Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [26]
"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