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.”
Taen found himself surprisingly touched by the witch’s admission. The Rashemi were, indeed, a proud people, used to fighting for every freedom and good thing that they enjoyed. To acknowledge their dependence on an outsider must be a bitter draught to swallow. The half-elf admired the courage and humility it took to admit that aloud. Looking around at the faces of his companions, Taen knew that Marissa and the others felt the same way.
He bowed low before Mahara and the other othlor. “We are honored by your words and by the hospitality you have shown us,” he said without a hint of irony. “Let the start of our acquaintance be forgotten, and let us always remember this moment, when Rashemen’s need and the wisdom of her leaders made strong the bonds of friendship between people of good will.”
The words surprised him as they tumbled out. They must have surprised Marissa and Roberc, too, for both of them threw him a wide-eyed glance. Perhaps, he thought with only a touch of bitterness, he truly was his father’s son-in spirit if not in blood.
“Your words are bright gems in the darkness we face,” Mahara replied. “They are a gift whose worth may be beyond measure, and we accept them as such.”
“Thank you,” Taen responded, bowing once again before continuing, “and if the wychlaran or Rashemen ever have need of our assistance, you only need to ask and we will gladly give it.”
The half-elf winced inwardly at that, wondering if, perhaps, he had stepped too far out beyond the boundary of what his companions would tolerate. He half expected Roberc to break in with a sarcastic denial, but the halfling merely looked at him with his usual sour expression. Behind the fighter, Borovazk stood beaming, his face split with a thick-toothed smile.
“Perhaps-” Mahara said then paused, looking around at the other witches, “perhaps there is something that you might do for us-a very large thing, actually.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “Now that we know of the traitor’s existence and the location of her lair, we must still decide on how we will deal with her. It’s clear from the fact that you were attacked while on your way to warn us that our renegade hathran has quite a few spies amidst the people-and probably among the wychlaran, as well.”
Taen could hear the fire burning within her voice.
“The only people we know that we can trust completely are standing in this clearing. It will take all of our power,” she said, pointing to the five othlor, “to unearth the traitor’s network of telltales while keeping our actions a secret. That leaves only you and your companions free to act against the betrayer of Rashemen. Our magic can transport you to an area within the walls of Citadel Rashemar. If we can keep our knowledge of her presence hidden, then you will have a better chance of taking her by surprise.
“Make no mistake,” the witch said in a husky tone, “what we are asking is dangerous. There is a very good chance that you won’t succeed. Our enemy has managed to create an army of foul creatures and dark magic without our knowledge, and she has trespassed into the forbidden arts of the vremyonni. She is powerful and quite evil.”
Taen thought about it for a moment only. Even if he hadn’t just promised his aid, he would still agree to this mission. From the moment he set foot in Rashemen, he felt as if he were being swept along in a chaotic tale not of his devising. He was tired of fighting it, of fighting the swirling rush of emotions that bore down on him. There was only one solution-to surrender and follow the dark tide wherever it would lead him.
“I will go,” he said and stepped forward, not surprised by the fact that he hadn’t been the first to do so.
Marissa stood ready, her hand holding the Staff of the Red Tree before her. The druid smiled as he joined her in the center of the witches’ circle.
“Little friends not escape Borovazk that easily,” the ranger replied as he, too, strode forward to join them in the circle.
Taen looked at Roberc expectantly. The halfling stood at the edge of the circle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The fighter gazed back at him with an even look, his eyes unblinking. For a moment, the half-elf wondered if Roberc would whistle softly for Cavan and ride away. Instead, the halfling swore loudly and tramped into the circle.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this to myself again!” he exclaimed.
Taen smiled at the foul-mouthed fighter’s response. They had been through a lot in the past few tendays and would likely go through a lot more. Despite everything, Roberc remained as hot tempered and sharp tongued as ever. It was nice, Taen reflected, to know that some things remained constant in a world that seemed ever changing.
“You humble us,” Mahara said, interrupting his thoughts, “with your generosity and bravery. Prepare yourselves well, friends of Rashemen, for if we are to move against the traitor, we must act swiftly.”
At that, the companions gathered together, inspecting their equipment and making sure that they had sufficient supplies. Taen had just finished sealing a vial of sulphurous ash when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned to see Marissa smiling at him.
“Thank you,” she said in a soft voice. “It means a lot to me that you agreed to help the wychlaran.”
