Bladesinger Read online

  Roberc was right. The night remained too cold for sleeping. Yet it wasn’t the harsh breath of winter that kept Taen from sleep. Were he in the jungles of Chult or the feather bed of the finest inn in all of Waterdeep, sleep would still escape him when this mood descended upon him like a dark cloud, and the ghosts of his past whispered accusations with the voice of the wind. They surrounded him, pressing in on all sides, yet these haunting recollections held more than simple weight. “Bitter are the blades of memory.” He had heard the el’tael, the swordmasters of Avaelearean, say that often enough. In those days, he had never known how much they had understated the truth of it. Would that he still lived in such ignorance. He’d lived through hundreds of battles and suffered wounds too numerous to count, yet none hurt near as much as those he carried within his heart. Tonight, beneath the lidless eye of the moon, with the wind raging like a banshee through the trees and stones, these wounds ached with a fierce intensity.

  Taen ran a calloused hand across the rounded expanse of his head, shaved clean except for the single braided length of blond hair that reached to the center of his back, and let out a curse as his fingers touched the ever-so-slightly pointed tip of his ear. Here was the ultimate cause of his sorrow, the seed from which the razor-sharp thorn of his memories had sprung—not what he had done, but what he was.

  Half-elf.

  A Tel’Quessir.

  Born of two peoples and claimed by none. A failure, unable to master the arts of the laeriaen. An exile.

  A murderer.

  The half-elf shivered at this last thought. Carefully, he threw a few more logs onto the fire and tried to absorb as much warmth as he could from the blaze. Sparks from the burning logs flew up into the dark sky. Taen gazed into the night long after they had disappeared, alone with his thoughts.

  And the wind.

  The wolf watched Taen with emerald-green eyes.

  It sat on its haunches beneath the rippling limbs of trees. Moonlight bathed its furred pelt, catching flashes of silver across its shoulders and neck. It lifted its elegant muzzle and sniffed the night air redolent with the scent of prey. For a moment, its sleek muscles tensed, ready to carry it forward into the hunt.

  Only for a moment.

  Marissa Goldenthorn, druid and servant of Rillifane Rallathil, asserted control of the wild instincts coursing through her heart. Roberc and his war-dog were patrolling the far side of the woods, and she caught the musky scent of their Rashemi guide from within the camp. That left only Taenaran.

  Taen, she corrected herself. The half-elf only cursed and carried on when she used his full name. For nearly seven years they had traveled together across the length and breadth of Faerûn, sometimes toward wealth and adventure, but always away from the past that rode the young half-elf like the Rashemi night hags of legend. He had shared some of the details over the course of their time together, whispered reminiscences during unguarded moments around the fire or when they were both deep in their cups. When that thrice-damned blightlord had taken her arm, Taenaran had held her in the night when the fever dreams wracked her broken body and spoke to her of his own loss.

  Of Talaedra and the night that changed his life forever.

  Marissa looked down at her wolf form and began to lick at the stub of her left leg. Even now, three years later, the missing limb still caused her pain. The priest had done the best he could, but the corruption of Talona’s blight went beyond the power of the human, and it would not heal cleanly.

  It was this loss, she supposed, that had bound her so closely to Taenaran. Both of them were incomplete, missing something essential to who they were. As she gazed upon the wounded half-elf, so obviously hounded by the wraiths of his past, the druid wanted nothing more than to cast off her form and go to him, to offer him the comfort that he had once offered to her.

  Too much lay between them—history, blood, guilt.

  And, Marissa thought sadly, not enough.

  A rustling sound in the branches above caught the wolf’s attention. Gazing up, Marissa saw a large, ghostly white raven alight on the tree. It peered down upon the wolf with an angry reddish eye before letting a harsh caw echo out into the night.

  Marissa understood. The ill wind had finally passed and with it the glacial chill in the air. She barked a series of commands to the albino bird, confident that her magic would cause the raven to comprehend her wishes. With a final caw, it flew from the branch and headed toward the camp.

