Bladesinger (16 page)

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.

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.”

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 finally, “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.