Bladesinger Page 6

  “What about the gods?” he asked finally after Roberc had caught him staring for the third time. “Do you believe in them?”

  Roberc looked up at Taen, and the half-elf caught a glimpse, just for one moment, of fire behind the halfling’s dead gray eyes.

  “Of course I believe in them,” the fighter answered after a moment. “You’d have to be a half-wit to deny their existence. The gods”—he snorted this time as he said the word—“they exist just like stone, wind, snow, and fire, but they are no gods of mine. A man may just as easily dig out of an avalanche with a dirk as pry himself out from under the finger of the gods once he’s put himself there. No thank you.

  “You want to know what I believe in?” Roberc asked, grabbing Taen’s hand and stopping on the trail. “I believe in my sword. I believe in courage. I believe that a man’s life is a candle held out in defiance of the darkness, and it burns, as all things burn, for as long as there is wax, wick, and hope. I believe that in the end, darkness comes for us all—even the gods.

  “Life,” Roberc whispered, “is in the burning. That’s what I believe.”

  Taen stared at his companion, held still as much by the passion in his voice as by the fierce grip on his arm. What of friendship? He would have asked this of the halfling, but just then Borovazk called for a halt, and Roberc released his grip and went forward to help set up their camp.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Marissa dismounted and knelt before the stream.

  Within the sound of its burbling water she heard the voice of the spirit, the telthor as Borovazk had called it, speak to her heart. She was aware of the others gathered around her, watching and waiting from tall seats astride their tired mounts. The druid reached to her belt and drew forth her waterskin. Gently, whispering words of thanks and gratitude, she poured the last remaining drops of water from the container, mingling the fresh snow melt from her earlier travels with the clear, sweet runoff from the stream. Deep within, she felt the telthor’s approval and found herself smiling as she refilled her skin.

  Water spun and rose into the air like a funnel. Slowly it bent toward the druid and touched her cheek, gently, like the soft caress of a young child. Behind her, she heard Borovazk mutter something before he dismounted and knelt before the running water. The Rashemi ranger spoke rapidly in his native tongue then stood. A moment later the water funnel straightened then gradually fell back into the stream.

  The spirit’s presence departed.

  Marissa remained on her knees, stunned by the intimate communion she had just experienced. Truly, the gods had crafted a land of wonders when Rashemen came into being. Even the wilds of Cormyr, the land of her youth, couldn’t compare to what she had experienced here in such a short amount of time. Thoughts of her childhood came back to her. Raised in Waymoot, near the heart of the King’s Forest, she had spent many years wandering the deer trails and hidden paths of the woodlands while her father toiled away at his trading business, burying himself in work to forget the fog-shrouded day he had buried his wife, Marissa’s mother, an elf bard from Evereska. Perhaps Marissa reminded her father too much of what he’d lost, but soon after her mother’s death, he had retreated into ledgers and factor notes, pushing her away. She had grown up in the shadow of the oak and alder trees of the King’s Forest, counting her years as they came from the heights of shrub-studded bluffs and the depths of root caves, fatherless and motherless—unless the moon-throated example of wolf and the night-hunting owl could be considered father and mother. The forest had raised her.

  When the Circle had come for her, Marissa had been ready. Decades she had spent as an Initiate, wandering the rugged land of Cormyr, from the forbidding peaks of the Storm Horn Mountains to the stagnant heart of the Vast Swamp, watching and learning, touching and being touched by the wisdom of soil and seed, root and stone.

  She would trade it all, she knew, for a few months more in this strange northern land.

  “Come, little witch,” Borovazk’s rumbled. His touch, however, fell light upon her shoulder. Marissa looked up into the ranger’s face, lined with the years and harsh weather. There was something there, a softness that she had never seen before, a chink in the armor of his boisterous good humor.

  Hesitancy, she thought. Or fear.

  “Is time to be on our way,” he continued.

