Aelrindel absently ran his fingers across the strings of the harp he now clutched close to his chest. The notes fell into darkness, brittle and out of tune. Taenaran's exile was like a sword that pierced his heart. No father should have to witness the fall of his son. It was worse than death, watching the bright, brave spirit of his child crushed beneath the weight of guilt and shame.
Grief shaped a bitter song that spilled out of the harp. A part of him wanted to stand up and announce that he, too, would go into exile. Thoughts of walking beside Taenaran, coaching and training him further, watching him grow into the hero he was destined to become, filled Aelrindel's thoughts, but the bonds of his Oath shackled the First Hilt with cruel strength. He could not abandon his duty-his people.
Even for love of his son.
The rain had finally stopped falling upon the leaf-covered bower that formed the roof of his home when Aelrindel's fingers stopped their grief-stricken dance across the harp's strings. Silence hung heavily upon the night.
Aelrindel kept vigil with it until the dawn.
Taenaran knelt before his father.
His head throbbed from the aftermath of the blow that had knocked him out, causing the walls of the chamber to shift and bend as his vision swam. As much as the wound upon the half-elf's head pained him, it could not compare to the heart-rending ache of grief and loss that followed him even into his dreams.
Talaedra was dead.
Killed by his own hand, and he himself sent into exile. The masters had pronounced that fateful word even as they turned their backs to him as a symbol of his separation from the community. He had barely heard their judgment or any of their deliberations. Throughout the course of his trial, Taenaran had felt dislocated. Everything had filtered to him as if from a great distance. In that befuddling fog, he had spent time reflecting upon his past, his years spent among the tael, which had been the only time that really mattered to him, and came upon one inescapable conclusion: Everything that had happened since yesterday evening must be an illusion. This wasn't his life-couldn't be his life.
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. "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."