Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [15]
The druid had sent Rusella winging off into the distance and gazed out upon the plain. She had thrown back her hood, and her red hair rustled wildly around her face. Taen knew the measure of her power and knew that they had faced such threats and worse before, side by side. Still, he had been avoiding her since the night she had spoken to him about the past. He owed her an apology and much more; he wanted to do it now in case he never had the chance again.
The half-elf gently reached out a hand and placed it on Marissa's shoulder. The green-eyed druid gazed upon Taen and smiled. His tongue felt heavy, ungainly.
"I… I wanted to say thank you," he spoke finally, "for trying to help me the other night. You know I-"
"I do know," she interrupted, switching to the liquid phrases of Elvish, "but don't we have more important things to worry about at the moment, Taenaran?" Her teasing tone brought a smile to his face even as the sound of his elf-given name tore at his heart.
He wanted to reply, even started to, but Borovazk's voice boomed out across the slope.
"They have come, little friends," the ranger shouted. "Now is time to have some fun, yes?"
Taen gave the druid's shoulder a quick, final squeeze and turned to face their monstrous enemies, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to draw his sword.
CHAPTER 4
The Year of the Morningstar
(1350 DR)
The children were throwing stones again.
Sharp-edged and round, the tiny missiles hissed through the air, biting Taenaran's skin. The young half-elf dodged as best he could, skittering through the lush undergrowth of the forest and cutting between the thick trunks of oak and ash trees that rose like woodland giants into the sky. Still, the stones found their target-for they were elf-thrown and true.
Tears spilled from his eyes as he ran, warping and bending the landscape. Taenaran tripped over an outstretched tree root and tumbled to the ground. He wanted to give voice to the hurt that was welling up inside him, but he wouldn't allow the other children the satisfaction of hearing him wail like the voeraen, the elf toddlers who stayed close to their mothers and fathers.
That thought nearly undid his young resolve-for he had neither blood father nor blood mother among the elves of Avaelearean, which was, he knew from past experience, the cause of today's problems. They had been playing "Hunt the Drow" in the wide forest when a few of the older children started throwing rocks at Taenaran and calling him a drider, a horrifying creature spoken of in whispers by the adult elves, made up of both drow and spider. It wasn't long before the others had joined in, so he ran-from the sharp bite of stones and the sharper bite of the Elvish words the children had flung at him like arcane arrows. "Round Ear." "Monkey Face." "A Tel'Quessir Bastard." These were the names that followed him wherever he went. If they weren't spoken aloud, he could see them in the eyes of the elf children, and even in the eyes of some of the adults of Avaelearean.
With a heaving sigh, Taenaran wiped the dirt from his clothes as best he could and stood up. The other elf children were still hunting in the forest, calling out his name, and worse. For once, his human heritage helped him. Though he was younger than the others, some of whom were born almost two decades ago, the half-elf's muscles were thicker and more developed. Now they carried him away from his tormentors faster than they could follow.
He ran for quite some time, through slanting shafts of sunlight and shallow pools of rainwater, down moss-covered deer tracks and winding switchbacks. Certain that he had left his pursuers well behind him, Taenaran stopped in the center of a wind-tossed oak grove to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, not from exertion, but