Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [53]
The witch stepped forward, bringing both of her hands together and placing them before her heart.
"Be welcome at this council, strangers." Mahara bowed low. "I greet you in the name of the wychlaran, the ancient defenders of our land."
Speechless, Marissa returned the bow, noting with relief that the others did the same. When she had finished, Rusella cawed loudly from a tree at the edge of the clearing. With three swift beats of her wings, the raven flew like an arrow to the druid, landing softly and gracefully upon the tip of the Staff of the Red Tree.
Mahara chuckled from behind her mask.
"We often say that 'one can know the heart of a person by the mettle of those she travels with.' It seems you have a fine heart, indeed." Mahara paused for a moment, surveying the group. "Come," the witch said. "Your comrades have need of some rest and healing." She eyed the still-shimmering telthor. "We will listen to what you have to say."
As the othlor converged upon her friends, Marissa cast one last glance at Imsha before she turned her attention to Taenaran. The telthor's eyes gazed upon her with tenderness.
You would have made a fine hathran, the sound of Imsha's voice broke into her thoughts. Startled, she stared back at the wizened figure. Imsha raised a hand in farewell as she faded slowly into the night. There was a sense of permanence in the telthor's fading, and a wave of sadness passed through the druid as she realized that the ancient spirit had depleted her power by appearing to the assembled othlor. Tears ran down her cheeks as she heard the telthor's final words.
Perhaps, the voice came again, you still will.
* * * * *
Darkness.
Everything was darkness-wrapped in shadow and emptiness and pain.
He breathed it in, absorbed it until the shadow became a part of him-or he became a part of the shadow. It whispered to him softly, as a lover would. A shudder ran through him at its voice, part delight and part terror. He wanted to run but couldn't. He was empty, so empty that he had forgotten what it was like to be filled with laughter, love, and life-to be whole.
There was no wholeness where he lay, only hunger and desire, a need so vast that it gnawed him from within.
He was lost within shadow, until everything around him erupted into light. He drew back, cowering and fearful at the sudden brightness of it all, at the harsh touch of its hot fingers. But there was something about that light from which he could not hide. He tried to deny it, to push it away, to return to the cool darkness that whispered to him even now:
Careful, it said. The light burns-forever.
Light also called to him, called his name, and called him out of the darkness that lay around him like a shroud. Taen felt his body rise through that darkness, ascending. Night fell away and became dawn. Gray fog and mist burned away beneath implacable light.
At last, he opened his eyes, blinking hard in the morning sunlight. Marissa knelt over him, cupping his hand in hers. Tears blurred his vision, but Taen thought that he could see a masked figure looming over the druid.
"Welcome back," Marissa said and gave him a gentle smile.
Taen heard the effort it took her to constrain the flood of emotion behind those simple words and returned her smile.
"Remind me," Taen said in a voice that shook with fatigue, "not to accept your next invitation to go on a pilgrimage."
Her laughter followed him as he fell into the restful arms of sleep.
CHAPTER 15
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Taen gazed into the well.
A stark face, fatigue etched in every curve and angle, stared back from the surface of its dark waters. Though he and his companions had only spent a few tendays traveling through Rashemen, the half-elf felt as though it had