Tales of Ravenloft

Song Snatcher

Larson had been a traveling bard for fourteen years, almost half his life, but none of the lands he'd visited could rival the dark beauty of Kartakass. From his perch aboard the riverboat's top deck, he had a fine view of the rugged landscape. Forests of deep, velvety pine covered much of the land, punctuated by a scattering of snug villages. In small, well-tended holdings, farmers wrested crops from rock-strewn soil. Watching over all were the Balinok Mountains. Purple clouds gathered around the craggy peaks even on the fairest of days, brooding over the mountains as if trying to fathom the secrets hidden within a labyrinth of caverns. Larson's hazel eyes drank in the wild beauty with an appreciation that was deep and passionate. He sang softly to himself as the riverboat made its way north.

The sun hung low over the mountains when the village of Skald Finally came into view. The young bard let out a whoop of delight at the sight of his long-awaited goal. Grabbing a passing sailor by the waist, he spun her around the deck in an exuberant dance. After her first startled shriek and salty oath, the woman fell into step with the ease of frequent practice.

"And what might we be celebrating this time?" she demanded when the dance spun to a finish.

"What else?" replied Larson gaily. "We're almost to Skald!"

The sailor turned and squinted upriver. High stone walls surrounded the town and cast long shadows onto the silver water. Beyond the walls loomed the ruins of an ancient, fire-ravaged keep. She harumphed and stepped back, folding her arms and regarding the young bard with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"Aye, that rubble heap has long been a favorite of mine, too," she said dryly. "Now get below, afore the night falls."

Larson grinned and picked up his viola da braccio, a small viol slightly longer than his forearm. "I'll go to my cabin," he agreed slyly," but only if you'll join me. You Kartakans need to stop fearing the nights and start enjoying them!" He tucked the instrument into the crook of his elbow and began to play a bawdy little ballad.

The sailor harumphed again and stalked off, trying to hide her amused chuckle. Larson blew her a kiss, then he brushed back a lock of his wind-tossed, dark hair and once again set his bow to the strings.

The sound of a single distant fiddle stilled his arm.

Larson lowered his viol and hurried to the rail. Tangled vines and bushes lined the shore and hid the musician from his view, but, oh, the music! Melody that throbbed with acute, searing pain, then soared into a wordless song of such hope and longing that even the gruff sailor paused to listen, her eyes moist with remembered dreams. Larson hummed along as best he could. When the song ended, he took up his viol and tentatively began to play. He captured most of the melody, if not the magic or the pathos. As he played, the haunting song again reached out to him from across the water, joining him in an impassioned duet.

The music faded into a moment's silence. Bushes parted near the shore, and a dark-eyed woman stepped out onto the rocks. A mass of black curls tumbled over her bared shoulders, and a battered gypsy fiddle was tucked under her arm. She smiled at her handsome partner. Larson returned the smile with a roguish wink and a courtly bow.

"When the moon rises, we will dance," she said casually. She turned and disappeared into the forest.

Larson shook his head in disbelief. "Am I dreaming, or was I just invited to a Vistana campfire?" he murmured incredulously. The gypsies — or Vistani, as they preferred to be called — were as wild and elusive as their music. They could not bear to remain within walls, nor would most villagers welcome them. Finding the camp would not be easy, but Larson vowed to try. Outsiders were seldom permitted into the Vistani's circle. An opportunity to learn Vistana music was nearly as precious as the one that had brought him to Skald.

In Kartakass, almost everyone sang. There were songs for all occasions, and each season had its own musical contests and festivals. For many months, Larson had been content to wander from village to village, collecting songs and stories. In recent months, however, all talk had turned to the spring festival at Skald. Of even greater interest to Larson was news of a notable bard and teacher who had retired to the village. Larson was eager to learn all he could from such a man.

As evening shadows crept over the river, other, even more elusive musicians began to sing. Mournful and mocking, the cry of wolves came from mountain caverns and forest glades. In Kartakass wolves were as plentiful as seabirds, and nearly as bold. The people lived in dread of night attacks. Even aboard ship, in the center of a broad river, no one felt truly safe. Each night torches were lit before the sun disappeared, and the crew set watch for any creature that might swim for the boat. Larson had never seen this happen, but many a night he had seen the eyes reflecting back torchlight from the not-too-distant shore. Sometimes they were so numerous that it seemed a cloud of watchful red fireflies stalked them along the river.

