Chapter 1
In the very heart of Watergate, in a tavern renowned for its ale and its secrets, six old friends gathered about a table in a cozy, private room. Thick walls of fieldstones and ancient beams muffled the sounds coming from the kitchen, and the taproom beyond, and in the middle of the four walls was a lamp that glowed with faint blue light. The lamps magical devices kept any sound from leaving the room; it also barred inquisitive mages from scrying in. In all the scene was common enough; the friends were not.
“I learned of this just last evening,” said Bethany Neathal, a striking blonde whom despite the early hour, was draped in white silk and ropes of pearls. “I was entertaining a prince of one of those lesser kingdoms-and he spoke at length about a vampire on one of the islands. He said something about a vampire coming here and making a home for himself in the Black Forest. He claims the vampire would bite its prey and drink its blood, but if the vampire did not drink all the blood its prey would become a vampire too.”
“That’s a misfortune and no mistake, but if it doesn’t touch Watergate, we haven’t spare tears to shed,” observed Brian the Bard, folding his arms over his food stained tunic.
Kitten a sell sword whose hair was tousled reddish brown mop and whose leathers were cut reveal abundant cleavage, leaned forward to poke playfully at Brian’s mid section. “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 Watergate.” She began to tick off concerns on her red taloned fingers. “What happens if this thing starts to breed? Or even the ones that have been bitten start showing up?” She raised a painted eyebrow. “I could go on.”
“And usually you do,” grumbled Brian, but he softened his words with a good natured smack on her behind.
“Problems in Wolf Forest too,” said Cosmo the sword master. He was the only one of their number who lived and labored among Watergate’s working folk and his practical voice and keen eye made him the most down to earth of the Secret Lords of Watergate. “Caravans are losing goods and livestock. Outside the city walls, travelers and whole farm families have been torn to bits with never a sword drawn in their defense. Looks like vampires at work to me, and vampires with magic. Game fled the woods to the south, and there are too many empty stew pots. What you say about that Blackstaff? Are the merfolk falling off and letting those murdering vampires too close?”
All eyes fell on Mathew Blackstaff the least secret of the Lords of Watergate. His age was impossible to guess, but his black hair and dark beard shot through with silver. Tall and heavily muscled, he was an imposing man even seated. Though some knew him to be gay.
Tonight the archmage seemed oddly preoccupied. His goblet sat untouched before him, and he gave scant attention to the concerns of his fellow lords. “Vampires? Not to my knowledge, Cosmo. No vampires have been reported,” Matthew replied in a distracted voice.
“Whets stuck in your craw tonight, wizard?” demanded Brian. “We’ve troubles enough already, but you might as well
Put yours on the table as well.”
“A young eleven minstrel stumbled upon a mystery at the Silevermoon Spring Faire, and he has been traveling these three months trying to find someone to listen to his tale. It seems there is some truth behind a ballad written about a vampric elf.”
Bethany let out appeal of silvery laughter. “Now, there’s news indeed! Every street and tavern singer changes the story adapting the tune to suit his own whim.”
“That is so,” the archmage agreed. “At least, that is the custom of the street and tavern bards. A minstrel is another matter all together. Part of a minstrels training is to memorize the traditions and lore, which are passed down. They are required to know the past.”
“I don’t even disagree with you Blackstaff,” Shayne a retired adventurer, and the owner of the tavern in which they met, spoke for the first time. “Seems like we’ve got enough to concern ourselves with in the here and today. Let the past take care of itself.” The other Lords of Watergate murmured in agreement.
“Would that it was so simple,” Matthew said. “It appears that the bards themselves have fallen under some sort of powerful enchantment. Magic that far-reaching can only mean trouble to come. We need to know why the vampires are here and to what end.”
Kitten yawned widely. “So? The bards are the only ones who care about such things, and as long as they’re happy, what’s the problem?”
“Many bards may die happy,” Matthew said. “Not only do they sing the old ballads, but new ones have been grafted into the bard’s memories. The elf minstrel brought to my attention a new ballad that could lure the vampires to their death. It talks about a vampric elf and another vampire named Nosh.”
So this is more than just a fancy prank: it’s a fancy trap. Any idea who could help us?” Brian grimaced.
