stood side by side with Captain Fflar of that high city and shed our blood for the sake of our land.”
Several elves in the crowd wept openly now at the recounting of the fall of Myth Drannor. Though Taenaran knew the story well, as did every elf who stood in the Hall of the Heart-Oak, it never failed to elicit strong emotion. The city’s fall was the defining moment of elf history over the past thousand years.
“It was only when the battle was clearly lost,” the First Hilt intoned, “that Fflar, seeking to preserve what was best and noble of the elves, turned to Aelcaedra Swiftstroke, greatest of the First Hilts, and made her swear an oath upon his sword that she would gather the remaining bladesingers and flee, so that our sacred art would not pass from memory.
“Though her heart was burdened with the weight of Fflar’s request, for what warrior would lightly turn from such a battle, Aelcaedra swore upon the captain’s sword and gathered together her few remaining followers and escaped the dying city, eventually settling here.”
As Aelrindel paused, the drum took up its measured beat once more.
“So,” the First Hilt continued, “we have kept the oath, through the passing of the years, as other shadows have covered and fled the lands of Faerun. Such was its strength that we remained rooted, like the oldest oak, even as the call of the Retreat sounded in our hearts. We have remained, and alone among all of the Tel’Quessir, even in this time of Returning, we pass on the mysteries of our art exactly as it was passed on in the oldest of times.”
The drumbeat intensified, growing both louder and faster. Taenaran felt his heart respond, thrumming in rapid counterpoint.
“I come to you this evening,” Aelrindel nearly sang, “as the keeper of that tradition, and I ask you, as heirs of the great oath, ‘Do you stand behind these candidates as worthy bearers of our ancient art?’”
“We do,” the gathered elves responded, filling the hall with their assent. Taenaran let the sound of their voices wash over him. Though he knew that some in their community objected to his presence among the candidates, none had gainsayed the will of the el’tael. For that, he found himself profoundly grateful.
“Then let the choosing begin,” the First Hilt called out. Immediately, several deep-throated drums joined the single percussion that had punctuated the opening ritual, followed by the assembly, raising its voice in song.
Taenaran watched out of the corner of his eye as the robed masters moved through the ranks of the kneeling candidates, stopping occasionally to lay the edge of a sword upon the left shoulder of a young elf, signaling the elf’s acceptance as a tael. The driving rhythm of the drums and the soaring voices of the assembled elves were like the rarest of wines. The half-elf found his head spinning in excitement and pride to be a part of this great tradition passed down throughout the ages. He was about to send his own voice to join the others’ when he felt a sharp tap and the weight of a slender blade upon his own shoulder.
“Rise Taenaran, son of Aelrindel, and join the ranks of the tael,” a woman’s husky alto said into his ear.
Stunned, the half-elf stood up and walked unsteadily toward the other newly accepted tael. When he turned to face the crowd, he saw Aelrindel cast a glance in his direction. When he met the First Hilt’s eyes, he was surprised to see the leader of the bladesingers nod his head and flash him a brief smile.
Taenaran’s answering smile nearly split his face.
Aelrindel heard light footfalls approaching. The First Hilt sighed softly then sat down upon the high-backed chair, slipping out of the soft-soled shoes he had worn for this evening’s event.
“I thought the ritual went splendidly, didn’t you?” he asked, not looking up at the figure now standing before him. Centuries of training, and nearly that many years of familiarity with his oldest
Several elves in the crowd wept openly now at the recounting of the fall of Myth Drannor. Though Taenaran knew the story well, as did every elf who stood in the Hall of the Heart-Oak, it never failed to elicit strong emotion. The city’s fall was the defining moment of elf history over the past thousand years.
“It was only when the battle was clearly lost,” the First Hilt intoned, “that Fflar, seeking to preserve what was best and noble of the elves, turned to Aelcaedra Swiftstroke, greatest of the First Hilts, and made her swear an oath upon his sword that she would gather the remaining bladesingers and flee, so that our sacred art would not pass from memory.
“Though her heart was burdened with the weight of Fflar’s request, for what warrior would lightly turn from such a battle, Aelcaedra swore upon the captain’s sword and gathered together her few remaining followers and escaped the dying city, eventually settling here.”
As Aelrindel paused, the drum took up its measured beat once more.
“So,” the First Hilt continued, “we have kept the oath, through the passing of the years, as other shadows have covered and fled the lands of Faerun. Such was its strength that we remained rooted, like the oldest oak, even as the call of the Retreat sounded in our hearts. We have remained, and alone among all of the Tel’Quessir, even in this time of Returning, we pass on the mysteries of our art exactly as it was passed on in the oldest of times.”
The drumbeat intensified, growing both louder and faster. Taenaran felt his heart respond, thrumming in rapid counterpoint.
“I come to you this evening,” Aelrindel nearly sang, “as the keeper of that tradition, and I ask you, as heirs of the great oath, ‘Do you stand behind these candidates as worthy bearers of our ancient art?’”
“We do,” the gathered elves responded, filling the hall with their assent. Taenaran let the sound of their voices wash over him. Though he knew that some in their community objected to his presence among the candidates, none had gainsayed the will of the el’tael. For that, he found himself profoundly grateful.
“Then let the choosing begin,” the First Hilt called out. Immediately, several deep-throated drums joined the single percussion that had punctuated the opening ritual, followed by the assembly, raising its voice in song.
Taenaran watched out of the corner of his eye as the robed masters moved through the ranks of the kneeling candidates, stopping occasionally to lay the edge of a sword upon the left shoulder of a young elf, signaling the elf’s acceptance as a tael. The driving rhythm of the drums and the soaring voices of the assembled elves were like the rarest of wines. The half-elf found his head spinning in excitement and pride to be a part of this great tradition passed down throughout the ages. He was about to send his own voice to join the others’ when he felt a sharp tap and the weight of a slender blade upon his own shoulder.
“Rise Taenaran, son of Aelrindel, and join the ranks of the tael,” a woman’s husky alto said into his ear.
Stunned, the half-elf stood up and walked unsteadily toward the other newly accepted tael. When he turned to face the crowd, he saw Aelrindel cast a glance in his direction. When he met the First Hilt’s eyes, he was surprised to see the leader of the bladesingers nod his head and flash him a brief smile.
Taenaran’s answering smile nearly split his face.
Aelrindel heard light footfalls approaching. The First Hilt sighed softly then sat down upon the high-backed chair, slipping out of the soft-soled shoes he had worn for this evening’s event.
“I thought the ritual went splendidly, didn’t you?” he asked, not looking up at the figure now standing before him. Centuries of training, and nearly that many years of familiarity with his oldest
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