The sky had faded to silver when Larson's boat docked at Skald. Dock hands sang as they secured the boat. The urgent rhythm of their work song sped their movements in a race against the approaching darkness.

Larson joined the stream of latecomers hurrying for the city gates. Once inside Skald, he made his way down the cobblestone streets, taking in his new surroundings with the trained eye of a storyteller. He saw little to suggest the presence of a festival. Skald looked much like any other large village: rows of sturdy wooden structures topped by thatched roofs and decorated only with bright blue or green shutters. The buildings huddled together, silent and wary. Each narrow window was shuttered and barred from inside, so tightly that not a bit of light escaped.

Then he turned a corner, and the Fireside Feeshka Inn shone like a beacon in the center of a large, stone-paved courtyard. The inn was a vast and sprawling complex, crafted of thick stone and crowned with deep red tiles. Light streamed from its narrow, tiny-paned windows, and the sound of music and laughter beckoned Larson.

Inside the inn, chaotic merriment ruled. A dozen or so musicians played a reel. Everywhere small circles of dancers kept time with the rollicking tune. Even the doves perched on the steeply pitched rafters broke into occasional swirling flight. Barmaids with wheat-colored braids carried trays laden with mugs and steaming trenchers of beet soup. The air was fragrant with the mixed tang of borscht, sourdough bread, and meekulbrau, a bitter local brew distilled from berries. Small tables were scattered here and there so that patrons could enjoy the simple fare in comfort. On one of these tables, a woman danced in an uninhibited testimony to the meekulbrau's potency. Larson smiled and began to ease his way through the crowd toward the bar.

There was but a single discordant note to mar the revelry. Near the bar, a solitary man slumped over a table, staring at his hands. Larson noticed a glint of silver between the man's fingers. As he took a stool at the bar, Larson studied the lone figure with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. His face was sharp-featured and strikingly handsome, but lacking animation, with skin nearly as pale as the thick, graying blond hair that spilled carelessly over his shoulders. He did not move; he barely breathed.

The barkeep tapped the meekulbrau Larson ordered and slid the mug toward the bard with a flourish. Larson thanked him and nodded toward the solitary man.

"Who is that? "

"Him? That's old Quintish."

This news turned Larson's first sip of meekulbrau into a sputtering cough. "Not the bard Quintish!" he said, as soon as he could speak.

"See you anyone here who isn't a bard?" the barkeep retorted. "Even I've been known to tell a tale or two. "He raised a single eyebrow, inviting further inquiry.

"I hope you'll share your stories with us," the young man murmured absently. He left his mug on the bar along with a few coins, and hurried over to the bard's table.

Larson made his introductions with a deep bow. "I have been searching for someone like you for years, Master Quintish. "He nodded to the empty chair. "May I?"

He waited politely for a response. When none seemed forthcoming, he took the empty seat and carefully placed his viol on the table. Quintish's eyes settled on the instrument, and he gently stroked the polished wood with fingers that were tapered and supple. "What do you want from me?" he asked without looking up.

The voice was a thin, dry whisper, and Larson struggled to hide his dismay. This was the master he had long sought?" Will we have the honor of hearing you sing later this evening?" he asked tentatively, hoping he had been misinformed.

Quintish turned his gaze to the tavern window, as if an answer could be found there. The sky had darkened to black velvet, and the moon had yet to rise. "No, you won't hear me," he said emphatically.

The man's voice was stronger this time, and in it Larson heard the resonant bass timbre for which the bard Quintish was famed. The young man leaned forward eagerly. "If you no longer perform, Master, surely you still teach?"

Regret — the first emotion that Quintish had shown — flickered in his eyes. "No, no more students. "As if eager to end the discussion, he resumed his study of the silver object.

Larson glanced at it, wondering if therein lay the key to the bard's strange behavior. He held out a hand. "I'm very fond of silver jewelry. May I see it?"

Quintish's hand clenched possessively, and for the first time he met Larson's eyes. He recoiled, as if shocked by the unfamiliar act of making contact. Larson smiled encouragement, and after a moment the older bard relaxed. His eyes seemed to take on more focus, and he handed his treasure to Larson.

