Bladesinger (17 page)

“It is time,” Mahara said, interrupting his thoughts.

He watched with keen interest as the assembled othlor gathered around them in silent convocation. First one then the rest of the masked witches raised pale hands into the air. Suddenly, the clearing fell silent—neither wind nor bird nor shifting branch broke the stillness. With his own arcane senses, Taen could feel the slow buildup of mystic forces, like the gathering of power before a storm.

“May the telthor guide your steps,” Mahara said then began a complex chant.

As her voice rose and fell to the rhythmic patterns that would focus and seal the power of the witch’s spell, Taen’s vision began to shift and blur, as if the world itself stretched and coiled around itself. He nearly jumped as he felt a hand grip his own. By its size and calloused feel, it could only be that of Borovazk. Blindly, he reached out until he could feel Marissa’s shoulder; he rested his hand heavily upon it.

The flow of the arcane energy shifted violently, and Taen knew, from his own mastery of magic, that something was wrong.

“The traitor has some sort of mystic shield repelling our spell, Mahara,” Najra called out, confirming what the half-elf had already suspected.

“Whatever she has in place,” Mahara shouted, “the power of the Urlingwood will not be denied!”

With that, the witch slammed both of her hands together, palm to palm. Eldritch energy roiled from her joined hands, spilling out in waves upon Taen and his waiting friends. The world lurched madly then disappeared in a single moment of violent disorientation. Taen’s mind tried to rebel at the utter nothingness around him, but years of arcane study had prepared him for the sense of dislocation.

Half a heartbeat later, the world resolved into a faded tableau of gray stone—the suggestion of a wall, the hint of an uneven floor—then just as suddenly, it disappeared in another gut-wrenching twist out of reality.

This time, Taen counted the heartbeats spent suspended in nothingness. Though he knew that he remained linked to his companions, all sense of touch had disappeared. Clearly, something had gone wrong! He’d used enough teleport spells in his day to know that some outside force had forcibly changed their destination. Now he worried that they would spend the rest of their lives trapped on the astral plane.

He was just about to cast a spell of his own when the darkness shifted around him again. When the nauseating sense of disorientation abated, Taen could once more feel solid ground beneath his feet, and the touch of his companions. The darkness, however, had not parted. It covered them like an impenetrable skin.

“What in all of the Nine Hells was that?” Roberc swore.

Before Taen could answer, something skittered and hissed somewhere in the darkness beyond them.

“Borovazk not like the sound of that, little friends,” the ranger said.

Taen heard the sound of the Rashemi’s weapons slide from their resting places. Quickly, he spoke an arcane word into the pitch black emptiness. The world exploded into light.

And the screaming began.

The Year of the Arch

(1353 DR)

Steel rang against steel in the forest clearing. Sweat ran down Taenaran’s face, stinging eyes and running in tiny rivulets down his back. The half-elf struggled to bring his sword into the third position, angled slightly above his head, when the silver-haired elf standing in the clearing’s center called for the next attack. Arvaedra was a harsh swordmaster, and Taenaran knew that if he performed the maneuver even slightly off-center, the el’tael’s quick eyes would catch it, and she would pounce on him like a wyrmling on a fatted calf. All of the tael knew that the only thing quicker than Arvaedra’s sword was her tongue.

A cool breeze swept through the clearing, rustling branches and the long green cloaks of the other masters watching from the shadowy edges of the clearing. The wind sent a soft shiver down Taenaran’s spine. He tried to ignore it in the same way that he tried to ignore the cold, impassive gaze of the other masters, made worse by the fact that his own father watched from the shadows—critiquing, finding fault, noting and cataloging the imperfections and weakness in his execution of the forms. Later, when they returned home, Aelrindel would correct him gently.

The half-elf shook his head, banishing thoughts of the future. There was only this moment, this place in the Song, as the masters would say. If only it weren’t so painful, he thought bitterly. Taenaran’s wrist and shoulder burned with fatigue, and the muscles in his legs were trembling with exhaustion. He breathed deeply, trying to return to the haera, or the center—and nearly dropped the sword as his opponent’s blade struck. The shock of the attack set the hilt of his sword humming; the blade turned in his hand, causing his opponent’s weapon to slide with deadly speed down its steel length.

