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  As Aelrindel paused, the drum took up its measured beat once more.

  “So,” the First Hilt continued, “we have kept the oath, through the passing of the years, as other shadows have covered and fled the lands of Faerûn. Such was its strength that we remained rooted, like the oldest oak, even as the call of the Retreat sounded in our hearts. We have remained, and alone among all of the Tel’Quessir, even in this time of Returning, we pass on the mysteries of our art exactly as it was passed on in the oldest of times.”

  The drumbeat intensified, growing both louder and faster. Taenaran felt his heart respond, thrumming in rapid counterpoint.

  “I come to you this evening,” Aelrindel nearly sang, “as the keeper of that tradition, and I ask you, as heirs of the great oath, ‘Do you stand behind these candidates as worthy bearers of our ancient art?’ ”

  “We do,” the gathered elves responded, filling the hall with their assent. Taenaran let the sound of their voices wash over him. Though he knew that some in their community objected to his presence among the candidates, none had gainsayed the will of the el’tael. For that, he found himself profoundly grateful.

  “Then let the choosing begin,” the First Hilt called out. Immediately, several deep-throated drums joined the single percussion that had punctuated the opening ritual, followed by the assembly, raising its voice in song.

  Taenaran watched out of the corner of his eye as the robed masters moved through the ranks of the kneeling candidates, stopping occasionally to lay the edge of a sword upon the left shoulder of a young elf, signaling the elf’s acceptance as a tael. The driving rhythm of the drums and the soaring voices of the assembled elves were like the rarest of wines. The half-elf found his head spinning in excitement and pride to be a part of this great tradition passed down throughout the ages. He was about to send his own voice to join the others’ when he felt a sharp tap and the weight of a slender blade upon his own shoulder.

  “Rise Taenaran, son of Aelrindel, and join the ranks of the tael,” a woman’s husky alto said into his ear.

  Stunned, the half-elf stood up and walked unsteadily toward the other newly accepted tael. When he turned to face the crowd, he saw Aelrindel cast a glance in his direction. When he met the First Hilt’s eyes, he was surprised to see the leader of the bladesingers nod his head and flash him a brief smile.

  Taenaran’s answering smile nearly split his face.

  Aelrindel heard light footfalls approaching. The First Hilt sighed softly then sat down upon the high-backed chair, slipping out of the soft-soled shoes he had worn for this evening’s event.

  “I thought the ritual went splendidly, didn’t you?” he asked, not looking up at the figure now standing before him. Centuries of training, and nearly that many years of familiarity with his oldest friend, allowed the bladesinger to identify his guest.

  “Fairly well, First Hilt,” came Faelyn’s response.

  Even without looking, Aelrindel could sense the elf’s anger, barely held in check. The leader of the bladesingers sighed again, this time heavily, then cast a resigned look up at his dearest friend. Though time’s palette had certainly not colored the elf further, the years since they had found the orphaned half-elf together had hardened Faelyn even more. At times like this, he thought ruefully, Aelrindel almost felt as if Faelyn were a stranger.

  “Well,” the First Hilt said gently, still taking in the figure before him, “you might as well say it and get it over with. You won’t be satisfied until you do.”

  Aelrindel could see that the elf was taken aback by his words. He’d obviously come here expecting a fight. Faelyn’s discomfiture passed quickly, however. His hands balled themselves into scarred fists, and he pressed forward into the room.

  “You had to do it,” the angered elf growled accusingly. “You had to choose him, didn’t you?”

  “He has a name,” Aelrindel responded, trying to keep his voice even. “Taenaran is my son, and besides that, the boy has demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for the ways of magic—”

  “Then let him become a mage,” Faelyn interrupted, “instead of mocking our art with his presence.”

  “Taenaran mocks nothing,” Aelrindel snapped then took a deep, steadying breath. He would gain little by allowing his temper to overmaster him. “The boy reveres what we have given our lives to. He has the desire to give himself in service and the potential to do so as one of us,” the First Hilt continued in a more even tone. “The other el’tael agree.”