It was a small locket. Larson opened it to find a skillfully rendered miniature of a woman. The painting was faded by the passage of years, but Larson could see that she was a Vistana, a beauty with rippling dark hair and enormous black eyes.

"My Natalia," the bard said simply. "She died one night bearing my son. The babe followed his mother ere morning broke."

"I'm sorry," Larson said awkwardly. There seemed nothing to add. He closed the locket and handed it back.

Quintish nodded acknowledgment, and a strange light dawned in his eyes. "I'm going to her soon," he said with certainty.

"But you said — "Larson broke off, for the bard was no longer listening. As he studied the older man, he noted that Quintish apparently paid little heed to much of anything but his ancient sorrow. Not only was the master bard distracted and unkept, he was painfully thin.

Larson caught a passing barmaid's elbow. He ordered borscht and bread for Quintish, and asked for an empty goblet. When the meal came, Larson produced a small flash from his travel bag.

"This is a specialty from my homeland," he said cheerfully. "In the monastery where I trained, the priests kept bees and brewed a fine mead — dry and full and scented with raspberries. "Larson carefully poured a measure of the brew and, cupping Quintish's hands around the goblet with his own, he helped him take a sip.

The strong drink seemed to rally Quintish, for he emptied the goblet and avidly devoured the soup. When the meal was finished, however, the older bard turned his attention back to the locket. Larson made a few attempts at conversation. Finally, regretfully, he crept away and left Quintish to his sorrowful meditation.

"That was kindly done," observed a silver-toned voice at his elbow.

Larson spun and looked into a woman's upturned face. Like most natives of Kartakass, she had fair hair and delicate features. Her pale face was dominated by dark blue eyes, as vivid as violets blooming in snow. She nodded toward the grieving bard.

"It is a sad thing. At last winter's solstice, Master Quintish was brilliant. Now he has forgotten all he knew of music and lore. What is left for such a man?" she said with deep compassion.

"Has he seen no physician, no priest?"

The girl gave a short burst of humorless laughter. "There are few of either in Kartakass."

Larson thought of the pendant he wore under his tunic: the symbol of Oghma, patron of bards. It had been given him in his tenth year, when he first came to train at the monastery. "Perhaps I can do something for him."

Her smile brought rare loveliness to her face. "I wouldn't be surprised. Such compassion is rare in this land. You are different from most men of Kartakass," she mused. Her violet eyes searched his face. "You haven't the look of a Kartakan. From whence have you come?"

Larson paused, wondering how best to answer this. "I came from a land called Cormyr," he said slowly. "How far it is from here, I do not know. As a scholar and bard, I travel much. One day while I was rowing a skiff, a strange mist covered the river. When it lifted, I found myself — "

Slender fingers sealed his lips, cutting off his words. "We have many superstitions in Kartakass," she said lightly, but there was real fear in her eyes. "It is best not to speak of such things within walls."

"Ah. "Larson bowed an apology. "But dancing is permitted? "

"Encouraged," she responded with a smile.

Ellamir — for that was her name — was graceful in his arms, and as they danced, her expressive eyes warmed with invitation and promise. Larson knew he should thank Oghma for his good fortune, but his gaze kept straying to the table where Quintish sat. The older bard listened to the dance music with a mixture of puzzlement and longing on his ravaged face.

When the dancers stopped, happy and exhausted, they settled down to drink and listen to the singing of ballads. Two tales were sung, then someone called for Ellamir. Murmurs of approval and anticipation rippled through the crowd as she picked up a small harp and made her way to the center of the circle.

She put her slender hands to the strings. A sad silver melody flowed from her fingers, and then another, and then the two entwined in a complex, compelling dance. Larson had never acquired more than the bare rudiments of the instrument, but he considered himself a fair judge of harpers. Seldom had he heard Ellamir's equal. Despite her youth, she was a harper of uncanny skill.

Then, when Larson was convinced that never had music been so exquisite, Ellamir began to sing. Her silvery soprano floated through the room like the chime of fairy bells. He listened entranced, forgetting for the moment even his concern for Master Quintish.

