Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [17]
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