Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [95]
Still the masters had decided upon exile. His father, overruled by the wisdom of the other el'tael, had been forced to do the same. Now he knelt before that same father, who had been both mentor and master, for the last time. Tears streamed down his face, making ragged tracks in the layers of dirt and dried mud that still covered his skin. He could see the long trail of tears mirrored on his father's face. Aelrindel seemed older somehow, more frail. The commanding sparkle in his bright eyes flickered dully, its normally penetrating power muted and dimmed, as if the events of the past day had stolen something essential from his essence. Taenaran could see that his hands, which wielded both the deadly length of a blade and the subtle strings of a harp with equal facility, trembled as they reached out toward him.
The sight of his father, diminished by grief, struck another blow at Taenaran's heart. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. Shame locked them in his throat with a key he could not grasp. The half-elf struggled as one would struggle with the unfamiliar cadences of an ancient spell, but tongue and mouth would not form the proper sounds. Taenaran sobbed in frustration and threw himself into his father's outstretched arms.
As he felt Aelrindel's arms tighten around him, the half-elf let out an inarticulate wail. He recalled every hateful word and spiteful action that he had endured during his life. Each memory brought with it a wave of anger, shame, and sadness that spilled out of him with racking sobs-and always Talaedra's face hovered over him. Cradled in his father's arms, Taenaran poured out that bitter cup of sorrow that had been his life, and Aelrindel drank of it, even to its dregs. The release of that emotion left Taenaran spent; his body trembled mutely as he leaned in silence against the comforting presence of his father. They sat there in silence for several moments.
When at last Taenaran felt the trembling weight of his father's hand upon his head, he pulled back and gazed at him through tear-reddened eyes. "I… I am so sorry," he managed to say at last in a voice husky with grief. "I don't know what happened and now"-he continued above his father's whispered reassurances-"Talaedra is dead. Father," Taenaran's voice choked on that word, "I have killed the only friend I ever had and brought shame upon our house."
"No, my son," Aelrindel spoke in a gentle tone, "it is I who am sorry, for I allowed my selfish pleasure at having a son blind me to the true pain that you were facing. I should have protected you more, stood up for you, but I was proud of your desire to become a bladesinger, and I wanted you to do it totally on your own, so that no one could accuse you of succeeding only because I was your father."
Taenaran shook his head, unwilling to allow his father to take any measure of responsibility. This was his failure and no one else's. If he had been stronger somehow, more like a full-blooded elf, he could have avoided this fate, but his weakness had doomed him, and now he would wander the world in exile, separated from the only home that he had ever known.
Aelrindel held him a moment longer then rose slowly to his feet. Taenaran watched his once-vibrant father struggle to stand, bowed beneath the weight of the shame that he had brought upon him.
"Come," the First Hilt said at last, reaching out a tremulous hand.