Then the words of Ellamir's song caught Larson's attention. It was a woman's lament for a lost love, a bard who had scorned her. She died, but her obsession did not. From her shattered dreams rose the Lhiannan shee —

"Silence!"

The indignant baritone command shattered the silvery web of Ellamir's song. The village meistersinger leapt to his feet, his blond mustache quivering with rage. Many of the bards in the circle shifted uncomfortably. Some made signs of warding. Ellamir's hands dropped to her lap, and two bright spots of color flamed on her pale face.

Larson cleared his throat to break the uneasy silence. "I am a stranger here," he said slowly," but I don't see how Ellamir has done wrong! The song was lovely and her voice superb, even by the high standards of Kartakass."

"It is not her bardcraft that we fault," the meistersinger said severely," but her judgment."

"But what is a. . lanan she, that you fear it so? "

"Enough! That is something of which a bard should never speak. In this land we have a saying: Be careful what you call, for you might receive an answer!"

"Wise advice," Larson said gravely, but he caught Ellamir's eye and winked. A small, grateful smile touched her lips.

Hoping to change the mood of the crowd, Larson rose to his feet and lifted high a mug of meekulbrau. He then drained the bitter brew without coming up for air.

"Feeshka!" he shouted, and tossed the empty mug to a burly, sandy-whiskered balalaika player. The man caught the mug, accepting the challenge with a grin. In the language of Kartakass, "feeshka" meant "little lies", and these tall tales were a passion in this land of long winters and dreaded nights.

As the evening wore on, many mugs were drained and tossed as the bards strove to outdo each other in absurd storytelling. Larson was delighting the crowd with a ribald story of elves and satyrs when he saw Quintish rise abruptly. With quick, fevered movements the older man made his way toward the back door, and then out into the night.

Larson improvised a quick ending to this tale, then he slipped away to follow the bard. The courtyard was brightly lit, but Quintish was not to be seen. The only sign that the bard had passed through was the sharp staccato of boots on cobblestone. The sound was fading away quickly.

For a moment Larson paused, uncertain what to do. Calling for help would be effort wasted, for few Kartakans would venture outside during the night. Yet he could not let the bard wander alone. Taking a deep breath, Larson sprinted off in pursuit.

The city walls shrouded the streets in shadow. A scant half-moon had crested the mountains, but it cast little light. Larson ran as fast as he dared through the dark streets. Once, he stumbled over something he sincerely hoped was a night-prowling cat. Then the sound of Quintish's footsteps stopped, and the city was eerily silent. Larson was beginning to despair when he heard the shriek of wood against wood. He raced down an alley toward the sound.

There was Quintish, heaving at a thick board barring a door in the city wall. Before Larson could reach the bard, the door gave way and Quintish was off. He hurried through the field, as unerring and unwitting of his surroundings as a sleepwalker.

A distant howl sliced through the night, and again Larson hesitated. He remembered the Vistana camp that lay nearby. For some reason, wolves seemed to avoid gypsies. Armed with that scant assurance, Larson followed the older bard through the field and into the forest.

Quintish came to rest in a clearing, a place of quiet and unearthly beauty. Faint moonlight played on the ripples of a small stream, and moss formed an inviting, velvety cushion along the banks. Larson crouched behind a copse of trees some hundred paces away, waiting to see what had lifted the master bard from his strange lethargy.

A dark-haired woman stepped lightly into the clearing. She was a compelling beauty with an oddly familiar face. Recognition hit Larson like a fist, and he sucked in a quick, startled breath. It was the woman in the locket, the long-dead Vistana whom Quintish mourned!

Larson watched, barely breathing, as Quintish buried his hands in the rippling mass of the woman's hair and drew her close. She pulled playfully free of the bard's embrace and leapt onto a rock in the middle of the stream. There she seated herself, arranging her skirts seductively as she spoke words that Larson could not hear.

Quintish began to sing, and his celebrated bass voice lifted in a wrenching declaration of love that seemed torn from the fabric of his soul. Larson listened with awe and longing. Only once before had he heard such a fevered, passionate song. It ended far too soon. The raven-haired beauty leaned toward her bard, offering a kiss in reward for the tribute.

A cloud passed over the moon, casting the clearing into darkness and granting the lovers a moment's privacy. When the cloud passed, the woman was gone.

