Bladesinger f-3

by Keith Francis Strohm

  “I see that you have spoken the truth, my friend. She has the vydda, the witch eye. Such a gift is rare,” he said, this time turning to Marissa. “It sees to the heart of things.”

  Selov pushed back his chair and stood, taking them all in with his gaze.

  “Very well,” Selov said. “There is, indeed, much that I haven’t said. These are dark times, and I do not wish for the wrong ears to overhear. I trust my staff here at the inn implicitly, but a shadow grows over the heart of Rashemen, and what was once noble and hale withers beneath it.”

  “Once, long ago-longer than I can even remember, it seems-I studied and mastered the vyvadnya, becoming an Old One before my thirtieth year. It was rare that one so young would ascend to the brotherhood of the vremyonni, and I felt that honor deeply, treasuring it in my heart. I was determined to live up to my reputation, to surpass all of the other Old Ones in knowledge and mastery. Such a goal became a fever, burning in my veins both day and night.”

  Selov paused, taking a long draught from a mug of ale before continuing. “Driven by the goad of my pride, I worked on creating a powerful spell that would, I believed, permanently drain a wizard’s ability to use magic. I had hoped to use it against the damnable Red Wizards. My brothers warned me that such a spell was too dangerous to fashion, that it bent and twisted the flow of magic in a way that made it too difficult to control.

  “They were right, of course,” Selov continued, “but I wouldn’t listen. One night while testing the spell, I lost control of the mystical forces and they turned on me. When I awoke, I discovered that my spell chamber had been almost completely destroyed and worse, I could no longer use even the simplest of cantrips. I had stripped myself of the ability to use magic. Ashamed and devastated by what I had done to myself, I fled to Urling. It was the wychlaran who convinced me that I could still serve Rashemen, even without my former power, so I opened the Green Chapel to help anyone who comes to the Urlingwood in search of wisdom from the sisterhood.”

  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.

  What had happened next was even worse-for the druid had remembered. Now that night of intimacy lay between them, a treasured memory and a goad in his side. Taen’s heart had already been given-and pierced beneath a moon just like this one.

  Talaedra! He nearly cried her name out loud.

  Beneath the sharpness of that grief, Taen knew that he could never give himself to another, so he and Marissa had spent the years dancing endlessly between intimacy and friendship.

  Until now, he thought with a terrible certainty. Now she was whole.

  And-perhaps-beyond him.

  He wanted to find out now, in the midst of their journey to meet the wychlaran. Such was the burden he felt that it lay like a geas on his heart, but just as he began to quicken his pace in an effort to draw near the druid, Selov called a halt.

  “We are close to the well,” he said after a long draught from his waterskin. “There is a deer track about half a candle’s walk west of here. It cuts northeast for a ways and then opens into an abandoned trade road. If we follow the track and then walk along the road, we’ll come to a large oak that has been split by lightning. The well is just a short walk beyond the oak.”

  The others nodded, passing around a skin of wine and some salted beef before pressing on. The stillness of the deep night held as they marched onward. Taen tried several subtle attempts to draw Marissa into a private conversation, but the druid seemed distracted, answering him with simple grunts or not at all. As they picked their way carefully through the deer track, avoiding the fallen trunks of trees and the thorns of the thick underbrush, the half-elf finally lost patience.

  “Marissa,” he snapped. “Are you listening to me at all?”

  “Hmm��� what?” the druid replied after a moment. Then, as if waking from a dream, she stopped to look back at him. “Oh, Taenaran,” she said, “I’m sorry. I��� I guess I am a little distracted. It’s this,” she said, holding out the length of the staff she received from the Red Tree. “I can feel it-the same way I could feel the presence of the Red Tree, only this time it’s gentle, like a soft whisper in my mind.”

  Taen nodded. “I understand,” he said uneasily. Though he knew that powerful magic items could sometimes manifest intelligence and an independent will, the half-elf was more than suspicious of whatever sentience lurked within the confines of that staff.

  “Look,” he continued, “I know we’re right in the middle of something really big here, but we need to talk.” He had schooled himself against her anger, and he was prepared to defend himself on any number of grounds, all eminently logical and rational.

  Instead, she simply nodded her head.

  “Yes,” Marissa said with a familiar twinkle in her eye-one that Taen found particularly alluring. “I have much to say to you, Taenaran of Avaelearean, but now is not the time.”

  He started to protest, but she cut him off. “Peace, arael’sha,” she said gently. “Let us meet with the othlor, then”-she paused-“we shall see what we shall see.” With that, she turned and walked away.

  Taen stood there, stunned, and watched her go.

  Arael’sha.

