Songs & Swords 2 (13 page)

“Which are favored weapons in the southern lands,” Khelben added wearily. “So we may have an influx of southern assassins. Someone should tell Piergeiron at once; he’s the usual target”

Kitten chugged the rest of her ale, then rose to her feet with a rustle of brocade and lace. “I’ll go; I dressed for the palace, since I planned to look in on Larissa.” She disappeared through one of the room’s four doors.

“That’s it for tonight, then,” the archmage said, rising from his chair.

“Before you go, Khelben, there’s something you ought to hear,” Durnan said. The innkeeper opened the door that led into the tavern’s storeroom. Khelben and Brian exchanged puzzled glances, but followed him. They made their way past barrels and neatly stacked crates to the taproom. Durnan cracked open the door and beckoned the men closer.

“I say it be truth!” argued one drunken voice from beyond the door.

“Nay, how could it? That’d make the wizard more long-lived than a dragon,” countered a second man.

“It’s true, all right,” stated a petulant female voice, “and Danilo ought to know. He’s kin to Khelben, and he loves family history He tells the most amusingly ribald story, don’t you know, about his great aunt Clarinda Thann—”

“Shut up, Myrna.” Galin Raventree’s distinctive husky voice was unusually sharp as she silenced her rival. “Khelben is always chastising Dan for those cute, harmless little spells, and this song is just Dan’s way of tweaking the old man’s beard.”

“Well said, miss,” agreed a rumbling voice with a touch of Cormyrian burr. “The young bard tells a good story, I’ll grant you, but the song is nothing more or less than that.”

“Let’s have it again!” demanded another.

The sounds of a lute stilled the debate, and after a few rippling notes a woman began to sing in a deep, raw voice that was uniquely seductive and feminine. Khelben recognized the dark voice as that of the Masked Minstrel, a mysterious woman who wandered the Castle Ward, often giving open-air concerts in Jester’s Court of a nice summer’s eve. Her name and origin were matters of heated speculation in the city: she was variously thought to be a mad noblewoman, a Zhentish spy, or a Harper agent. Whatever else she might be, her song left no doubt in Khelben’s mind that she had succumbed to the curse upon the bards.

In the Year of the Tomb a magical flight

Took the sage to a land where the shadows held sway

And the Malaugrym, armed with their shape-shifting might

Followed him back to the light of the day

The Harpers gathered to force the beasts back,

Using magic, and steel, and a staff strong and black.”

Durnan probed Khelben’s ribs with an elbow. “They say your nephew wrote that song, but I can’t believe it of the lad. It has a lot to say about you, and Elminster as well, and it puts you both back some two hundred years. Who would do such a thing?”

“I wish I knew,” Khelben muttered, gesturing for silence so that he might hear the words. The verses that followed were not reassuring. The song was indeed based on one of Danilo’s, and the incident it referred to was the Harpstar Wars, a dark time that had occurred more that two centuries past. Khelben had seen to it that Danilo was versed in Harper history and lore, but the song Danilo had written was no more than veiled allegory; the words of this ballad went on to describe the battles, name many of the Harpers who’d fallen in the war, and warn of the continuing threat offered by the few shape-shifting Malaugrym that survived. Whoever had changed the words might well have been there, Khelben noted with a growing sense of dread.

The archmage searched his memory for the names of the Harpers who had survived those times, and those who might still live._ Perhaps one survivor of that long-ago war had turned away from the Harpers’ path, becoming so twisted that he or she outlived death as a Bch. That would explain much, for an extremely powerful undead wizard might be able to command a spell that could change the minds and memories of the bards.

The ballad raised another concern as well. Khelben had done all he reasonably could to suppress the ballad about Laeral’s misadventure with an evil artifact, but the song was everywhere, spreading speculation and distrust. There were many other things in Khelben’s life that were best left untold, yet someone seemed determined to air them. Although Khelben’s parentage was a matter of record and his genealogy open to all who cared to inquire, his history had in fact been borrowed from another. Few knew his true age, or the secrets of his past, or the extent of his power. In truth, Khelben controlled the affairs of Waterdeep much less than he was capable of doing, but few would believe this if all his secrets came to light.

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 Dana) 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.”

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 wistfuffy, 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 its been years since I last played. My first teacher was a bard trained in the style of the MacFuirmidh school. He was adamant 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, Margalla 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.