Quintish lay face down in the stream.

Larson leapt up and ran into the clearing. He dragged the bard onto the mossy bank and turned him onto his back. A silver chain caught the moonlight as it slid from the master bard's limp fingers. Larson picked up the locket and absently thrust it into his own pocket. He bent down and put his ear to Quintish's chest. The bard's breathing was shallow, his heartbeat weak and slow. Larson shouldered the older man and half-ran, half-staggered back toward Skald. Urgency quickened his steps: he had come too far to lose Quintish now!

It took all Larson's eloquence to persuade the owner of the Fireside Feeshka to open the door for them. Once they were inside, the village meistersinger took over. He had Quintish carried to his room, and the inn's herbalist roused from slumber. Many suspicious glances were sent Larson's way, but he answered questions with a frank, open manner. He told them that he'd been distressed by the bard's confused state of mind and unwilling to let him wander alone in the night. He described the gypsy woman, but out of respect for Quintish he omitted the tale of a long-lost love. When all the questioners were satisfied, Larson hurried upstairs and took up a vigil outside the master bard's door.

It was there that Ellamir found him. She had listened to Larson's story with a growing sense of dread. Quintish had once shown her a picture of his long-dead wife, and the Vistana woman Larson described sounded far too much like Natalia for Ellamir's peace of mind. The words of her own song haunted her, and she felt as guilty as if she had summoned —

"A Lhiannan shee," she breathed.

Ellamir shook her head in self-recrimination. Why had she not seen it sooner? It would explain the strange malady that had stolen Quintish's songs and drained him of life. Sometimes called the Ghost of Obsession, a Lhiannan shee was an undead vampiric spirit that feasted upon living bards. The creature could appear in any form that might appeal to its chosen victim, usually that of a beautiful woman or half-elf. Once enspelled, a bard could think of nothing but his nightly meetings with his love. An enthralled bard willingly, eagerly gave up his essence to the seductive creature, one kiss at a time.

A door creaked, and the herbalist stalked into the hall. Larson rushed forward and demanded news of the bard.

"Dead," the herbalist muttered as he brushed past Larson. "Poisoned."

Relief swept through Ellamir. Death by poison was a sad end to the master bard's life, but infinitely less fearsome than the one she had imagined. She turned to Larson. The naked anguish on his face stunned her.

The young bard sank to the floor. "Too late," he mourned. "To travel so far, all for naught!"

Ellamir knelt beside him and encircled his shoulders with her arms. "I share your loss," she said sincerely. "You cannot know what I have lost," Larson murmured through his hands. "All that Quintish knew, the wealth of songs and stories!"

An ugly murmur rose from the taproom below. Ellamir rose to her feet, her lovely face creased with worry. "What now?" she muttered, and quickly fled down the steps. She returned but a moment later. "Some of the men will go to the Vistana camp at first light to seek the woman you described. They will demand justice."

"Master Quintish is dead, for all that," Larson observed dully.

"And that is a great loss," she agreed. "Still it is not so grim as it might have been. "She quickly confided her fears to Larson. "Think of it! At a gathering such as this, a Lhiannan shee could choose any bard here as her next victim." Larson stared at her for a long moment. Slowly the light returned to his eyes. "Thank you, Ellamir," he said fervently, and drew her into his arms. "In my land we have a saying: There is no night so dark that morning will not come."

To a woman of Kartakass, such words of hope were as rare as roses in winter. At that moment, Ellamir lost her heart to this man, so different from anyone she had known. She framed Larson's face with her hands. "Morning will come, but not for a while," she whispered.

The sun's first rays stole across Ellamir's face, awakening her as if with a kiss. She stretched like a cat, smiling as she remembered. A moment passed before she realized that she was alone in Larson's room. Puzzled, she threw back the covers and quickly dressed.

Once she was in the taproom, however, Ellamir could not bring herself to ask anyone about Larson's disappearance. She could not bear the ribald jesting usually directed at festival liaisons. Reluctantly, she accepted an invitation to join several other bards for morningfeast. A sleep-eyed barmaid brought to their table small loaves of freshly baked bread, soft cheese, berries, and ale.

