Marissa spotted them first as she stumbled into the clearing, half-supporting, half-dragging Taenaran. White robes billowed and shifted in the still night air, catching and reflecting the dim starlight. Sharp eyes, like diamonds, regarded them from behind the cold, impassive mien of stark white masks. There were five of them, living statues, standing still and terrible around the stone lip of the well.
She gazed upon them with a mixture of fear and wonder. In the short time since she had unleashed the power of the staff, her mind expanded-or perhaps it shrank. The strong, implacable voice that had sung the words of power in her head remained-though it softened once again to an ever-present whisper, a sibilance of wisdom that skewed and altered her perception with each utterance. Marissa felt as if she stood with a foot in two worlds, and her spirit was the portal.
Thus, when one of the figures pointed commandingly for them to approach the well, she did so without hesitation. In the half dream where she walked, the witches were creatures of ice and silence, the very judgment of Rashemen incarnated before her. She could not-no, she would not-deny them.
As Marissa approached the assembled witches, she sketched a reverent bow, careful not to let the still-dazed Taenaran drop to the ground. Borovazk bowed deeply as well then moved to help support the wounded half-elf despite his own injuries. She watched as Roberc approached, still mounted on Cavan, his grizzled face staring intensely at the gathered witches from beneath his gold helm. Selov, she noted with little surprise, merely inclined his head to the othlor, a clear gesture of respect from one's peer.
The othlor drew back from the well and formed a circle around Marissa and her companions. From this distance, she could see that the witches' masks were not identical. Though similar in their stark coloring, each mask held a unique expression frozen on its ivory surface. Some were simple and stolid, while the exaggerated features on others crossed the border into the grotesque.
Silence filled the clearing as Marissa and her friends endured the gaze of the assembled othlor. The druid wondered what the protocol was for speaking to the wisest of the wychlaran. Her instincts told her to follow Selov's lead, but concern for Taenaran rode her like a night hag. She cleared her throat in preparation to speak but stopped as one of the witches, bearing a wide-eyed, wide-mouthed mask set in a permanent leer, stepped forward.
"Who dares summon the wisest of the Wise Ones?" the leering witch shouted without preamble. "Who dares call us from the mastery of our lore like a shepherd whistling for his dog? We are the othlor of the wychlaran, guide and guardians of Rashemen, not servile hedge-witches who run at the beck and call of our masters. Tell us who you might be so that we shall know the names of those whose blood we shed!"
The witch's voice cracked like a whip across the silence of the clearing. Marissa flinched beneath its lash and heard Borovazk groan softly under his breath.
"Be at peace, Najra," Selov said, his soft voice a counterpoint to the angry tones of the witch. "They are friends of the land and come bearing a message of warning to the wychlaran."
The witch brought her hand down in a swift, chopping motion, as if cleaving the innkeeper's words from the air.
"Be silent, Selov," Najra spoke again. "Friends of the land would never summon their betters so rudely-nor could they unless they had help." The leering othlor drew closer to Selov. "Have you broken your sacred trust?" The witch's voice purred with surprising softness, but Marissa could hear the threat lurking beneath its silken surface like a fitfully slumbering bullette.
"I have betrayed nothing, Najra," Selov replied evenly. Though tension hung thick in the air, Marissa could feel none of it coming from the former wizard. "My loyalty is, and always has been, to Rashemen," he continued. "These foreigners bring matters urgent to the survival of our land. Will you not listen to them?"
"Bah," Najra spat out. "What silly glamour have these strangers cast over your sightless eyes? I had thought that your foolishness might come to an end once you destroyed your own powers, but 'a fool in summer is a fool in winter,' as they say. You have been a fool in all seasons, it seems. That one"-she pointed a bony finger in Marissa's direction-"profanes one of the most sacred artifacts of the land with her very touch. She is an ignorant child carrying a woman's burden, yet you follow her like a two-legged familiar eager for its reward."
Marissa bit back the retort that burned hotly behind her pressed lips. She was no child, and Selov certainly didn't deserve the tongue-lashing he was receiving. In the short amount of time that she had known him, the druid had grown very fond of the kindly innkeeper. Every natural instinct within her cried out to defend the former wizard, to shout back at the asp-tongued Najra.
She held her tongue and listened with other senses-for it was clear that something beyond a simple accusation was occurring. Holding the rough wood of the Staff of the Red Tree in her hand, Marissa's mystic perceptions deepened. There, behind a carefully built arcane screen, she felt the presence of a wordless, intimate bond that connected each of these women. Though they stood in silence, still they enjoyed a deep communion of spirit-one that hung just at the edge of her senses. Though the druid knew that she could penetrate the witches' mystic screen and eavesdrop using the power of the staff, she refrained. That, she reasoned, would constitute too much of a violation, and if Najra's stinging barbs were any indication, her use of the staff's power had already violated the witches' self-proclaimed sovereignty.
Nevertheless, the temptation remained. Marissa hadn't expected a hero's welcome from the wychlaran. The open hostility of their current reception, however, went beyond her understanding. Perhaps, she thought, this was a test, a way of weeding out those who were unworthy of the wychlaran's help, or the thought came unbidden, perhaps the witch Najra lurked behind the troubles of Rashemen. Could she be the traitor? Would it be that easy?
Marissa's mind whirled with the possibilities, and through it all, she knew that Taenaran needed her help, that he suffered deeply from the wraith's touch, as did Borovazk, though the ranger fared far better and bore his wounds silently. Distracted by these thoughts, it took Marissa a few moments to realize that Najra had stopped speaking. All eyes in the clearing had fallen on her; she could feel the weight of the stares, bearing her down.
She cleared her throat before speaking.
"Wise Ones," Marissa began, "please forgive the… abruptness of our call. Were our need, and Rashemen's, not so great, we would never treat you so."
Marissa cast a glance at Najra. The witch glared from behind her mask but said nothing.
"Selov speaks the truth," she continued. "If you are angry, direct your anger toward us and the telthor of your land. It was they who sent us to you, bearing a message of warning. Please-"
"You lie," Najra shouted, interrupting the druid. "If Rashemen were truly in peril, do you not think that we would sense it? We are the defenders of this land, not some outland impostors without the sense to make their lies even remotely believable." The witch drew even with Marissa. "You are lucky that the telthor tolerate your presence in Rashemen, let alone speak with you."
The witch's anger was a palpable thing, hot and sharp edged. Marissa took a step back, despite her own mounting emotion, and struggled to regain her composure. One wrong word or heated phrase could jeopardize the future of Rashemen-not to mention doom one of the most important people in her life. She was grateful when Roberc dismounted from Cavan and walked to her side. The halfling strode slowly and purposefully to stand within arm's reach, his chain mail rattling with each step.
Najra looked askance at the warrior's approach but did not seem impressed by his show of solidarity.