For a moment, Taen did not reply. Being in such close proximity to the druid brought all of his emotions rushing around him like a whirlwind.
“How could I say no?” he responded. Especially, he thought, when he knew that wild hippogriffs wouldn’t prevent Marissa from giving her aid to the othlor. “The people of this land have no one to turn to.”
Marissa held his gaze for a few heartbeats without saying anything. “Still,” she responded finall
y, “I am glad that you will be at my side through this.”
Taen nodded dumbly, knowing that his voice would betray the raw mix of feeling swirling beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. He turned as if to continue with his preparations, but Marissa’s hand held firmly to his shoulder.
“Taenaran,” she whispered, “I promise you that we will talk after this is all over.”
With that, the druid offered his shoulder a single squeeze then walked away, returning to her own preparation. Taen watched her graceful form glide toward the edge of the clearing.
Despite himself, he could not keep a smile from alighting upon his face.
Taen stood in a circle with his companions.
The chill afternoon breeze ran ice-tipped fingers across his skin. He shivered slightly beneath its unrelenting touch and gathered his cloak around him. The familiar weight of his armor offered some measure of comfort in the dying light of the sun, but he knew from speaking with Borovazk that the citadel to which they would be teleported sat high in the Sunrise Mountains, wrapped in winter like a king draped in royal finery.
“It is time,” Mahara said, interrupting his thoughts.
He watched with keen interest as the assembled othlor gathered around them in silent convocation. First one then the rest of the masked witches raised pale hands into the air. Suddenly, the clearing fell silent-neither wind nor bird nor shifting branch broke the stillness. With his own arcane senses, Taen could feel the slow buildup of mystic forces, like the gathering of power before a storm.
“May the telthor guide your steps,” Mahara said then began a complex chant.
As her voice rose and fell to the rhythmic patterns that would focus and seal the power of the witch’s spell, Taen’s vision began to shift and blur, as if the world itself stretched and coiled around itself. He nearly jumped as he felt a hand grip his own. By its size and calloused feel, it could only be that of Borovazk. Blindly, he reached out until he could feel Marissa’s shoulder; he rested his hand heavily upon it.
The flow of the arcane energy shifted violently, and Taen knew, from his own mastery of magic, that something was wrong.
“The traitor has some sort of mystic shield repelling our spell, Mahara,” Najra called out, confirming what the half-elf had already suspected.
“Whatever she has in place,” Mahara shouted, “the power of the Urlingwood will not be denied!”
With that, the witch slammed both of her hands together, palm to palm. Eldritch energy roiled from her joined hands, spilling out in waves upon Taen and his waiting friends. The world lurched madly then disappeared in a single moment of violent disorientation. Taen’s mind tried to rebel at the utter nothingness around him, but years of arcane study had prepared him for the sense of dislocation.
Half a heartbeat later, the world resolved into a faded tableau of gray stone-the suggestion of a wall, the hint of an uneven floor-then just as suddenly, it disappeared in another gut-wrenching twist out of reality.
This time, Taen counted the heartbeats spent suspended in nothingness. Though he knew that he remained linked to his companions, all sense of touch had disappeared. Clearly, something had gone wrong! He’d used enough teleport spells in his day to know that some outside force had forcibly changed their destination. Now he worried that they would spend the rest of their lives trapped on the astral plane.
He was just about to cast a spell of his own when the darkness shifted around him again. When the nauseating sense of disorientation abated, Taen could once more feel solid ground beneath his feet, and the touch of his companions. The darkness, however, had not parted. It covered them like an impenetrable skin.
“What in all of the Nine Hells was that?” Roberc swore.
Before Taen could answer, something skittered and hissed somewhere in the darkness beyond them.
“Borovazk not like the sound of that, little friends,” the ranger said.
Taen heard the sound of the Rashemi’s weapons slide from their resting places. Quickly, he spoke an arcane word into the pitch black emptiness. The world exploded into light.
And the screaming began.
Chapter 16
The Year of the Arch
(1353 DR)
Steel rang against steel in the forest clearing. Sweat ran down Taenaran’s face, stinging eyes and running in tiny rivulets down his back. The half-elf struggled to bring his sword into the third position, angled slightly above his head, when the silver-haired elf standing in the clearing’s center called for the next attack. Arvaedra was a harsh swordmaster, and Taenaran knew that if he performed the maneuver even slightly off-center, the el’tael ‘s quick eyes would catch it, and she would pounce on him like a wyrmling on a fatted calf. All of the tael knew that the only thing quicker than Arvaedra’s sword was her tongue.
