Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [1]
As a snack, the woman was not at all appealing. Elves at best were tasty but insubstantial, and centuries of life had nearly picked this one's bones clean. She was old, even by the dragon's reckoning, and her angular face had the hue and texture of aged parchment Wispy strands of smoke-colored hair clung to her skull and her eyes were so faded as to be almost colorless. Yet power surrounded her like morning mist on a woodland pond.
The dragon stopped toying with the sorceress and got down to business. "You want me to give you the Morninglark. What do you offer in exchange?" Grimnosh asked bluntly.
"A riddle that no one can answer."
"Considering the number and caliber of humans who've passed this way of late, that shouldn't be too difficult," the dragon observed, casually inspecting the talons of a green forepaw.
"That will change. An ancient ballad about the great Grimnoshtadrano will inspire ambitious bards to seek you out."
"Oh? It hasn't yet."
"It hasn't been written yet," she said with a touch of asperity. "For that I need the Morninglark."
For a long, ominous moment the dragon glared down at the presumptuous half-elf. "Strange though this may seem I'm in no mood for riddles. Explain yourself, and speak plainly."
"To you, the Morninglark is just another elven harp, a magic trinket lying atop your hoard." The sorceress held up her hands, which were long and elegant "With these I can wield a rare type of elven magic known as spellsong. When my power is combined with that of the harp, I can cast a spell that will weave this new ballad into the mem ory of every bard within the city walls. Every enspelled bard will believe he has always known about the mighty Grimnoshtadrano. Every enspelled bard will aspire to meet your riddle challenge. These bards will spread the ballad throughout the land. Many will know your name, and the best and bravest of these will come."
"Hmmm." The dragon nodded thoughtfully. "And what will this ballad say?"
"It will send out a challenge to those who are both Harpers and bards. These must pass three tests: answer a riddle, read a scroll, and sing a song."
"And what will this ballad offer these bards, should they succeed? The usual fame and fortune, I suppose?"
"That hardly matters."
Grimnosh snorted, sending a puff of foul-smelling steam toward the half-elven woman. "You're quick to give away treasure that isn't yours!"
"Your hoard is secure," she said firmly. "The riddle will be one of your choosing, and how many have answered such a riddle correctly?"
"In all modesty, none."
"Whoever passes this first test-which is most unlikely-will proceed to the second. The scroll I shall give you will be a many-layered riddle. I can say with reasonable assurance that no Harper could answer every layer of the riddle. I can say with absolute certainty that none wields the magic of spellsong. This magic is needed to truly read the scroll and to sing the song."
Grimnosh thought this over, and his sinuous tail wandered toward the half-elf's horse. The dragon absently twirled the horse's braided tail as a child might worry a lock of hair. The mare whuffled nervously but held her ground. At length the dragon said, "If all you say is true, how did you come by this knowledge?"
The woman pushed aside the folds of her cloak, revealing a small silver pin on her coat a tiny harp cradled in the curve of a new moon. "I have been with the Harpers for over three centuries, and I know what they have become." Her face hardened, and her chest rose and fell in a long, measured breath. "The Harpers of today are likely to come against you with steel, not song. Eat as many of them as pleases you."
"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