Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [37]
When he entered his father's home, he found the elder elf gazing out into the darkness.
"Is everything all right, Father?" Taenaran asked.
For an instant, the elation that had filled him from the moment of he had been chosen faded, replaced by concern. If his uncle was upset, Taenaran could probably guess the reason. It didn't take a cleric to divine the fact that his father's best friend held little love for the half-breed elf-even if his father went to great pains to conceal that fact from him. He only hoped that one day his presence among the bladesingers would earn him Faelyn's respect.
Aelrindel smiled thinly and waved away the question.
"Everything is fine, my son," Aelrindel replied, and he stood up and opened his arms. "I am so proud of you!"
Taenaran stood still for a moment, drinking in the emotion of the moment, before casting himself toward Aelrindel. Though it was the First Hilt who had presided over the evening's ritual, it was his father's arms that wrapped Taenaran in their strong embrace.
"I will make you even more proud, Father," the half-elf exclaimed, "when I stand among the other bladesingers."
Aelrindel chuckled. "Of that, I have no doubt, my son," he said and stared out at the night sky once more.
CHAPTER 11
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The scent of wood smoke and spilled ale filled the taproom.
Taen watched a blue-gray trail of the smoke billow out from the fire crackling merrily in the center of the Green Chapel's common area only to waft and wend its way to the circular hole in the ceiling of the sod-built inn. Like all homes in the little hamlet of Urling, Green Chapel lay beneath the ground, surrounded by a grove of alder and evergreen trees. That fact took some getting used to-especially to one who grew up in airy elf bowers high above the forest floor. When they had arrived in Urling earlier that day, the half-elf stared at the circular cluster of grassy mounds rising out of the earth near the center of the grove. He'd asked Borovazk how long of a rest stop they would take before continuing their journey to Urling. When the ranger announced that they had already arrived, Taen found himself nearly speechless. It wasn't until the Rashemi had led them through a fur-covered hole, down a series of sloping passages, and into the circular antechamber that served as the Green Chapel's waiting area that Taen began to believe their good-humored guide.
The half-elf had wasted no time, however, in stowing his travel gear and soaking away the rigors of the road in the steamy waters of a stone bathing pool. A short nap and a quick change of clothes later, and Taen felt like a new person-the urgency of their journey temporarily forgotten under the creature comforts to be found in Urling's single inn. It wasn't long before he found himself returning to the common area. Now he sat around a simple, unpolished wood table, whose thick grain lay battered and scarred beneath the jostling weight of who-knew-how-many flagons, and gazed out at the lively taproom.
Shadows flickered along the dark, earthen walls of the inn, despite illumination from the burning fire, and the air was thick with boasts and the heat of so many bodies gathered and pressed into one space. In one corner, a broad-chested Rashemi beat time upon twin hand drums while another chanted and sang in the thickly accented language of his homeland. Scattered within the crowd of common folk were several fur-clad warriors, their imposing presence increased by the lengths of the axes and the swords that hung by their sides. Though rough-tongued and forceful, these warriors were treated with affection and good-natured camaraderie by the other Rashemi.
"Berserkers," Borovazk had explained while they had waited to order from their server, "from the Wolf Lodge. They are part of the fang that protects this village. Ignore them unless you want to find yourself in the middle of a wrestling match."
Despite the warning,