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.
At last, he opened his eyes, blinking hard in the morning sunlight. Marissa knelt over him, cupping his hand in hers. Tears blurred his vision, but Taen thought that he could see a masked figure looming over the druid.
"Welcome back," Marissa said and gave him a gentle smile.
Taen heard the effort it took her to constrain the flood of emotion behind those simple words and returned her smile.
"Remind me," Taen said in a voice that shook with fatigue, "not to accept your next invitation to go on a pilgrimage."
Her laughter followed him as he fell into the restful arms of sleep.
Chapter 15
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Taen gazed into the well.
A stark face, fatigue etched in every curve and angle, stared back from the surface of its dark waters. Though he and his companions had only spent a few tendays traveling through Rashemen, the half-elf felt as though it had been several lifetimes since he first crossed the borders of this unforgiving land. It wasn't just the life-draining touch of the wraith lord, either-though he still felt the undead creature's hand reaching into him despite the powerful restorative magic of the wychlaran. Something deeper wore at him, weighing down his heart.
A swift slap of his hand knocked several pebbles that had gathered near the lip of the well into the water. His reflection distorted and eventually disappeared, pulled apart by the swirling ripples caused by the fallen debris. That was exactly how he felt-misshapen, pulled apart by conflicting emotions. Unlike the water, which had already started to settle, he doubted that his heart would do likewise. A frisson of fear ran down his spine at the thought that his life would be forever caught between the swirling chaos of emotions stirred up by both the wilds of Rashemen and the even wilder druid who had dragged him into its borders.
Disgusted with the maudlin direction of his thoughts, Taen gazed out at the clearing, determined to find himself anywhere else than where he was now. Borovazk and Selov sat beneath a growth of thin-limbed trees, drinking slowly from leather skins and conversing in their native tongue. The half-elf had heard about the firestorm that had erupted when they met up with the wychlaran. He knew it must have been tough for the fierce Rashemi to stand on divided ground, his loyalties torn between unwavering obedience to the will of the othlor and the strength of his newfound bond with Taen and his companions. Even from this distance, the half-elf could see that the normally boisterous ranger remained uncomfortable beneath the masked gaze of the wychlaran.
The sound of a blade running over a whetstone caught Taen's attention. He turned to see Roberc carefully sharpening the edge of his second sword. The blade gleamed in the light of the late-morning sun. Cavan rested easily by the halfling's side, staring out beyond the clearing, ears twitching at sounds only he could hear. After Taen had awoken from his sleep, Roberc had described their initial encounter with the othlor, as well as the details of their continued conversation. Imsha had apparently made a lasting impression on the witches, for they had listened intently to the news of a traitor in their midst, asking pointed questions when Marissa had finished recounting her message to them. When they had finished, the witches withdrew from the clearing, leaving the druid free to check in on Taen.
The half-elf remembered clearly the relief and confusion that had descended upon him when he had opened his eyes to the light and saw Marissa gazing back at him. That confusion deepened when he opened his eyes a second time, climbing his way out of the deep, restful sleep that resulted from the witches' healing.
He looked briefly for Marissa and found her surrounded by the othlor-all but Najra. Even if Roberc hadn't filled him in on what had occurred, it was clear that the witch held little affection for them. While the other wychlaran probed Marissa for more details regarding her conversation with the telthor of the Red Tree, Najra stood apart from the group, arms folded across her chest, glaring from behind the confines of her mask. He would have found her actions laughable in any other situation. The gravity of their message, however, erased any humorous thoughts he might have had.
A few moments later, the gathered wychlaran drew back from Marissa and formed a circle. Although he had been warned about their silent communication and had even used a similar spell before, Taen found the immobile, masked forms of the witches unnerving. They remained in that position for quite some time before finally breaking off their communion.
Taen stood as the assembled othlor signaled that he and his companions should attend them-and nearly pitched forward when the world spun around him. Although he had rested throughout most of the morning, the half-elf's body still hadn't completely recovered from the wraith-wound. Mahara had warned him that he would experience some weakness until his reserves were refreshed with continued rest.
Carefully, he made his way to where the others had gathered, walking like a newborn foal on legs that shook with each step. Mahara inclined her head slightly when he arrived.
"It is not easy for us to accept what you have shared," the othlor began without any preamble. "We are a proud sisterhood, as you probably have gathered. That pride has strengthened us throughout generations of service to the people of Rashemen-but not without cost." She turned to look at Najra and the others before continuing.
"We have grown blind and deaf to our own mortality, to the possibility that one of our own might spin a web of darkness. Always we have looked to the durthan or the Thayans when shadows fell over Rashemen, never dreaming that it would be our shadow darkening the land's spirit. A hathran has broken the ancient oath that binds vremyonni and wychlaran. It is no wonder that the Old Ones have refused our counsel, making excuses for their absence with coldly polite words. This traitor has pierced the very heart of our land-and we suspected nothing. How long would we have remained in ignorance, were it not for your courage and generosity? All of us," Mahara said with particular emphasis, "our entire sisterhood, owe you a debt of gratitude."