  “Puppets,” Faelyn shouted, “following their master’s lead.”

  Aelrindel felt his blood run like ice through his veins.

  “Careful, Faelyn,” the First Hilt warned, his tone nearly as frigid. “You forget yourself.”

  Never before had his friend taken such a contemptuous tone in all the years that Aelrindel had led the bladesingers. Though he was loath to do so, the First Hilt was prepared to put a stop to such an attitude—quickly.

  Faelyn must have finally realized that he had overstepped a boundary, as the angry elf pulled up as if Aelrindel’s words had stung him.

  “Apologies, First Hilt,” Faelyn said, bowing his head as he did so. “I merely meant that many of the el’tael supported Taenaran against their own judgment out of respect for you.”

  “Hmm,” Aelrindel said after a moment, feeling his lips curl into a rueful smile. “Is respect such a terrible thing to offer your First Hilt?”

  “No, Ael—” Faelyn, then hesitated for a moment before continuing. “It’s just that, well, you said it yourself earlier. We have remained true to our oath, passing down the art of our ancestors exactly as it was done from the oldest times—until now.” Anger fell from the elf’s face, replaced by a look of confusion and regret that nearly pierced Aelrindel’s heart.

  “Never before have we taught our art to someone with human blood. It is wrong, Aelrindel.” Faelyn reached out and grabbed the First Hilt’s hand with his own. “Look what happened to our beloved home once we opened our borders to the humans,” he exclaimed. “The Dark Horde came and fell upon us like a curse from the gods. We have lived our lives in exile here, away from the humans and the other races. This is our way, and Taenaran, for all of his gifts, has no place here. There are others who think as I do, Ael, if you’d just—”

  The First Hilt held up his hand, stopping Faelyn in midsentence.

  “Others may think as you do, my friend,” Aelrindel said, “but that does not make them any less wrong. The gods have placed Taenaran under our care, and we would do well to fulfill that burden.”

  Faelyn bowed his head as Aelrindel spoke. When the First Hilt had finished, he looked once more into his eyes with a gaze that flashed fire.

  “Then you will not reconsider your decision?” the elf asked in a stony voice.

  “I will not,” Aelrindel responded. “I have spoken, both as First Hilt and as your friend.”

  “So be it,” the elf growled, “but your decision will lead to darkness. Mark my words.” This last Faelyn nearly shouted as he turned quickly from Aelrindel and stormed out of the First Hilt’s home.

  A gentle rain began to fall from the sky. Aelrindel sat there in silence, his thoughts keeping watch with the night.

  Taenaran scurried out of the hooded figure’s way, nearly slipping on the limb’s wet bark as he did so. Several of the newly chosen tael had spent the rest of the evening celebrating their good fortune, and he had joined them for several glasses of rich elven wine—a decision that his slightly addled brain now regretted. The figure plodded onward, seemingly oblivious to the accident that it had almost caused. In the dim light of the deepening night, the half-elf caught a glimpse of Faelyn’s angry face before his uncle turned and stormed out of sight.

  When he entered his father’s home, he found the elder elf gazing out into the darkness.

  “Is everything all right, Father?” Taenaran asked.

  For an instant, the elation that had filled him from the moment of he had been chosen faded, replace
d by concern. If his uncle was upset, Taenaran could probably guess the reason. It didn’t take a cleric to divine the fact that his father’s best friend held little love for the half-breed elf—even if his father went to great pains to conceal that fact from him. He only hoped that one day his presence among the bladesingers would earn him Faelyn’s respect.

  Aelrindel smiled thinly and waved away the question.

  “Everything is fine, my son,” Aelrindel replied, and he stood up and opened his arms. “I am so proud of you!”

  Taenaran stood still for a moment, drinking in the emotion of the moment, before casting himself toward Aelrindel. Though it was the First Hilt who had presided over the evening’s ritual, it was his father’s arms that wrapped Taenaran in their strong embrace.

  “I will make you even more proud, Father,” the half-elf exclaimed, “when I stand among the other bladesingers.”

