Elfsong

by Elaine Cunningham

The final stanza of the Masked Minstrel’s ballad took Khelben’s troubled thoughts and put them to music:

  “Like a milkweed pod whose seeds wander far

  On the breath of the wind, or the arms of the sea,

  Magic can’t be recalled once the gate is ajar,

  And the pod can’t be mended once all the seeds flee.

  So beware of all those who could open such doors

  And bring Hellgate Keep to our deepwater shores.”

  The tavern fell into deep, ominous silence. History and legend were full of tales that admonished vigilance against magic grown too proud and powerful, and the final line of the ballad contained a common watchword for disaster. All knew the story of Hellgate Keep, and the ambitious wizards who opened a door into the Abyss. Fiends, imps, and other fell denizens flooded into the light, destroying a kingdom and remaining even to this day, attacking travelers and waging occasional war on Silverymoon. The danger of powerful magic gone awry was real, the possibility soberingly close to home.

  “It’s true, I tell you,” Myrna insisted. This time, no one contradicted her.

  Durnan laid a hand on Khelben’s shoulder. “If I were you, old friend, I’d be sure to leave by the back door.”

  * * * * *

  Wyn Ashgrove continued singing the adventurers to safety until the causeway was far behind them and the first stars winked into light. Danilo was the first to break the awed silence.

  “That was remarkable, whatever it was. Whatever was it?”

  “Spellsong,” Elaith whispered at his elbow. For once, the moon elf’s silky composure seemed shaken, and he gazed at the minstrel with naked awe. “A rare elven magic that can charm any creature that draws breath. I see now why you dare to hunt dragons with an army of three! Few among the elves have such a gift, and never have I seen a feat to rival this one.”

  Danilo rode closer to Wyn and asked, “Can the art of spellsong magic be taught?”

  “As in any other sort of magic, a certain aptitude is required,” the elf replied. “Likewise, just as in all magic, spellsong is learned through practice and study.”

  Danilo nodded, taking this in. “So you’re saying that humans could learn it, too?”

  “No, he isn’t!” Elaith snapped, his head held at a haughty angle. He drew a deep breath as if to say more, but his offended expression froze, then disappeared behind an expressionless mask. The moon elf wheeled his horse aside and rode hard toward the banks of the river. He stopped at a level clearing and called for the others to set up camp.

  Strangely enough, Danilo understood Elaith’s response. The elven distrust of humans and the desire to keep their culture intact and separate had been trained into him. Elaith Craulnober was the last of an ancient noble family, born on Evermeet and raised as a member of the royal court Wyn’s magic reminded Elaith what he was, and also mocked him for what he was not. Danilo understood, but he firmly believed that he could learn the elfsong magic, with no loss to the elves.

  He turned to Wyn, who had been riding silently beside him. The gold elf slumped in his saddle, exhausted by the powerful spell he had cast. “I would like to learn more about such music,” Danilo said wistfully. “Would you be willing to teach me?”

  The minstrel did not answer for a long moment, so Danilo prodded. “I trust that you don’t harbor the same hostilities and beliefs as our friend,” he said, nodding toward Elaith, who was already directing the mercenaries at the work of building a circle of campfires to cook the evening meal and to ward off predators. The scene was one of busy cooperation. Morgalla worked beside Balindar, chips of firewood flying from her small axe.

  “The hostilities, no,” said Wyn quietly. “Please excuse me.”

  With these words, the elven minstrel slipped from his horse and walked toward the workers, calling out to Morgalla in a friendly tone. The dwarf paused in her labor and glanced up, suspicion etched on her broad features.

  Left alone, Danilo blinked with openmouthed astonishment. Wyn had been nothing but courteous since their first meeting, but the meaning of his actions was startlingly clear. Given the choice of teaching elven magic to a human, or suffering—indeed, seeking out!—the company of a dwarf he had hitherto avoided, the minstrel did not need long to consider.

  “Well, it’s nice to be back on familiar terrain,” Danilo said wryly to himself as he swung down from the saddle. “All that popularity, respect, and acclaim back in Waterdeep was starting to make me nervous.”

