"Come," the First Hilt said at last, reaching out a tremulous hand. "It is time."
Taenaran wiped his eyes and fought back a new wave of tears. "So soon?" he asked, as he stood up.
"I am afraid so, my son," Aelrindel replied. "You must begin your exile before the noon sun hangs in the sky." The First Hilt moved to the rear of the chamber and brought forth a bulky leather backpack and a worn scabbard. "I have made sure that you will have enough supplies to begin your journey," he said, presenting the backpack to Taenaran.
The half-elf nodded and reached out, grabbing the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Though it seemed somehow lighter than it should, considering the size, number, and shape of the bulges that distorted its shape, the backpack hung upon him like a lodestone. This was it. His life would now be forever changed-and it had happened in what seemed like an instant. He wanted to run back to the room he had occupied as a little child in this house and throw himself down upon the bed and cry, waiting for his father to come and tell him that everything would be all right.
But it wouldn't.
He knew that with the startling certainty of one who had crossed the bright threshold of childhood and now walked the shadowed paths of the world. There would be no kindly parent to wipe away tears or kiss away hurt and pain. Where Taenaran walked, he walked alone.
The half-elf was so lost in the dark turn of his thoughts that he didn't grasp the significance of the weight in his right hand. He looked down and saw the well-oiled length of the scabbard Aelrindel had just offered him, and it took Taenaran a moment to recognize the worn red hilt for what it was.
"This is your sword," Taenaran said breathlessly, his previous thoughts forgotten-at least for the moment. "I cannot take this, Father. It's-"
"Nonsense," Aelrindel said, sternness creeping into his voice for the first time. "This was my father's sword, and his father's sword, and his father's sword before that, passed down to the firstborn son in our house since the founding of Cormanthor. You will carry this sword, and wherever you go, no matter how far into darkness you walk, this blade will serve you well."
Aelrindel reached out and clasped Taenaran's shoulder. "Your whole life does not have to be this moment, my son. You are gifted and brave. You will become a powerful bladesinger and one day use all that you have been taught to help those in need. Like the heat from the forge, let this tragedy shape your life like a blade and not destroy it, and know that I am thinking of you each and every day."
With that, his father gathered Taenaran up into his arms once more. Tears welled up in the half-elf's eyes, and this time he didn't fight them. He didn't know whether he could live as his father had predicted, but he had no choice but to try. Perhaps he would one day atone for his weakness and failure.
"Thank you, Va," he whispered into his father's ear before gathering up his sword and backpack. When the moment finally came, father and son walked out of their house together and into the harsh light of the day.
Together for the last time.
Chapter 26
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Marissa's hand ached.
The shackles holding her upright had bitten deep into her skin, tearing the flesh around her wrist. Even after several potions from her recovered backpack, the wound throbbed. She paid it little mind, however. Instead, she felt a rush of emotions wash over her as Taen and Borovazk knelt around a thin circle inscribed into the stone floor, trying to discern some way of activating the portal. Despite her fears to the contrary, the half-elf had managed to rescue her. He wasn't dead, or worse, some undead minion in her former captor's army. Rillifane had heard her prayers and blessed her, guiding Taen to where she hung, imprisoned and despairing. He had come for her, lifted her out of the darkness. Every moment she saw his face, lips pursed and eyes intently staring as he concentrated on solving the riddle of the magic portal, Marissa had to remind herself that this wasn't a dream.
"I see that you are feeling a bit better," Roberc remarked.
The halfling had tired of trying to force the portal to give up its secrets and had made his feelings well known before starting to search the length and breadth of the grim gray walls of the room. He stared at Marissa with a frank, searching gaze.
"I am feeling much better, thank you, Roberc," she responded with a genuine smile.
Marissa no longer found her companion's directness unnerving or threatening, as so many others did. In fact, the druid found a certain rude comfort in Roberc's intense demeanor. It was familiar and solid, like the stones on an oft-traveled path.
"I'm glad," he said in his usual brusque tone, though Marissa could hear the genuine concern that lurked beneath the halfling's gruff exterior. "I wouldn't want you to miss out on the rest of our little tour. Besides, we're counting on you and your staff to give us a hand against the damned hag."
At the mention of the Staff of the Red Tree, Marissa nearly leaped to her feet. "Where-" she exclaimed and cast frantically around the room looking for it. In her relief at being rescued, she had forgotten all about the staff. When she finally located it, lying on a smooth shelf along the wall, the druid wanted to weep.
She walked toward the staff slowly, despite her excitement at finding it. The druid would have run, but a sense of torpor had taken root somewhere deep within her. Marissa hadn't lied to Roberc. She was feeling much better-physically. The scars of her torment, however, went beyond flesh. The hag and her dark priestess had taken something from Marissa. The chill of her captivity had sucked something essential from the marrow of her spirit. Here beneath the citadel, trapped in the cold embrace of the earth, the half-elf felt half alive. She longed for the touch of sunlight and the caress of a spring breeze the way a wounded falcon longs for open sky and the touch of warm air upon its pinions.
When at last she reached the staff, Marissa hesitated before reaching out to touch it. It lay quiescent, silent for the first time since she held it beneath the shadow of the Red Tree. The druid recalled the layers of spells that her captors had woven over the captive artifact. She was no expert in arcane magic, but she knew the ways of the gods, and it seemed to Marissa's senses that the dark priestess had held the foundation for the "house" of spells that they had built. With the half-orc cleric's death, the house simply collapsed.
Or so she hoped.
Reaching out at last to the seemingly inert length of wood, Marissa carefully picked up the staff and cradled it in her hand. The moment her fingers closed around the length of wood, she felt an explosion of power. Light filled the room as waves of arcane energy radiated from the staff. Marissa knew that she had fallen to the ground, buffeted by the power of the staff, yet she felt nothing. The now-familiar voice of the artifact buzzed in her mind, swelling angrily as it searched through her memories, recalling what she had experienced during their absence. At times, she felt as if it clucked angrily at her, the way a mother hen would chide her chicks when they had drawn near something dangerous. She would have laughed at that, but three sets of hands grabbed her and lifted Marissa to her feet.
"Is little witch, all right?" she heard Borovazk's deep voice rumble at her.
She concentrated on the sound, and all at once the voice of the staff fell to a tremulous whisper. When she looked around, once more in control, Marissa saw all of her companions gathered around gazing anxiously upon her.