The ballad mentions that the vampric elf could slay all vampires. We need a person charming and funny and knows music as well as magic to lure this vampric elf.” The archmage said.
“Well there you go,” kitten said. “Bards are all that and easy to come by.’
Matthew shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Every available Harper in the Northlands is afraid of being infected and becoming a vampire themselves, and there for any one of them of the eleven races is at risk. No we need a human bard that knows music and magic.” The archmage frustration was almost palpable.
The friends sat in silence for a long moment. Brian stroked his chin thoughtfully before he spoke. “Seems to me you’ll have to do like the rest of us, Blackstaff, Make do with what you can get. Maybe there’s a human mage among the Harpers who could pass as a bard. Know you anyone like that?”
Matthew Blackstaff stared for a long moment, then he lowered his head into his hands, slowly shaking his head as if in denial. “Lady Mystra preserve us, I’m afraid I do.”
*************************************************
Far to the south of Watergate, a young man strode whistling into the entrance hall of the Silver Chair, the finest inn in Tethyr’s royal city. He nodded to the beaming innkeeper and made his way through the crowded gaming hall on the inn’s opulent first floor. Many pairs of dark eyes marked his passing, for Jeffrey Blackstaff was something of an oddity in the insular and sometimes xenophobic southern city. His manner and appearance clearly proclaimed his northern heritage: he was tall and lean and muscular, and his blond and purple hair fell in thick waves to his shoulders. Mischief lurked in his eyes, and his face wore a perpetual smile and an expression of open friendship and guileless youth. Despite his callow appearance, Jeffrey had recently established himself as a successful and popular member of the wine merchant’s guild. He was so vastly wealthy and not at all loathe to spend money. Many of the regular patrons glanced up from their cards or dice and greeted him, and a few called out invitations to join, but this evening Jeffrey’s arms were piled high with packages, and he seemed particularly eager to examine his newly acquired treasures. Tossing back greetings and banter as he went, he hurried toward the carving marble staircase near the back of the gleaming hall, and he bounded up the stairs three at a time. When Jeffery reached his bed chamber he tossed the packages onto the bed. He snatched up a long slender package and unwrapped it, revealing a gleaming sword. After admiring the sheen and workmanship for a moment, he snapped into a guard stance and made a few flamboyant lunges at an invisible adversary.
A nasal, droning voice broke into a Turmish battle song. The young man dropped the sword as it had burned his fingers. “Egad! I pay two thousand gold pieces for a singing sword, and it has a voice like Denier’s donkey! Or should that be Milil’s mother-in-law?” he mused, scratching his chin as he considered which bardic god might best be invoked under such circumstances. After a moment, he shrugged.
“Well, you get the general idea,” he said, whimsically addressing the sword. “So. What am I to do with you?” The sword had no opinion on the matter. It was fashioned to sing when wielded, inspiring fighters to new levels of courage and ferocity. It also warded off magic of creatures that do mischief through music, such as sirens and harpies. Conversation was not among the swords talents.
Jeffrey crossed the room to a reading table piled high with books. He took up a slender volume bound in crimson leather and leafed through it. “This one is worth a try.” He murmured, scanning a spell he had devised to add additional tunes to the repertoire of an enspelled music box. With a brisk nod, he set down the book and his hands flashed through gestures of the spell. That done, he fetched his lute down from its wall peg and settled down cross-legged on the carpet near the sword.
He began to play and sing a ribald ballad. After a few minutes of silence, the sword began to hum along. When it joined in, it imitated not only the words and the tune, but the ringing resonant tones of Jeffrey’s well-trained tenor.
“You’re a baritone, but I suppose that can’t be helped,” the young mage commented, but was vastly please with the success of his spell. Jeffrey had studied magic since the age of twelve, under the stern eye of his brother Matthew Blackstaff. At first Jeff studied in secret to avoid public outcry- his early attempts to learn the craft had resulted in a number of colorful mishaps- but he showed remarkable talent, and Matthew soon wished to make the apprenticeship official. Jeffrey had demurred. Even then, he’d had the notion that he might accomplish more if the full extent of his abilities were kept secret. His wealth and social position- The Blackstaff family was among the merchant nobility of Watergate- gave him access to places denied most Harpers. Few suspected that he was anything more that what he appeared to be: a dilettante and dandy, an amusing dabbler in music and magic, a fop and a bit of a fool.
