Instantly, the half-elf sprang up from his kneeling position, fatigue and embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Much to his surprise, Taenaran found his sword already held in the First Form.
"Now," the swordmaster snapped, "attack."
For a moment Taenaran didn't respond, unsure if he had heard Arvaedra correctly. "What?" he asked finally.
"Attack," the swordmaster replied in an acid tone. "Since the tael do not know what the Song is, we will show them. Now, attack!"
Taenaran obeyed, driving his sword forward in the First Form's basic attack. Arvaedra parried easily then riposted an attack of her own. The half-elf quickly raised his blade and caught the edge of the el'tael 's weapon. The ringing of their swords echoed in the clearing.
He attacked again, aiming a low horizontal cut at Arvaedra's legs. The swordmaster leaped easily over his blade and brought her own sword down in a sweeping diagonal cut. It continued like this, with the el'tael gradually increasing the speed and deadliness of her attacks. The half-elf soon found himself struggling to remember the correct parry as the elder elf swiftly moved through the Seven Forms, beginning to strike at random. Tired muscles cramped with fatigue, and the half-elf felt as if a giant sat on his chest. He was about to signal his defeat after a wicked sword thrust nearly pierced his shoulder, but as he spun desperately away from the attack, something began to happen.
Very faintly, on the edge of his perception, Taenaran heard the soft, melodic strains of music. As it intensified, he realized that the sound originated from somewhere within himself. Could it be that he was hearing the Song for the first time?
A sense of elation began to run through him, energizing tired muscles and sinew. The Song swelled within him. At first, he struggled against its rhythm, for it felt unnatural. In the midst of this inner wrestling, his form fell apart. Disciplined sword thrusts became off-balance swipes. He felt almost as if he were drunk. Several times, Arvaedra nearly disemboweled him with swift strokes of her gleaming blade, yet each time he managed to knock her thrusts away mere inches from his skin.
Finally, Taenaran began to relax into the Song's driving rhythms, matching footstep, slide, and sword thrust to the cadence of the inner melody. It was in that moment that Arvaedra's sword began to inexorably slow-or Taenaran's own attacks began to speed up; it was difficult to tell. All he could see was the deadly beauty of two blades meeting in the air. Time lost all sense of meaning. For the half-elf, there was only the silver streak of Arvaedra's sword and the answering ring of his own steel. He was enmeshed in a symphony of battle.
Without thought, he departed from the forms and slid his sword past Arvaedra's guard. The elder elf laughed wildly and raised her weaponless hand as she spun out of the way. Taenaran felt a ripple of power move through the air and strike him square in the chest. The force of the magic caused him to stumble, and he cursed himself for forgetting that steel is not a bladesinger's only weapon. He recovered his balance and advanced once more against the swordmaster. He feinted a high attack then summoned his own power. Fueled by the strength of the Song, the eldritch energy rose within him easily. He knew in an instant that this was somehow different than the spells he normally cast. As Arvaedra's sword rose to meet his attack, he released the power he had raised. Taenaran's sword, rather than presenting an obstacle, acted as a channel for his spell. Immediately, power poured forth from his blade and assaulted the elder elf.
He watched in amazement as the el'tael absorbed the arcane attack, dissipating its force. The half-elf wanted to follow it up with another blast, but suddenly the Song shifted in to a different key. It swelled within him once more, but this time Taenaran felt it pull at him, as if it were demanding something. He had managed to settle into its rhythms previously, but this time it wanted more than just his cooperation. This time it pulled at the deepest parts of who he was, tugging at the core of his spirit. Fear ran through him like a cataract and something within cried out against the Song's terrible need. He clawed for freedom against its power-then silence filled his mind.
Taenaran stood there for a moment, stunned, then Arvaedra's sword cut toward him almost too fast to see. With surprising force, she knocked the half-elf's sword out of his hand and slammed the flat of her blade into his face.
Light exploded behind his eyes. When at last it finally cleared, Taenaran found himself lying on the ground with blood trickling from his nose. He heard Arvaedra's voice, as if from down a long tunnel, speaking rapidly to the gathered tael, as he struggled to his feet. A strong arm stabilized him when at last the half-elf managed to rise. It took Taenaran a moment to realize it belonged to Arvaedra. The elder elf said nothing as she motioned for him to return to the line of kneeling tael, but Taenaran could see the pride burning behind her eyes.
The half-elf wiped blood from his nose as he knelt once more. Fear and satisfaction warred within him, but even in the midst of that battle, Taenaran could not quite keep the smile from his face.
Aelrindel watched his son battle Arvaedra-and winced several times as the master nearly caught the beleaguered tael with a swift stroke of her blade. Centuries of battle and mastery of his art allowed the First Hilt to sense the moment when Taenaran discovered his own Song. He was surprised, at first, by the power of it-especially when he nearly managed to land a blow against Arvaedra. Tears threatened to blur the elf's vision, but he fought them back. It would not do for the leader of the bladesingers to show any overt reaction to his son's performance.
His resolve was tested, however, when he sensed Taenaran's inner struggle. Aelrindel felt, rather than heard, the moment when his son's Song fell apart, making him an easy target for Arvaedra's attack. He would have taken an involuntary step forward as Taenaran pitched toward the ground, but the sound of a voice behind him stopped the First Hilt in his tracks.
"Hmm," Faelyn mumbled as the half-elf struck the ground hard.
"He did well, Faelyn, even you have to admit that," Aelrindel said, not sparing his friend a backward glance.
"He did," the bladesinger agreed, "until the end. It is his human half, Ael. It struggles too hard against its death."
With that, Faelyn spun on his heels and walked away, leaving Aelrindel alone with the bitter turn of his thoughts.
Chapter 17
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Death stalked the cavern.
Taen could see it clearly in the newborn light-razor-sharp teeth, a powerful, scaled hide, and a hideous cartilaginous tail that whipped around the confines of the high-ceilinged cave. It moved slowly, its broad, ridged head casting from side to side, peering down at the party with burning orange eyes. The creature's nostrils flared, sucking the fetid odor of the cave in with short snuffs.
The half-elf moved slowly, careful not to spook the beast. He watched as the creature tracked his movements, its tail weaving slowly, undulating like a charmed serpent above its head. When Taen caught sight of the barbed stinger gleaming wetly in the arcane light, he let out a curse.
"Wyvern," Roberc whispered. "Very dangerous." Were they not in such a precarious situation, Taen would have laughed at the fighter's all-too-unnecessary comment. Though not as massive as their draconic cousins, and quite a bit more dull witted, wyverns were powerful beasts whose massive teeth and razor-sharp claws could easily eviscerate the best-armored opponent. Its poison-tipped tail, however, presented the clearest danger to them all. Assassins all across Faerun coveted the dread creature's poison; it could kill a human in mere heartbeats.