Bladesinger (8 page)

Cursing softly to himself, he took up a vantage point where he could keep Marissa in his keen elf sight all night long. Let Borovazk drink himself into insensibility, he would keep watch over the druid.

So he waited—under the dark sheet of night, with the wind in his hair and the soft hiss of leaf-whispers sighing in his ears.

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Marissa touched the Red Tree.

Her right hand traced the path of deep rivulets and channels in its bark; the stump of her left hand pressed gently against its trunk. The druid had removed her glove as well as the rune-covered gauntlet she wore over the shattered skin and bone of her other arm. She was naked, skin on skin with the ancient tree. Beneath her touch, its bark felt rough—the old wood split by wind and weather and age.

The night breeze ran softly through her hair, sending shivers coursing through Marissa’s body. For a few heartbeats, she allowed herself to enjoy the delicious sensation then turned her focus to the task at hand. The druid had spent the remaining light of the day in preparation for this moment, cleansing her body and mind in the clear waters of the vale, readying herself to receive whatever Rillifane had in store for her. She’d sent Rusella to the trees near her companions, and now her mind remained clear, as still as the inner pond her masters in the Circle had asked her to create when she was an initiate in order to focus her attention.

Everything about the Red Tree was magic. From the moment she and her friends had arrived, it loomed in her mind’s eye, a presence she could not deny. Nor did she want to. Power emanated from every facet of its roots, trunk, and flaming leaves, and waves of divine energy crested over her, submerging her heart, mind, and will. There was almost something familiar about this power, comforting—it was like, yet unlike, the experience she had when surrounded by her god’s aura.

Now, enclosed within the tree’s arboreal embrace, Marissa sank deeper into that presence, surrendering the last vestiges of herself. Beneath her fingers, she could sense the slow pulse of the earth-blood flowing in the tree’s great veins. Her heartbeat slowed, became that pulse, and beat in rhythm to the ancient song. Her breath deepened, took root in her belly then rooted itself deeper—into soil and rock.

She was changing.

Had changed.

She was ancient as the land and as vast as the world’s forests. Hands reached to sky, caught the wind in thin fingers, and drank dew like sweet wine from the evening air. Toes curled and twisted, like a riddle whose answer wound down into the dark heart of the world—until there was only earth and shadow and the silent language of stone.

Taen watched Marissa approach the Red Tree. When she knelt before its trunk, he half expected the thing to come alive and begin speaking. Treants, those great living trees, were not unknown to him, so he waited for the thrumming sound of the deep tree-voice and the shaking of its twisted limbs.

Nothing happened.

Still, Marissa knelt in silence, and he watched her in silence. The night sounds of the vale enveloped him like a blanket. The ghostly flapping of owl wings, the high bark of the hunting fox, and a chorus of nocturnal insects filled the darkness. Amidst it all, he could hear Roberc’s light snoring and the soft, tuneless humming of Borovazk as he sang his way through three skins of firewine.

Still he watched.

The moon rose and danced across the night sky, scattering pools of silver radiance across the landscape. Once he heard the heavy rustle of some game in a nearby bush, but a single growl from Cavan stilled the beast. Taen’s eyes grew heavy as the night wore on. He yawned once and rubbed his face, trying to shake the lethargy that gripped him. The scent of adelpha blossoms perfumed the air. Taen breathed the heady incense deeply. His last thought was of Marissa as sleep threw its thick mantle over his head.

“You have come, sister of our heart,” said a soft, soothing voice.

“We had hoped you would,” said another voice, warm and rich as honey.

Marissa turned—or rather the world turned and she remained. The druid sat in a place of darkness, with only a small light glowing a few feet from her. Everywhere she looked, by the illumination of that feeble glow, Marissa could see only more darkness.

Then two other women sat beside her. They were as different as summer and winter. One was young and beautiful, the way a flower is beautiful—soft and delicate, with pale, smooth skin and lustrous black hair. She looked at Marissa, and the druid could see green eyes flashing like jewels in the dim light regarding her with open curiosity.

The other woman was old and weathered, her skin like the bark of a tree. She had thick, iron-gray hair severely pulled back in a single braid. Her eyes were brown, the color of earth, and her fingers were thin bony sticks that drummed an absent beat while they rested upon her legs.

