Taen listened to the man's tale with barely concealed horror. He, too, had broken beneath the weight of his own destiny-though in his case, the half-elf had destroyed more than his own life. Still, even in the aftermath of his failure, he'd retained his skill in magic. Taen's arcane power had been the only thing that had kept him from seeking oblivion. To live without that-he shuddered. It was beyond comprehension.
"A sad tale to be sure," Roberc's voice cut in from his place at the table, "but what does this have to do with helping us complete our journey?"
Taen winced at the halfling's tone, but if the fighter's pointed question angered Selov, the man didn't show it. Instead, the Rashemi shrugged and offered them a rueful smile.
"Ah," he said. "Forgive an old man his ramblings. Though I do not have the use of my arcane power, I still hold a great deal of knowledge that will be of use to you. In each of the villages and hamlets dotting the outskirts of the Urlingwood, servants and students of the hathran live side by side with other Rashemi. Had you gone to any of the other villages, it would have been far easier for the traitorous forces within the sisterhood to discover your intent. Borovazk did well in bringing you here.
"The Urlingwood itself is a dangerous place; it is death for any not of the wychlaran to enter its expanse. However, I know a… special place near an ancient well at the edge of the forest. If you gather there beneath the night sky, it will offer you protection against scrying and other forms of spying."
Marissa smiled at the man's words.
"Thank you, dear Selov," Marissa said. "Your assistance means a great deal to us."
"Well," Selov replied, "don't thank me just yet. There is a price for my knowledge."
Taen watched Marissa's eyebrows rise in response.
"What is that price?" Marissa asked.
Selov looked long at the druid then at each of his guests before responding.
"You must take me with you," Selov said with a smile.
Marissa caught Taen's eye, and he could read the question there. Slightly, imperceptibly, he nodded his head. Taen felt as if they sailed across a dark and stormy sea riddled with hidden reefs and riptides that could sink them at any moment. They could not afford to turn down aid.
The druid raised her mug of ale.
"Done," she said to Selov, "and gladly so."
Taen drained his own mug then several more as the conversation turned to the particulars of their journey. By the time the half-elf rose from his seat and navigated the shadow-filled corridor back to his room, it was very late. Fighting back sleep, he never saw the long-skirted servant idly cleaning by the door of the rounded chamber.
Chapter 12
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
They left Urling well after nightfall.
Crept out would be more like it, Taen thought as he walked softly along the snow-covered track. No wind stirred the soft needles of the pine trees around them or rustled the lengths of wool cloaks they wore. Instead, the night air lay still-suspended, as if the world were holding its breath. The silence unnerved him. Taen found himself grateful for the creak of leather and harness, the jangle of mail, and the crunch of ice-crusted snow beneath his feet.
Stars littered the blue-black sky, burning coldly as they marched along, and the moon hung above them like a crescent pendant carved from purest silver. In the distance, the witches' wood brooded in darkness, a shadowy mass of tangled branches, thick trunks, and gnarled wisdom. Even from where he walked, Taen caught the sense of menace emanating from its shadow-strewn depths. It was as if the very trees were fixing him with a penetrating gaze, judging his life against a span of years that circled back to the first flowering of the world. He felt small and insignificant beneath the weight of that vernal stare; the thought of even attempting to steal past the vigilance of the forest's edge sent a shudder through his body. No wonder the Rashemi spoke of the Urlingwood with both awe and fear.
Not for the first time, he felt his misgivings about their journey rise to the surface. Ancient pacts broken, traitors within an arcane sisterhood, and a growing darkness within Rashemen-these had been far away from his thoughts when he had first agreed to accompany Marissa on her pilgrimage. Now he was right in the middle of a war for the soul of a nation, and even though he and his companions were on the side of good, the half-elf found the prospect of meeting the leaders of the wychlaran a little daunting. Perhaps it was the chill that he hadn't been able shake since he'd entered Rashemen's borders, or the unforgiving presence of the Urlingwood itself, but Taen felt as if somehow the power of this land threatened to twist the sense of shame and failure that had defined his life, exposing his secrets the way an ancient oak's roots can twine and twist around a house wall, pulling it down over time and exposing the inside to sunlight. Over the course of the past ten years, Taen had made an uneasy truce with his past. All of that threatened to disappear. Now all he felt was a constant sense of guilt. Of course, he thought bitterly, stealing out of Urling like a thief in the night hadn't helped his mood any either.
At Selov's insistence, Taen and his companions had dined in the common room of the Green Chapel, mixing small talk in with humorous anecdotes from their travels, playing the part of gracious guests. As the evening wore on, the innkeeper had once again invited them rather publicly back to a reserved room to enjoy some of his best wine and mead. Away from prying eyes, the group had waited, with their gear already neatly packed and stowed, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Finally, after the candles had burned low and the fires of the inn were banked, Selov gave them a sign. At once, they gathered up their gear and followed the innkeeper through a secret tunnel and out into the fields to the west of Urling.
Now Taen and his companions found themselves furtively traveling in the long, bleak silence of the night. Roberc led the group, sitting astride Cavan, who, the half-elf noted, walked easily despite the weight of rider and barding. Borovazk strode alongside the mounted halfling, his deep voice muffled and oddly gentle as he whispered some passing story to his newfound companion. Taen smiled as he thought about the unlikely pair. Whether dicing, drinking, or exchanging raucous insults, the giantlike Rashemi ranger and the diminutive fighter were becoming fast friends.
Selov followed a few steps behind, his almost skeletal frame wrapped in a thick gray cloak. The former wizard had insisted on walking without aid, even when their brisk pace had sent the Rashemi into a paroxysm of wheezing. He had waved off the suggestion that they slow down, vowing that he would not delay them. So far, Taen noted, he hadn't.
Even so, Marissa kept close to the wizened innkeeper, walking alongside him and asking questions about the Urlingwood and the telthor that he knew of in the area. Taen watched the druid as she walked-seemingly carefree and easy along the twisting path-and nearly forgot to breathe. Marissa wore the moonlight like a mantle. It spilled down the length of her hair and traced the graceful outline of her body like molten silver. Everything about her caught and reflected that light; she glittered and gleamed beneath the dome of the night sky. With the Staff of the Red Tree held lightly in her right hand, casting its own pale illumination, the druid looked like nothing so much as one of the Seldarine, or an avatar of Sehanine Moonbow, gracing this plane with her presence.
He shook his head sharply, as if to shake away those fanciful thoughts. Whatever had happened to Marissa since she had come under Rashemen's spell, it was clear to Taen that she seemed more whole than she had been ever since the blightlord had destroyed her arm. That night was a terrible one-for her as well as for him. His heart wept for Marissa as she shouted and thrashed beneath the fury of the fever raging through her body. He bared his soul to her, thinking that she would never remember but wanting to offer her some comfort, some knowledge that she was not alone in the world, that he, too, had lost something so dear it was like losing a part of himself.