  Six

  By the time the evening meal sizzled on the fire, the dangers of the marshlands seemed far away, eclipsed, perhaps, by the enormity of the task that lay ahead. As fearsome as the amphibious pipers had been, dragons were the most powerful creatures in the land, and green dragons were both evil and unpredictable. Perhaps in defiance of the danger that awaited them, the members of Music and Mayhem seemed determined that the night before the confrontation would be a celebration.

  Fresh-caught fish sizzled on the fire, seasoned with herbs from Danilo’s magic bag—“Never travel without certain amenities,” he’d advised Yando, the group’s cook—and the truffles that Vartain had located under a stand of young oaks had been added to the rice steaming in a travel kettle. As the travelers ate, Wyn sang songs he had gathered from years of travels among the Northmen, the Ffolk of the Moonshaes, and from a dozen lands of Faerun.

  Morgalla sat on a log placed a few feet from the fire, munching trail bread and fish as she listened to Wyn sing. Indeed, all seemed to be drawn by the elf’s songs. As Danilo watched the circle of mercenaries, a suspicion entered his mind. Since Wyn was capable of charming the froglike monsters, what effect might his music have on people? Could the power of the elf’s music bend them all to his will?

  Wiping his fingers on a handkerchief, Danilo withdrew to the shadows beyond the circle of small fires that ringed the encampment. As much as he disliked his suspicions, he had to be sure that Wyn’s magical ability was not endangering his mission. He began to cast a cantrip, a simple spell that would detect the use of magic.

  Wyn stopped playing, and his keen night vision pierced the shadows that hid the mage. “The instrument is magical, the song is not,” he said evenly. The elf rose and held out the silvery instrument “Come. Try it yourself. This is a lyre of changing, and upon command it will take the form of any other instrument of its size, or smaller. But please, not bagpipes,” he said with a tiny smile.

  “That goes without saying,” Danilo agreed as he came back over to the circle. He took the lyre with interest; he had heard of such instruments but had never handled one. “A rebec, please,” he said, and the lyre immediately became a long, pear-shaped instrument that vaguely resembled a lute, but was played like a fiddle with a horsehair bow. Danilo spoke again, and the rebec became the most unusual lap harp he had ever seen. The instrument was the pale color of driftwood, and the wood had been intricately carved with tiny seascapes, complete with ships, mermaids, and wheeling gulls. Impressed, Danilo handed back the magic instrument

  “I am especially fond of the harp’s music, but I cannot play,” Wyn said wistfully, pressing the harp back into Danilo’s hands. “Would you do the honors?”

  “By all means,” Elaith put in smoothly, his lips curved in an urbane smile. “A small task, for one who claims to be a Harper and aspires to confrontations with legendary dragons.”

  “Speaking o’ legends, elf, I heared yer name a few times,” Morgalla observed pleasantly. She jabbed at a bit of fish with a wicked-looking hunting knife. “ ’Cept yer always called a snake in the tales. Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “Serpent,” Vartain corrected. “Named for his grace in battle and speed of strike.”

  “If’n it slithers, it’s all the same to me,” the dwarf said with a shrug.

  “In answer to your question, Wyn,” Danilo put in hastily, “the harp was my first instrument, although it’s been years since I last played. My first teacher was a bard trained in the style of the MacFuirmidh school. He was ada
mant that the old songs had to be sung to the original instrument of composition.”

  Danilo tried the strings and found that the memory of the music was still in his fingers. After a moment’s thought, he began the introduction to a dwarven ballad, an old song taught to him by a bard visiting from Utrumm’s Conservatory in Silverymoon. It was a sad but dignified lament for a people and a way of life that was slowly fading from the land.

  To Danilo’s surprise, Wyn Ashgrove began to sing the dwarven song with genuine feeling. After a moment, Morgalla also joined in, singing harmony in a rich alto. The deep tones of the dwarf’s voice encompassed about the same range as Wyn’s soaring countertenor, and the two voices blended as well as any duo Danilo had ever heard. As he played, the Harper listened with awe to the singers. In the elf’s silvery tones was the beauty of the sea and stars, while the rich, feminine strength of Morgalla’s voice seemed to spring from the earth and the stone: opposites, perhaps, but together forming a whole.

