Bladesinger

by Keith Strohm

  Unbalanced by the attack, the cleric was unable to fend off another strike from Borovazk’s axe. Bone crunched and shattered as the force of the blow knocked the half-orc back several steps. Taen could see the desperation carved now upon her face. She took another step back and weakly chanted a single phrase. Immediately a glowing circle appeared around her, coruscating with silver energy. The glow intensified as arcane power surged around her.

  Taen shouted a warning, sensing what was about to happen. If they didn’t do something in the next several heartbeats, their enemy would escape them. He ran toward the heavily wounded cleric, hoping that his enhanced speed would allow him to reach her in time. He was surprised, then, when Cavan’s furred form shot by him. The war-dog gave a deep growl as he launched himself toward the cleric. He struck the half-orc with the weight of his body, pushing her outside the confines of the circle.

  The gleaming circle faded.

  Taen reached the war-dog in time to see him savagely tear at the cleric’s throat. His hapless opponent struck out wildly with her claws, but the wicked blades merely rebounded off of the war-dog’s tough barding. With a single wet gurgle, the cleric’s body convulsed once then stilled.

  Taen fell to his knees and mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Year of the Serpent

  (1359 DR)

  Exile.

  Aelrindel sat in the darkness of his private chamber, letting that word echo ominously in his mind, as it had when spoken in the Hall of the Masters. The el’tael had deliberated carefully throughout the night, conscious of the delicacy of the matter before them. Although the facts as they had gleaned them from Andaerean and his cronies exonerated Taenaran as the antagonist behind the tragedy that occurred, the half-elf was still responsible for the death of another elf.

  Those masters who had opposed Taenaran’s entry into the ranks of the tael argued that such a horrifying event was a natural consequence of initiating an a Tel’Quessir into the art. Even those el’tael free from such prejudice had to acknowledge that Talaedra’s death flowed from the half-elf’s presence in the community.

  They had pronounced their judgment: Taenaran must go into exile.

  Aelrindel absently ran his fingers across the strings of the harp he now clutched close to his chest. The notes fell into darkness, brittle and out of tune. Taenaran’s exile was like a sword that pierced his heart. No father should have to witness the fall of his son. It was worse than death, watching the bright, brave spirit of his child crushed beneath the weight of guilt and shame.

  Grief shaped a bitter song that spilled out of the harp. A part of him wanted to stand up and announce that he, too, would go into exile. Thoughts of walking beside Taenaran, coaching and training him further, watching him grow into the hero he was destined to become, filled Aelrindel’s thoughts, but the bonds of his Oath shackled the First Hilt with cruel strength. He could not abandon his duty—his people.

  Even for love of his son.

  The rain had finally stopped falling upon the leaf-covered bower that formed the roof of his home when Aelrindel’s fingers stopped their grief-stricken dance across the harp’s strings. Silence hung heavily upon the night.

  Aelrindel kept vigil with it until the dawn.

  Taenaran knelt before his father.

  His head throbbed from the aftermath of the blow that had knocked him out, causing the walls of the chamber to shift and bend as his vision swam. As much as the wound upon the half-elf’s head pained him, it could not compare to the heart-rending ache of grief and loss that followed him even into his dreams.

  Talaedra was dead.

  Killed by his own hand, and he himself sent into exile. The masters had pronounced that fateful word even as they turned their backs to him as a symbol of his separation from the community. He had barely heard their judgment or any of their deliberations. Throughout the course of his trial, Taenaran had felt dislocated. Everything had filtered to him as if from a great distance. In that befuddling fog, he had spent time reflecting upon his past, his years spent among the tael, which had been the only time that really mattered to him, and came upon one inescapable conclusion: Everything that had happened since yesterday evening must be an illusion. This wasn’t his life—couldn’t be his life.

  Still the masters had decided upon exile. His father, overruled by the wisdom of the other el’tael, had been forced to do the same. Now he knelt before that same father, who had been both mentor and master, for the last time. Tears streamed down his face, making ragged tracks in the layers of dirt and dried mud that still covered his skin. He could see the long trail of tears mirrored on his father’s face. Aelrindel seemed older somehow, more frail. The commanding sparkle in his bright eyes flickered dully, its normally penetrating power muted and dimmed, as if the events of the past day had stolen something essential from his essence. Taenaran could see that his hands, which wielded both the deadly length of a blade and the subtle strings of a harp with equal facility, trembled as they reached out toward him.

  The sight of his father, diminished by grief, struck another blow at Taenaran’s heart. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. Shame locked them in his throat with a key he could not grasp. The half-elf struggled as one would struggle with the unfamiliar cadences of an ancient spell, but tongue and mouth would not form the proper sounds. Taenaran sobbed in frustration and threw himself into his father’s outstretched arms.

  As he felt Aelrindel’s arms tighten around him, the half-elf let out an inarticulate wail. He recalled every hateful word and spiteful action that he had endured during his life. Each memory brought with it a wave of anger, shame, and sadness that spilled out of him with racking sobs—and always Talaedra’s face hovered over him. Cradled in his father’s arms, Taenaran poured out that bitter cup of sorrow that had been his life, and Aelrindel drank of it, even to its dregs. The release of that emotion left Taenaran spent; his body trembled mutely as he leaned in silence against the comforting presence of his father. They sat there in silence for several moments.

