Taen's blade parted muscle, sinew, and bone as it separated the cleric's arm just above the elbow. The wounded cleric screeched in agony as her arm hit the floor with a meaty thump. Hot blood pumped from the open wound, spilling out in steaming pools upon the cold stone.
Unbalanced by the attack, the cleric was unable to fend off another strike from Borovazk's axe. Bone crunched and shattered as the force of the blow knocked the half-orc back several steps. Taen could see the desperation carved now upon her face. She took another step back and weakly chanted a single phrase. Immediately a glowing circle appeared around her, coruscating with silver energy. The glow intensified as arcane power surged around her.
Taen shouted a warning, sensing what was about to happen. If they didn't do something in the next several heartbeats, their enemy would escape them. He ran toward the heavily wounded cleric, hoping that his enhanced speed would allow him to reach her in time. He was surprised, then, when Cavan's furred form shot by him. The war-dog gave a deep growl as he launched himself toward the cleric. He struck the half-orc with the weight of his body, pushing her outside the confines of the circle.
The gleaming circle faded.
Taen reached the war-dog in time to see him savagely tear at the cleric's throat. His hapless opponent struck out wildly with her claws, but the wicked blades merely rebounded off of the war-dog's tough barding. With a single wet gurgle, the cleric's body convulsed once then stilled.
Taen fell to his knees and mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods.
Chapter 25
The Year of the Serpent
(1359 DR)
Exile.
Aelrindel sat in the darkness of his private chamber, letting that word echo ominously in his mind, as it had when spoken in the Hall of the Masters. The el'tael had deliberated carefully throughout the night, conscious of the delicacy of the matter before them. Although the facts as they had gleaned them from Andaerean and his cronies exonerated Taenaran as the antagonist behind the tragedy that occurred, the half-elf was still responsible for the death of another elf.
Those masters who had opposed Taenaran's entry into the ranks of the tael argued that such a horrifying event was a natural consequence of initiating an a Tel'Quessir into the art. Even those el'tael free from such prejudice had to acknowledge that Talaedra's death flowed from the half-elf's presence in the community.
They had pronounced their judgment: Taenaran must go into exile.
Aelrindel absently ran his fingers across the strings of the harp he now clutched close to his chest. The notes fell into darkness, brittle and out of tune. Taenaran's exile was like a sword that pierced his heart. No father should have to witness the fall of his son. It was worse than death, watching the bright, brave spirit of his child crushed beneath the weight of guilt and shame.
Grief shaped a bitter song that spilled out of the harp. A part of him wanted to stand up and announce that he, too, would go into exile. Thoughts of walking beside Taenaran, coaching and training him further, watching him grow into the hero he was destined to become, filled Aelrindel's thoughts, but the bonds of his Oath shackled the First Hilt with cruel strength. He could not abandon his duty-his people.
Even for love of his son.
The rain had finally stopped falling upon the leaf-covered bower that formed the roof of his home when Aelrindel's fingers stopped their grief-stricken dance across the harp's strings. Silence hung heavily upon the night.
Aelrindel kept vigil with it until the dawn.
Taenaran knelt before his father.
His head throbbed from the aftermath of the blow that had knocked him out, causing the walls of the chamber to shift and bend as his vision swam. As much as the wound upon the half-elf's head pained him, it could not compare to the heart-rending ache of grief and loss that followed him even into his dreams.
Talaedra was dead.
Killed by his own hand, and he himself sent into exile. The masters had pronounced that fateful word even as they turned their backs to him as a symbol of his separation from the community. He had barely heard their judgment or any of their deliberations. Throughout the course of his trial, Taenaran had felt dislocated. Everything had filtered to him as if from a great distance. In that befuddling fog, he had spent time reflecting upon his past, his years spent among the tael, which had been the only time that really mattered to him, and came upon one inescapable conclusion: Everything that had happened since yesterday evening must be an illusion. This wasn't his life-couldn't be his life.
Still the masters had decided upon exile. His father, overruled by the wisdom of the other el'tael, had been forced to do the same. Now he knelt before that same father, who had been both mentor and master, for the last time. Tears streamed down his face, making ragged tracks in the layers of dirt and dried mud that still covered his skin. He could see the long trail of tears mirrored on his father's face. Aelrindel seemed older somehow, more frail. The commanding sparkle in his bright eyes flickered dully, its normally penetrating power muted and dimmed, as if the events of the past day had stolen something essential from his essence. Taenaran could see that his hands, which wielded both the deadly length of a blade and the subtle strings of a harp with equal facility, trembled as they reached out toward him.
The sight of his father, diminished by grief, struck another blow at Taenaran's heart. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. Shame locked them in his throat with a key he could not grasp. The half-elf struggled as one would struggle with the unfamiliar cadences of an ancient spell, but tongue and mouth would not form the proper sounds. Taenaran sobbed in frustration and threw himself into his father's outstretched arms.
As he felt Aelrindel's arms tighten around him, the half-elf let out an inarticulate wail. He recalled every hateful word and spiteful action that he had endured during his life. Each memory brought with it a wave of anger, shame, and sadness that spilled out of him with racking sobs-and always Talaedra's face hovered over him. Cradled in his father's arms, Taenaran poured out that bitter cup of sorrow that had been his life, and Aelrindel drank of it, even to its dregs. The release of that emotion left Taenaran spent; his body trembled mutely as he leaned in silence against the comforting presence of his father. They sat there in silence for several moments.
When at last Taenaran felt the trembling weight of his father's hand upon his head, he pulled back and gazed at him through tear-reddened eyes. "I… I am so sorry," he managed to say at last in a voice husky with grief. "I don't know what happened and now"-he continued above his father's whispered reassurances-"Talaedra is dead. Father," Taenaran's voice choked on that word, "I have killed the only friend I ever had and brought shame upon our house."
"No, my son," Aelrindel spoke in a gentle tone, "it is I who am sorry, for I allowed my selfish pleasure at having a son blind me to the true pain that you were facing. I should have protected you more, stood up for you, but I was proud of your desire to become a bladesinger, and I wanted you to do it totally on your own, so that no one could accuse you of succeeding only because I was your father."
Taenaran shook his head, unwilling to allow his father to take any measure of responsibility. This was his failure and no one else's. If he had been stronger somehow, more like a full-blooded elf, he could have avoided this fate, but his weakness had doomed him, and now he would wander the world in exile, separated from the only home that he had ever known.
Aelrindel held him a moment longer then rose slowly to his feet. Taenaran watched his once-vibrant father struggle to stand, bowed beneath the weight of the shame that he had brought upon him.