  She had called him arael’sha, heart-friend, a term so laden with meaning that in the subtle Elvish tongue it had nearly a hundred uses. Somehow, with just a few words, the druid had managed to confuse him even further.

  Taen shook his head and stared into the night-shrouded underbrush a moment before continuing on.

  The track wended and twisted its way forward, sometimes wide enough to walk two abreast and sometimes collapsing in upon itself so much that Taen and the others were forced to move slowly, almost creeping forward, in single file. As the moon began its lazy descent, the darkness deepened. By the time they had reached the end of the trail and stepped out on to the road, it was nearly pitch black, save for the faint glow emanating from the Staff of the Red Tree.

  They huddled in that darkness, waiting for Selov to scent the trail and lead them forward. When he did, there came a great stirring from the treetops. An explosive beating of wings and the harsh-throated caw of a great raven echoed in the night. Rusella, aloft and flying wildly, circled thrice around the group before alighting on the tip of Marissa’s staff. The creature’s albino-red eyes whirled and glared as it darted its head in all directions, calling madly.

  “Something’s wrong,” Marissa said in between snatches of a mumbled song meant to sooth the agitated bird. “I��� I can’t understand her. She’s nearly mad with fright.”

  That’s when Taen felt it-a tightening of the silence, as if the walls of the world were shrinking in upon themselves and pressing down with an abominable weight. He gasped from the force of it, trying at last to suck air into his lungs. None would come.

  A faint mist had begun to form along the ground. Taen screamed silently as it leeched the warmth from his bones. He wanted to run but couldn’t. His legs remained rooted to the ground. If he didn’t escape, the half-elf knew that there would be nothing left of him but the bitter, cold emptiness of the grave.

  “Look,” Selov hissed and pointed down the old trade road.

  Shadows swirled where the old man pointed, deeper pits of darkness against a landscape of black. Points of red light stabbed out from the darkness like the embers of a long-dead fire. Taen could sense the need behind those baleful eyes, the implacable hunger of death rising up out of the night to swallow the living.

  “Wraiths,” Roberc said, though his voice came out as a barely breathed whisper.

  As the creatures advanced, Taen could make out the dim outline of black robes flowing with each incorporeal step. There were six of them, floating silently down the road like nightmares. Even in his panic, Taen noted that the last one held a scepter in one hand while a gilded crown wreathed its shrouded head.

  Roberc struggled to draw his weapon as Cavan backed away from the oncoming wraiths. The war-dog whined and yelped in a high-pitched tone as his rider fought for control.

  “Enough,” Marissa said at last through clenched teeth. Lifting her staff high into
the air, she intoned a brief prayer. Immediately the chill disappeared, replaced by warmth and the sweet fragrance of a spring evening. Taen nearly stumbled as the terror drained from his body.

  “Quick, everyone form a circle,” Taen shouted. “Don’t let them surround you.”

  As they fell into formation, the half-elf grabbed Selov and pulled him into the center of their position. Once the innkeeper was secured, the half-elf raised both hands into the air and uttered the words to a spell. At first, he stumbled over the torturous pronunciation but soon found the rhythm of the arcane formula. Of all the disciplines of magic, none were as distasteful to him as necromancy. Even when the spell worked against the forces of undeath, it still left its mark, like a bruise upon the soul. There were powers in the world, he knew, best left untouched. Still, their need was great, so as he finished the spell, Taen thrust out both arms, as if embracing the oncoming wraiths. A soft, golden radiance emanated out from the space between his arms, enveloping the advancing creatures. As the light struck the wraiths, they recoiled as if struggling against a tremendous wind. When at last the mystical light faded, three wraiths remained frozen, enveloped in a thin cocoon of golden energy.

  At that moment, Marissa took a single step forward and shouted a supplication to her god. Immediately, a brilliant column of flame roared into existence, consuming one wraith in a coruscating shower of fire.

  With a single command to Cavan, Roberc broke rank and charged at an oncoming wraith. The war-dog danced nimbly to one side as the undead creature thrust out a shadowy hand, allowing Roberc an opening with his sword. His blade gleamed in the dying moonlight before it plunged into the wraith’s form-to little effect. The weapon simply passed through.

  Roberc cursed but kept the wraith busy as Borovazk moved into a flanking position. The ranger’s warhammer and sword moved in a deadly dance. Both struck the wraith hard, causing ripples in the creature’s form.

  Taen had time to watch his friends’ battle only for an instant. Confident that they could hold their own, he returned his attention to the crown-bearing wraith now looming before Marissa. The druid fell back, barely avoiding the wraith’s attack as the undead creature swung its scepter in a wide arc. It gave a soft moan, like the wind whistling through an empty graveyard, before pressing forward.