Too late.
Everything was too late. The witches would move against them, and even if they could survive, they would have to escape from Rashemen while they were being hunted by the wychlaran.
Taenaran would still be lost in the midst of the wraith lord's cursed touch.
For a moment, Marissa lost faith. She wondered why Rillifane would have called her to Rashemen only to have things end so poorly. Why had she come?
Then she heard a word whispered softly from across a great distance, and her heart grew strong once more. The word grew, becoming louder as it traveled, swelling across the great gap of time and space, gathering force. When it finally broke forth among them, it shattered rock and split the earth with its power, knocking everyone to the ground.
"Enough!" the voice thundered.
Marissa stumbled to her feet, clapping hands to ears in pain, as the voice echoed in the clearing and in her mind. When she had recovered, the druid looked in amazement at the shimmering form of an old woman floating above the well. Silver and golden energy coruscated around the figure, dancing and arcing in a wild circle. The others gathered around as well-all of them, including the witches, who had recovered their balance with astonishing aplomb. Collectively, they stared at the radiant presence in their midst. Squinting against the pulsating illumination emanating from the figure, it took Marissa a few moments to recognize the shimmering crone.
Imsha had come as promised.
The druid nearly cried with relief-though the telthor's first words bore little comfort.
"You fools," Imsha said. "The wolf raids the henhouse while the shepherds drink to their good fortune! How long will you sit their squabbling amongst yourselves while Rashemen crumbles around you?"
Marissa would have responded but stopped in wonder as each of the witches bowed low to the telthor-even Najra, though she seemed to struggle with it. Watching it all unfold, the druid could barely contain her emotion. Both joy and guilt warred within her-joy at the presence of Imsha and the effect that it had upon the witches-there was hope now for both Taenaran and for her mission-and guilt at how quickly she had questioned her faith in the midst of adversity.
Rillifane, forgive me, she cried silently to her god.
As one, the witches finished their obeisance and gathered together. Marissa knew that they deliberated amongst themselves in the silence of their bond, but she no longer feared. When at last one of them spoke, she was surprised to hear a voice other than Najra's.
"You rebuke us all, dear sister," the witch said.
Marissa cast a glance at the speaking othlor but could see nothing beyond the contours of her white mask, its face opened in a gentle smile.
"Well do we remember your presence among us, Imsha," the witch continued. "You were the wisest of us." The othlor spoke her words quietly, in a voice surprisingly soft and melodic.
The warm tones seemed lost on the telthor. Imsha floated above the well, her aged face still stretched in a scowl.
"I rebuke only because I must," the floating crone said, though Marissa could hear both warmth and regret in the telthor's voice. "They have all spoken the truth, Mahara," the crone continued, "though maybe not as diplomatically as some would like." At this last, she turned toward Roberc who, Marissa noted thankfully, had sheathed his sword. The halfling returned the telthor's gaze evenly, a thin smile splitting the grizzled contours of his face.
"Mahara," Najra hissed, "these outsiders must be made to pay for their transgression. Whether they come at Imsha's request or not, they have violated our laws. They must receive punishment."
Marissa could sense that several of the other witches agreed with Najra's sentiment but was reassured at the telthor's response.
"Be silent, Najra," the crone said harshly. "Even as an ethran, you always hated others telling you what to do-and nothing has changed. The fact that you were summoned by this woman's power," she said, pointing to Marissa, "is the sole reason for your anger. There will be no punishment. These travelers are under my protection, I will deal personally with anyone who harms them."
Imsha's gaze passed over the assembled group like a scythe. Marissa blanched as the crone's fierce eyes met her own. She was glad that the telthor saw her as an ally and not an enemy, for her eyes held the promise of death within their gleaming depths.
Mahara turned at last to Marissa and her companions.
"Forgive us our rudeness," the othlor said. "We do not often receive strangers in our midst, let alone into our most private of councils. The wisdom and strength of the wychlaran have in the past always proved sufficient to meet the dangers threatening Rashemen. We have become too sure of ourselves, like kings locked in our strongholds, secure in our power while the kingdom burns around us."
The witch stepped forward, bringing both of her hands together and placing them before her heart.
"Be welcome at this council, strangers." Mahara bowed low. "I greet you in the name of the wychlaran, the ancient defenders of our land."
Speechless, Marissa returned the bow, noting with relief that the others did the same. When she had finished, Rusella cawed loudly from a tree at the edge of the clearing. With three swift beats of her wings, the raven flew like an arrow to the druid, landing softly and gracefully upon the tip of the Staff of the Red Tree.
Mahara chuckled from behind her mask.
"We often say that 'one can know the heart of a person by the mettle of those she travels with.' It seems you have a fine heart, indeed." Mahara paused for a moment, surveying the group. "Come," the witch said. "Your comrades have need of some rest and healing." She eyed the still-shimmering telthor. "We will listen to what you have to say."
As the othlor converged upon her friends, Marissa cast one last glance at Imsha before she turned her attention to Taenaran. The telthor's eyes gazed upon her with tenderness.
You would have made a fine hathran, the sound of Imsha's voice broke into her thoughts. Startled, she stared back at the wizened figure. Imsha raised a hand in farewell as she faded slowly into the night. There was a sense of permanence in the telthor's fading, and a wave of sadness passed through the druid as she realized that the ancient spirit had depleted her power by appearing to the assembled othlor. Tears ran down her cheeks as she heard the telthor's final words.
Perhaps, the voice came again, you still will.
Darkness.
Everything was darkness-wrapped in shadow and emptiness and pain.
He breathed it in, absorbed it until the shadow became a part of him-or he became a part of the shadow. It whispered to him softly, as a lover would. A shudder ran through him at its voice, part delight and part terror. He wanted to run but couldn't. He was empty, so empty that he had forgotten what it was like to be filled with laughter, love, and life-to be whole.
There was no wholeness where he lay, only hunger and desire, a need so vast that it gnawed him from within.
He was lost within shadow, until everything around him erupted into light. He drew back, cowering and fearful at the sudden brightness of it all, at the harsh touch of its hot fingers. But there was something about that light from which he could not hide. He tried to deny it, to push it away, to return to the cool darkness that whispered to him even now:
Careful, it said. The light burns-forever.
Light also called to him, called his name, and called him out of the darkness that lay around him like a shroud. Taen felt his body rise through that darkness, ascending. Night fell away and became dawn. Gray fog and mist burned away beneath implacable light.