Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [2]
"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 spell; 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