Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [52]
"Enough!" the voice thundered.
Marissa stumbled to her feet, clapping hands to ears in pain, as the voice echoed in the clearing and in her mind. When she had recovered, the druid looked in amazement at the shimmering form of an old woman floating above the well. Silver and golden energy coruscated around the figure, dancing and arcing in a wild circle. The others gathered around as well-all of them, including the witches, who had recovered their balance with astonishing aplomb. Collectively, they stared at the radiant presence in their midst. Squinting against the pulsating illumination emanating from the figure, it took Marissa a few moments to recognize the shimmering crone.
Imsha had come as promised.
The druid nearly cried with relief-though the telthor's first words bore little comfort.
"You fools," Imsha said. "The wolf raids the henhouse while the shepherds drink to their good fortune! How long will you sit their squabbling amongst yourselves while Rashemen crumbles around you?"
Marissa would have responded but stopped in wonder as each of the witches bowed low to the telthor-even Najra, though she seemed to struggle with it. Watching it all unfold, the druid could barely contain her emotion. Both joy and guilt warred within her-joy at the presence of Imsha and the effect that it had upon the witches-there was hope now for both Taenaran and for her mission-and guilt at how quickly she had questioned her faith in the midst of adversity.
Rillifane, forgive me, she cried silently to her god.
As one, the witches finished their obeisance and gathered together. Marissa knew that they deliberated amongst themselves in the silence of their bond, but she no longer feared. When at last one of them spoke, she was surprised to hear a voice other than Najra's.
"You rebuke us all, dear sister," the witch said.
Marissa cast a glance at the speaking othlor but could see nothing beyond the contours of her white mask, its face opened in a gentle smile.
"Well do we remember your presence among us, Imsha," the witch continued. "You were the wisest of us." The othlor spoke her words quietly, in a voice surprisingly soft and melodic.
The warm tones seemed lost on the telthor. Imsha floated above the well, her aged face still stretched in a scowl.
"I rebuke only because I must," the floating crone said, though Marissa could hear both warmth and regret in the telthor's voice. "They have all spoken the truth, Mahara," the crone continued, "though maybe not as diplomatically as some would like." At this last, she turned toward Roberc who, Marissa noted thankfully, had sheathed his sword. The halfling returned the telthor's gaze evenly, a thin smile splitting the grizzled contours of his face.
"Mahara," Najra hissed, "these outsiders must be made to pay for their transgression. Whether they come at Imsha's request or not, they have violated our laws. They must receive punishment."
Marissa could sense that several of the other witches agreed with Najra's sentiment but was reassured at the telthor's response.
"Be silent, Najra," the crone said harshly. "Even as an ethran, you always hated others telling you what to do-and nothing has changed. The fact that you were summoned by this woman's power," she said, pointing to Marissa, "is the sole reason for your anger. There will be no punishment. These travelers are under my protection, I will deal personally with anyone who harms them."
Imsha's gaze passed over the assembled group like a scythe. Marissa blanched as the crone's fierce eyes met her own. She was glad that the telthor saw her as an ally and not an enemy, for her eyes held the promise of death within their gleaming depths.
Mahara turned at last to Marissa and her companions.
"Forgive us our rudeness," the othlor said. "We do not often receive