GUENHWYVAR
R. A. Salvatore
Josidiah Starym skipped wistfully down the streets of Cormanthor, the usually stern and somber elf a bit giddy this day, both for the beautiful weather and the recent developments in his most precious and enchanted city. Josidiah was a bladesinger, a joining of sword and magic, protector of the elvish ways and the elvish folk. And in Cormanthor, in this year 253, many elves were in need of protecting. Gob-linkin were abundant, and even worse, the emotional turmoil within the city, the strife among the noble families—the Starym included—threatened to tear apart all that Coronal Eltargrim had put together, all that the elves had built in Cormanthor, greatest city in all the world.
Those were not troubles for this day, though, not in the spring sunshine, with a light north breeze blowing. Even Josidiah’s kin were in good spirits this day; Taleisin, his uncle, had promised the bladesinger that he would venture to Eltargrim’s court to see if some of their disputes might perhaps be worked out.
Josidiah prayed that the elven court would come back together, for he, perhaps above all others in the city, had the most to lose. He was a bladesinger, the epitome of what it meant to be elven, and yet, in this curious age, those definitions seemed not so clear. This was an age of change, of great magics, of monumental decisions. This was an age when the humans, the gnomes, the halflings, even the bearded dwarves, ventured down the winding ways of Cormanthor,
past the needle-pointed spires of the free-flowing elvish structures. For all of Josidiah’s previous one hundred and fifty years, the precepts of elvenkind seemed fairly defined and rigid; but now, because of their Coronal, wise and gentle Eltargrim, there was much dispute about what it meant to be elvish, and, more importantly, what relationships elves should foster with the other goodly races.
“Merry morn, Josidiah,” came the call of an elven female, the young and beautiful maiden niece of Eltargrim himself. She stood on a balcony overlooking a high garden whose buds were not yet in bloom, with the avenue beyond that.
Josidiah stopped in midstride, leapt high into the air in a complete spin, and landed perfectly on bended knee, his long golden hair whipping across his face and then flying out wide again so that his eyes, the brightest of blue, flashed. “And the merriest of morns to you, good Felicity,” the bladesinger responded. “Would that I held at my sides flowers befitting your beauty instead of these blades made for war.”
“Blades as beautiful as any flower ever I have seen,” Felicity replied teasingly, “especially when wielded by Josidiah Starym at dawn’s break, on the flat rock atop Berenguil’s Peak.”
The bladesinger felt the hot blood rushing to his face. He had suspected that someone had been spying on him at his morning rituals—a dance with his magnificent swords, performed nude—and now he had his confirmation. “Perhaps Felicity should join me on the morrow’s dawn,” he replied, catching his breath and his dignity, “that I might properly reward her for her spying.”
The young female laughed heartily and spun back into her house, and Josidiah shook his head and skipped along. He entertained thoughts of how he might properly “reward” the mischievous female, though he feared that, given Felicity’s beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved in—not now, not after Eltargrim’s proclamation and the drastic changes.
The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor’s west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of danger—might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down? — that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.
Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltar-grim’s proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cor-manthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it.
And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders’s help.
And Josidiah held no illusions about it—if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.
This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.
“Anders,” he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen candles had just been extinguished within it. “Old fool, are you about?”
A feral growl put the bladesinger on his guard; his swords were in his hands in a movement too swift for an observer to follow.
“Anders?” he called again, quietly, as he picked his way along the corridor, his feet moving in perfect balance, soft boots gently touching the stone, quiet as a hunting cat.
The growl came again, and that is exactly when Josidiah knew what he was up against: a hunting cat. A big one, the bladesinger recognized, for the deep growl resonated along the stone of the hallway.
He passed by the first doors, opposite each other in the hall, and then passed the second on his left.
The third—he knew—the sound came from within the third. That knowledge gave the bladesinger some hope that this situation was under control, for that particular door led to Anders’s alchemy shop, a place well guarded by the old wizard.
Josidiah cursed himself for not being better prepared magically. He had studied few spells that day, thinking it too fine and not wanting to waste a moment of it with his face buried in spellbooks.
If only he had some spell that might get him into the room more quickly, through a magical gate, or even a spell that would send his probing vision through the stone wall, into the room before him.
He had his swords, at least, and with them, Josidiah Starym was far from helpless. He put his back against the wall near to the door and took a deep steadying breath. Then, without delay—old Anders might be in serious trou-ble—the bladesinger spun about and crashed into the room.
He felt the arcs of electricity surging into him as he crossed the warded portal, and then he was flying, hurled through the air, to land crashing at the base of a huge oaken table. Anders Beltgarden stood calmly at the side of the table, working with something atop it, hardly bothering to look down at the stunned bladesinger.
“You might have knocked,” the old mage said dryly.
Josidiah pulled himself up unceremoniously from the floor, his muscles not quite working correctly just yet. Convinced that there was no danger near, Josidiah let his gaze linger on the human, as he often did. The bladesinger hadn’t seen many humans in his life—humans were a recent addition on the north side of the Sea of Fallen Stars, and were not present in great numbers in or about Cormanthor.
This one was the most curious human of all, with his leathery, wrinkled face and his wild gray beard. One of Anders’s eyes had been ruined in a fight, and it appeared quite
dead now, a gray film over the lustrous green it had once held. Yes, Josidiah could stare at old Anders for hours on end, seeing the tales of a lifetime in his scars and wrinkles. Most of the elves, Josidiah’s own kinfolk included, would have thought the old man an ugly thing; elves did not wrinkle and weather so, but aged beautifully, appearing at the end of several centuries as they had when they had seen but twenty or fifty winters.
Josidiah did not think Anders an ugly sight, not at all. Even those few crooked teeth remaining in the man’s mouth complemented this creature he had become, this aged and wise creature, this sculptured monument to years under the sun and in the face of storms, to seasons battling goblinkin and giantkind. Truly it seemed ridiculous to Josidiah that he was twice this man’s age; he wished he might carry a few wrinkles as testament to his experiences.
“You had to know it would be warded,” Anders laughed. “Of course you did! Ha ha, just putting on a show, then. Giving an old man one good laugh before he dies!”
“You will outlive me, I fear, old man,” said the blade-singer.
“Indeed, that is a distinct possibility if you keep crossing my doors unannounced.”
“I feared for you,” Josidiah explained, looking around the huge room—too huge, it seemed, to fit inside the
