Now the Mound Folk danced. Their sullenness vanished, compelled away by the music, and their feet became light. They formed their ranks on the ground, not in the air, and kept their motions on a single plane, but they were abandoned in their sheer joy of motion. The elves scintillated as they turned, and their damsels glowed. They spun into convoluted patterns that nevertheless possessed the beauty of organization. They flung out and in; they kicked their feet in unison; the elves swung the maids and the maids swung the elves; they threaded their way through each other in a tapestry of ever-increasing intricacy. There were no tosses or acrobatic swings, merely synchronized patterns that coalesced into an artistic whole. Over and through it all passed the grandeur of the music of the Flute, fashioning from disparate elements an almost divine unity. It was not Stile’s skill so much as the talent bequeathed by the 1 perfect instrument; he could not shame it by delivering less than his ultimate.
Stile saw that the fog was lifting and thinning, as if dissipated by the music. The clouds roiled and struggled to free themselves of their confinement. He brought the recital to a close, and the dancing came to a neat halt as if it had been planned exactly this way. Again the Mound Folk stood still, but now they were smiling. Even the guards who had greeted Stile so inhospitably had relaxed their resentment.
“That was the loveliest music I ever did hear,” the Elder said. “It made our finest dance. Thou hast rare talent. Yet did the mountain not shake.”
“It did not shake,” Stile agreed, relieved.
“Thou art not the Foreordained.”
“Never did I claim to be.”
“Still, thou canst play marvelously well. If the Oracle decrees that the Flute be loaned to thee, it may be that we are constrained to oblige.”
“This I would appreciate,” Stile said, taking apart the instrument and returning it carefully to its case. “If thou dost trust me with it.”
But now the circled Mound Folk frowned and muttered. The roil of the clouds had stilled when the music stopped, but the disturbance seemed to have passed into the elves. “Nay, my people will not so lightly tolerate that. Perhaps if we borrowed thy service in exchange—“ The muttering subsided.
“I am willing to do what service I may,” Stile said. “But I can not remain here long. I have commitments elsewhere. I will need the Flute for a number of days, until the Unolympic.”
The muttering began again. “Desist this noise!” the Elder cried at the elves, annoyed. “We shall fashion a fair bargain or not part with the Flute.” He accepted the Flute-case from Stile; in this judgment, at least, he had not been mistaken. Stile had neither abused the Flute nor sought to retain it without permission. “Now get under cover before the cloud breaks!” There was little danger of that now, but the Mound Folk hurried away. Stile and the Lady returned inside the nearest mound with the Elder, while Neysa and Hinblue returned to their grazing.
“It could be said,” Pyreforge said after reflection, “that thou dost borrow the Flute only to bring it to the one for whom it is intended. The Foreordained.”
“But I do not know the Foreordained!”
“Then shalt thou quest for him.”
Stile understood the nature of the offer. Such a quest could take as long as he needed for the Flute. Yet it would have to be a true mission. “How could I know him?”
“He would play the Flute better than thee.”
“There may be many who can do that.”
“I think not. But thou wouldst send him to us, as we can not fare forth to seek him, and we would know by the tenor of the mountain his identity. If he played well, but was not the Foreordained, we at least would have the Flute back.”
“This seems less than certain. I think, at least for the acquiescence of thy people, I need to earn this borrowing. Thou didst mention two tasks, the lesser of which no man might perform. Yet I am Adept.”
“Canst thou wield a broadsword?”
“I can,” Stile replied, surprised.
“This task bears the threat of ugly death to any but the most skilled and persistent swordsman.”
“I have faced such threats before. I would feel more secure from them with the Flute in my hands and a broad-sword ready.”
“Assuredly. Then listen. Adept. There is beneath our Mound Demesnes and below our platinum mine, deep in a cave hewn from out of the Phazite bedrock, one of the Worms of the fundament, ancient and strong and savage and fiery.”
“A dragon!” Stile exclaimed.
“Even so. But not one of the ordinary reptiles of the southern marches beyond these mountains. This monster has slowly tunneled through the mountain range during all the time we have mined here. Now we have come within awareness of each other. The Worm be centuries old, and its teeth are worn and its heat diminished so that it can no longer consume rock as readily as in bygone centuries, yet it is beyond our means to thwart. It requires from us tribute—“
“Human sacrifice!” Stile exclaimed, remembering the threat the elves had made concerning the Lady Blue.