  When at last Taenaran felt the trembling weight of his father’s hand upon his head, he pulled back and gazed at him through tear-reddened eyes. “I … I am so sorry,” he managed to say at last in a voice husky with grief. “I don’t know what happened and now”—he continued above his father’s whispered reassurances—“Talaedra is dead. Father,” Taenaran’s voice choked on that word, “I have killed the only friend I ever had and brought shame upon our house.”

  “No, my son,” Aelrindel spoke in a gentle tone, “it is I who am sorry, for I allowed my selfish pleasure at having a son blind me to the true pain that you were facing. I should have protected you more, stood up for you, but I was proud of your desire to become a bladesinger, and I wanted you to do it totally on your own, so that no one could accuse you of succeeding only because I was your father.”

  Taenaran shook his head, unwilling to allow his father to take any measure of responsibility. This was his failure and no one else’s. If he had been stronger somehow, more like a full-blooded elf, he could have avoided this fate, but his weakness had doomed him, and now he would wander the world in exile, separated from the only home that he had ever known.

  Aelrindel held him a moment longer then rose slowly to his feet. Taenaran watched his once-vibrant father struggle to stand, bowed beneath the weight of the shame that he had brought upon him.

  “Come,” the First Hilt said at last, reaching out a tremulous hand. “It is time.”

  Taenaran wiped his eyes and fought back a new wave of tears. “So soon?” he asked as he stood up.

  “I am afraid so, my son,” Aelrindel replied. “You must begin your exile before the noon sun hangs in the sky.” The First Hilt moved to the rear of the chamber and brought forth a bulky leather backpack and a worn scabbard. “I have made sure that you will have enough supplies to begin your journey,” he said, presenting the backpack to Taenaran.

  The half-elf nod
ded and reached out, grabbing the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Though it seemed somehow lighter than it should, considering the size, number, and shape of the bulges that distorted its shape, the backpack hung upon him like a lodestone. This was it. His life would now be forever changed—and it had happened in what seemed like an instant. He wanted to run back to the room he had occupied as a little child in this house and throw himself down upon the bed and cry, waiting for his father to come and tell him that everything would be all right.

  But it wouldn’t.

  He knew that with the startling certainty of one who had crossed the bright threshold of childhood and now walked the shadowed paths of the world. There would be no kindly parent to wipe away tears or kiss away hurt and pain. Where Taenaran walked, he walked alone.

  The half-elf was so lost in the dark turn of his thoughts that he didn’t grasp the significance of the weight in his right hand. He looked down and saw the well-oiled length of the scabbard Aelrindel had just offered him, and it took Taenaran a moment to recognize the worn red hilt for what it was.

  “This is your sword,” Taenaran said breathlessly, his previous thoughts forgotten—at least for the moment. “I cannot take this, Father. It’s—”

  “Nonsense,” Aelrindel said, sternness creeping into his voice for the first time. “This was my father’s sword, and his father’s sword, and his father’s sword before that, passed down to the firstborn son in our house since the founding of Cormanthor. You will carry this sword, and wherever you go, no matter how far into darkness you walk, this blade will serve you well.”

  Aelrindel reached out and clasped Taenaran’s shoulder. “Your whole life does not have to be this moment, my son. You are gifted and brave. You will become a powerful bladesinger and one day use all that you have been taught to help those in need. Like the heat from the forge, let this tragedy shape your life like a blade and not destroy it, and know that I am thinking of you each and every day.”

  With that, his father gathered Taenaran up into his arms once more. Tears welled up in the half-elf’s eyes, and this time he didn’t fight them. He didn’t know whether he could live as his father had predicted, but he had no choice but to try. Perhaps he would one day atone for his weakness and failure.

  “Thank you, Va,” he whispered into his father’s ear before gathering up his sword and backpack. When the moment finally came, father and son walked out of their house together and into the harsh light of the day.

  Together for the last time.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Marissa’s hand ached.

  The shackles holding her upright had bitten deep into her skin, tearing the flesh around her wrist. Even after several potions from her recovered backpack, the wound throbbed. She paid it little mind, however. Instead, she felt a rush of emotions wash over her as Taen and Borovazk knelt around a thin circle inscribed into the stone floor, trying to discern some way of activating the portal. Despite her fears to the contrary, the half-elf had managed to rescue her. He wasn’t dead, or worse, some undead minion in her former captor’s army. Rillifane had heard her prayers and blessed her, guiding Taen to where she hung, imprisoned and despairing. He had come for her, lifted her out of the darkness. Every moment she saw his face, lips pursed and eyes intently staring as he concentrated on solving the riddle of the magic portal, Marissa had to remind herself that this wasn’t a dream.

  “I see that you are feeling a bit better,” Roberc remarked.

  The halfling had tired of trying to force the portal to give up its secrets and had made his feelings well known before starting to search the length and breadth of the grim gray walls of the room. He stared at Marissa with a frank, searching gaze.

