“Treachery!” Grimnosh exclaimed, regarding the ancient Harper with surprise and pleasure.
She shrugged and lifted her colorless eyes to meet the intent gaze of the great wyrm. “That depends entirely upon your perspective.”
“A good answer.” The dragon fell silent for a long, speculative moment. “It seems to me that you could accomplish a great deal with such a spell. Apart from sending me an occasional afternoon’s entertainment, what do you hope to achieve?”
“What does any Harper hope to achieve?” This time her smile held a touch of bitterness. “In all things, there must be a balance.”
Winter was hard and slow to pass. Twice the moon waxed and waned over the Northlands, but drifted snow still piled high against the walls of Silverymoon. Within the wondrous city, however, the Spring Faire was in full flower.
From her tower window, the half-elven sorceress looked down at the living tapestry of color and sound. Directly below her lay the courtyards of Utrumm’s Music Conservatory, and bards from many lands crowded into the outdoor theater to share and celebrate their art. Snatches of melody drifted up to her, borne on breezes that were warmed by powerful enchantments and scented with flowers. Beyond the music school stretched the teeming marketplace, which offered all the goods and treasures of any such faire, as well as the specialties of Silverymoon: rare books and scrolls, spell components, and all manner of musical and magical devices. Equally on display were the people of Silverymoon. Brightly garbed in their best finery, they celebrated the ageless rites of spring with laughter, dancing, and whispered promises of joys to come.
She watched the merry crowd for a long time. The Spring Faire was a scene of such color and celebration, such pageantry and promise, that it could not fail to gladden the heart Even hers quickened, although it had risen with the tides of over three hundred springs. Again that painful joy tugged at her, as it did every year when the dying winter yielded to a season of renewal. She felt it all, as keenly as did any youth or maid.
Soon the people of Silverymoon would dance to a different music, and all the bards in the city would sing only the songs that she herself had written. It pleased her that these songs would spring from a Harper’s silent silver strings.
Her withered fingers sought the Harper pin on the shoulder of her gown, the once-cherished badge that she had worn—despite everything—for so many years. She tore it free and clenched it in her fist, as if to imprint every tiny curve and line of the harp-and-moon talisman upon the flesh of her hand.
With a sigh, she turned to the enspelled brazier that glowed in the center of the tower room. Steeling herself against the intense heat, she went as close as she dared and tossed her Harper pin into the brazier’s dish. She watched in silence as the pin collapsed into a tiny, gleaming puddle.
Only one preparation remained for the casting of her greatest spelclass="underline" the years had stolen the song from her voice, and song she must have. The last of her family’s wealth had gone to purchase a potion to restore the beauty of her voice and her person. She drew the flagon from her sleeve and stood before the tower room’s mirror. Closing her eyes, she whispered the words of enchantment and then drank deeply. The potion’s warmth coursed through her, burning away the years and leaving her gasping with unexpected pain. She clutched the mirror’s frame for support, and when the red haze was spent, she opened her eyes and gazed in dismay at what the spell had done.
The mirror reflected the image of a woman in her late middle years. A once-willowy figure was plump and matronly. Her brilliant red hair, which in her youth had been flame and silk, was reduced to a dull brown streaked with gray. At least her ancient and faded eyes had regained their youthful color, for they were again the brilliant blue that her lovers had often likened to fine sapphires. After the first stab of disappointment, she realized that she couldn’t have chosen a better guise. The beautiful woman who had inspired comparison to rubies and sapphires would draw too much attention, and no one alive remembered her as she now appeared. The true test of the spell was her voice. She drew a deep breath and sang a verse of an elven lament. The notes rang out clear and true, the bell-like soprano for which she had once been celebrated. Satisfied, she studied her reflection anew, and a little smile curved her lips. The Harpers knew her as Iriador, a name taken from the Elvish word for ruby. Now she was merely garnet, a jewel still, but a dim shadow of a ruby’s luster and fire. She was content with image of the darker gem. Garnet would serve for her new name.
She turned to study the harp that stood near the tower window. At first glance, it too seemed unremarkable. Small and light enough to carry with ease, it had but twenty strings. It was fashioned of dark wood, and its curving lines and subtle carvings proclaimed its elven origin. But when the harp was played, a tiny morninglark carved into the wood moved as if singing in time to the music. This was not easy to discern, for the harp’s magical namesake was carved on the soundboard where only the harpist could see it, and only then if she knew precisely where to look.
Garnet seated herself before the Morninglark harp and flexed her fingers, rejoicing in their renewed agility, and then played a few silver notes. Finally she began to sing, and voice and harp blended into a spell of great power. The music reached out with invisible hands for the last component of the spelclass="underline" the melted silver bubbling in the enspelled brazier. As Garnet sang, the remains of the Harper pin rose into the air like a tiny vortex and spun itself into a long, slender ribbon. Unerringly it flew toward Garnet’s harp, wrapping itself around one harp string. It bonded as tightly as if it had been absorbed into the very metal, and the spell was complete. The ancient melody ceased, and the last rippled chord faded into silence.
Exultant now, the sorceress again began to play and sing. Her songs floated over the city, carrying a corrosive, insidious magic on the breath of the wind. Throughout the night she played, until her voice was reduced to a whimper and her fingertips bled. When the first colors of morning stole through the tower window, Garnet shouldered the harp and ventured forth to see what she had created.
A heavy blow landed on Wyn Ashgrove’s back, knocking his magical lyre off his shoulder. The elven minstrel’s first impulse was to reach for the fallen instrument, but years of adventuring had trained him otherwise. He whirled to face his assailant, his fingers tight on his long sword’s grip.
Wyn relaxed when he looked up—way up—into the beaming, brown-whiskered face of Kerigan the Bold.
Kerigan, a Northman skald and pirate, had befriended Wyn some ten years earlier, after stripping and scuttling the merchant ship that carried Wyn east from the Moonshae Isles. Northmen hold bards in high regard, so Kerigan had spared the elf and had even offered to deliver him to the port of his choice. Wyn had suggested a better plan. Always eager to learn more of humans and their music—even the crude and earthy music of the Northmen skalds—the elf had offered himself as apprentice to Kerigan. Their time together had been one of rowdy adventure and tall-told tales, and the elven scholar regarded Kerigan as one of his more interesting studies.
“Wyn, lad! Late to come, but no less the welcome for it!” The greeting rang out above the din of the street, and Kerigan punctuated his words with another hearty swat
“It’s good to see you again, Kerigan,” Wyn said sincerely as he stooped to recover his lyre.
“Trouble on the road, was it?” asked the skald. His eyes gleamed, anticipating a new tale of adventure.
Wyn shrugged an apology. “Ice on the river. We were held up for days.”
“Too bad,” Kerigan said. “Well, at least you’re here for the big show. That’s not to be missed, if it means putting off your own funeral. Hurry, now.”