Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [49]
Her smile broadened as she thought about the incoming invaders. Yulda opened here eyes. Durakh stood quietly to one side, her head cocked as if listening for the sounds of battle from somewhere within the citadel.
"Do not worry, Durakh," the witch said quietly, "our guests are nowhere within our walls. I've arranged a little detour for them. I doubt that they shall trouble us further."
Though she remained smiling, Yulda focused every ounce of will on stilling the trembling in her limbs. It had been several tendays since she last drew energy from her vremyonni captive, and the teleportation spell drained her severely. She had no wish for her lieutenant to see her so utterly weakened. With a single command, the witch summoned Fleshrender to her side. The telthor obeyed immediately, loping past Durakh with easy strides.
"I must return to my sanctum and replenish my power," she said briskly. "I trust you can hold the fortress until my return."
She did not wait for the cleric's response but instead whispered the words to another spell and faded quickly into the shadows.
CHAPTER 14
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
They hovered like ghosts around the well.
Marissa spotted them first as she stumbled into the clearing, half-supporting, half-dragging Taenaran. White robes billowed and shifted in the still night air, catching and reflecting the dim starlight. Sharp eyes, like diamonds, regarded them from behind the cold, impassive mien of stark white masks. There were five of them, living statues, standing still and terrible around the stone lip of the well.
She gazed upon them with a mixture of fear and wonder. In the short time since she had unleashed the power of the staff, her mind expanded-or perhaps it shrank. The strong, implacable voice that had sung the words of power in her head remained-though it softened once again to an ever-present whisper, a sibilance of wisdom that skewed and altered her perception with each utterance. Marissa felt as if she stood with a foot in two worlds, and her spirit was the portal.
Thus, when one of the figures pointed commandingly for them to approach the well, she did so without hesitation. In the half dream where she walked, the witches were creatures of ice and silence, the very judgment of Rashemen incarnated before her. She could not-no, she would not-deny them.
As Marissa approached the assembled witches, she sketched a reverent bow, careful not to let the still-dazed Taenaran drop to the ground. Borovazk bowed deeply as well then moved to help support the wounded half-elf despite his own injuries. She watched as Roberc approached, still mounted on Cavan, his grizzled face staring intensely at the gathered witches from beneath his gold helm. Selov, she noted with little surprise, merely inclined his head to the othlor, a clear gesture of respect from one's peer.
The othlor drew back from the well and formed a circle around Marissa and her companions. From this distance, she could see that the witches' masks were not identical. Though similar in their stark coloring, each mask held a unique expression frozen on its ivory surface. Some were simple and stolid, while the exaggerated features on others crossed the border into the grotesque.
Silence filled the clearing as Marissa and her friends endured the gaze of the assembled othlor. The druid wondered what the protocol was for speaking to the wisest of the wychlaran. Her instincts told her to follow Selov's lead, but concern for Taenaran rode her like a night hag. She cleared her throat in preparation to speak but stopped as one of the witches, bearing a wide-eyed, wide-mouthed mask set in a permanent leer, stepped forward.
"Who dares summon the wisest of the Wise Ones?" the leering witch shouted without preamble. "Who dares call us from the mastery of our lore like a shepherd whistling for his dog? We are the othlor of the wychlaran,