He began to cry once more.
Why?
Why did they treat him this way? He was different, but all he wanted to be was like them-an elf. Why couldn't they see that? Even the elders, though not cruel like their children, treated him like a strange thing-as if he were a snowfall in summer-and they did not seem to know what to make of him.
He was tired of it-tired of the veiled insults and the sidelong looks. After only ten seasons among the elves of Avaelearean, he knew that he would never find a place among them unless something changed-unless he accomplished something that even the most tradition-bound elder would be forced to recognize.
It was then, beneath the rustling leaves of an elf grove, with blood from a dozen cuts trickling down his skin, that the half-elf made his first vow.
By the time he reached the sprawling tree home of his foster father, Taenaran had locked away his tears.
Music filled the elf-wrought bower, spilling wild and free like a swirling spring rainfall. Aelrindel's calloused fingers skipped and danced across the golden strings of the dark yew harp, calling forth note, phrase, and sprightly theme. The elf's eyes were closed, his sight and senses turned inward as he followed the trail of his song through his heart's twisting path. He was often like this-lost in the music. Whether he held a sword or a harp, both were weapons in his hands and gates to another realm.
When at last the elf opened his eyes and saw his arael'vae, his heart-son, standing before him, he ended the song abruptly. Dirt and mud were caked on the lad's leggings and tunic. His shoulder-length hair clung to his head, matted with bramble-burr and mossdew. It was Taenaran's blood, however, running like red tears down the length of his shoulders and arms, which aroused a familiar rush of pity and anger in the elf's breast.
Aelrindel placed the yew harp gently on the window-sill and prepared to go to the half-elf. For in times past, when the boy would come home ragged and crying, he would launch himself into his father's arms, seeking comfort.
This time, though, was different.
Something in the cast of the half-elf's eyes stopped Aelrindel's motion. He saw resolve and steel in their amber depths-and perhaps something of the adult that Taenaran would become. The elf grieved, for in that moment he knew that his relationship with his son had changed forever. Even though, Aelrindel thought, it was ever the way between fathers and sons, still he grieved.
"Who did this, Taenaran?" was all that he said-though carefully.
The half-elf might be only a decade old, the merest babe by the standards of the elves, but he held within him human blood and was already sprouting like a young sapling. He did not wish to wound the boy further by treating him as a complete child.
Taenaran gazed at him, eyes red with the aftermath of tears.
"Does it matter?" came his son's response.
Aelrindel frowned at that but could not gainsay the youngling's words. In truth it did not matter. The elf children had always been cruel with their games where Taenaran was involved-and that likely would continue. He had spoken with the elders and parents of the community, and those who felt pity or compassion for an a Tel'Quessir foundling spoke, in turn, to their young.
Yet children were, after all is said and done, still children.
"They will never accept me," Taenaran said, breaking through the elf's thoughts.
Aelrindel tried to respond, tried to say that such acceptance would come in time, but his son cut him off.
"They will never accept me," the half-elf said in a steady voice, "unless I do something to make them accept me."
The elder elf raised a pointed eyebrow at his son's assertion.
"What," Aelrindel asked with true curiosity, "will you do?"
Taenaran inhaled deeply then hesitated a moment before replying.
"I wish to become a bladesinger like you," Taenaran said. "Like my father."
Aelrindel stood for a moment-speechless and stunned-before pride bloomed within his heart like a lilaenril blossom in spring. Half-elf the boy may be and bastard born, yet it was he who had the shaping of him. Though wounded by the prejudice and spite of others, still the lad's roots grew strong and true. He was proud in a way that only fathers can be and thought, for just a moment, how much his decision by the side of a burning river had changed his own life.
Taenaran gazed up at him, grave and silent, obviously waiting for his reaction. When he gave it, Aelrindel pushed down his paternal instincts and became First Hilt.
"The Way is difficult," he intoned solemnly, "and more difficult for you than for the others." He spoke truthfully, for such a desire as his son had revealed deserved the truth.
Taenaran's next words filled the First Hilt's spirit to bursting.
"Still," the boy responded with reserve and dignity worthy of an elder, "I would walk that path. Will you allow me to try?"
Aelrindel thought for a moment. The others would raise their objections-especially Faelyn. The rest of the el'tael would eventually acquiesce, for he was First Hilt. The training, however, would be challenging for Taenaran, and many would probably push him harder than the other tael in hopes that he would fail. Still, he could not deny his son this chance, so whether through wisdom or folly, discernment or pride, Aelrindel, First Hilt of the Bladesingers of Avaelearean, found himself saying "yes" to a boy's dream.
That yes brought a shout of joy to the half-elf's lips and an end to the reservoir of bravery and pride that kept father and son distant from each other. Tears welled up in Taenaran's eyes as he launched himself into Aelrindel's outstretched arms.
"Va," was all Aelrindel heard as his arms enfolded the sobbing ten-year-old.
Father.
Eyes closed, he listened once more to the song in his heart.
Chapter 5
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The ice trolls charged.
Taen watched as they ran, stoop-shouldered, across the snow-covered ground-white on white, their gelid skin glistening sickly in the sunlight. Each of them carried a large warhammer in the wicked curve of their clawed hands. The trolls barked and hissed to each other in a guttural language that sounded to the half-elf like the terrible echoes of an avalanche.
Around him, Taen's companions stood ready. Borovazk sighted down the shaft of an arrow, while Roberc held the haft of a golden war axe in a white-knuckled grip. The halfling's rounded shield hung steady on his other arm. Only Taen and Marissa stood weaponless-though the half-elf could see that the druid, eyes half lidded and mouth already reciting prayers to her god, was prepared to unleash the powers at her command. Cavan growled softly as the trolls closed the gap between them.
"Just a little bit more, my friends. A little bit more," Taen heard Borovazk whisper.
They all waited, bound by an unspoken agreement to follow the ranger's lead. Still, Taen could feel the familiar rush of energy that coursed over him whenever battle drew near. His heart pounded, strength flowed through his limbs, and the world snapped into clear focus, as if he spent most of his life walking in a land of shadows and fog, made truly real only when the specter of death rose above him. Zaen'sheaen, the all-seeing gaze, his masters had called it-a full awareness of life and its dangers. He experienced it now, along with something else he had thought he'd left behind in the forests of Avaelearean. Something stirred in his heart-a faint melody, like the soft strains of a bard's lay sung in the depths of the night, when the cups are empty, the fire has spent its strength, and shadows fall long upon the corners of the hall.
The Song.
Taen heard it now, the heart of the bladesinger's art-heard it in a way that he rarely had studying among the elves. For a moment, he stood in wonder.