The dwarf shrugged away the sting of the memory. “Humans got no patience. Tall folk won’t sit still for a story, but they can look at a picture well enough. I took to drawin’, and learnt I could hide a whole lot of words and ideas in one picture. I carved ’em on blocks of wood, stamping out enough copies to make folks mad enough to spit.” Morgalla chuckled, and the music she’d long denied echoed in her low-pitched laughter.
“I’ve wondered why you were so hesitant to sing,” Danilo said. “You are a gifted musician, Morgalla, as all of Cormyr would have realized in time. Even with your artwork you’ve risen above your detractors. Your work is nothing short of inspired.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “But that ain’t the point. I lost faith in myself. I fergot who I was, and what I was made to do.”
The dwarf reached high and slapped Danilo on the back. “We who mine the earth have a saying: If someone’s walked a tunnel, and he tells you where it ends up, you already been to the end without taking a single step, so you might as well save yerself the time and trouble of walking it yerself.”
“Ouch! No offense, my dear, but I’ve heard snappier sayings.”
Morgalla shrugged. “As long as you get the point Yer a damn fine bard, and you’d do yerself a favor to keep that in mind.” She turned and sauntered back to the cheery comfort of the fire.
Danilo watched her go, wishing that he could find it in his heart to take the dwarf’s advice. However highly Morgalla might regard him, the fact remained that he’d taken a role that was beyond him, and the demands were greater than his ability to meet them. Unfortunately, he was as short on time was as he was talent, so with a deep sigh he turned his attention to the task ahead.
He found the lyre beside the elven hermit, who had been overcome by his wild dancing and had fallen asleep in the long grass that ringed the pool. Danilo gazed down at the mad elf for a long moment, noting the tear that slipped down the ravaged face. He wondered what sort of dreams tormented the hermit.
The Harper quickly stooped and picked up the lyre of changing. With a word, he transformed it into the driftwood-colored lap harp. He made his way into the wood, seeking a quiet place to prepare and reflect Not far from the camp, he found a small natural clearing in the shadow of a giant oak. Seating himself on the ground, he began to play a lilting dance tune on the harp.
Twilight had deepened into night, but Danilo needed no light beyond that provided by the full moon and the flickering courtship of the fireflies. He had already committed the words of the spellsong to memory. It had long been his gift to retain what he read and heard, and his bardic tutors had worked to foster and strengthen this ability. The music came quickly, too, and after several passes through the melody he joined the harp in a duet. His strong, clear tenor rang out, projecting much more assurance than he actually felt.
If there was magic in the ancient music and the arcane riddles, Danilo couldn’t sense it. Perhaps Wyn had been right perhaps elfsong magic rightly belonged only to the elves. Magic seemed to flow from and through them without effort or artifice. Humans used the weave of magic that surrounds all things, Khelben had once explained, but elves were part of the weave.
Danilo pushed aside his doubts and threw himself into the music, marshaling the intense concentration he had learned in his years of magical studies.
Drawn by the sound of the young man’s voice, Wyn made his way into the woods. Earlier that evening he had taught the Harper some of the principles of elfsong, but one important lesson remained. Danilo had proven himself a worthy pupil, and Wyn had little doubt that the Harper could master and cast the difficult spell. At first the elf had doubted the possibility of explaining elfsong to someone who’d been trained to consider magic a laborious, arcane art, who dealt in chants and runes and elaborate gestures and ridiculous spell components. What he himself had forgotten was this: The magic was in the music itself, and in the heart of the musician. That is what Danilo must understand and remember.
And so Wyn reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth a tightly folded piece of paper, the sketch Morgalla had drawn of Danilo days earlier in Waterdeep. The archmage had entrusted it to Wyn, understanding that his nephew was not yet ready to see himself through the canny dwarf’s eyes.
Wyn drew near the giant oak. Danilo was utterly absorbed in his task, his gray eyes closed in concentration as he played and sang.
“Despite all that has happened, despite all the arguments you yourself have put forth, you do not believe that elfsong can be yours,” Wyn said softly, breaking into the song.
The Harper jumped and fell silent, startled by the unexpected interruption. Wyn handed him the sketch. “Perhaps you will accept Morgalla’s vision, if not your own.”
Danilo looked down at the paper. The dwarf usually relied on a few telling, exaggerated details to get her point across, but this drawing was a careful and realistic rendering. As Morgalla depicted him, he was dressed in an adventurer’s weathered and practical gear, but the tilt of his head somehow gave the impression that he was a lord traveling in disguise. There was a bit of humor lurking at the corners of his lips, but the eyes were serious, touched with sadness. He played a lute, but surrounding him was an aureole of tiny motes and stars that suggested magic as well as music. Most startling of all was the way Morgalla had managed to portray a man in command of his powers, at peace with his own contradictions. It was captioned only “The Bard.”
“The magic is in the music, and also in the heart of the bard. The lady dwarf got the instrument wrong,” Wyn said quietly as he pointed to the harp at Danilo’s side, “but I believe she’s right in all other particulars.”
Danilo said nothing, and after a moment the elf added, “The night grows late. You should try to get some rest, for we must leave for Waterdeep at sunrise.”
Thirteen
On the day of Midsummer Eve, Khelben Arunsun was up before the sun. The archmage paced the courtyard between Blackstaff Tower and the surrounding wall as he awaited his nephew’s return.
The day before, Danilo had reconstructed the scroll from memory and had left a copy at the tower. Khelben had studied the scroll well into the night, but finally it had been Laeral who recognized it as a variant of elven spellsong. She was one of the few humans welcome on Evermeet, and she was familiar with the ways of elves. Khelben had never paid much attention to spellsong magic, for there was no music in his hands, and far less in his voice. Laeral was not a musician, either, and neither of the wizards knew a spellsinger.
The task of casting the spell would of necessity fall to Danilo. Whether the lad was up to it, Khelben could not say. His own knowledge of music was insufficient to the challenges of the riddle, and he had no way of evaluating what Danilo and Wyn might be able to discern between them.
“Good morning, Uncle!”
The archmage spun. Danilo stood behind him, an insouciant smile on his face and a rather battered lute slung over his shoulder. With him were Wyn Ashgrove and Morgalla. Khelben noted absently that the dwarf had not taken well to magical traveclass="underline" her face was set and pallid, and she gripped her staff with one white-knuckled hand and clung to the elf’s arm with the other.
“So you made it,” the archmage observed, hiding his relief behind a scowl of stern disapproval.
“As usual, you’ve got a firm grip on the obvious,” Danilo quipped lightly. “Bless you, Uncle, are those sweet rolls I smell?”
“Porridge,” Khelben said absently, heading toward the tower. “Well, come in, all of you.”