  Marissa nodded and stood. She was conscious now of the others. Roberc sat easily on Cavan and raised an enigmatic eyebrow as he puffed away on his pipe, while Taen tightened and retightened the straps on his saddle. Within moments, she sat astride her own horse and waited for Borovazk to lead them forward. The change in the ranger’s demeanor didn’t trouble her nearly as much as the half-elf’s continued withdrawal. Ever since their brief exchange during the night of the hag-wind, he’d seemed sullen and quiet—more so than usual. She had thought he’d worked past it, just for a moment, right before their battle with the trolls. However, Taen had said almost nothing to her since the aftermath of that combat. He’d even engaged the normally surly Roberc in conversation but had found little to say to her except some softly spoken morning pleasantries.

  Marissa wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but she knew it would have to stop. When Borovazk started forward, she kicked her dun gelding forward, moving next to Taen’s own mount.

  “What is it, Marissa?” he asked after she had stared at him for a few moments without saying anything.

  “Ah,” she responded, trying to keep her tone light, “I see you still have a voice. I was wondering if maybe the ice trolls had frozen it solid within your throat.”

  The druid watched his face change, as if he’d swallowed something bitter.

  “No,” Taen said after another moment of silence, “it’s just—”

  “Just what?” she interrupted. The spring wind had picked up, blowing several strands of Marissa’s red hair across her face. She brushed them back irritably. “You’ve barely said anything to me since we left Mulptan,” she continued, “and what you have said has been ruder than a pig farmer during the slaughter.” This last she had spoken in Elvish, something that she knew would make the half-elf even more uncomfortable.

  With the part of her mind that wasn’t running red with anger, Marissa knew that this conversation wasn’t going as she had planned at all. She needed to calm down. It was just that sometimes Taenaran’s tortured soul made her want to reach out to him in comfort, and sometimes it made her want to slap some sense into him. She respected his pain and knew it wasn’t simply maudlin claptrap. He had a right to feel it. His life—the things he had done. It was painful, and real life rarely turned out like tavern tales or those sappy songs requested by moon-eyed merchants’ daughters. Still, Taen needed her, and if she was honest with herself, she knew that she needed him.

  “Marissa,” Taen began, “I’m … I am sorry. You know that. I’ve been feeling very strange ever since we crossed into Rashemen. It’s as if everything seems somehow more real here. My past. My failure.…” He stopped speaking.

  Marissa reached out across the short distance between them and grabbed his hand. “Taen,” Marrisa said softly, “you can’t deny your past, or run from it, but you can be so busy trying that you end up denying your present. We are here, in Rashemen, for a purpose. Don’t ignore that or the person that you are. Otherwise, you’ll never become the person that you were meant to be.”

  Taen smiled, giving her hand a squeeze as he did so. “You sound like—” He hesitated.

  “Her?” Marissa asked.

  The half-elf nodded.

  “She sounds like a very wise woman, Taenaran,” Marissa said.

  She released the half-elf’s hand and kicked her horse into a trot. Let him sulk now, she thought. At least he knew that he didn’t have to do so completely alone.

  Now that she had spoken with Taen, her mind and heart felt free of the burden she had been carrying. By the time Borovazk called their halt, Marissa could thi
nk only of their destination—the Red Tree and whatever mysteries she would encounter beneath its branches.

  The Red Tree stood like an ancient giant trapped between elemental forces. Its gnarled roots reached deep into the bones of the earth, seeking the marrow-wisdom of stone, while thick-boled limbs stretched toward the freedom of air, wind, and sky. Broad, ovate leaves, some of them dappled and covered with late-autumn red and gold, waved softly in the gentle evening wind. Light from the setting sun kissed the very tips of these leaves, as a noble might kiss the elegant fingers of a courtesan; they flickered and flamed beneath the dying light of the sun.

