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.”