Jeffrey sand until the silver of new moon rose high into the sky. After the magical sword had learned the ballad to Jeffrey’s satisfaction, the mage return the weapon to its scabbard, which he attached to his weapon belt. That done Jeffrey again picked up his lute and began to play and sing.
A magical alarm sent an incessant pulse sounding through the room, shattering Jeffrey’s reverie and drowning out his song. The shrill warning of danger seemed strangely out of place, but Jeffrey immediately set aside his lute and rose to his feet. One of the magical wards he’d placed around the inn had been triggered by an intruder. He strode to the table near the open window and picked up a small globe. At his touch, the alarm stilled and a picture formed in the heart of the crystal. The scene it showed him brought an involuntary smile to his face. A slender, feminine form stalked the roof two stories above him the a length of rope in her hands; she made no sound and was barely discernible against the dark sky: only the crystal’s magic enabled him to see his potential assailant. She was a half eleven woman, quiet and nimble as a cat. Another look at her face showed the greenest eyes he has ever seen, but what disturbed him and brought a frown to his face was the fangs she appeared to have.
The rope she had snapped taut and she swung like a pendulum toward his window. Before she got there though he gathered some of his things, and with a twist of his ring he was gone. The teleportation spell engulfed him, and sent him safely to Blackstaff Tower’s reception hall. When he could muster enough breath to move, he lurched up the curving staircase to the archmage’s private chambers. Matthew was not at home, nor was his lover the mage Jason.
The Harper hurried back down the stairs, and flung himself into the chair at a small writing table. He scratched a quick note to his brother telling him what had happened in Tethyr. Jeffrey cast a spell that made the paper float at eye level near the room’s entrance. For good measure, he placed an aureole of sparkling purple lights around the parchment, so that Matthew could not fail to see it upon his return.
Jeffrey strode out of the tower and through the second invisible door that allowed passage out of the polished Blackstone wall surrounding it. At a brisk pace he headed toward the townhouse he’d recently purchased. There he could discard his packages and change his purple clothes. Jeffrey was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he gave scant attention to others on the crowed street. He hurried past an alley and bumped heavily into a solid frame. Strong hands caught the Harper’s shoulders and held him at arms length. Jeffrey focused his attention on the smiling face of his friend and fellow nobleman, Ron Cassalanter. The man was a few years older than Jeff’s eight and twenty, also taller and broader. He wore his dark black hair in several braids, and he had a warrior’s callused hands. Ron had long been city champion in the fighting arts. With difficulty, Jeffrey summoned the inane grin his friend would expect and pasted it firmly in place. “Well met, Ron. Fancy bumping into you, as you would say.”
The nobleman chuckled and released his grip. “Steady as you go, Jeff. The taverns have not been long open, and already you walk as though tacking to a changing wind.” Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Or are you ill? You don’t look yourself at all.”
“Sad to say, all I’m suffering from is a bit of a headache,” Jeff lied, pressing his fingers delicately to his temple. “You know you’re getting old when you feel this bad the day after you’ve had no fun the night before.” He paused, as if slightly dizzied by his own observation. “Or words to that effect.”
Ron laughed and clapped Jeff on the shoulder. “That’s my lad. You know the Lady Lori Thione, do you not? Lori my dear, I am remiss. Allow me to present my old friend Jeffrey Blackstaff. Despite his appearance, he is harmless!”
Jeffrey turned his attention to the woman at Ron’s side. She was dressed in a gown of rich purple and crowned by gleaming raven black hair arranged in thick coils about her shaped head. Her dark eyes observed Jeff with a touch of amusement. Jeff stifled a sigh. He was not going to escape his memories of Tethyr. Lori Thione was a prominent member of Watergate society, and as a distant relative of Tethyr’s ousted royal family. Jeffrey disliked this sort of posturing, but he knew the rules of the court behavior and could follow them as well as any. He took Lori’s hand and bowed deeply.
“Ron is a fool, dear lady. Where a beautiful woman is concerned, no man should be considered harmless.” He smiled at his friend, taking the threat from his words and leaving behind only the compliment.
“In that case, I’ll consider myself warned, and we’ll take our leave,” Ron said in a jovial tone, encircling Lori’s shoulders with one massive arm.
