Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [58]
The half-elf shook his head, banishing thoughts of the future. There was only this moment, this place in the Song, as the masters would say. If only it weren't so painful, he thought bitterly. Taenaran's wrist and shoulder burned with fatigue, and the muscles in his legs were trembling with exhaustion. He breathed deeply, trying to return to the haera, or the center-and nearly dropped the sword as his opponent's blade struck. The shock of the attack set the hilt of his sword humming; the blade turned in his hand, causing his opponent's weapon to slide with deadly speed down its steel length.
Taenaran braced himself for the stinging kiss of the blade, only to find Arvaedra's sword intervening at the last moment, flicking the oncoming blade away with a fast turn of her wrist. The half-elf let out a hiss of relief. Tael swords were not crafted razor sharp, but they still held an edge, enough to remind an errant apprentice to pay attention.
"Halt," the swordmaster shouted to the assembled tael.
Swords hissed instantly into their sheaths, as the apprentices sank to their knees, assuming the traditional sitting position, back straight, body resting on calves, and feet angled toward each other, nearly touching. She stared for a moment at Taenaran, and he nearly flinched at the swordmaster's cold glance.
"Taenaran," she said, using his name like a whip, "the rest of us were practicing the Seven Forms. Do you mind telling me what it was that you were doing?"
The half-elf sat completely still, trying to contain the feeling of shame that threatened to drown him. Though his hearing was not as sensitive as that of a full-blooded elf, still he could make out the soft, dreadful sound of snickering among the other tael. The tips of his ears flamed red.
Arvaedra must have heard the sound as well; she spun quickly and walked among the kneeling apprentices, her steps slow and sure, containing the promise of power, like a lioness among her cubs. Silence filled the clearing.
Taenaran risked a sideways glance toward his father and the other masters. Aelrindel stood with arms folded. There was a stillness around him that seemed to reach out and draw in everything in his path. He was impassive, a living statue. Taenaran knew, however, that disappointment lurked beneath the calm surface. He could feel it, or imagined he could, when they were alone at dinner, talking of other things. Often his father avoided discussing any of Arvaedra's discipline.
It wasn't that the silver-haired swordmaster unjustly criticized him or singled Taenaran out for punishment. All of the tael felt the sting of her acid-laced tongue at one time or another. There were others, however, in the community, and even among the masters, who seemed to delight in every mistake, every slight missing of the mark that he made. He knew that his father had fought hard with the el'tael so that he could study the art of the bladesingers. It was an honor for a swordmaster to sponsor a young elf into the Way, for the masters represented the community, and it was an awesome privilege to be chosen by the community to give one's life in its service, yet the half-elf felt that every error he made was a repudiation of his father's choice and confirmation for those who had wished to bar him from studying the art.
Taenaran had no further time for reflection, as Arvaedra had completed her rounds and stood before him once more. Wind tousled the swordmaster's hair, sending the thin strands of her pony tail waving behind her. He would have smiled at the effect, but her stern gaze rested upon him. As always, he was shocked by the signs of age in the el'tael before him. The tiny wrinkles around her almond-shaped eyes and the shock of silver-white hair were signs of contradiction among the long-lived elves. Among the people of the community, she was considered ancient