Элейн Каннингем - Elfsong

When Khelben ushered his nephew into the reception chamber of Blackstaff Tower, a young male elf rose to greet them. “This is Wyn Ashgrove. Hell be traveling with you,” the archmage said by way of introduction.

Danilo struggled to conceal his dismay as he surveyed his new partner. Fully six inches shorter than the Harper and as slender as an aspen tree, the elf had the serious mien of a scholar. He also possessed in generous measure the beauty of the gold elf people, an elegance of form and feature unmatched by any other race. Slung over Wyn’s back was a delicate silver lyre, and the crystal flute that hung from his belt was closer to hand than his long sword. All told, the elf struck Danilo as a being better suited to charming the ladies with poetry and song than to the rigors of travel.

Wyn greeted Danilo politely, then, at Khelben’s request, he seated himself and sang a ballad about the dragon Grimnoshtadrano. Danilo remained standing, arms crossed, as he listened to the music with trained detachment He noted that the song was written well, but in the style of a time several centuries past The words of the ballad were compelling, a stirring call to action, and Danilo was drawn into the story despite himself. He began to see the reason for his uncle’s concern.

As soon as the ballad ended, Danilo got down to business. “How many Harpers have answered this challenge?”

“To the best of my knowledge, none,” Khelben responded.

“Really? That seems odd.”

“Apparently, this ballad is not widely sung. Wyn has long studied ballads by and about the Harpers, and he tells me that although most bards know this ballad, they are reluctant to sing it”

Danilo nodded slowly. “Very responsible of them. If this ballad is no real threat to the Harpers, why do you think that I should answer this summons?”

“You’re armed with something the other bards did not have: your memory,” the archmage said, motioning Danilo toward a chair. “It’s time you heard the rest of Wyn Ashgrove’s tale.”

The Harper settled down and listened as Wyn related the events of Silverymoon’s Spring Faire, and the strange spell upon the bards there.

When the elf had finished, Danilo massaged his aching temples and tried to sort through the tale. “So you’re saying that this ballad is newly composed, but the finest bards in the land believe it to be nearly as old as the dragon himself.”

“That’s correct,” Wyn said.

“I don’t see the point.”

The elf looked at him strangely. “A powerful mage has devised a way to lure Harpers to their deaths.”

“With very little success,” Dan pointed out.

“True. The spellcaster works against the Harpers in another, more subtle manner. As I understand Harper philosophy, your purpose is, in part, to help preserve a knowledge of the past. By changing the Harper ballads, the spellcaster is undermining the society’s work.”

Danilo thought that over. On the surface, the elf’s evaluation of the problem seemed accurate enough. But why was the dragon ballad so little sung? There seemed to be another motive at work, one Danilo could not quite grasp. Obviously Khelben thought this as well, for the archmage was not normally one to concern himself with music. Danilo tucked this thought away for future consideration and turned his attention to more immediate concerns.

“How are we to acquire this scroll?”

“According to the ballad,” Wyn replied in a didactic tone, as if they were discussing nothing more pressing than dry theory, “you must answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song. That is clear enough. When you have accomplished these tasks, you may demand from the dragon whatever treasure you wish. Obviously, you will ask for the scroll itself. Since it is mentioned in the ballad, and since the ballad first appeared when the bards were enspelled, it is reasonable to assume that the scroll was devised by the spellcaster we seek. If this is so, the archmage can use it to discern the spellcaster’s identity.”

Dan cast his gaze toward the ceiling, but he spoke patiently. “Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that after we answer the riddle the dragon will keep his word and hand over the scroll. Ignoring the unlikeliness of that possibility, ponder this: What happens if we guess wrong?”

“I imagine the beast will attack,” Wyn said, no concern at all in his voice.

“Yes, I imagine that, too,” Dan said with exaggerated patience. He turned to Khelben and said in a low tone, “Before I run screaming from this tower, perhaps I should meet that other bardic adventurer you spoke of? The fighter?”

“I left her in the kitchen,” Khelben said and sighed. “If she’s typical of her kind, she’s no doubt emptied the pantry cupboards and started in on my spell components.”

Danilo blinked. “Don’t tell me: our peerless fighter is a halfling?”

“No. She’s a dwarf.”

To Danilo, this new revelation was as great a surprise as any other of the evening’s oddities. Dwarf females were but rarely encountered away from clan and hearth, and those who did travel often let their beards grow so that they might pass as males. “A dwarven bard,” he mused, shaking his head. “What brings this most unusual person to us?”

Khelben stood and took a piece of rolled parchment from his belt He handed it to Danilo. “This is all I know. Come; I’ll introduce you.”

The archmage asked Wyn to wait for their return, then he opened the door leading into a chamber that served double duty for dining and giving audience. Danilo rose and followed the archmage, scanning the parchment as he went. It was a letter from the wizard Vangerdahast, court advisor to King Azoun of Cormyr.

“Vangerdahast says that he located a bard of sorts whose gifts, such as they are, remained unchanged by this mysterious spell.” Danilo sniffed. “Well, that’s a rousing endorsement if ever I heard one.”

He turned back to the parchment and read aloud. “ ‘A dwarven entertainer, known as Morgalla the Mirthful, she is a veteran of the Alliance War and a native of the Earthfast Mountains, where she met and befriended the Princess Alusair. The dwarf has been plying her trade in Cormyr for nearly three years. In King Azoun’s name, I request that you show his daughter’s friend all courtesy, and add the dwarf to your number for this most appropriate quest. Morgalla is, in my opinion, precisely what the Harpers require.’ ”

Danilo raised skeptical eyes to his uncle. “Isn’t it nice of Vangerdahast to be so helpful. At the risk of sounding petty, I have to say the good wizard’s motives strike me as being just a bit suspect.”

“For once we agree.” Khelben paused, his hand on the latch of the kitchen door. “I haven’t had much time to speak with the dwarf. Let’s see what my colleague has sent us.”

Khelben swung open the door. His kitchen was as unique as the rest of Blackstaff Tower. One side of the room was taken up by several shelves of rare potted herbs. These were bathed by a faint green light that came from no apparent source, and they filled the room with a woody, pungent aroma. Some of the cupboards held the usual array of dishes and pans, but a few doors were gates into far places. As a boy, Danilo had been especially fond of the cupboard that brought an everbearing pomegranate tree within easy reach, but he admitted that the door that led into a small ice cave was the more practical device. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on the dwarf seated behind the kitchen table.

Morgalla the Mirthful perched on a stool, swinging her small, booted feet and wielding a hunting knife as she intently carved the last of the meat from a roasted chicken. The well-picked bones on the serving platter before her attested to a typically dwarven appetite, as did the thick wedge missing from a wheel of cheese and the crumbled remains of a barley loaf.