Jeff watched them go, noting the solicitous manner in which Ron bent over the noblewoman. So that is why Ron is lingering in Watergate rather than going off to seek adventure. Feeling very alone and in sudden need of a stiff drink Jeffrey ducked into the nearest tavern.
He regretted his choice immediately. The scent of rain washed forest greeted him, and the taproom’s roof soared up at least five stories to accommodate the live tree’s that grew here and there in the room. Gentle, floating motes of blue light drifted among the clientele, who were almost exclusively elven. The reason for this was immediately clear; a pair of well-armed gold elf sentinels guarded the door like a pair of glowering bookends. They looked him over, considering.
“I know you,” one of them finally said. “You’re that… mage that was discussed in the last innkeeper’s guild meeting.” Jeff smiled at them in the most engaging fashion.
“You’ve obviously heard about that unfortunate incident at the Bleeding Through. Rest assured I’ve paid for the damage in full. Except for the dwarf’s beard, of course- hard to determine a market price on those, don’t you know- but it should grow back in, say, another decade or two. Not that the spell would effect any of your clients, of course; no one here appears to be bearded, so having ale suddenly turn to flame couldn’t set anyone’s beard afire. If I cast that spell, that is, which I am not.”
The elven guards seized Jeffrey by his elbows and spun him toward the door. From the corner of his eye, the Harper saw an ancient elf lift one long fingered hand in a peremptory gesture. Immediately the guards halted. The elf-marked by his fine white robes and platinum torque as a personage of some importance- whispered a few words to his hostess, Yaereene Ilbaereth. Her delicate face lit in a smile of genuine pleasure, and she came to meet Jeff with outstretched hands. The door guards melted away at her approach. Jeff noted this development with puzzlement. He had fully expected to be thrown out of the tavern, and indeed he had no wish to linger, but he could hardly ignore the regal elven woman who approached him.
Yaereene was tall and slender, with the silvery hair and eyes common to moon elves. She wore a sparkling gown that was alternately blue or green, for it changed colors to match the whim and color of the tiny faerie dragon perched on her shoulder. The creature grinned and flapped its gossamer wings as the pair approached, and its jeweled scales were echoed by fine blue topaz woven into the intricate silver mesh of the elf’s necklace.
“Welcome to Elfstone Tavern,” Yaereene said, holding out both hands to Jeffrey in a manner that is common to ladies of the Watergate court. It was a gracious gesture, accepting the human by his own custom. Jeffrey took her hands and kissed the slender fingers, and then responded in kind. Holding both hands, palms up, before him, he bowed low to her in a uniquely elven gesture of respect.
Yaereene’s smile widened and then turned into a delighted laugh when Jeff addressed the faerie dragon with a few words in its own tongue. In response, the tiny creature graciously craned its jeweled head to one side, allowing Jeff to scratch its neck as he would that of a house cat. Yaereene claimed Jeffrey’s arm and led him deeper into the taproom. “Tonight you are the guest of Evindal Duirsar, patriarch priest of Corellion Lathanian,” she said, indicating the aged elf who had interceded in Jeff’s behalf. “May we call on you later, after you have supped and shared a drink?”
“Of course,” Jeffrey replied graciously, although he hadn’t the slightest notion what he might be called upon to do.
The elven priest rose when the Harper approached, and after the rituals of greeting were accomplished the two settled down before a crystal decanter. “Do you drink elverquisst?” the priest asked.
“Only when available,” Jeffrey replied in a droll tone. Evindal Duirsar smiled and signaled for another goblet, which was immediately supplied by an elven servant, the priest’s mood was abruptly sobered, and he leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice. “My son in Erlan Duirsar, lord of Coyote Forest. He has told me of your service to the elven people.”
“I see,” Jeff settled back in his chair, uncertain of how to proceed. Two years earlier, he helped secure Evermeet, The island homeland and last retreat of the elves, by moving the magical gate from the elven settlement known as Coyote Forest to a more secure, secret location. He has no idea how wide spread this knowledge was, but judging from Yaereene’e reception and the number of gracious nods the elven patrons had sent his way, it was a secret poorly kept. “I suppose that would explain my welcome here.” Jeffrey concluded.