“Who … who are you?” Marissa asked hesitantly. Her mind was awhirl with confusion, yet she felt her heart free and untroubled. There was no danger here, could be no danger beneath the Red Tree—or wherever here was.

“You should ask yourself the same question,” said the old woman, her warm voice taking on an edge.

“Hush, Imsha. There is no need to harangue the poor girl,” the young woman broke in. Her voice remained soft and smooth, but watching her in the soft light, Marissa caught a hint of fire in her green eyes, an open challenge.

All of a sudden, she didn’t feel quite so secure anymore. She recalled a favorite saying of her teachers: “The Lion never lies when it kills.” Truth was as necessary as the sun in the world, she thought, and maybe even more necessary here.

“I am Marissa Goldenthorn, daughter of Rillifane Rallathil, and a servant of nature,” she proclaimed proudly.

Imsha snorted and slapped her leg with a bony hand.

“Listen to her, Tamlith,” Imsha said to the young woman, “going on about her name.” Then, suddenly, she leaned close to Marissa. The druid caught the faint scent of rosemary and mint. “So,” Imsha continued, “you belong to Old Greenshanks, do you? Well, little kitten, his power is far from here.” The old woman’s eyes glowed with purplish light.

Marissa knew that she should be afraid. Imsha was right; Rillifane’s power burned low in Rashemen. She wasn’t sure if he could protect her now. Here. In this place. Still, he had asked her to come, and she would not fail him.

“Rillifane’s power may be far from Rashemen,” the druid responded firmly, “but there is true power in the hills and plains of this land. He asked me to come, and I did. If I may be of service to this power, then at his request I shall do so.”

“Hmm… hmm…,” Imsha mumbled. “I see that the kitten has claws.”

“And sight,” Tamlith added, “for she sees true.”

“Is that so?” asked Imsha. “Then tell me, my tiger—who are we?”

Both women stood now, forcing Marissa to gaze up at them. She tried to stand but found herself rooted in place.

“You are telthor,” she answered, after a moment of thought, “tied to the Red Tree of Immil Vale.”

“What else?” asked Tamlith, expectation apparent in her soft voice.

Marissa closed her eyes to concentrate—and nearly gasped with surprise. She could still see both Imsha and Tamlith standing over her. At last, the answer came, like a fresh breeze after a winter gale.

“You are witches,” she said finally, “and you’ve somehow transformed your essences to become linked with the Red Tree.”

“Witches,” Imsha barked, clearly taking umbrage with the title. “Little tiger, we are othlor, the Wise Ones of the hathran who lead the wychlaran. Still,” she continued, reaching out her hand to Marissa, “you saw and spoke the truth.”

“Which is more than some among us do,” added Tamlith.

The druid accepted Imsha’s hand and stood up, grateful for the freedom. “I don’t…” Marissa hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

“You will, my dear,” the old woman said, patting the druid gently on her cheek. Both of the witches were smiling now. “For there is poison at the root, and we all wither and die while it eats away at us.”

“Enough riddles,” Tamlith said to her companion. “Though time moves differently here, there is still much for her to do.” Turning to Marissa, the young witch’s smile disappeared. “Rashemen is in grave danger,” she said simply. “One of our number has betrayed us and broken the ildva, the bond that we have forged with the vremyonni. Even now, this traitor bends her blasphemous will upon the land. She holds an Old One imprisoned and uses his very being to power her own corrupt spells.”

“The ildva has held our land together,” continued old Imsha. “Through countless centuries the vremyonni and the wychlaran have defended Rashemen from all enemies. With the ancient bond broken, we are weakened. It has kept the peace between us and prevented either group from struggling against the other for dominion of the land. Already the vremyonni refuse counsel with the hathran, suspecting us of betrayal. They scheme now within their own dark caverns, plotting the downfall of the wychlaran. Without the ildva, I fear for the future of Rashemen.”

Marissa shook her head in disbelief. This was almost too much for her to handle. She had come to the Red Tree hoping for—what? She didn’t even know, but finding herself in the middle of an arcane struggle between the ancient protectors of Rashemen was the farthest thing from her mind. She could almost hear Roberc swearing now, and the thought nearly brought a chuckle to her lips. Marissa clamped down on it fast. This, clearly, was not the time, but what was she to do?

