Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [3]
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 spell: 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."
Wyn nodded his agreement and fell into step beside his friend. Silverymoon's Spring Faire always culminated in an open-air concert on the vast grounds of Utrumm's Music Conservatory. The school was a fine one and justly famed, built as it was upon the remnants of an elder barding college. All the finest bards had trained at the conservatory at one point or another in their careers, and