The elf stood when Laeral entered the room. “How is the archmage?”
“He will live,” the beautiful wizard replied.
Elaith nodded, a look of profound relief on his face. He handed Laeral a large, square box. “You may consider this a gift, a wish for Lord Arunsun’s recovery.”
Puzzled, Laeral peered inside. Within the box was one of the magical helms worn by the Lords of Waterdeep.
“I recovered the helm from Lady Thione. Perhaps you would see that it is returned to its rightful owner.”
“Indeed we will,” the mage said. She affixed Elaith with a penetrating gaze. “Forgive me, but—”
“This seems to be out of character?” the elf finished with an amused smile. “Not at all, dear lady. My own business interests are best served by preserving the status quo in Waterdeep.”
“And Lady Thione?”
“She is in hiding, and under my protection,” Elaith said. “My men will help her escape from Waterdeep.” He smiled pleasantly. “Of course, I have not bothered to mention to her the destination. I’ve arranged to have her escorted back to Tethyr to face the locals.”
Laeral’s eyes flashed silver fire, and she nodded grim agreement with the justice that the elf’s treachery meted out. “Elaith Craulnober, under different circumstances I believe we could have become very good friends.”
* * * * *
High above the canopy of the High Forest, the sky faded to the pale silver that preceded dawn. It was still dark in the Endless Caverns, but the green dragon Grimnoshtadrano felt the coming of day. He eased himself up onto his haunches and flexed his wings experimentally. The stiffness caused by the explosion and the smoke had finally eased, and at last he would be able to fly again. Never would he forget the indignity of crawling back to his cavern after he awoke in the clearing. He was determined that someone would pay dearly for the insults dealt him.
Grimnosh inhaled deeply and blew a long blast of air into his cave. A satisfying stench filled the chamber as poisonous chlorine gas flowed from his fanged maw. For days, he had been unable to muster his breath weapon. Now, it was back and ready to bring to bear on the treacherous bard. The dragon threw back his head and let out a roar of satisfaction.
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 Pier
geiron. 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.
Morgalla fought her way over to Danilo’s side, with Wyn in her wake. “What’s that fool up to?” she demanded as they continued their struggle toward the dais.
“Saving face. We four will have to get the harp if Vartain fails, or if the bard does not honor the terms of the challenge.”
“What four?” Morgalla demanded. “That silver serpent o’ yers took off afore we got over to you.”
Danilo scanned the crowd. There was no sign of Elaith. At that moment, Vartain cleared his throat and gave the riddle challenge:
“King Khalzol’s kingdom is long gone.
Take five steps to the site of his grave:
The first means to think over,
The second is over your thoughts,
The third means one of something,
The last must be stronger than anything,
The whole reveals everything.
“Now tell me, why did King Khalzol’s subjects bury him in a copper coffin?”
“He’s daft to try that one agin!” Morgalla exploded.
“Wait a minute,” Danilo said, noting the thoughtful absorption on the sorceress’s face. She was doing precisely what Vartain had done: she was giving the complex riddle all the consideration that a traditional conundrum required. Sure enough, she gave the same intelligent and incorrect answer that Vartain had given the dragon.
Vartain smiled broadly, vastly increasing his resemblance to a buzzard. “The answer to the question, ‘Why was King Khalzol buried in a copper coffin?’ is far simpler that you would make it, and I regret that it has nothing to do with the site of his grave. They buried him because he was dead.”
Garnet snatched up the harp. She struck a single ringing note and flung a hand toward the sky. Instantly the clouds began to gather, and a familiar rumbling sounded over the arena. The people nearest the exits fled at once in search of cover.
Suddenly a vast, green form burst from the roiling purple clouds. With a roar, a full-grown green dragon swooped down upon the city. Pandemonium struck the arena People shrieked, shoving and pushing for the exits.
In the confusion that followed, Danilo caught sight of the rogue elf. Elaith was at the head of a band of rough-looking fighters. The mercenaries pushed toward the platform where the bard stood. Piergeiron’s personal guard moved forward to protect the First Lord. Within moments, a nasty gutter-fight melee surrounded the platform, obscuring the bard and her harp from view.
“Now this is a proper fight,” the dwarf announced with relish. She bared her spear and charged into the fray. Dan and Wyn exchanged a dismayed glance and then drew their swords, guarding the dwarf’s back as she plowed a path toward the center of the battle. Morgalla worked her way forward, yelling colorful dwarven insults as she clobbered a brawling tough with the blunt end of her spear.
