Tel'Quessir foundling spoke, in turn, to their young.
Yet children were, after all is said and done, still children.
'They will never accept me,' Taenaran said, breaking through the elf's thoughts.
Aelrindel tried to respond, tried to say that such acceptance would come in time, but his son cut him off.
'They will never accept me,' the half-elf said in a steady voice, 'unless I do something to make them accept me.'
The elder elf raised a pointed eyebrow at his son's assertion.
'What,' Aelrindel asked with true curiosity, 'will you do?'
Taenaran inhaled deeply then hesitated a moment before replying.
'I wish to become a bladesinger like you,' Taenaran said. 'Like my father.'
Aelrindel stood for a moment-speechless and stunned-before pride bloomed within his heart like a lilaenril blossom in spring. Half-elf the boy may be and bastard born, yet it was he who had the shaping of him. Though wounded by the prejudice and spite of others, still the lad's roots grew strong and true. He was proud in a way that only fathers can be and thought, for just a moment, how much his decision by the side of a burning river had changed his own life.
Taenaran gazed up at him, grave and silent, obviously waiting for his reaction. When he gave it, Aelrindel pushed down his paternal instincts and became First Hilt.
'The Way is difficult,' he intoned solemnly, 'and more difficult for you than for the others.' He spoke truthfully, for such a desire as his son had revealed deserved the truth.
Taenaran's next words filled the First Hilt's spirit to bursting.
'Still,' the boy responded with reserve and dignity worthy of an elder, 'I would walk that path. Will you allow me to try?'
Aelrindel thought for a moment. The others would raise their objections-especially Faelyn. The rest of the el'tael would eventually acquiesce, for he was First Hilt. The training, however, would be challenging for Taenaran, and many would probably push him harder than the other tael in hopes that he would fail. Still, he could not deny his son this chance, so whether through wisdom or folly, discernment or pride, Aelrindel, First Hilt of the Bladesingers of Avaelearean, found himself saying 'yes' to a boy's dream.
That yes brought a shout of joy to the half-elf's lips and an end to the reservoir of bravery and pride that kept father and son distant from each other. Tears welled up in Taenaran's eyes as he launched himself into Aelrindel's outstretched arms.
'Va,' was all Aelrindel heard as his arms enfolded the sobbing ten-year-old.
Father.
Eyes closed, he listened once more to the song in his heart.
Chapter 5
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The ice trolls charged.
Taen watched as they ran, stoop-shouldered, across the snow-covered ground-white on white, their gelid skin glistening sickly in the sunlight. Each of them carried a large warhammer in the wicked curve of their clawed hands. The trolls barked and hissed to each other in a guttural language that sounded to the half-elf like the terrible echoes of an avalanche.
Around him, Taen's companions stood ready. Borovazk sighted down the shaft of an arrow, while Roberc held the haft of a golden war axe in a white-knuckled grip. The halfling's rounded shield hung steady on his other arm. Only Taen and Marissa stood weaponless-though the half-elf could see that the druid, eyes half lidded and mouth already reciting prayers to her god, was prepared to unleash the powers at her command. Cavan growled softly as the trolls closed the gap between them.
'Just a little bit more, my friends. A little bit more,' Taen heard Borovazk whisper.
They all waited, bound by an unspoken agreement to follow the ranger's lead. Still, Taen could feel the familiar rush of energy that coursed over him whenever battle drew near. His heart pounded, strength flowed through his limbs, and the world snapped into clear focus, as if he spent most of his life walking in a land of shadows and fog, made truly real only when the specter of death rose above him. Zaen'sheaen, the all-seeing gaze, his masters had called it-a full awareness of life and its dangers. He experienced it now, along with something else he had thought he'd left behind in the forests of Avaelearean. Something stirred in his heart-a faint melody, like the soft strains of a bard's lay sung in the depths of the night, when the cups are empty, the fire has spent its strength, and shadows fall long upon the corners of the hall.
The Song.
Taen heard it now, the heart of the bladesinger's art-heard it in a way that he rarely had studying among the elves. For a moment, he stood in wonder.
The Song, however, gave him neither hope nor strength, for he heard within its mysterious strains the voice of his failure. It mocked him-mocked his struggle to live among the elves, mocked the choices he'd made in exile, and perhaps most of all, mocked the love he still felt for her.
He would have shouted his defiance of that Song, but just then Borovazk's voice cut through his awareness.
'Now!' the ranger shouted and, before Taen could draw another breath, loosed two arrows at the advancing trolls. The missiles leaped from the ranger's bow like wolves coursing for their prey. Both struck true, biting deeply into the white flesh of a single troll. Red flame erupted from the site of both wounds. The troll stumbled for a moment, clutching at his side, then fell screaming to the ground. Flames continued to burn as it rolled upon the slush-covered earth.
Taen watched in horrified fascination as another of the trolls stopped before its wounded companion and launched a glob of freezing spittle from its mouth. The disgusting globule covered the wounded monster and extinguished the burning flame. The other three trolls continued their charge.
Quickly, for he wanted to make sure he caught all of the trolls, Taen reached into one of the pouches that hung from his belt and began to recite the words of a spell. Power swelled in him and he felt the presence of his armor as the spell grew, its steel threatening to unbind the forces he commanded. His skill prevailed, and the magic came. He held it within him for the span of a few heartbeats, delighting in the energy that filled every space within his being. Then, with a single command he released the spell. A simple glowing bead shot out from the tip of his index finger, growing larger as it soared toward the trolls. Fire engulfed the hapless monsters as the bead struck the ground between the fallen troll and his companions. Only four trolls continued forward.
Immediately after, Taen heard Marissa's voice chanting the words to another spell. The shape of the words were different than his own arcane language, and although he couldn't understand them, he heard within their rolling cadence-heard within the rhythmic pulse of their sounds and their silence-praise, supplication, and most of all power. When she had finished, the ground upon which the trolls ran erupted into a riot of green grass and thorny vines. The tangle of greenery reached out to grab legs, arms, and muscled torsos. Within moments, two of the trolls were immobilized within the area of the swirling plants. The remaining two fought their way out slowly, tearing out the tangling grass and thick vines by their roots.
Before they had fully emerged from the confines of Marissa's spell, Roberc gave a single command to his mount and Cavan sped down the hill toward the monsters. The halfling gave out a great battle cry in the language of his people before engaging the trolls. One of the creatures, seeing the fighter approach, lashed out with a wide sweep of its clawed hand. Roberc ducked low on the war-dog's furred back and the troll's claws swept cleanly over his head. Gold glinted in the sun as the fighter's sword bit deep into the monster's leg.
The other troll took a step back from Roberc's assault and opened its gray-toothed mouth. Freezing spittle erupted from the beast. Taen watched as Cavan struggled to turn away from the disgusting attack-and failed. Both dog and fighter were covered in the freezing goo.
Roberc screamed once in pain but pressed his attack, obviously undaunted. Three more swings of the