“Why don’t you just inform the other hathran of what’s happened?” Marissa asked the two witches. “Why do you even need me?”

Tamlith frowned. “We do not know who she is,” Tamlith said. “She is strong—and cunning. All of our auguries and oracles have been turned aside by her power. The telthor do not know whom to trust, so we asked for help.

“And you came,” Tamlith said, “but we have little time. Though we do not know the traitor’s identity, we can feel her power like a canker on the land. She is concentrating her forces in the ruins of Citadel Rashemar. If she unleashes her forces, Rashemen will be divided against itself. Even if the wychlaran manage to win, it won’t be long until the wizardlings in Thay smell blood and come raging into Rashemen like a pack of rabid wolves.”

Marissa raised a hand to her head, trying to keep the jumble of her thoughts together.

“What can I do?” Marissa asked.

The old witch smiled and drew something from the folds of her robe.

“Take this,” Imsha said, indicating a knotted yew limb about Marissa’s height, “to the Urlingwood. Stand before the border of that forest and use its power. It will summon the living othlor.”

Marissa could only nod her head. “You just said you didn’t know who to trust. What if one of the othlor is the traitor?”

“When you have summoned the othlor,” Imsha replied, “I will come to them. My power is weakening, for the traitor’s corruption taints the very land itself, but if the evil one is among them, I will know. This will expend all of my strength, but at least you will have the wisdom and power of the Wise Ones to guide you further.”

“What of my companions?” asked Marissa.

The question drew a smile from Tamlith. “They will be your compass and your strength,” the young witch replied. “Keep them close to you, especially the one who is a twisted branch. He will need tending, but there is much power in him.”

“Who—” Marissa started to ask but stopped as Imsha raised a weathered hand.

“I am sorry, little tiger,” the old woman said, “but we must leave you.” As she said this, a thin mist began to rise, turning the darkness into a soft blanket of gray. “Will you help us in Rashemen’s time of need?” she asked.

The druid looked at both telthor, watching the outlines of their bodies flicker and fade in the shifting mist. There was so much she didn’t understand; so much she needed to understand. Her duty, however, remained clear. Marissa offered a quick prayer to Rillifane Rallathil then spoke her answer.

“I will help you,” she declared.

Both witches bowed low to her.

“Then farewell, Marissa Goldenthorn, daughter of Rillifane, servant of nature, and sister of our heart. You have answered the land’s need, and we are grateful,” Imsha said.

The world shifted and darkness returned.

“Farewell, sister,” she heard Tamlith say, as if from across a great distance. “Perhaps we shall meet again one day.”

Then she heard no more.

Taen woke with a start. Bright sunlight poured into his eyes, burning away the distant memory of a dream—of two mysterious women whispering wisdom into his ear. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and cursed at his own lack of discipline. He’d fallen asleep.

Asleep! After he’d vowed to keep watch over Marissa through the night.

A shadow fell over the half-elf, and he nearly cried out in surprise.

“Wake the others, Taenaran,” Marissa said softly. “We have much to discuss.”

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Wind howled through the citadel’s shattered walls.

Like an ethereal wolf it ranged across the hard, cracked earth and ran beneath the shadow of crudely erected towers. The great expanse of cluttered stone passages radiating out from the ruins of the ancient keep could not stop it, nor could the jumble of rock and rotting timber thrown up in hasty defense around the once-proud heart of Citadel Rashemar. Unhindered by work of beast or man, it blew, raged, and howled.

Sitting on a pitted, stone-wrought throne in what remained of the central keep, the hag closed her ears to the wind’s bitter sound. Around her, shadows clung to the high, vaulted arches and raised ceiling of the room, broken only by uneven rays of light that spilled like liquid gold from chinks and cracks in the keep’s outer wall. She drew long, bony, blue-skinned fingers across the lines of her forehead, pushing the thick tangle of black hair back from the deep recesses of her ebony eyes.

She had spent most of the day receiving a seemingly endless array of reports from her minions. Goblins, ogres, and spiteful human sorcerers with their dark spells and darker ambitions had paraded before her in wave after disgusting wave. She had grown tired of their machinations and vain prattling, and the hag’s mood had gone from black to murderous. Even the wind, whose sighing and wailing she normally found so soothing, did nothing but grate on her nerves.