“Not at all.” Evindal shook his head adamantly. “Few know what transpired in Coyote Forest. You are welcome here for other reasons.” The elven priest chuckled and gestured toward the middle of the taproom. There sat a flaxen-haired elf maid, playing upon an autoharp and singing. Jeffrey recognized the tune, an air himself had written. The song likens the magical mist that surrounded and protected Coyote Forest to an elusive lover, and although it was popular with Jeff’s ear the words were trite and overly sentimental. He deliberately had written it so. Why would such a thing be sung by the music loving elves, even translated as it was into elfish?
“That is a lovely song,” Evindal said admiringly.
“It must have gained something in the translation,” Jeff murmured.
Evindal smiled. “Such modesty in a bard is refreshing.” He rose from the table. “I’m afraid my duties call me back to the temple, but please stay as long as you wish. Call on me anytime, for the people owe you a great debt.”
Jeffrey lifted his goblet. “At the price of elverquisst, we should be even before the night is over.”
The priest chuckled as he walked out of the tavern. Jeffrey watched him go, a puzzled frown on his face.
“What are you doing here, besides marinating in elven spirits?”
Jeffrey jumped he looked up into the stern face of Matthew Blackstaff. As usual, the archmage was clad in simple, dark clothing, and wrapped in a fur-lined coat against the sea breeze that chilled Watergate’s nights, even now, in the midst of summer. Jeffrey was one of the few persons in Watergate not scared by the powerful wizard and he gestured cheerfully with his full goblet.
“Sit down brother. I’d ask you to join me in a glass-“
“But you doubt that we’d both fit.” The archmage finished the jest in a sour tone. “Save the nonsense, Jeff. We’ve more important matter’s to discuss.”
“Indeed.” The Harper spoke softly and met Matthew’s glare with a measured gaze of his own. “Let’s start with the most important matter: why was I going to be attacked by an elf? It looked like an elf anyways, but it had fangs like a coyote.”
The archmage was silent for a moment. Then he nodded toward the decanter of elverquisst. “A mage of your potential has no business drinking anything so powerful. Magic demands keen wits and a clear mind.”
Jeffrey’s eyes narrowed. “I am in full possession of my wits thank you- such as they are- you are avoiding the question.”
The archmage studied the wall opposite of him. “You were trained in music, and well trained am I right?”
“Many years ago.” Jeff said absently, puzzled by the way the discussion had taken. “Why?”
“The Harper’s require the services of a human bard. At present you are the only one available.”
“I don’t like where this is leading. I’m supposed to pass myself off as a bard? On the strength of what?”
Matthew nodded to the elven singer. “That for example.”
Jeffrey marshaled his befuddled senses and focused on the ballad. It was a lovely, vaguely familiar melody. He knew just enough elfish to make out something about an vampyric elf that can be summoned by singing. Then something about this elf could protect the innocent and kill the evil.
The archmage tossed some coins onto the table and rising to his feet. “You start tomorrow at sunrise; she is only vampyric at night. You will need to lure her and charm her. You’ll need travel supplies, an instrument or two- what is it you play, zither?”
“Lute.” Jeffrey replied absently. He had but little choice to follow his brother out of the tavern. It finally occurred to him what Yaereene had asked of him to do; it was common practice for a bard to play at any tavern or inn he visited. On the way out Jeffrey bowed to the proprietress, spreading his hands in gesture of helplessness as he indicated the glowering archmage. Yaereene forgave him with a gracious nod and Jeffrey hurried to match Matthew’s long stride.
“The first order of business is meeting your partner,” Matthew paused, “and your apprentice.”
“I have an apprentice?” Jeff said in a dazed tone.
“So she thinks, and I see no merit in convincing her otherwise. You will do well to have a skilled fighter at your side.”
Jeffrey realized that he was gaping like a beached carp. He closed his mouth and gave himself a brisk shake. “You mentioned something about an vampyric elf earlier, but I’d assumed you were jesting,” he cast a sidelong glance at his brother’s severe expression, then sighed heavily. “I guess I should have known better.”
“This mission requires someone with the knowledge of both music and magic,” Matthew continued. “Elves can not charm this vampyric elf she is immune to their charms. She is lured in by human bards only. You must befriend her and charm her to see what she knows about the other vampires and also to join you in seeking them out to kill them.”