  With the dying of the winter wind, her companions could once more enjoy a restful night’s sleep. They were only a few days from the lip of Immil Vale, then a few more to the heart of their journey—the Red Tree. Rashemi tales and legends spoke of the tree, found near the heart of Immil Vale, as a source of mystic lore and spiritual consolation. For months she had felt an inner pull toward Rashemen. Troubled by these thoughts of entering this forbidding land, Marissa had gone to the Silver Grove of Haneathaer, the Great Druid, for help in discerning this call. There, in a dream filled with strange wonder, her god had spoken to her, asking that she make pilgrimage to the ice-filled land of Rashemen and offer herself to the spirits of the Red Tree. The dream had ended after that. Rillifane had given her no other explanation, and she needed none.

  The druid remembered her dream as if it had happened yesterday rather than months ago. Filled with pride and love for the god who had chosen her, she had asked her companions, brooding Taenaran and dour Roberc, to journey with her. They had both said yes—each for his reasons of his own, she knew.

  At first, the harsh, snow-covered land of Rashemen had daunted her, but now, after nearly a month traversing its broad back, she saw its beauty. Nature’s bounty touched every part of Faerûn, but here in Rashemen, the very land itself was alive and aware. Power suffused the entire landscape—from root-tip to mountaintop. The very air itself thrummed with the sacred, wild energy of creation.

  Marissa nearly howled at the sheer joy of it, giving voice to the elation she felt within. Only the silent, brooding form of Taenaran held her silent. Soon she would fulfill the call of her god, then—who knew where life would take her.

  With that thought, the wolf stood on her three legs and padded with the ease of long practice toward their camp.

  For the first time in several days, quiet ruled the night.

  Taen nearly jumped back, startled, when the silver wolf appeared before him. He would have given a shout of warning, but the creature’s shape began to shift. Fur melted, blurred, and became thick black cloth; hind legs elongated, stretching as the supine form stood on two legs. For a moment, two shapes occupied the same space—wolf and woman—until the blurring stopped, leaving the woman in its place. Only her eyes remained the same, bright, crystalline green beneath a soft, smooth brow.

  She smiled at him, accenting the angular planes of her high cheekbones. For a moment, Taen found it hard to catch his breath—so much did her smile remind him of another captivating woman. He watched as the druid unselfconsciously picked small twigs and burrs out of the rioting cascade of fiery red hair spilling down from her head. Though part human, Marissa favored her elf blood. Were the druid’s graceful ears visible beneath the length of her lustrous hair, Taen knew that they would be almost indistinguishable from that of a full-blooded elf.

  “Taen,” she said to him in a rich, warm voice, “the hag-wind has ended. Go and find some rest with what is left of the night.”

  He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, conscious that she knew what had been hounding him this night.

  “Marissa,” he began then stopped, unable to continue.

  The druid came closer, drawing her robe’s cowled hood over her head as she did so. She reached out mud-covered fingers to touch his furrowed brow.

  “Must you torment yourself now?” Marrisa asked. “Our journey draws to a close, and we may have need of your strength.”

  Taen nearly snorted.

  Strength.

  What strength is there in a broken blade?

  “
You know I cannot sleep when I am like this,” he replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice—and failing.

  “Then perhaps I can help …” she began.

  “No, Marissa,” Taen interrupted, “I would rather see the sunrise than lay ensorcelled beneath a spell. You know this too.”

  He winced slightly at the tone of his voice. After all of their years together, this still lay between them. The druid meant well, and he did not wish to hurt her any more, but anger, he knew from experience, rarely found its true target.

  “Very well,” she said from the depths of her cowl. Taen couldn’t hear any blame or hurt in her calm tones—though he was sure it lay there, hidden.

  She took a step back and turned as if to go.

  “I wish only peace for you,” she said before drifting into the shadows of the camp like a dream.

  “I know,” he replied to the empty air.

  Murderers, he knew, rarely found peace.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  The day dawned bright and clear.

