Bladesinger

Chapter 4

The Year of the Morningstar

(1350 DR)

The children were throwing stones again.

Sharp-edged and round, the tiny missiles hissed through the air, biting Taenaran's skin. The young half-elf dodged as best he could, skittering through the lush undergrowth of the forest and cutting between the thick trunks of oak and ash trees that rose like woodland giants into the sky. Still, the stones found their target-for they were elf-thrown and true.

Tears spilled from his eyes as he ran, warping and bending the landscape. Taenaran tripped over an outstretched tree root and tumbled to the ground. He wanted to give voice to the hurt that was welling up inside him, but he wouldn't allow the other children the satisfaction of hearing him wail like the voeraen, the elf toddlers who stayed close to their mothers and fathers.

That thought nearly undid his young resolve-for he had neither blood father nor blood mother among the elves of Avaelearean, which was, he knew from past experience, the cause of today's problems. They had been playing "Hunt the Drow" in the wide forest when a few of the older children started throwing rocks at Taenaran and calling him a drider, a horrifying creature spoken of in whispers by the adult elves, made up of both drow and spider. It wasn't long before the others had joined in, so he ran-from the sharp bite of stones and the sharper bite of the Elvish words the children had flung at him like arcane arrows. "Round Ear." "Monkey Face." " A Tel'Quessir Bastard." These were the names that followed him wherever he went. If they weren't spoken aloud, he could see them in the eyes of the elf children, and even in the eyes of some of the adults of Avaelearean.

With a heaving sigh, Taenaran wiped the dirt from his clothes as best he could and stood up. The other elf children were still hunting in the forest, calling out his name, and worse. For once, his human heritage helped him. Though he was younger than the others, some of whom were born almost two decades ago, the half-elf's muscles were thicker and more developed. Now they carried him away from his tormentors faster than they could follow.

He ran for quite some time, through slanting shafts of sunlight and shallow pools of rainwater, down moss-covered deer tracks and winding switchbacks. Certain that he had left his pursuers well behind him, Taenaran stopped in the center of a wind-tossed oak grove to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, not from exertion, but from hurt and confusion and a growing anger that smoldered in his heart.

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.