collapsed, gasping from a force only he could feel.

The visible results of his spell were equally dramatic. The unnatural clouds simply disappeared, and the skies cleared to an even, placid shade of silver. The hail and rain stopped immediately. Most startling was this: the Morninglark harp disappeared from his hands. He rose, looking at his empty hands in disbelief.

Morgalla dispatched the final assassin, then flung herself at Danilo, wrapping her arms around his waist in a bone-crushing hug. “I knowed you could do it, bard!” she crowed, and her blood-streaked face was wreathed in a broad grin.

Danilo returned her embrace, looking over her head at Wyn. “The harp itself was a component of the spell! Did you know that the harp would vanish?”

“I had an idea that it might. Your success was worth the sacrifice,” Wyn said quietly.

“Doubt the elf thinks so,” Morgalla observed, pulling away from Danilo and pointing toward Elaith.

With an oath, Danilo sprinted across the courtyard. Elaith stood over the bodies of the four assassins he had downed, his face set in a grimace and one hand clasped to his shoulder. With a quick jerk, the elf pulled a small knife from the muscle of his upper arm. The Harper reached Elaith’s side just in time to catch him as he collapsed.

Dan called for Wyn, and together they lifted the elf and began to carry him up the long flight of stairs to the temple. Morgalla picked up the knife and sniffed it. “Poison o’ some sort,” she said. “Better bring it along, so’s the priests can figger out what best to do.” She followed the men up toward the temple.

“Lord Thann,” the elf said in a faint voice.

“Don’t talk,” Wyn advised him. “Stay as still as possible to slow the action of the poison.”

“It is important Listen well, Harper. In my bag is a key. It will admit you to my house on Selduth Street See to it that my estate is settled and the means to raise Azariah directed to the temple.” Elaith paused for a grim smile. “Solving that riddle spell will be good practice for unraveling my business affairs.”

A spasm of pain crossed the elf’s face, and beads of sweat began to collect on his upper lip. His amber eyes sought Danilo’s, and the fierce gaze reminded the Harper of a dying hawk. The elf would not submit to the poison, however, until his mind was at ease. “Swear to it! Swear that you will see that my daughter receives her inheritance.”

“There is no need for that,” Danilo said quietly. He nodded to the faint blue glow emanating from Elaith’s left side. The magic stone on the hilt of the moonblade was alight with inner fire. “You have accomplished that yourself.”

Elaith reached over and touched the moonblade with awe. A look of utter peace crossed his face, and at last his eyes closed as darkness claimed him.

“In death, he has regained his honor,” Wyn said, regarding the magic elven sword with wonder in his green eyes.

“He’s won a second chance,” the Harper corrected, noting that the elf still breathed. “How he chooses to use it remains to be seen.”

Beneath the most dramatic sunset in living memory, the people of Waterdeep ventured out, heading to the marketplace for the Twilight Meeting that marked the official beginning of Shieldmeet.

All the portable booths had been removed from the open-air market, leaving ample room for the thousands who gathered in the vast area. A raised platform stood in the center of the marketplace, and a faint bowl of light surrounded it, providing illumination and amplifying the voices of those who would speak. There were sixteen thrones on the platform, one for each of the Lords of Waterdeep.

This was a matter of much speculation among the crowds, for the fate of the Lords seemed in no way certain. Most of the conversation, however, involved the events at the Field of Triumph. Dragon attacks were hardly common events.