Taenaran braced himself for the stinging kiss of the blade, only to find Arvaedra’s sword intervening at the last moment, flicking the oncoming blade away with a fast turn of her wrist. The half-elf let out a hiss of relief. Tael swords were not crafted razor sharp, but they still held an edge, enough to remind an errant apprentice to pay attention.

“Halt,” the swordmaster shouted to the assembled tael.

Swords hissed instantly into their sheaths, as the apprentices sank to their knees, assuming the traditional sitting position, back straight, body resting on calves, and feet angled toward each other, nearly touching. She stared for a moment at Taenaran, and he nearly flinched at the swordmaster’s cold glance.

“Taenaran,” she said, using his name like a whip, “the rest of us were practicing the Seven Forms. Do you mind telling me what it was that you were doing?”

The half-elf sat completely still, trying to contain the feeling of shame that threatened to drown him. Though his hearing was not as sensitive as that of a full-blooded elf, still he could make out the soft, dreadful sound of snickering among the other tael. The tips of his ears flamed red.

Arvaedra must have heard the sound as well; she spun quickly and walked among the kneeling apprentices, her steps slow and sure, containing the promise of power, like a lioness among her cubs. Silence filled the clearing.

Taenaran risked a sideways glance toward his father and the other masters. Aelrindel stood with arms folded. There was a stillness around him that seemed to reach out and draw in everything in his path. He was impassive, a living statue. Taenaran knew, however, that disappointment lurked beneath the calm surface. He could feel it, or imagined he could, when they were alone at dinner, talking of other things. Often his father avoided discussing any of Arvaedra’s discipline.

It wasn’t that the silver-haired swordmaster unjustly criticized him or singled Taenaran out for punishment. All of the tael felt the sting of her acid-laced tongue at one time or another. There were others, however, in the community, and even among the masters, who seemed to delight in every mistake, every slight missing of the mark that he made. He knew that his father had fought hard with the el’tael so that he could study the art of the bladesingers. It was an honor for a swordmaster to sponsor a young elf into the Way, for the masters represented the community, and it was an awesome privilege to be chosen by the community to give one’s life in its service, yet the half-elf felt that every error he made was a repudiation of his father’s choice and confirmation for those who had wished to bar him from studying the art.

Taenaran had no further time for reflection, as Arvaedra had completed her rounds and stood before him once more. Wind tousled the swordmaster’s hair, sending the thin strands of her pony tail waving behind her. He would have smiled at the effect, but her stern gaze rested upon him. As always, he was shocked by the signs of age in the el’tael before him. The tiny wrinkles around her almond-shaped eyes and the shock of silver-white hair were signs of contradiction among the long-lived elves. Among the people of the community, she was considered ancient and wise.

“You still haven’t answered my question, tael,” Arvaedra demanded at last. “What were you doing?”

She was also, he knew, quite deadly.

Taenaran met the forbidding glare as best he could. Experience told him that there were no responses that would spare him from her discipline. There were simply answers that were “less wrong.” He thought for a moment then decided on the blunt truth.

“I was tired and lost my center,” he explained.

One of Arvaedra’s snow-white eyebrows arched high at his response. “Hmmm…” was all she said, then, “so Taenaran, what will you do when you are in the heat of battle, and you are tired and forget the simplest exercises of the youngest tael? Will you ask your enemy for a quick break before you engage him once more in battle?”

Laughter broke out among the tael.

“Silence!” Arvaedra shouted, turning on the culprits. “You are no better than he. At least Taenaran shows courage enough to admit what you are all either too dim or too frightened to say out loud.”

She moved to the center of the kneeling apprentices. “The Seven Forms are the doorway to true mastery. You must practice them and learn them until you can perform them without thought, then”—she paused a moment before continuing—”you must forget them. They are the foundation of our art, the first notes of the Song.”

She gazed out among the assembled tael. “What is the Song?” she asked.

For a few moments, no one answered. Taenaran could feel the tension among the tael mount. Every apprentice had heard the masters speak of the Song. Taenaran thought back, desperately trying to remember some of what Aelrindel had said to him about the subject. There wasn’t a single apprentice who wanted to answer a question posed by Arvaedra with nothing but a blank stare.

