Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [50]
The witch's voice cracked like a whip across the silence of the clearing. Marissa flinched beneath its lash and heard Borovazk groan softly under his breath.
"Be at peace, Najra," Selov said, his soft voice a counterpoint to the angry tones of the witch. "They are friends of the land and come bearing a message of warning to the wychlaran."
The witch brought her hand down in a swift, chopping motion, as if cleaving the innkeeper's words from the air.
"Be silent, Selov," Najra spoke again. "Friends of the land would never summon their betters so rudely-nor could they unless they had help." The leering othlor drew closer to Selov. "Have you broken your sacred trust?" The witch's voice purred with surprising softness, but Marissa could hear the threat lurking beneath its silken surface like a fitfully slumbering bullette.
"I have betrayed nothing, Najra," Selov replied evenly. Though tension hung thick in the air, Marissa could feel none of it coming from the former wizard. "My loyalty is, and always has been, to Rashemen," he continued. "These foreigners bring matters urgent to the survival of our land. Will you not listen to them?"
"Bah," Najra spat out. "What silly glamour have these strangers cast over your sightless eyes? I had thought that your foolishness might come to an end once you destroyed your own powers, but 'a fool in summer is a fool in winter,' as they say. You have been a fool in all seasons, it seems. That one"-she pointed a bony finger in Marissa's direction-"profanes one of the most sacred artifacts of the land with her very touch. She is an ignorant child carrying a woman's burden, yet you follow her like a two-legged familiar eager for its reward."
Marissa bit back the retort that burned hotly behind her pressed lips. She was no child, and Selov certainly didn't deserve the tongue-lashing he was receiving. In the short amount of time that she had known him, the druid had grown very fond of the kindly innkeeper. Every natural instinct within her cried out to defend the former wizard, to shout back at the asp-tongued Najra.
She held her tongue and listened with other senses-for it was clear that something beyond a simple accusation was occurring. Holding the rough wood of the Staff of the Red Tree in her hand, Marissa's mystic perceptions deepened. There, behind a carefully built arcane screen, she felt the presence of a wordless, intimate bond that connected each of these women. Though they stood in silence, still they enjoyed a deep communion of spirit-one that hung just at the edge of her senses. Though the druid knew that she could penetrate the witches' mystic screen and eavesdrop using the power of the staff, she refrained. That, she reasoned, would constitute too much of a violation, and if Najra's stinging barbs were any indication, her use of the staff's power had already violated the witches' self-proclaimed sovereignty.
Nevertheless, the temptation remained. Marissa hadn't expected a hero's welcome from the wychlaran. The open hostility of their current reception, however, went beyond her understanding. Perhaps, she thought, this was a test, a way of weeding out those who were unworthy of the wychlaran's help, or the thought came unbidden, perhaps the witch Najra lurked behind the troubles of Rashemen. Could she be the traitor? Would it be that easy?
Marissa's mind whirled with the possibilities, and through it all, she knew that Taenaran needed her help, that he suffered deeply from the wraith's touch, as did Borovazk, though the ranger fared far better and bore his wounds silently. Distracted by these thoughts, it took Marissa a few moments to realize that Najra had stopped speaking. All eyes in the clearing had fallen on her; she could feel the weight of the stares, bearing her down.
She cleared her throat before speaking.
"Wise Ones," Marissa began, "please forgive the… abruptness of our call.