Ellamir broke open her loaf without much interest and idly watched the fragrant steam rise. As she lifted her eyes, she saw Larson walk through the front door. He seemed deeply distracted; she called his name several times before she got his attention. Instantly his charming, boyish smile lighted his face. He came over to the table and claimed half of Ellamir's loaf. While they shared morningfest, he regaled the group with amusing, irreverent stories of his early life in a monastery.

After all had eaten, the tables were cleared and pushed against the walls to make room for the dancing. One of their morningfest companions took up a viol and played the first few measures of a popular rondeau. He called for Larson to join in.

A puzzled expression flickered in Larson's eyes, so quickly that Ellamir was not entirely certain she had seen it. Surely she was wrong; after all, hadn't he played that very rondeau just the night before? Suddenly Ellamir thought of Quintish, and there was a horrifying logic to Larson's night-time walk and seeming forgetfulness. Ellamir's hand flew to her mouth. She held her breath and silently willed Larson to play the song, to dispel her fears.

But the young bard slipped an arm around Ellamir's waist and begged off, saying he preferred to dance.

"Don't you know that tune?" Ellamir prodded.

Larson dropped his arm. "If you don't care to dance, you need only tell me."

She drew back, startled by his harsh words. But Ellamir's passions ran deep, and her concern for Larson far outstripped her hurt. To her knowledge, no one had ever escaped the spell of a Lhiannan shee.

Ellamir recalled the night before, and her delicate face hardened with determination. Though she did not command the compelling magic of an undead spirit, she was, after all, a living woman. She would do what she could.

All that day, she remained at Larson's side. He was a charming companion, but as night approached he grew increasingly restive. In desperation Ellamir enticed him up to his room, hoping to detain him with wine and wiles.

Faint moonlight lit the bard's room, and he drew her close in a tender embrace. For the first time, Ellamir began to hope. When he handed her a goblet of mead, she drank deeply, savoring the ripe with the taste of summer fruit and the warmth of Larson's intense hazel eyes. Setting down the cup, she entwined her arms around her lover's neck. As he returned her kisses, she began to drift into a dark, sensuous haze. Larson lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

Her violet eyes drifted shut as he lowered her. With a sigh of relief, Larson eased out of her embrace. Once again the strong sedative in the raspberry mead had done its work. He only hoped that he had not misjudged the dose this time.

Larson began preparation for his next trip to the forest clearing, and every other consideration fled from his mind. All he could think of was the mysterious woman he had met there last night, and his aching compulsion to see her again. For the third time, he hurried out into the night.

She rose as he entered the clearing, and even though there was no wind, the gossamer layers of her gown swirled about her slender form. The woman looked a bit like Ellamir, but she far surpassed human beauty. Silvery hair, purple eyes, delicate features, and elegantly pointed ears proclaimed her fey race.

The lovely elf beckoned him close. Larson took her hand reverently, and it seemed to him that the scent of flowers rose from her cool satin skin. As she swayed closer to claim her second kiss from Larson, he steeled his will and drew a powerful amulet from his pocket. He raised it high. Blue light burst from the amulet, and the young priest of Oghma began to chant the words of a powerful sacred spell.

The elf's eyes widened in terror. She tried to wrench her hand away, but Larson's magic held her fast. The amulet in his hand hummed with power and silent song, and the lost, lilting dance tunes of the Kartakan festival flowed back into his mind. The elf began to dissolve as he reclaimed the songs she'd taken from him. Her features melted and flowed into a new shape. She writhed in anguish as her body became more lush and compact, and screamed when her silvery hair burst into a rippling, dark mass of curls. Suddenly, Larson found himself gripping the slender bronze wrist of a Vistana woman. The elf he had loved to the point of madness was gone. Though his heart nearly broke with grief, Larson continued to chant.

More music flowed into him: the aires, laments, and dances of Kartakass that embodied the essence of the bard Quintish. Again the Lhiannan shee changed form, this time into a beautiful, flame-haired vampiress. From her the bard wrested songs of passion and dark hunger that no human voice had ever sung. A dainty farm girl pleaded and wailed as Larson's magic drained from her the ancient tunes of a shepherd's pipes. A beautiful halfelven minstrel yielded up songs in a language Larson had never heard, but understood, nonetheless. On and on the magical battle raged as Larson took stolen songs from the undead creature.