  Taen rolled out from beneath his furs and squinted as the ground’s crystalline snow cover caught and reflected the sunlight. He cupped a hand across his eyes and gazed out at the frozen landscape. All around them, wind-rippled drifts of snow gathered like the waves of a white ocean, trapped in a still moment of time. Ice covered the scattered pine and ash trees surrounding the camp, slowly yielding to the winter sun with chilly tears, and for the first time in nearly a tenday, he could make out the granite shoulders of the Running Rocks looming in the sky to the south. Snow covered the glacial peaks like frigid armor, running almost their entire length.

  The half-elf let out a groggy curse at the bracing chill of the air, the too-bright daylight, and, most of all, the weariness that clung to his body and mind like a lodestone. Predictably, he’d tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to find much comfort in sleep’s blessed oblivion. He had finally succumbed to exhaustion as the first rays of the sun bloomed pink in the morning sky, only to be awakened by Borovazk’s rumbling bass voice.

  “Is time for the waking, little friends!” he exclaimed. “Much ground to cover today.”

  Taen hated that voice—if not the man, he had to admit. The Rashemi ranger had guided them skillfully across the lands of his birth. That much the half-elf had expected. What he hadn’t expected was the trust and friendship that was growing between them. As annoying as Borovazk’s obvious delight in their own discomfiture was, the broad-shouldered human more than made up for it with his bravery, skill in battle, and willingness to shed his own blood in the course of protecting those who hired him. Taen knew that the others felt the same way, though he doubted they’d admit it, especially during mornings like this.

  With a sigh, the half-elf began to gather up his bedroll and stow what little gear he had brought in his pack. He certainly wasn’t going to give Borovazk an excuse to berate him further by being the last one ready to go.

  When he had finished, Taen grabbed his pack and walked to the center of the small camp to check on the others. Roberc acknowledged his presence with a scowl and a nod of his head. The halfling stood before Cavan, adjusting the straps of the hound’s makeshift saddle and drawing deeply from a long, tapered bone pipe. The pungent scent of pipeweed, carried by the crisp morning breeze, filled the half-elf’s nostrils.

  He looked for Marissa and found her sitting on a small outcropping of rock above the smoldering ash of their fire. The druid gazed deeply at a small yellow flower growing stubbornly in a small crack of the rock’s surface. Taen didn’t even bother saying good morning to the half-elf, for he knew that she could stay like that all day, contemplating but a single fiber of one of the flower’s petals. Marissa had always been like that, but more so now that they had entered this wild, unforgiving land. His own preference was for more temperate surroundings, such as the lush woodlands of his …

  Home?

  No, certainly not that, he thought. Not anymore. Home was a fable, a myth—a story spun by silver-tongued bards for coin or hearth. He had no home, he had no place to lay his head, except on the rough stones and tree roots of exile.

  Borovazk’s booming voice, raised lustily in song, broke through the dark turn of Taen’s thoughts. The ranger led their horses, two thick-muscled dun geldings and his own chestnut stallion, to the center of camp. The Rashemi horses moved placidly, but Taen had ridden one enough to know that considerable strength and endurance lay within them when needed. The ranger stopped singing when he caught sight of the gathered companions. His strong-jawed face, framed by a thick, short-trimmed yellow-blond beard, broke into a smile, revealing a full set of large, white teeth. Twin lengths of thickly braided blond hair ran down to the center of his back.

  “Ah, good morning, little friends,” he said, absently stroking the thick mane of his stallion as he did so. “Is good to see you awake and together. Did you enjoy our little breeze last night?”

  Despite the misery brought on by yesterday’s weather, Taen found himself laughing at the ranger’s jest.

  “If that’s a breeze, Borovazk,” Taen replied, “I’d hate to see what it’s like around here when the weather turns ugly.”

  Borovazk returned the laugh. “In bad weather, mostly my people just get drunk on jhuild,” he said, referring to the dark reddish brew that others in Faerûn called firewine. Taen knew, from unfortunate experience, that jhuild could drop a berserking giant at twenty paces. “This way,” he continued, “we not see how bad it really is.”