  Taen stood a fair distance from the Red Tree and gazed upon its magnificence. All of Rashemen had made him feel small and insignificant beneath its broad expanse, but here, under the shadow of this ancient tree, the half-elf felt truly insubstantial. Perhaps it was simply that the Red Tree was somehow more real. Regardless, the half-elf knew that he was in the presence of a mystery older, perhaps, than some of the gods. Even dour Roberc sat in reverential silence after they had set up camp. No pipeweed or long pulls from the wineskin—the halfling simply sat, fierce Cavan laying docilely by his side, and looked thoughtfully at the giant tree.

  When they had first arrived, all of them had spent a few moments alone with their own thoughts as they stood before the wonder of the Red Tree, though it had been Borovazk at the last who had indicated that they should set up camp a distance from the Red Tree. The site, he had explained, was sacred to the wychlaran, the Rashemi Witches whose mystic power defended the land. Only those steeped in the Vyvadnya, the Mysteries, could safely stay beneath the Red Tree’s branches and benefit from its wisdom. Many others had tried, according to the ranger, and those who were fortunate died. The others, he had said sadly, spent the rest of their lives in gibbering madness or else they simply wasted away, their minds shattered beneath the Red Tree’s swaying limbs.

  The three men unsaddled horses, pitched shelters, and gathered what wood they needed for their small cooking fire, while Marissa wandered deeper into the woods surrounding the Red Tree to prepare for her …

  Her what? Taen didn’t even know what to call it. Watching the giant elemental riddle that was the Red Tree, he wasn’t sure that he would ever know what to call it. Here was a mystery that, like so many other things, went beyond his mastery. He worried about Marissa. For all of her knowledge and faith, she wasn’t wychlaran. She was a stranger in this land, foreign, and there was no telling what the powers of Rashemen would do if she dared step foot beneath the tree.

  Borovazk didn’t seem concerned, and that did much to put his mind at ease. Something had happened at the stream when Marissa had knelt before the spirit of the water, something that obviously went deeper than just the normal paying of respect to the telthor. Ever since then, Borovazk had treated the druid differently. He was soft spoken around her—almost deferential. If the Rashemi ranger did not see any harm in what Marissa was about to do, who was he to gainsay him?

  Yet Taen felt uneasy.

  The half-elf walked quietly to where the ranger sat carving a piece of thick wood with a bronze-handled knife.

  “Borovazk, are you sure that Marissa isn’t in any danger?” Taen asked.

  The ranger stopped his knife from cutting and looked at Taen. Borovazk’s blue eyes gazed deeply into Taen’s own. The half-elf grew uncomfortable beneath the weight of that stare, but he would not look away.

  “Who can tell?” the ranger said at last. “Borovazk is no Old One; he has no power within to understand the Vyvadnya. Is witch-lore. Deep and dark. Borovazk think that the little one has more than just power within her. If she says her god sent her to the Red Tree, then Borovazk think that her god will protect her, eh. Besides,” the Rashemi raised his knife to point back in the direction from which they had just traveled, “you saw what happened at the stream. Even the telthor acknowledge her. Borovazk thinks that the telthor know something we don’t.”

  The ranger got to his feet and gave the half-elf’s back a hearty slap. “No more worry, little friend,” Borovazk continued. “You and I shall drink some jhuild and make our own witch-lore, eh?”

  Taen smiled but said nothing more. Borovazk left to find his ever-full flask of firewine, leaving the half-elf alone with his thoughts. The sun had finally set. Here and there, stars glittered and gleamed in night’s dark diadem. Taen stared at them for a moment, those holes in the darkness, and wondered what would happen this night. He wanted to believe the ranger, wanted to put down his fear like a weary soldier wants to put down his blade, but he couldn’t. Fear was indeed a blade, and he found it embedded deep within his heart.

  Cursing softly to himself, he took up a vantage point where he could keep Marissa in his keen elf sight all night long. Let Borovazk drink himself into insensibility, he would keep watch over the druid.

  So he waited—under the dark sheet of night, with the wind in his hair and the soft hiss of leaf-whispers sighing in his ears.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Marissa touched the Red Tree.