The light of his amulet flared into an explosion of power that rocked the forest clearing and cast Larson to the ground. Through the thunderous roar, he heard the creature's cry of denial and rage. The magical force dissipated, and with it, the last incarnation of the Lhiannan shee.

For a long moment, Larson clutched the ground, dazed and nearly blinded. When he could draw breath, he groped for his amulet. The light and the power that had led him to the Lhiannan shee had faded; the creature was truly gone.

Larson remained in the clearing until the moon set behind the mountains and the sky flushed with the first pink of dawn. There he regained his strength and savored his triumph. Hundreds of stolen songs resounded through his mind, stretching it to limits of musicianship he had only imagined possible. Nearly all his life he had studied and stalked the Lhiannan shee, but nothing he'd learned in the monastery of Oghma had prepared him for this night.

He had first encountered a Lhiannan shee in his fifteenth year, when he heard a victim sing in the throes of enchantment. In that moment, the fledgling bard found his life's quest. He studied all the arcane lore on the Lhiannan shee, and his faithfulness — or, as some named it, his obsession — was rewarded by the priests with a holy amulet. With it, Larson could restore a bard's stolen essence. The first test of this power changed Larson's life.

One night some men brought an enspelled bard to the monastery, bound and drugged. Larson began the sacred chant, and felt for the first time the rush of music and power as the amulet reclaimed the bard's stolen essence. All the bard's songs, all his memories and experiences and tales, flooded Larson's mind with an intoxication greater than that of any wine. Drunk with the music, he willfully neglected to cast the last, vital part of the clerical spell, that which would restore the afflicted bard. Larson kept the stolen songs. The bard died, and his unknowing companions did not fault the young priest.

But one bard's life was not enough. From that day, Larson sought those who'd fallen under the spell of a Lhiannan shee. In ten years, he had found only one other. Then came the trip through the mists, to a land of dark enchantment that seemed uniquely suited to his purpose. Yet even in musical Kartakass, such creatures were rare. Quintish was the first afflicted bard Larson had found, and Larson had nearly ruined his chance with a too-generous dose of poisoned mead.

Ellamir's words the night before suggested another way. As she pointed out, the Lhiannan shee would seek a new victim. Why should Larson mourn the loss of an enspelled bard, when he could go directly to the source? Draining the Lhiannan shee had brought Larson success beyond his dreams, and more songs than anyone could learn in a lifetime.

But once again, Larson found that it was not enough. There was so much still to learn, so very much. Already he hungered for the kiss of another Lhiannan shee.

At first light Larson returned to the inn, deep in thought. He was startled by the sight of Ellamir in his bed. She sat up slowly, fighting off sleep and still groggy from the potent mead.

Quickly recovering his composure, he sauntered into the room and greeted her with a kiss. "I thought you would never awaken, my love," he said cheerily. "Too much wine last night, I fear."

He saw the relief cross her face, and suddenly he realized that she suspected his involvement with a Lhiannan shee. Well, there was one sure way to convince her that she was wrong.

Much later, they nestled in each other's arms and spoke of things that could be said at no other time. "I feared that I'd lost you," she confessed, a little shamefacedly. "First Quintish, and then it seemed that — "

Larson stilled her with a kiss. Ellamir was lovely and loving, but her intensity was becoming a bit much. The festival lasted but four days, and though Ellamir was a pleasing diversion, he had no interest in the enduring passion her violet eyes promised.

As if she sensed his thoughts, as if she feared her serious tone might be displeasing to the lighthearted youth, Ellamir gave him a gay smile and shook a finger at him in a teasing parody of warning.

"Do not toy with me, Sir Bard," she said with mock severity. "For I would surely die for love, and come back to haunt any lady you chose over me!"

Her words hit Larson with the force of inspiration. Once again, Ellamir had suggested a solution to his problem! He might not find another Lhiannan shee in Kartakass, but perhaps he could create one!

He doubted not that Ellamir's heart was his for as long as she lived. If all went well, after her death he could possess her songs, perhaps even her skill with the harp!

The young man's slow, charming smile returned to his face. He took both of Ellamir's hands, and fervently vowed his undying love for the talented, beautiful bard. But as he spoke, his eyes strayed to the table where stood his flask of raspberry mead.