A cool breeze swept through the clearing, rustling branches and the long green cloaks of the other masters watching from the shadowy edges of the clearing. The wind sent a soft shiver down Taenaran’s spine. He tried to ignore it in the same way that he tried to ignore the cold, impassive gaze of the other masters, made worse by the fact that his own father watched from the shadows-critiquing, finding fault, noting and cataloging the imperfections and weakness in his execution of the forms. Later, when they returned home, Aelrindel would correct him gently.
The half-elf shook his head, banishing thoughts of the future. There was only this moment, this place in the Song, as the masters would say. If only it weren’t so painful, he thought bitterly. Taenaran’s wrist and shoulder burned with fatigue, and the muscles in his legs were trembling with exhaustion. He breathed deeply, trying to return to the haera, or the center-and nearly dropped the sword as his opponent’s blade struck. The shock of the attack set the hilt of his sword humming; the blade turned in his hand, causing his opponent’s weapon to slide with deadly speed down its steel length.
Taenaran braced himself for the stinging kiss of the blade, only to find Arvaedra’s sword intervening at the last moment, flicking the oncoming blade away with a fast turn of her wrist. The half-elf let out a hiss of relief. Tael swords were not crafted razor sharp, but they still held an edge, enough to remind an errant apprentice to pay attention.
“Halt,” the swordmaster shouted to the assembled tael.
Swords hissed instantly into their sheaths, as the apprentices sank to their knees, assuming the traditional sitting position, back straight, body resting on calves, and feet angled toward each other, nearly touching. She stared for a moment at Taenaran, and he nearly flinched at the swordmaster’s cold glance.
“Taenaran,” she said, using his name like a whip, “the rest of us were practicing the Seven Forms. Do you mind telling me what it was that you were doing?”
The half-elf sat completely still, trying to contain the feeling of shame that threatened to drown him. Though his hearing was not as sensitive as that of a full-blooded elf, still he could make out the soft, dreadful sound of snickering among the other tael. The tips of his ears flamed red.
Arvaedra must have heard the sound as well; she spun quickly and walked among the kneeling apprentices, her steps slow and sure, containing the promise of power, like a lioness among her cubs. Silence filled the clearing.
Taenaran risked a sideways glance toward his father and the other masters. Aelrindel stood with arms folded. There was a stillness around him that seemed to reach out and draw in everything in his path. He was impassive, a living statue. Taenaran knew, however, that disappointment lurked beneath the calm surface. He could feel it, or imagined he could, when they were alone at dinner, talking of other things. Often his father avoided discussing any of Arvaedra’s discipline.
It wasn’t that the silver-haired swordmaster unjustly criticized him or singled Taenaran out for punishment. All of the tael felt the sting of her acid-laced tongue at one time or another. There were others, however, in the community, and even among the masters, who seemed to delight in every mistake, every slight missing of the mark that he made. He
knew that his father had fought hard with the el’tael so that he could study the art of the bladesingers. It was an honor for a swordmaster to sponsor a young elf into the Way, for the masters represented the community, and it was an awesome privilege to be chosen by the community to give one’s life in its service, yet the half-elf felt that every error he made was a repudiation of his father’s choice and confirmation for those who had wished to bar him from studying the art.
Taenaran had no further time for reflection, as Arvaedra had completed her rounds and stood before him once more. Wind tousled the swordmaster’s hair, sending the thin strands of her pony tail waving behind her. He would have smiled at the effect, but her stern gaze rested upon him. As always, he was shocked by the signs of age in the el’tael before him. The tiny wrinkles around her almond-shaped eyes and the shock of silver-white hair were signs of contradiction among the long-lived elves. Among the people of the community, she was considered ancient and wise.
“You still haven’t answered my question, tael,” Arvaedra demanded at last. “What were you doing?”
She was also, he knew, quite deadly.
Taenaran met the forbidding glare as best he could. Experience told him that there were no responses that would spare him from her discipline. There were simply answers that were “less wrong.” He thought for a moment then decided on the blunt truth.
“I was tired and lost my center,” he explained.
One of Arvaedra’s snow-white eyebrows arched high at his response. “Hmmm���” was all she said, then, “so Taenaran, what will you do when you are in the heat of battle, and you are tired and forget the simplest exercises of the youngest tael? Will you ask your enemy for a quick break before you engage him once more in battle?”
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