  Aelrindel chuckled. “Of that, I have no doubt, my son,” he said and stared out at the night sky once more.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  The scent of wood smoke and spilled ale filled the taproom.

  Taen watched a blue-gray trail of the smoke billow out from the fire crackling merrily in the center of the Green Chapel’s common area only to waft and wend its way to the circular hole in the ceiling of the sod-built inn. Like all homes in the little hamlet of Urling, Green Chapel lay beneath the ground, surrounded by a grove of alder and evergreen trees. That fact took some getting used to—especially to one who grew up in airy elf bowers high above the forest floor. When they had arrived in Urling earlier that day, the half-elf stared at the circular cluster of grassy mounds rising out of the earth near the center of the grove. He’d asked Borovazk how long of a rest stop they would take before continuing their journey to Urling. When the ranger announced that they had already arrived, Taen found himself nearly speechless. It wasn’t until the Rashemi had led them through a fur-covered hole, down a series of sloping passages, and into the circular antechamber that served as the Green Chapel’s waiting area that Taen began to believe their good-humored guide.

  The half-elf had wasted no time, however, in stowing his travel gear and soaking away the rigors of the road in the steamy waters of a stone bathing pool. A short nap and a quick change of clothes later, and Taen felt like a new person—the urgency of their journey temporarily forgotten under the creature comforts to be found in Urling’s single inn. It wasn’t long before he found himself returning to the common area. Now he sat around a simple, unpolished wood table, whose thick grain lay battered and scarred beneath the jostling weight of who-knew-how-many flagons, and gazed out at the lively taproom.

  Shadows flickered along the dark, earthen walls of the inn, despite illumination from the burning fire, and the air was thick with boasts and the heat of so many bodies gathered and pressed into one space. In one corner, a broad-chested Rashemi beat time upon twin hand drums while another chanted and sang in the thickly accented language of his homeland. Scattered within the crowd of common folk were several fur-clad warriors, their imposing presence increased by the lengths of the axes and the swords that hung by their sides. Though rough-tongued and forceful, these warriors were treated with affection and good-natured camaraderie by the other Rashemi.

  “Berserkers,” Borovazk had explained while they had waited to order from their server, “from the Wolf Lodge. They are part of the fang that protects this village. Ignore them unless you want to find yourself in the middle of a wrestling match.”

  Despite the warning, Taen found himself carefully watching the warriors. To a person, they were lean-faced and serious, and their dark eyes ranged around the room, searching and alert. Long black braids hung in thick lengths down their backs, and their hands never strayed far from their weapons. Taen nearly spluttered in alarm as one berserker, a silver-bearded wolf, caught his surreptitious gaze. The old warrior cast back a long, icy, feral look, lean eyed and hungry, before finally turning back to his companions. The half-elf let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and his hands released their tight grip on the table’s edge. There was a peril only barely avoided! As skilled as he knew he and his companions were, Taen did not relish having to battle a room full of Rashemi berserkers. The thought sent a shudder through his body despite the warmth of the air.

  He was grateful when, a few moments later, his server returned laden with food and drink. She was a thin-set, lanky girl not far from the first flower of womanhood. Long woolen skirts hid the shape of her legs from view, and a linen blouse, covered with grease spots, hung around her frame. Thick, golden-blonde hair threatened to escape from the single braid that wound around her head like a crown; a few of the wild strands fell into her face only to be blown away in haste as she set down food before them. Crocks of thick venison stew, laden with winter vegetables and golden potatoes; trenchers of thick brown bread, piping hot and slathered with melted butter; and a seemingly endless array of earthenware mugs topped with a foamy brew found their way from her arms and on to the table with a speed and aplomb that surprised the half-elf. He thanked the server when she had finished and was rewarded with a shy smile that set a sparkle dancing in the young woman’s green eyes.

  How different the people of Urling’s reactions were now. Like all Rashemi, the men and women of Urling were reserved around strangers, almost suspicious in their appraising glances and clipped speech. When Taen and his companions had first arrived, they were greeted with frank stares and an almost glacial politeness—until Borovazk had stepped forward and quietly spoken to his countrymen. After that, the people of Urling’s attitude had thawed, and soon Taen and his friends found themselves treated as old friends. It was, he reflected, a very welcome change.

