Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [20]
"Let us mount, little friends," Borovazk said. "We are not far from the vale, and I do not want to delay us any longer."
Before he mounted, Taen bent to retrieve the sword he had cast aside. Gingerly, he wrapped his fingers around the worn red hilt, as if expecting-he knew not what. As he cleaned the blade and placed it into its scabbard, only silence ruled his heart.
CHAPTER 6
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Fog muffled the sound of their horses' hooves. Taen walked in silence like the others, leading his horse carefully down the steep path, following the surefooted tread of their guide. He peered through the thickening gray haze and caught only the barest hint of their surroundings in the swirling, nebulous curtain: here, the suggestion of a tree; there, a dim outline of rock or the blurred expanse of a berry bramble. Though they hadn't been walking the curving path to Immil Vale for long, the half-elf felt as if he and his companions had left Faerun and now strode through another plane of existence. Everything took on a muzzy cast, vaporous and indistinct, as they walked through this seemingly endless expanse of gloom and fog-until Taen himself felt that he, too, must be half-made from mist, insubstantial as a wraith in this swirling dreamscape.
If he dreamed, at least it was a dream of spring.
Borovazk had been right. Whether through some divine blessing or other more natural means, the area around Immil Vale radiated warmth and life. Soon after leaving behind the remains of their battle with the ice trolls, Taen and his companions had witnessed the snow and slush disappearing, leaving only the rapidly thawing wine-dark soil that covered this part of Rashemen. Shoots and saplings had sprung up across the rolling landscape, tender, green, and tentative. The half-elf had watched them growing thicker and stronger as they neared the vale. By the time his group had reached the trailhead, they were surrounded by a riot of bud and bramble, root and tree. A gentle, misting rain had begun to fall as they set off, wordlessly, into a dream of spring.
The heady, earth-rich scent of loam filled the air, tickling his nose as each step churned the earth beneath his feet. In the silence of the journey, Taen could hear the chittering of marmots, chipmunks, titmice, and squirrels. Birdsong filled the air, distant and muted but familiar-the warble of the grosbeak and hooded crow, the twitter of the nuthatch, and the echoing attack of the woodpecker. Winter was a distant memory, an old song whose words danced across the mind, half forgotten, even as the tune remained. Taen walked on in silence, enjoying the warmth. He'd exchanged his thick leathers and wool robe for lighter clothes and a simple, homespun cloak of rough cloth. The change in weather also made the battle with the trolls seem even more distant, and for that he was very grateful. His experience with the Song unnerved him, not only because of its strength, but also because he had heard another voice in it-the sword's. Never before had he felt the power of his father's blade come alive in such a way. He had heard its voice, and it shook him to the core.
Taen didn't know what it might mean, but it couldn't be good. He thought he'd left all of that behind him in sorrow and in death. He was a Tel'Quessir. A failure. There was no room in his life for the Song-or the hopes of his heart. They were distant memories, reminders of what he could never be.
"How much longer until we've reached the damned tree?" Roberc asked as he caught up with Taen. The halfling's voice, normally gravely, seemed even rougher from lack of use.
The half-elf pushed down his irritation at the fighter's interruption. It was rare for his grizzled companion to begin a conversation. There was no sense in wasting this opportunity, and it offered him a chance to