  Her right hand traced the path of deep rivulets and channels in its bark; the stump of her left hand pressed gently against its trunk. The druid had removed her glove as well as the rune-covered gauntlet she wore over the shattered skin and bone of her other arm. She was naked, skin on skin with the ancient tree. Beneath her touch, its bark felt rough—the old wood split by wind and weather and age.

  The night breeze ran softly through her hair, sending shivers coursing through Marissa’s body. For a few heartbeats, she allowed herself to enjoy the delicious sensation then turned her focus to the task at hand. The druid had spent the remaining light of the day in preparation for this moment, cleansing her body and mind in the clear waters of the vale, readying herself to receive whatever Rillifane had in store for her. She’d sent Rusella to the trees near her companions, and now her mind remained clear, as still as the inner pond her masters in the Circle had asked her to create when she was an initiate in order to focus her attention.

  Everything about the Red Tree was magic. From the moment she and her friends had arrived, it loomed in her mind’s eye, a presence she could not deny. Nor did she want to. Power emanated from every facet of its roots, trunk, and flaming leaves, and waves of divine energy crested over her, submerging her heart, mind, and will. There was almost something familiar about this power, comforting—it was like, yet unlike, the experience she had when surrounded by her god’s aura.

  Now, enclosed within the tree’s arboreal embrace, Marissa sank deeper into that presence, surrendering the last vestiges of herself. Beneath her fingers, she could sense the slow pulse of the earth-blood flowing in the tree’s great veins. Her heartbeat slowed, became that pulse, and beat in rhythm to the ancient song. Her breath deepened, took root in her belly then rooted itself deeper—into soil and rock.

  She was changing.

  Had changed.

  She was ancient as the land and as vast as the world’s forests. Hands reached to sky, caught the wind in thin fingers, and drank dew like sweet wine from the evening air. Toes curled and twisted, like a riddle whose answer wound down into the dark heart of the world—until there was only earth and shadow and the silent language of stone.

  Taen watched Marissa approach the Red Tree. When she knelt before its trunk, he half expected the thing to come alive and begin speaking. Treants, those great living trees, were not unknown to him, so he waited for the thrumming sound of the deep tree-voice and the shaking of its twisted limbs.

  Nothing happened.

  Still, Marissa knelt in silence, and he watched her in silence. The night sounds of the vale enveloped him like a blanket. The ghostly flapping of owl wings, the high bark of the hunting fox, and a chorus of nocturnal insects filled the darkness. Amidst it all, he could hear Roberc’s light snoring and the soft, tuneless humming of Borovazk as he sang his way through three skins of firewine.

  Still he
watched.

  The moon rose and danced across the night sky, scattering pools of silver radiance across the landscape. Once he heard the heavy rustle of some game in a nearby bush, but a single growl from Cavan stilled the beast. Taen’s eyes grew heavy as the night wore on. He yawned once and rubbed his face, trying to shake the lethargy that gripped him. The scent of adelpha blossoms perfumed the air. Taen breathed the heady incense deeply. His last thought was of Marissa as sleep threw its thick mantle over his head.

  “You have come, sister of our heart,” said a soft, soothing voice.

  “We had hoped you would,” said another voice, warm and rich as honey.

  Marissa turned—or rather the world turned and she remained. The druid sat in a place of darkness, with only a small light glowing a few feet from her. Everywhere she looked, by the illumination of that feeble glow, Marissa could see only more darkness.

  Then two other women sat beside her. They were as different as summer and winter. One was young and beautiful, the way a flower is beautiful—soft and delicate, with pale, smooth skin and lustrous black hair. She looked at Marissa, and the druid could see green eyes flashing like jewels in the dim light regarding her with open curiosity.

  The other woman was old and weathered, her skin like the bark of a tree. She had thick, iron-gray hair severely pulled back in a single braid. Her eyes were brown, the color of earth, and her fingers were thin bony sticks that drummed an absent beat while they rested upon her legs.

  “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.