Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [5]
Wyn tore his gaze from the stage and glanced up at Kerigan. If the skald noticed anything other than twirling skirts and bare legs, it didn't show in his broad leer. The troubled elf searched the crowd, expecting to see outrage on the faces of more discerning bards. To his astonishment, every member of the audience watched the ballad with smiles that spoke of enjoyment and, even more disturbing, recognition. Whenthe gypsy dance ended, the assembly burst into huzzahs and enthusiastic applause. Beside Wyn, Kerigan whooped and stomped in loud approval.
The elf sank low in his seat, too stunned to join in the applause or to notice when it ended. A sharp jab from the skald's elbow brought Wyn's attention back to the stage, where a chorus of beautiful priestesses sang a ballad extolling Sune, goddess of love. Wyn noted that this ballad had also been altered.
On and on the storytelling went, and each ballad was vastly different from the ones Wyn had learned in the bardic tradition, passed down unchanged throughout generations of bards. Yet not once did Wyn see any other bard display the slightest sign ofdistress. The rest of the concertpassed like a dream from which he could notawaken. Either he had gone mad, or the past had been rewritten inthe minds and memories of hundreds of the Northland's most skilled and influential bards.
Wyn Ashgrove was not sure which prospect frightened him more.
One
In the very heart of Waterdeep, in a tavern renowned for its ale and its secrets, six old friends gathered about a supper table in a cozy, private room. Thick walls of fieldstone and ancient beams muffled the sounds coming from the tavern kitchen and the taproom beyond, and in the center of each of the four walls stood a stout oak door. On each door was a lamp that glowed with faint blue light. The lamps, magical devices that kept any sound from leaving the room, also barred inquisitive mages from scrying in. In the center of the chamber was a round table of polished Chultan teak, and the deeply cushioned and well-worn chairs around it spoke of many long, comfortable visits. A dome of pale, incandescent azure surrounded the supper table, ensuring that no words would pass the magical barrier. In a city whose lifeblood was equal parts gold and intrigue, multiple privacy spells were not unusual. In all, the scene was common enough; the friends were not.
"I learned of this just last evening," said Larissa Neathal, a striking red-haired woman who, despite the early hour, was draped in white silk and ropes of pearls. She circled the rim of her wine glass with one slender finger as she spoke, idly coaxing a clear, ghostly note from the singing crystal. "I was entertaining Wynead ap Gawyn-a prince of one of those lesser Moonshae kingdoms-and he spoke at length about crop failures on one of the islands. The fields and meadows for miles around Caer Callidyrr withered mysteriously, almost overnight!"
That's a misfortune and no mistake, but if it doesn't touch Waterdeep, we haven't spare tears to shed," observed Mirt the Moneylender, folding his arms over his food-stained tunic in a gesture of finality.
Kitten, a sell-sword whose hair was a tousled brown mop and whose leathers were cut to reveal abundant cleavage, leaned forward to poke playfully at Mirt's vast midsection. "So say you, Sir Beer-Belly. Those of us with more refined tastes-" here she paused to cast a coy, hooded glance around the table "-we know this news bodes ill for Waterdeep in more ways than Elminster has pipes." She began to tick off concerns on her red-taloned fingers. "First, the famous herb gardens near the old college. The woodruff there goes to make the Moonshae spring wine that sells