Songs & Swords 2 (14 page)

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 riddles, conundrums, puzzles, and mysteries. All of these challenges 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 halfling 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, riddlemasterr

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.

“I notice you carry a crystal flute, of the sort that is grown in the caves of Evermeets wild elves,” he said quietly, pointing to the translucent green flute that hung from the minstrel’s belt. “Do you, by chance, know any of the sword dances famous on the north shore of the island? The Ghost of Ettntree, perhaps?”

In response, Wyn took the gemlike flute from its protective bag and played a few notes. “Yes, that’s the one,” Elaith said, pleased.

The elf turned to his men and said, “I need your swords. Dirks and daggers as well, if you please.”

Puzzled, the mercenaries handed over their weapons.

“Considering the company I’m keeping these days, I prefer to keep both of my swords within reach,” Danilo said cheerfully “If it’s all the same to you.”

“By all means,” Elaith returned just as pleasantly. “Much good may they do you, of course.”

Morgalla’s brown eyes narrowed at the insult to Danilo. “That elf is startin’ to wear a hole in the sole of my boot,” she muttered, watching as Elaith arranged the weapons in an intricate pattern of crosses and circles.

When that was done, he nodded to the elven minstrel and took his place in the center of the design. Wyn began to play a slow, lyrical tune. The moon elf went into the dance, stepping lightly between the crossed swords, alternating heel and toe.

As Danilo admired the elf’s fluid grace, he noted that Elaith had not added one of his own weapons to the arrangement As did Danilo, the elf wore a sword at each hip. Something about Elaith’s second blade was familiar.

The Harper’s eyes narrowed as he realized the nature of the weapon worn by the rogue elf. It was a moonblade, an ancient elven sword that was passed from one generation to the next. A moonblade could judge character, and it would become dormant rather than trust its magic to an unworthy heir. Danilo had known that Elaith owned such a sword, and that the sword’s rejection of the elf had been the seed that bore fruit in a life of treachery and evil. Why would the elf wear it now?

Danilo puzzled over this question as the music moved faster and faster. A strange mixture of elegance and menace, the elven dance was compelling to watch. The moon elf’s pale face was rapt and intent as he whirled and leaped in time to the crystal flute’s song. His silver hair glinted in the firelight, and he himself seemed transformed into a beautiful and deadly weapon. Then the elf flicked one booted foot, sending a dagger high into the air. It spiraled down like a falling star, catching the firelight as it tumbled. Effortlessly he caught it and sent it spinning upward again. The pace became more frenzied now, and one by one Elaith kicked the weapons into flight. Leaping and ducking, he avoided the falling blades, catching some and allowing others to land in an ever-shifting pattern before sending them up again with a deft flick of wrist or boot. It was an amazing display of artistry and agility, and Danilo found himself watching with bated breath and rapid heart Elaith was as sinuous and graceful as the serpent for which he was named, and as quick.

The flute soared to a final, lingering note, and the dance stopped. Elaith stood in a perfect circle of blades, his arms raised to the stars, his silver hair gleaming and his angular face suffused with ecstasy. Magic lingered about the elf, and every blade seemed to gleam with an intensity that the fading firelight could not explain. With uncanny certainty, Danilo knew that the elf’s dance held the power of rite. Elaith himself was a conduit for some mystical link between stars and steel. The insight flickered in his mind, gone before he could grasp and examine it. Danilo realized afresh how little he understood of the elves. With the knowledge came a stab of sadness and a longing he could not name.

The company released its collective breath in a sigh of awe and relief. Hushed conversations sprang up between small groups, and no one made a move to reclaim his weapons. It was plain that no one else would perform this night

Elaith walked from the circle, his chest rising and falling quickly from the effort of his mystical elven dance. He picked up a waterskin and shook it. It was nearly empty. The elf drained it and looked around for another.

Danilo reached into his bag and removed a small silver flask. “Elverquisst,” he said quietly, and handed it to the elf. Elaith looked sharply at the Harper, as if wondering how well the human understood his own gesture. The rare elven spirits formed a part of many an elven ritual and celebration, and the offer of it now, after the elven dance, was a tribute as well as a gift. This Danilo had learned from Arilyn, for she had shared with him the ritual farewell to summer and described some of the other rites that made the elverquisst a celebration as well as a libation. Elaith accepted the flask with a nod. He poured a few drops onto the earth and then drank slowly, savoring the distilled essence of summer fruit and elven magic.

“Fancy footwork, elf,” Morgalla complimented him.

The dwarf’s words seemed to pop the aura of contentment and mystery that surrounded the moon elf. He sat down across from Morgalla and studied her as one would a strange animal that had mysteriously appeared in one’s back yard.

“How does it happen that you venture so far from clan and hearth?” he asked. “With your numbers dwindling and dwarven females so few, I would think you’d be home doing your duty by breeding little miners.”