Before they could reach the platform, the sorceress mounted her steed and urged it into the sky. With a roar of rage, the dragon bore down. The asperii darted to the side like a huge white hummingbird, barely evading the dragon’s lunge. The horse rose straight up into the air, away from the dragon, but into the midst of the gathering storm.
A streak of lightning flashed past the wind steed. The horse went into a panic-stricken dive, with the half-elf clinging to its neck. Hail began to pelt the frightened wind steed, and the horse’s whinny of fear and protest shrilled through the screams of the people and the regular, thumping whoosh of the dragon’s beating wings.
The asperii reared in midair, sending the sorceress and her harp falling toward the crowd. As she tumbled toward death, Garnet flailed helplessly in a futile attempt to regain the enchanted instrument.
With the precision of a bat snatching a flying insect from the air, Grimnosh swooped down and grabbed the sorceress in his talons. The dragon’s laughter rolled over the city like thunder as he flapped off toward the east with his prey. The harp plummeted to the ground and was lost int the brawl beside the dais.
Garnet was gone, but her spell raged on. Hail bounced off the platform and pelted those who still remained in the arena.
“We’ve got to get the harp!” Danilo said, pressing toward the dais. Their process was easier now, for the crowd was rapidly dissipating. Clerics and healers carried off those who had been trampled in the first rush to escape. Most of Elaith’s ruffians had been subdued, and members of the guard were dragging off those who still showed an inclination to fight. Vartain remained near the platform, his hands folded over his paunch in a triumphant pose and a smile on his bronze face.
Morgalla shoved her way through and leveled her spear at Vartain’s throat. “Where’s the harp, you over-growed halfling sneak-thief?” she demanded.
“It’s not Vartain this time,” Danilo said. “Elaith has the harp.”
Seventeen
The sun was setting as Danilo raced toward the elven temple. Wyn and Morgalla followed close on his heels. Huge gray and indigo clouds continued to rove the sky, pelting parts of the city with rain and hail. The western horizon was streaked with spires of vivid purple and crimson, and the sun peered over the Sea of Swords like a single flaming red eye.
The three friends rounded the corner to the temple courtyard just as Elaith started up the broad, white marble steps of the main building. He was alone, and the Morninglark harp was tucked under one arm. Danilo pulled his sword and hailed the moon elf. Elaith spun about and fixed a look of pure malevolence upon the Harper.
“Do not hinder me, fool! Too much is at stake.”
“My point precisely,” Danilo said in a voice that was equally cold. “The Knights of the Shield are earning a foothold in the city, the archmage has been brought low by a charm spell, music-wielding monsters feed upon farmers and travelers, and the bards have become unwitting tools of evil.”
“That is a problem for you and yours, Harper. It has nothing to do with me.”
Danilo advanced a step. “Really! Then you are content to rear the Lady Azariah in the type of world I’ve just described?”
The elf’s face turned white with rage. “You must never speak that name,” he commanded. “No one in Waterdeep can know of her. I have many enemies who would pay dearly for
such information. Many of my associates, for that matter, would not hesitate to seize her for ransom or harm her in revenge against me.”
Elaith put down the harp and drew his own sword, advancing with menacing slowness down the steps. “I have the harp now. By the terms of our agreement, my search is over. Our partnership is at an end.”
“No, it isn’t,” Danilo responded, taking a battle stance and raising his sword in guard position. “By your word, I was to undo the spell before turning over the harp to you. Or doesn’t your word matter?”
“Azariah is all that matters.”
The Harper brought his sword up in time to meet Elaith’s first lightning-fast strike. “So she’ll be our little secret, is that what you’re saying?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The elf’s smile was grim, and he advanced with a flurry of blows that stretched Danilo’s swordsmanship to its limit and beyond. The Harper had little doubt that Elaith could kill him at will, but the elf was not content with a fast strike. The battle between them had been too long in coming.
“Why isn’t your faithful dwarven guard dog coming to your aid?” the elf taunted, tossing his silver head in the direction of the grim and watchful warrior.
“This is between you and me. Morgalla understands the concept of honor.”
Elaith laughed unpleasantly. “If that allusion was intended to draw blood, you failed sadly, Harper.” He drew a long dirk and advanced on the Harper, keeping his attacks deliberately slow so that Danilo could fend off both blades. The elf was openly, blatantly toying with his prey.
“Honor,” Danilo repeated pointedly. “Consider the nature of your quest. Can your daughter’s honor be won through dishonor?”
Elfsong Page 27
