Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [6]
Aelrindel laughed softly at the jest. It was good to laugh.
The child's cry came again, breaking the moment. It was close, just beyond the jutting rocks from which their attackers had leaped. Aelrindel gave his companion a final smile then moved toward the sound. As he drew near, he saw a pile of corpses, each bloody and awkwardly bent. When the wailing came again, the bladesinger knew that it originated from beneath the corpses. He motioned Faelyn to help, and between them, the two bladesingers carefully separated the dead from their eternal embrace. The bodies were cool and stiff.
There, cradled in the rigored arms of a woman and protected from the elements by the press of bodies and a simple bloodied cloth, lay a screaming child. Its skin was red and splotchy from its exertion and its tiny fingers were balled into fists, beating the air in obvious fear and frustration.
Aelrindel gazed at the creature for a long moment, noting by the cast of its distorted face the moon elf blood that flowed within its veins. That and something more.
Or less.
The child had a roundness to its face, a solidity to its tiny frame that bespoke of other parentage, human parentage, if Aelrindel could judge these things right. It was one of the a Tel'Quessir, the Almost People. He sighed for the wailing child, caught forever between two worlds, and now, but a little while after its birth, already standing at the doorway to the gods' realm. He reached out his hand and stroked the child's cheek. Pale blue eyes opened wide, and the babe made a soft, surprised sound.
It stopped crying.
Aelrindel knelt before the child and started reaching for it with both hands.
"What do you think you're doing, Ael?" Faelyn asked, the incredulity behind the question clearly reflected in his voice.
"We cannot leave the child here to die," Aelrindel responded, not taking his eyes from the babe.
"Why not?" Faelyn continued, "Let the gods care for it. It is-"
"An abomination?" the First Hilt interrupted bitterly.
Faelyn swore. "Gods, Ael! Do you think I really believe that?"
Aelrindel shook his head-though there were some among their community who did see the a Tel'Quessir as abominations.
"Even so," Faelyn went on, "we cannot take this child in. Remember the Oath. We are what we are. Besides, it is an ill-omened foundling. The signs-"
"Damn the signs, Faelyn. I know them well: 'Born from battle, bad for luck.' Those are nothing but superstition," Aelrindel said with finality.
Inwardly, though, he sighed. Faelyn was right. No one had ever brought an outsider to the community, yet what were thousands of years of tradition in the face of this one helpless half-elf child? He had made his decision.
He reached out again to the foundling.
"Ael, don't." He could hear the strain in Faelyn's voice.
"Enough," Aelrindel snapped in a voice full of command. "The choice is mine, Faelyn, and I have made it."
From the corner of his eye, he saw his friend respond to the tone of command, stiffening as if he'd been struck.
"As you wish," came the flat response.
Kaer'vaelen.
It would always lie between them.
Aelrindel reached out to the child and gently, with great care, gathered the foundling into his arms. Staring into its soft, wide eyes, he didn't see the glint of anger flash across then settle in Faelyn's eyes.
All around them, the river burned.
CHAPTER 2
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Taen shivered beneath thick blankets.
Bitter, ice-tinged air blasted the camp again and again, like the unrelenting breath of a white dragon. Despite his best efforts, fur, wool, and quilted cloak could not keep the chill at bay. Gathering what protection he could, he stumbled toward the dying fire. Tongues of red-gold flame swirled madly beneath the wind's hard lash, casting a riot of shadows across the camp. Unbidden, Taen's vision penetrated night's shifting shroud to reveal the uneven lumps of his companions, huddled under their own blankets and shivering in obvious misery. Their cursing reached his ears despite the wind's dreadful moaning and the