  By unspoken agreement, the group ate in silence. Roberc stared at the shadows as he tucked into the mound of food before him, but the half-elf noted with a hint of dismay that Marissa barely touched her food. The druid absently stirred her stew all the while gazing out at nothing, rarely blinking. The enormity of what had happened beneath the Red Tree came crashing down upon him, shaking loose the comfort and ease he had so recently discovered.

  When Marissa had first gathered the group, bleary eyed and grumbling under the dawn sun, and recounted what the telthor had asked of her, Taen wanted to shout with frustration. There was a part of him—a surprisingly large part, it had turned out—that had hoped their time in Rashemen would end soon after Marissa completed her pilgrimage. Sacred journeys made at the behest of one’s god were all fine and good, but too much had happened to disturb the fragile peace he had struggled to build within himself since they had entered this strange land. He wanted a chance to return to the life he had known, even if it was filled with the bitter melody of guilt and shame. The half-elf preferred the strains of that familiar tune to the unknown song that played now in his heart.

  Surprisingly, Roberc was the first one to agree to accompany Marissa. The halfling simply nodded his head after the druid had finished her tale and stood up. “When do we leave?” was all he had asked before heading off to ready Cavan for their journey. Borovazk, too, was quick to assent to Marissa’s quest—though in truth Taen had suspected that raging dragons wouldn’t keep the ranger from shedding his blood in Rashemen’s time of need. “Borovazk go where the little sister go,” he said with great dignity, and Taen wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Marissa that made others so willing to tie their fates so closely to hers.

  Including himself, he had had to admit. For how else could he have explained his own presence at the beginning of their journey. So he found himself struggling—not with the decision about whether to continue on with the druid, as that choice was taken from him the moment Marissa had opened her mouth to speak—but with the reality of what this journey could do to him.

  “I know what I am asking of you,” Marissa said when the two of them were finally alone.

  “Do you?” was all he said, all h
e could say in the face of Marissa’s need.

  “Perhaps not,” she said and touched his cheek with her cool hand. “Still, I am asking.” Her eyes were twin pools of light. “I do not wish to do this thing without you, Taenaran, but I will if I have to.”

  Her voice was soft, like a summer breeze, and Taen found his own heart warming.

  “You will not have to,” he said finally and gently moved her hand from his face before walking into the shadow of the trees.

  Lost in his thoughts, Taen was surprised when his spoon scraped the bottom of the crock of stew; he had finished his dinner without tasting any of it. The half-elf would have called out to the server for more food, but a loud crash drew his attention. Over in the corner, two of the berserkers were locked in a martial embrace. Even from his vantage point, Taen could see the knotted cords of muscles as both fighters strained against each other. Two tables had already fallen to the floor in the struggle, but the Rashemi patrons seemed to be taking it all in stride. Many had even gathered around the fighting berserkers, calling out encouragement to the combatants.

  “I thought Borovazk said this place was restful and quiet,” Marissa asked, staring at the fight with obvious interest. Taen recalled that very same thing, but he said nothing. He was just glad that something had finally broken through her reverie.

  “As long as I can still sleep on a soft straw mattress,” Roberc opined with a lazy puff from his pipe, “then I don’t care if the spirits of the dead themselves start wailing from the rafters all night long.”

  “Little friends,” Taen heard Borovazk’s voice from behind him, cutting over the din of the taproom, “Borovazk speak truth. Green Chapel is nice, quiet place …” The ranger paused. “Normally.”

  Taen turned around. Unlike the rest of the group’s members, Borovazk had forgone any change of clothing. Once they had arrived at the inn, he had made straight for the back of the common area, content to sit by the bar and exchange news and swap outrageous stories, all the while consuming vast amounts of the bitter, frothy ale served by the barkeep. He returned with another Rashemi in tow, a wizened figure wearing a soiled leather apron.