  The last notes of the harp faded away, leaving an invisible bond between the two singers that neither had considered. Their gazes clung for a moment, then slid away, a little self-conscious. Morgalla took a deep breath and raised her eyes to Danilo. Her expression was defiant, quickly becoming bewildered as the circle broke into applause.

  “Beauty, brawn, and talent!” Balindar whooped, raising his tin traveling cup to the dwarf in a salute.

  “Morgalla, my dear, your voice is remarkable,” Danilo told her. She shrugged and looked away.

  Wyn reclaimed his instrument from the Harper and held it out to the dwarf. “Do you play as well as sing?”

  She snorted and held out her stubby-fingered hands for inspection. “With these?”

  “There are instruments—even stringed instruments—that would suit you well,” Wyn told her. “Have you never heard of a hammered dulcimer?”

  “Hammers, you say?” The dwarf looked interested despite herself.

  The elf smiled faintly. “More like spoons than hammers, and wielded with more delicacy than one would employ at a forge, but the idea is the same. Let me show you.”

  A word from the elf changed the lap harp into a small wooden box, wider at one end than the other and crisscrossed with strings. Wyn took two small beaters and began to tap the strings, showing Morgalla how the notes were arranged and then playing a snatch of the melody that they had just shared.

  “Now you,” Wyn said, and handed her the beaters.

  The dwarf began to play, hesitantly at first but with growing delight as she picked out one tune after another. The instrument was uniquely suited to her, combining the dwarven love of percussion instruments with Morgalla’s craving for melody. The tiny beaters fit in her hands as if made to order.

  Danilo listened to Morgalla’s music with pleasure and more than a little guilt. The dwarf had come to him wanting to learn more of bardcraft, and he’d done little to fulfill her expectations or to earn her loyalty. Granted, he’d invited her to sing a couple of times, but he was quick to accept her refusal and too preoccupied to wonder what might be behind her hesitation. Wyn Ashgrove had proven to be more perceptive and thoughtful, and Danilo was grateful to the gold elf.

  Dan leaned closer to Wyn and murmured, “That was kindly done. You seem to have made a conquest.”

  The elf let the teasing remark pass. “Morgalla’s love of music was plain to see; her talent you can judge for yourself. She needed but the means and a little encouragement. As for the others”—Wyn nodded toward the mercenaries—“this music will help keep their minds from the dangers ahead.”

  Morgalla finally stopped, heaving a sigh of deep satisfaction. So absorbed in the music had she been that she’d forgotten about the others, and at the applause she looked up, flushed and flustered.

  “Take a bow,” Danilo advised her, smiling. “Surely one with your gifts knows how to acknowledge an appreciative audience.”

  “It’s been awhile,” the dwarf said wryly. “You play, bard.”

  Sensing it best not to push her, Danilo got out his lute and regaled the adventurers with a ribald tale about a priestess of Sune—the goddess of love and beauty—who aspired to become the most infamous and popular hostess in Faerun. The priestess was well satisfied with her success until a visiting ranger, unimpressed by her wild party, advised her to seek out the satyrs and take a few lessons on debauchery. She did so on a Midsummer night, and the rest of the song told about the competition of priestess and satyrs to outdo each other in merriment. It was, without doubt, the most obscene song in Dan’s considerable repertoire of off-color tales.

  After the laughter and bawdy comments had died away, Danilo played a very different ballad. This was a historical tale about a long-ago battle between the Harpers and a drow elf queen who enslaved humans to work her mines. He sang the old song as it had been passed down in to him in strict bardic tradition, and doing so was an act of defiance against the power that had enspelled the bards and altered their record of the past Wyn nodded slowly, understanding the Harper’s gesture and approving.

  When the tale was told, Danilo put aside the lute and motioned for Vartain, who sat just beyond the circle of firelight, gnawing at a bit of dried meat “Your turn, riddlemaster. Give us a story.”

  Vartain wiped his fingers on his tunic and came into the circle. His bald pate reflected the firelight like some small, bronze moon, and the play of light and shadows across his face exaggerated the gaunt angles and prominent features. Morgalla nudged Danilo and handed him a scrap of paper. Sometime during the trip, she’d sketched Vartain as a potbellied vulture. Danilo swallowed a chuckle.