  “I am feeling much better, thank you, Roberc,” she responded with a genuine smile.

  Marissa no longer found her companion’s directness unnerving or threatening, as so many others did. In fact, the druid found a certain rude comfort in Roberc’s intense demeanor. It was familiar and solid, like the stones on an oft-traveled path.

  “I’m glad,” he said in his usual brusque tone, though Marissa could hear the genuine concern that lurked beneath the halfling’s gruff exterior. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the rest of our little tour. Besides, we’re counting on you and your staff to give us a hand against the damned hag.”

  At the mention of the Staff of the Red Tree, Marissa nearly leaped to her feet. “Where—” she exclaimed and cast frantically around the room looking for it. In her relief at being rescued, she had forgotten all about the staff. When she finally located it, lying on a smooth shelf along the wall, the druid wanted to weep.

  She walked toward the staff slowly, despite her excitement at finding it. The druid would have run, but a sense of torpor had taken root somewhere deep within her. Marissa hadn’t lied to Roberc. She was feeling much better—physically. The scars of her torment, however, went beyond flesh. The hag and her dark priestess had taken something from Marissa. The chill of her captivity had sucked something essential from the marrow of her spirit. Here beneath the citadel, trapped in the cold embrace of the earth, the half-elf felt half alive. She longed for the touch of sunlight and the caress of a spring breeze the way a wounded falcon longs for open sky and the touch of warm air upon its pinions.

  When at last she reached the staff, Marissa hesitated before reaching out to touch it. It lay quiescent, silent for the first time since she held it beneath the shadow of the Red Tree. The druid recalled the layers of spells that her captors had woven over the captive artifact. She was no expert in arcane magic, but she knew the ways of the gods, and it seemed to Marissa’s senses that the dark priestess had held the foundation for the “house” of spells that they had built. With the half-orc cleric’s death, the house simply collapsed.

  Or so she hoped.

  Reaching out at last to the seemingly inert length of wood, Marissa carefully picked up the staff and cradled it in her hand. The moment her fingers closed around the length of wood, she felt an explosion of power. Light filled the room as waves of arcane energy radiated from the staff. Marissa knew that she had fallen to the ground, buffeted by the power of the staff, yet she felt nothing. The now-familiar voice of the artifact buzzed in her mind, swelling angrily as it searched through her memories, recalling what she had experienced during their absence. At times, she felt as if it clucked angrily at her, the way a mother hen would chide her chicks when they had drawn near something dangerous. She would have laughed at that, but three sets of hands grabbed her and lifted Marissa to her feet.

  “Is little witch, all right?” she heard Borovazk’s deep voice rumble at her.

  She concentrated on the sound, and all at once the voice of the staff fell to a tremulous whisper. When she looked around, once more in control, Marissa saw all of her companions gathered around gazing anxiously upon her.

  Taen’s eyes were narrowed, his mouth pinched with obvious concern. “We heard you cry out and fall to the ground,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “The staff and I were just getting reacquainted. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  Grasping the staff, Marissa climbed to her feet. The room threatened to spin out of control for just a moment then righted itself. For the first time since her rescue, she noticed the absence of her avian companion and sudden fear for the little creature rushed through her body.

  “Where … where is Rusella?” she asked.

  The others all looked at her with the same mask of concern on their faces, but it was Taenaran, at last, who spoke. “We don’t know,” he said gently. “She flew away when you were taken on the bridge. I wouldn’t worry too much; if anyone can find a way out of here, it would be her.” He reached out to her and grasped her shoulder gently. “Rusella will probably be waiting for us when we leave this place.”

  Marissa wasn’t as certain, but she offered a prayer for Rusella’s safety
just the same. If anything happened to her companion, she would never forgive herself. Then, to draw some of the attention away from her, she asked, “How are we coming with the circular inscription?”

  Marissa watched the half-elf’s face fall into a frown. Taen ran slender fingers over his head before answering.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m sure that the circle functions as a teleportation device, and I’m reasonably certain that there are no hidden arcane traps upon it. I only wish I knew where it might lead.”

  Roberc stepped forward, finishing off a draught of wine before speaking. “Marissa, do you remember anyone else besides the half-orc using the portal?” he asked.

  She thought about it for a moment, only partially successful in repressing a shudder at the dark memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life. “I … I think so,” she answered hesitantly at first then, “yes, I do remember. Most of the time, the hag walked through the doors and back into the citadel, but several times after … longer … sessions, she would use the circle.”

  “Does little witch know where hag go?” Borovazk asked.

  Marissa shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, “all I can remember her saying was that she needed to go back to the cave. If the portal leads there, then perhaps we can use it to surprise her.”

  “If she’s there,” Roberc said.

  “There is that small detail,” Taen commented.

  The druid thought some more, trying to recall her last session with the hag. “If I’m remembering correctly, Chaul used the circle during our last session. She might still be wherever that portal leads.”

  “Little friend speaks truly,” Borovazk said, “if evil one not have another way in to the Rashemar.”

  “It’s a better lead than we’ve had,” Roberc growled, “and besides, it beats slogging through this dank place, cutting our way through wave after wave of ghouls and goblins.”