  The half-elf shook his head in mock disbelief—though he suspected that Borovazk spoke the truth. Despite the harsh weather they had experienced in Rashemen, all of the native Rashemi he had seen dressed as if it were merely late autumn and not the depth of winter. Even now, amidst the remains of the last few days’ wintry assault, the ranger wore a simple fur vest over his chain mail, with thick leather trousers and fur boots covering the lower half of his body. His only concession to the bitter cold of the Rashemi winter was a rough-spun cloak made from the white pelt of a large bear that roamed the North Country of his land. Taen could see the wicked claws of the beast hanging from Borovazk’s neck and wrists, bound with a thin leather strip.

  “Come,” the ranger said, all jesting absent from his voice. “Morning rides on and we will miss it if we do not hurry.”

  With one last pat of his stallion’s crest, the Rashemi swung up onto his mount. Borovazk skillfully adjusted the scabbarded short sword and belted warhammer that were his constant companions while the horse threw its head to the side and snorted, obviously anxious to be away.

  Taen grumbled with what he hoped was sufficient restraint so as not to be heard and mounted his own horse. He thought he might need to interrupt Marissa from her reverie but was pleasantly surprised when the druid sidled her own mount next to his and bid him good morning. Roberc, too, was ready, mounted on sturdy Cavan.

  On Borovazk’s command, the group filed out of the camp and resumed their journey. What little convocations of trees and vegetation they had seen since leaving Mulptan disappeared completely by midmorning, leaving only a wide swath of windswept snow-covered plains. The horses plodded forward, surefooted and untiring, carrying Taen and his companions through league after league of unrelenting whiteness. The half-elf would surely have fallen asleep in his saddle by midday, but the voice of their Rashemi guide cut through his fatigue and boredom. Throughout the day, it would not stop rumbling across their trail. With great vigor, Borovazk regaled them with tales of Rashemen’s history—of the mysterious witches and their ages-long battle with the cursed Red Wizards of Thay; of the deeds wrought by the great heroes of the land, many somehow distantly related to the teller of those tales; and finally, of the ranger’s own family, his wife and three brawny children.

  By late afternoon, the group reined in their horses and dismounted for a brief rest. Pulling out cold strips of roast venison, slabs of thick-rinded cheese, and ser
vings of a pickled root the Rashemi called ordsk from their saddlebags, they ate a brief meal beneath the fading light of the day.

  Amazingly, Borovazk continued to spin tales. Between great tearing bites of meat and long swigs of firewine, the ranger spoke of his wife and how, after he had stumbled home drunk late one night from a gathering of warriors, she had felled him with a single blow from an oak cudgel and dragged him out to a snowdrift where he had spent the night. When he had awakened bleary eyed and groggy late the next morning, the wounded man returned to an empty home only to discover that the cudgel had split beneath the force of his wife’s blow.

  “That’s horrible,” exclaimed Marissa.

  The rest of the group, having finished their meal, sat comfortably on thick wool blankets. Roberc puffed indolently on his pipe, one hand stroking Cavan’s fur.

  “Is indeed horrible, little witch,” the ranger agreed, with more than a hint of sadness in his voice. “That cudgel was one of Borovazk’s favorites!”

  Taen watched as the concern in Marissa’s eyes changed to disbelief then merriment. The druid began to laugh, followed soon after by Borovazk’s deep-chested chuckle. Taen found himself smiling at the outrageous ranger. Even Roberc’s normally taciturn face held a wry grin.

  After a few more moments, their Rashemi guide stood up.

  “Come,” he said, wiping venison grease from his beard with a swipe of a thick arm. “Is still a while before dark. We have many more leagues to travel, and I,” he jabbed a meaty finger at his own chest, “have many more stories to tell.”

  Taen laughed, still caught up in the lighthearted moment.

  “I bet you do,” Taen said as they broke their makeshift camp. “You seem to talk more than any human I have ever met.”