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.

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.