At last someone called out, “The Song is the essence of bladesinging.” It was a high-minded enough answer, Taenaran thought, something that he had heard the other tael mumble piously or haughtily to impress their friends and comrades.

“That is an answer that says everything … and nothing,” Arvaedra replied with a sharp bark of laughter. “Good enough if our art were no more than wind and shadows. You.” She motioned toward Taenaran with a scarred finger. “Come here.”

Instantly, the half-elf sprang up from his kneeling position, fatigue and embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Much to his surprise, Taenaran found his sword already held in the First Form.

“Now,” the swordmaster snapped, “attack.”

For a moment Taenaran didn’t respond, unsure if he had heard Arvaedra correctly. “What?” he asked finally.

“Attack,” the swordmaster replied in an acid tone. “Since the tael do not know what the Song is, we will show them. Now, attack!”

Taenaran obeyed, driving his sword forward in the First Form’s basic attack. Arvaedra parried easily then riposted an attack of her own. The half-elf quickly raised his blade and caught the edge of the el’tael’s weapon. The ringing of their swords echoed in the clearing.

He attacked again, aiming a low horizontal cut at Arvaedra’s legs. The swordmaster leaped easily over his blade and brought her own sword down in a sweeping diagonal cut. It continued like this, with the el’tael gradually increasing the speed and deadliness of her attacks. The half-elf soon found himself struggling to remember the correct parry as the elder elf swiftly moved through the Seven Forms, beginning to strike at random. Tired muscles cramped with fatigue, and the half-elf felt as if a giant sat on his chest. He was about to signal his defeat after a wicked sword thrust nearly pierced his shoulder, but as he spun desperately away from the attack, something began to happen.

Very faintly, on the edge of his perception, Taenaran heard the soft, melodic strains of music. As it intensified, he realized that the sound originated from somewhere within himself. Could it be that he was hearing the Song for the first time?

A sense of elation began to run through him, energizing tired muscles and sinew. The Song swelled within him. At first, he struggled against its rhythm, for it felt unnatural. In the midst of this inner wrestling, his form fell apart. Disciplined sword thrusts became off-balance swipes. He felt almost as if he were drunk. Several times, Arvaedra nearly disemboweled him with swift strokes of her gleaming blade, yet each time he managed to knock her thrusts away mere inches from his skin.

Finally, Taenaran began to relax into the Song’s driving rhythms, matching footstep, slide, and sword thrust to the cadence of the inner melody. It was in that moment that Arvaedra’s sword began to inexorably slow—or Taenaran’s own attacks began to speed up; it was difficult to tell. All he could see was the deadly beauty of two blades meeting in the air. Time lost all sense of meaning. For the half-elf, there was only the silver streak of Arvaedra’s sword and the answering ring of his own steel. He was enmeshed in a symphony of battle.

Without thought, he departed from the forms and slid his sword past Arvaedra’s guard. The elder elf laughed wildly and raised her weaponless hand as she spun out of the way. Taenaran felt a ripple of power move through the air and strike him square in the chest. The force of the magic caused him to stumble, and he cursed himself for forgetting that steel is not a bladesinger’s only weapon. He recovered his balance and advanced once more against the swordmaster. He feinted a high attack then summoned his own power. Fueled by the strength of the Song, the eldritch energy rose within him easily. He knew in an instant that this was somehow different than the spells he normally cast. As Arvaedra’s sword rose to meet his attack, he released the power he had raised. Taenaran’s sword, rather than presenting an obstacle, acted as a channel for his spell. Immediately, power poured forth from his blade and assaulted the elder elf.

He watched in amazement as the el’tael absorbed the arcane attack, dissipating its force. The half-elf wanted to follow it up with another blast, but suddenly the Song shifted in to a different key. It swelled within him once more, but this time Taenaran felt it pull at him, as if it were demanding something. He had managed to settle into its rhythms previously, but this time it wanted more than just his cooperation. This time it pulled at the deepest parts of who he was, tugging at the core of his spirit. Fear ran through him like a cataract and something within cried out against the Song’s terrible need. He clawed for freedom against its power—then silence filled his mind.