Elfsong - Elaine Cunningham [97]
"I've wondered why you were so hesitant to sing," Danilo said. "You are a gifted musician, Morgalla, as all of Cormyr would have realized in time. Even with your artwork you've risen above your detractors. Your work is nothing short of inspired."
"Maybe," she admitted. "But that ain't the point I lost faith in myself. I fergot who I was, and what I was made to do."
The dwarf reached high and slapped Danilo on the back. "We who mine the earth have a saying: If someone's walked a tunnel, and he tells you where it ends up, you already been to the end without taking a single step, so you might as well save yerself the time and trouble of walking it yerself."
"Ouch! No offense, my dear, but I've heard snappier sayings."
Morgalla shrugged. "As long as you get the point. Yer a damn fine bard, and you'd do yerself a favor to keep that in mind." She turned and sauntered back to the cheery comfort of the fire.
Danilo watched her go, wishing that he could find it in his heart to take the dwarf's advice. However highly Morgalla might regard him, the fact remained that he'd taken a role that was beyond him, and the demands were greater than his ability to meet them. Unfortunately, he was as short on time was as he was talent, so with a deep sigh he turned his attention to the task ahead.
He found the lyre beside the elven hermit, who had been overcome by his wild dancing and had fallen asleep in the long grass that ringed the pool. Danilo gazed down at the mad elf for a long moment, noting the tear that slipped down the ravaged face. He wondered what sort of dreams tormented the hermit.
The Harper quickly stooped and picked up the lyre of changing. With a word, he transformed it into the driftwood-colored lap harp. He made his way into the wood, seeking a quiet place to prepare and reflect. Not far from the camp, he found a small natural clearing in the shadow of a giant oak. Seating himself on the ground, he began to play a lilting dance tune on the harp.
Twilight had deepened into night but Danilo needed no light beyond that provided by the full moon and the flickering courtship of the fireflies. He had already committed the words of the spellsong to memory. It had long been his gift to retain what he read and heard, and his bardic tutors had worked to foster and strengthen this ability. The music came quickly, too, and after several passes through the melody he joined the harp in a duet. His strong, clear tenor rang out, projecting much more assurance than he actually felt.
If there was magic in the ancient music and the arcane riddles, Danilo couldn't sense it. Perhaps Wyn had been right: perhaps elfsong magic rightly belonged only to the elves. Magic seemed to flow from and through them without effort or artifice. Humans used the weave of magic that surrounds all things, Khelben had once explained, but elves were partof the weave.
Danilo pushed aside his doubts and threw himself into the music, marshaling the intense concentration he had learned in his years of magical studies.
Drawn by the sound of the young man's voice, Wyn made his way into the woods. Earlier that evening he had taught the Harper some of the principles of elfsong, but one important lesson remained. Danilo had proven himself a worthy pupil, and Wyn had little doubt that the Harper could master and cast the difficult spell. At first the elf had doubted the possibility of explaining elfsong to someone who'd been trained to consider magic a laborious, arcane art who dealt in chants and runes and elaborate gestures and ridiculous spell components. What he himself had forgotten was this: The magic was in the music itself, and in the heart of the musician. That is what Danilo must understand and remember.
And so Wyn reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth a tightly folded piece of paper, the sketch Morgalla had drawn of