Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [0]
The Fighters 04 - Bladesinger
Keith Francis Strohm
Proofread by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: July, 6th, 2008
Dedication
To the Davidsons-Robin, John, Demarie, Parker, and Carson-for offering shade beneath the desert sun; and to the God who brought us together:
Adoramus te. Glorificamus te. Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam. Domine Deus, Rex coelestis.
Deep the heart's yearning for fairest Cormanthor, for the bright leaves of home, where the sun's kisses fall upon jeweled crystal spires, and summer winds blow through ancient oak bowers;
Soft the heart's turning through the long sigh of years, to the glades of Varaenae, where the Eadulith flows with moon-stippled grace, and lilaenril blooms within night's dark embrace;
O fairest of homes!
Sharp the heart's churning for that now-distant road,
for the vale of Ny'athalael, where the dryads still sing
of root-hidden beauty,
and silver streams carry their songs to the sea.
O Cormanthor, Hail!
Through the heart's discerning, in shadow and flame,
we carry the song of your glory within;
Remember us dearly, your sons and your daughters,
'till we come once again to your soil.
To the bright, golden leaves of our home!
–from "Aelrindel's Lament
PROLOGUE
The Year of the Unstrung Harp
(1371 DR)
Deep among the jagged teeth of the Icerim Mountains-where wild winter winds shriek fell tidings and the snow-blasted dead claw at their ice-blue tombs-an old woman sang. Harsh-throated and cruel, the terrible song echoed among the frost-rimed boulders, not drowned out by the wind but amplified, carried like the rumor of war or pestilence, until even the iron heart of the mountain trembled before it.
Yulda, hathran and sister to the Witches of Rashemen, threw a gnarled hand against the stone wall of the mountain, and the deep rumble of an avalanche answered. A sharp bark of laughter escaped her. No going back now, the witch thought with a thrill. Snow, ice, and stone sealed the treacherous path she had followed-as she had planned. The spell was simple for one such as her, steeped in the ancient ways of the wychlaran. The very stones and trees of Rashemen were alive with the presence of ancient spirits known to her people as telthor. Those same spirits, shaped by centuries of wild storms and harsh winters, were eager to accede to her request.
The heaving subsided after a few moments more. Yulda started forward, her thick, furred boots crunching across the thin layer of ice-encrusted snow. On any other night, in any other place, the witch would have used the moon's own light to guide her way. Here, in the wilds of the Icerim, with thick clouds blanketing the sky, she gathered her power and sent a golden ball of light ahead on the path she followed. The raking wind tore through her black robes until they rustled around her like the shadow of dark wings, but she paid it no mind. Simple cantrips to keep the cold at bay were one of the first things the witches taught their most junior ethran, or apprentices, and now her devotion to the arcane lore of Rashemen offered her protection enough from the predations of winter.
Thinking of the ethran brought Yulda back to her own apprenticeship, so many decades ago it seemed lost in the fog of time. She had been young and unsure of herself then-all too eager to please the other hathran. It wasn't until she had mastered the witches' arts and became a hathran herself that she began to see the hypocrisy behind her sisters' existence.
For all of their talk of keeping the law and defending Rashemen, the wychlaran were nothing more than glorified hedge witches, like those unproven who, through their own weakness, did not choose the harsh discipline and study of the hathran. The word of a Rashemi witch may be law, but they rarely spoke such a word without deliberation, relying instead on the Iron Lord and his dull-witted thugs to order things. The vremyonni, too, stung her pride like a thorn. Those male spellcasters known as the Old Ones, laboring in their secret