Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [108]
Taking advantage of his newfound speed, Taen ran to the side, intercepting the haggard witch before she could reach the circle of light that had just opened in the floor behind him. Her one good eye widened in disbelief. She raised a skeletal hand toward the half-elf and spit forth the words to another spell.
Taen didn't wait for her to finish. "For Cormanthor,'' he cried in Elvish before leaping through the air, "and for Marissa!" Like a living spear, he hurtled toward the witch and, focusing all of his energy, drove his sword deep into the crone's empty eye socket. The witch wailed in agony as the blade bit true, knocking both of them to the ground. Black power erupted from the wound, cascading around both of them, spinning and twirling like a mini whirlwind. Taen could feel the energy burning at his already battered body, but he did not let go of the sword that impaled the now-dead crone. His agony intensified as the ebon power covered him completely.
The walls of the cavern faded, until everything, at last, was darkness.
EPILOGUE
The Year of Rogue Dragons
(1373 DR)
Taenaran stood silently in the sunlight.
All around him, the vale teemed with life. The full-throated song of wild birds filled the air, while the undergrowth stirred with the patter of tiny furred feet. A small breeze blew across the wooded vale, redolent with the rich scents of summer. The drone of bees, their bodies bloated with pollen and tossed by the wind, rose up from the lush vernal landscape.
Taenaran might as well have stood in a bare stone room, devoid of windows or doors. He felt the touch of the sun-its warm fingers sliding across his skin-distantly, as if in a memory or some long-ago dream of summer. He took in the heady fragrance of the wind without regard to its vintage, each breath mechanically drawing it into his lungs. Deep inside, he wished nothing less than to break that machine, to still its implacable, torturous rhythm.
Grief had hollowed him out, made of his heart a tomb-full of dust and shadow and a longing so deep it reached to the very marrow of his bones. Marissa was dead, yet the half-elf no longer felt anger or bitterness over his weakness, the brokenness that had caused her to die. He had become a true bladesinger now, a master of his father's art-his own art. The red-hilted blade given him by Aelrindel hung comfortably at his side. In the storm-wrought demesne of an evil witch, Taenaran had finally become true forged, made whole for the first time in his life.
At what cost?
Behind him, he could hear Roberc's dour muttering and the answering rumble of Borovazk's voice. Taenaran's two companions had remained with him during the long months spent in the witches' care, and they had followed him here, offering their strength and friendship for the final leagues of his journey. In truth, the bladesinger remembered little of the aftermath of their battle with the witch. His memory of those final moments lay in ruins. From what Borovazk and Roberc had told him during time spent resting by the hearthside, Yulda's own power had consumed her in those last moments, burning away her body-and the half-elf's flesh would have followed had Borovazk not pulled him free.
The two had tried to awaken him, plying him with healing potions, salves, and other unguents, but to no avail. He was, according to Roberc, deader than a Cormyrean soldier after a tenday's furlough." They had resigned themselves to braving the mountains in winter when a contingent of witches had appeared in the cave. The breaking of the Staff of the Red Tree had caught their attention, and Yulda's death had shattered the arcane barriers surrounding her demesne. Within moments, the witches had teleported the wounded and tired group back to the Urlingwood.
Despite the severity of his injuries, Taenaran had begun to heal under the watchful eye of the hathran assigned to watch over him. In the days and tendays that had followed, physical pain receded, leaving only the emotional scars of his loss.