Bladesinger by Keith Francis Strohm Page A

Tonight, the el’tael, the masters of the bladesinging art, would choose from among those young elves, both girls and boys, who had been striving to prove themselves worthy of becoming apprentices. Not everyone would move on to the ranks of the tael, for the masters were quite selective and would choose only the best and the brightest of elves to study the ancient art of bladesinging. Ever since that day years ago when he had expressed his heart’s desire to follow in his father’s path and become a bladesinger, Taenaran had studied with a single-minded intensity. He’d mastered the rudimentary lore and minor cantrips of arcane magic faster than the other children and spent every night studying the names of bladesinging heroes and masters of the art. Standing now among the other hopeful candidates, the half-elf could hardly believe that the Rite of Acceptance was mere moments away!
    The crowd stirred again, and Taenaran felt his stomach lurch in answer. He prayed to every god he could think of, imploring them all to watch over him tonight. The half-elf wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being passed over, but even more, he wished to avoid the disappointment that such an outcome would bring to his father.
    His prayers were interrupted by the sonorous booming of a drum, struck in time to a measured beat. Silence descended upon the assembled elf community. Immediately, Taenaran and the other candidates fell to their knees as the el’tael processed in solemnly, the cowls of their rich, green robes cast deeply over their heads. Centuries of slow earth magic and patient cultivation had shaped the arael’lia from three separate trees. Now, with their trunks united and their leaf-filled bowers intertwined, they formed a massive chamber open to the gentle spring wind that blew across the length of Avaelearean. Starlight filtered through that verdant ceiling of the arael’lia, spilling across the line of el’tael.
    Watching the line of masters bathed in such light, Taenaran felt bewitched, as if in this moment, he and the rest of the candidates were somehow pulled out of time, wrapped in a spell of moonlight and stars. The sense of enchantment deepened as the masters gathered around the kneeling candidates and as one pulled back their shadow-filled cowls.
    Taenaran cast a quick look at his father, hoping for some sign that would ease his tension, but Aelrindel’s gaze was focused outward, upon the whole community. He never saw, or chose not to see, the hopeful look Taenaran gave him. Tonight, the half-elf realized with both fear and pride, Aelrindel wasn’t his father. He was purely the First Hilt, a guardian of Avaelearean and the leader of the bladesingers, and tonight, the candidate realized, he wanted Aelrindel to be nothing less.
    “Tonight,” Aelrindel began, his rich voice easily filling the hall with its measured cadence, “we gather as we have gathered throughout the millennia, as we once gathered in the holy glades of fair Cormanthor,”
    A sigh rippled through the crowd at the mention of that ancient forest, and even Taenaran, half-elf though he was, felt a tug at his heart. On long summer nights, when the moon bathed the treetops with silver and the elven wine flowed like a rain-soaked river, the elves remembered their long-ago home in song, story, and poem. Many were the times that Taenaran fell asleep to the rich-throated harmonies of the elves of Avaelearean as they sang of the crystal-clear springs and sun-soaked glades of Cormanthor. However beautiful Avaelearean was, Taenaran knew that his adopted folk were a people in exile, longing for the land of their ancestors.
    “We kept this vigil even as evil cast its long shadow upon the walls of our home,” Aelrindel continued, interrupting Taenaran’s thoughts, “choosing the next generation of elves to carry on the tradition of our ancient art. When the Army of Darkness ravaged the forests of our people and descended upon Myth Drannor, the bladesingers