  “There is an ancient tale from my homeland,” Vartain began in a rich, carefully modulated bass voice, “about a wealthy man who was blessed with two sons. As do we all, the man grew old, and he knew his time was short. He called his sons to him, saying he could not decide which of them would be his heir. This they would determine by a race. The sons were to set forth the next morning for Kaddisht, a town some twenty miles away. The son whose camel was the last to arrive would be accounted his father’s heir.

  “When the sun arose, it found the two men ready for the race, dressed for travel and mounted upon their best camels. Their father gave them his blessing and wished them well, and the race was on. Each son employed every method he could think of to remain behind the other, while the beasts grew restless and the sun sank low behind the dessert. By the end of the day, the two men had gone less than a hundred paces!

  “Deeply troubled, the two brothers took shelter at an inn. There they shared wine and discussed their troubles. Each man was wealthy by his own labors, and each had business affairs and families to tend. The task their father had given them had no clear end in sight In pursuing their inheritance, the men were in very real danger of perishing in the desert that lay between the inn and the town of Kaddisht The men told the innkeeper their dilemma. After a moment’s thought, the innkeeper gave them two words of advice.

  “The next morning the brothers again set forth for Kaddisht, but this time they rode as fast as they could. Tell me, then, what advice did the innkeeper give them?”

  There was a long silence around the campfire as the companions thought this over. One after another, they shrugged their defeat.

  “The two words where these: Change camels,” Vartain said. “The father specified that the son whose camel arrived last would become heir. Therefore, whoever won the race would now win the fortune as well.”

  “Good tale,” Mange admitted. The scrawny mercenary took a swig from a tin flask and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Me, I’ve always liked riddles. Second best way to pass the time of a cold winter night!”

  “Riddles are far more than that,” Vartain countered severely. “In ancient times, battles were fought through riddle challenges, and heirs to kingdoms selected. Magic can be cast through the giving or the solving of riddles.” His cleared his throat, and continued in a pedantic tone. “There are many types of riddl
es, conundrums, puzzles, and mysteries. All of these challenge the mind, develop the character, and train one to observe keenly and to think with clarity and precision.”

  “Here’s a good one,” Mange continued as if Vartain had not spoken at all. “How many halflings can a troll eat on an empty stomach?” He punctuated the question with a resounding belch.

  Several guesses ensued, and Mange shook his head at each. Finally he turned to Vartain with a smug grin. “You wanna take a stab, riddlemaster?”

  Vartain lifted his beaky nose. “Base jests have nothing to do with a riddlemaster’s art”

  “One!” Mange answered gleefully. “A troll can eat one halfling on an empty stomach. After the first, his stomach ain’t empty!”

  “I got a good one!” put in Orcsarmor, a thin archer named for the rusty hue of his graying whiskers. “Whaddaya call a contest between two wizards?”

  “That one, I know,” Danilo said. “A spelling bee.”

  Every member of the circle groaned, and several of the men pelted the would-be riddler with travel biscuits. Orcsarmor ducked the good-natured missiles and grinned.

  Vartain looked far less happy. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire,” he said in a stony voice. The riddlemaster stalked over to his bedroll and lay down, his back to the revelers.

  “Retire, eh? He don’t take competition real well,” Morgalla quipped. The mercenaries guffawed, all too happy to share a laugh at the riddlemaster’s expense.

  “Time for a song,” Danilo said to Wyn, nodding toward Vartain’s rigid back. As intelligent as the riddlemaster was, he seemed to have no idea how he was perceived by others. This, Danilo mused, was definitely not the time to enlighten him. Perhaps he would speak to Vartain about it someday, but the riddlemaster needed all his confidence and concentration focused for the challenge ahead.

  So the minstrel took his lyre and sang an air about the elven homeland, an island of beauty and magic and peace. During the first part of the song, Elaith leaned against a tree at the edge of the encampment, with practiced ease twirling a small jeweled knife through and around his fingers. As Wyn sang on, the moon elf’s angular face softened, taking on an almost wistful expression. At the song’s end, Elaith came into the circle of firelight.