'Damn the signs, Faelyn. I know them well: 'Born from battle, bad for luck.' Those are nothing but superstition,' Aelrindel said with finality.
Inwardly, though, he sighed. Faelyn was right. No one had ever brought an outsider to the community, yet what were thousands of years of tradition in the face of this one helpless half-elf child? He had made his decision.
He reached out again to the foundling.
'Ael, don't.' He could hear the strain in Faelyn's voice.
'Enough,' Aelrindel snapped in a voice full of command. 'The choice is mine, Faelyn, and I have made it.'
From the corner of his eye, he saw his friend respond to the tone of command, stiffening as if he'd been struck.
'As you wish,' came the flat response.
Kaer'vaelen.
It would always lie between them.
Aelrindel reached out to the child and gently, with great care, gathered the foundling into his arms. Staring into its soft, wide eyes, he didn't see the glint of anger flash across then settle in Faelyn's eyes.
All around them, the river burned.
Chapter 2
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Taen shivered beneath thick blankets.
Bitter, ice-tinged air blasted the camp again and again, like the unrelenting breath of a white dragon. Despite his best efforts, fur, wool, and quilted cloak could not keep the chill at bay. Gathering what protection he could, he stumbled toward the dying fire. Tongues of red-gold flame swirled madly beneath the wind's hard lash, casting a riot of shadows across the camp. Unbidden, Taen's vision penetrated night's shifting shroud to reveal the uneven lumps of his companions, huddled under their own blankets and shivering in obvious misery. Their cursing reached his ears despite the wind's dreadful moaning and the sharp snapping of tree limbs.
Winter in Rashemen, he thought as he idly poked at the burning logs with a soot-covered piece of wood, is as hospitable as the first layer of the Abyss. Six days from Mulptan and the raging weather had begun its assault. Snow and ice storms became constant companions. Shortly before dusk on the ninth day, a great wind had begun to blow, forcing them all to slow their pace and bend beneath its force. Even Borovazk, their Rashemi guide, had grown concerned. Throughout their journey, the normally brash ranger had gently chided their softness, poking fun at the group's complaints about harsh weather. When the wind had raised its deep-throated voice and howled through the snow-covered crags and across the rolling hills, however, Borovazk had grown quiet. 'Is nyvarskiz,' he had finally shouted so that they could all hear him. 'Ill wind. Very dangerous.' With that, he had put a halt to their travel, so they had made hasty camp amidst the uneven stones and ancient trees, miserably waiting out the storm.
Still, Marissa had asked them to come, driven by her connection to nature and, she had said, the secret promptings of her god. They had followed her across the eastern realms of Faerun, then north through the harsh, unforgiving lands of the Rashemi. All of them had followed, as she had no doubt suspected they would.
'Where is she?' a gravelly baritone voice asked from the shadows behind him.
Taen dropped another log on the fire and turned to see Roberc gazing up at him. The broad-chested, thickset halfling danced from foot to booted foot, shivering in the cold despite being buried beneath several layers of fur skins. The gleam of the fighter's mail caught Taen's eyes in the dancing firelight. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if the halfling ever removed his armor.
'I don't know. She went off into the trees after we set camp. You know how she is,' Taen answered after a few moments.
Wild, he thought to himself. Restless the way a wolf is restless-or the wind. As usual, such thoughts threw him into turmoil. Marissa was restless, almost half wild, more comfortable with wood and stone than flesh and blood, yet a part of him yearned to lose himself in that wildness, to cast off the weight of memory and the certain knowledge of his own failure. Easier for a man to cast off his shadow, Taen knew.
Roberc swore, interrupting his bitter thoughts. 'I'm glad that she feels free to go for a stroll while the rest of us freeze to death.'
For a moment, Taen was shocked by the halfling's blasphemy, but only for a moment. There was little softness in the fighter, and none of the lighted-heartedness or playfulness found in others of his race. Thick stubble covered much of his chin and cheeks save for a single swath of blistered skin near the left corner of his mouth. The puckered flesh looked red and angry even now in the shadow-filled camp. When the halfling smiled, which was rarely, it never reached his deep-set eyes; they were gray and hard as river stone.
The fell wind gusted again, whipping the length of Roberc's salt-and-pepper hair in all directions. The fighter cursed once more against the bite of winter and brought two scarred fingers to his mouth. He whistled sharply once, then again. Almost immediately, there came a deep, echoing bark from somewhere close in the darkness beyond the fire. A few moments later, a large brindle hound came into view, running straight for the halfling.
The deep-chested dog came to a stop immediately in front of the fighter. Thick, panting breaths blew steam into the frigid air, and its long pink tongue lolled out of a short, powerful muzzle. The hound stood completely still, its thick-boned torso standing nearly above Roberc's head at its shoulder. A thick layer of studded leather barding covered most of the dog's rough outer coat, but Taen could still make out the curled length of its tail.
'Come, Cavan,' the halfling said in a commanding voice. 'Since we can't sleep, we might as well patrol. There's no telling what lurks about in this blasted land.'
Taen watched, not for the first time, but always in amazement, as the hound cast his slightly angular head to the side questioningly then proceeded to lie down, allowing Roberc to mount. Once Roberc had secured himself, the fighter spoke another command and Cavan leaped to his feet, taking off into the darkness at a brisk gait.
Roberc was right. The night remained too cold for sleeping. Yet it wasn't the harsh breath of winter that kept Taen from sleep. Were he in the jungles of Chult or the feather bed of the finest inn in all of Waterdeep, sleep would still escape him when this mood descended upon him like a dark cloud, and the ghosts of his past whispered accusations with the voice of the wind. They surrounded him, pressing in on all sides, yet these haunting recollections held more than simple weight. 'Bitter are the blades of memory.' He had heard the el'tael, the swordmasters of Avaelearean, say that often enough. In those days, he had never known how much they had understated the truth of it. Would that he still lived in such ignorance. He'd lived through hundreds of battles and suffered wounds too numerous to count, yet none hurt near as much as those he carried within his heart. Tonight, beneath the lidless eye of the moon, with the wind raging like a banshee through the trees and stones, these wounds ached with a fierce intensity.
Taen ran a calloused hand across the rounded expanse of his head, shaved clean except for the single braided length of blond hair that reached to the center of his back, and let out a curse as his fingers touched the ever-so-slightly pointed tip of his ear. Here was the ultimate cause of his sorrow, the seed from which the razor- sharp thorn of his memories had sprung-not what he had done, but what he was.
Half-elf.
A Tel'Quessir.
Born of two peoples and claimed by none. A failure, unable to master the arts of the laeriaen. An exile.
A murderer.
The half-elf shivered at this last thought. Carefully, he threw a few more logs onto the fire and tried to absorb as much warmth as he could from the blaze. Sparks from the burning logs flew up into the dark sky. Taen gazed into the night long after they had disappeared, alone with his thoughts.
And the wind.
