He was tired of fighting the grief and the sadness, tired of the emptiness that he felt inside. With this last request of the wychlaran completed, Taenaran knew that it was time to leave Rashemen. Where he would go next, the bladesinger hadn't a clue, but he suspected it would be far from here.
He was about to stand up when the wind blew hard again, this time nearly knocking the half-elf to the ground. He closed his eyes against the sting of dirt and pebbles brought on by the strange wind, and when at last the air stilled and he opened his eyes once more, Taenaran's vision swam before him. He struggled to his feet, reaching out to the gnarled trunk of the Red Tree to steady himself. When the bladesinger's hand touched the bark, he felt a stinging shock. Instantly, his vision cleared, but what he witnessed nearly drove Taenaran to his knees once more.
Marissa stood before him, windswept hair blowing wildly in the wind, gazing at him with her eyes slightly squinted. He remembered that look upon her face, but he never recalled her looking that beautiful. Everything about her radiated joy and contentment.
"What is going on?" he asked of her in a voice that shook with emotion.
Marissa didn't respond. Instead she lifted her hands and brought them toward Taenaran's face. The bladesinger took a step toward her then stopped suddenly, as he realized that something was definitely wrong—the druid's lost hand had somehow regenerated.
"What are you?" he asked, suspicion tingeing his voice with a harsh undertone. "Does the Red Tree mock my grief? Have I not done enough for this gods-blasted land?"
The figure of Marissa shook her head sadly and reached out her hands once more. Taenaran didn't resist as slender fingers stroked his cheek. Her touch was light, like the kiss of a soft breeze. He felt the slightest shock as her fingertips made contact with his skin.
You are not being mocked, my Taenaran. It really is me—well, mostly me anyway.
The bladesinger's eyes widened in wonder as Marissa's voice echoed in his mind. He thought about what she had said, and it became clear to him—especially given what had occurred on their journey through Rashemen.
"Somehow you've become a telthor, haven't you?" he asked.
She smiled. Yes, my dear Taenaran. The spirit of this land has accepted my service. Imsha used the last of her essence to travel to the Urlingwood and see if she could detect the traitor among the othlor. I have taken her place.
Grief for her passing warred with the happiness that came with knowing somehow Marissa had found a new kind of life.
Please do not be sad, Taenaran. I don't regret a moment of what I had to do in order to save you and the others. I would offer myself again in a heartbeat. Now I will always be here to protect and serve a land I have come to love as deeply as I loved you.
Taenaran fought back tears and reached up to clasp the hand Marissa still held to his cheek. He nearly sobbed as his own hand met no resistance, passing through her form as if he had reached out to grab the wind.
Please—shed no more tears. My time with you is drawing to a close. There is much work that still needs to be done in the wake of Yulda's treachery.
"Perhaps I should remain here and help the wychlaran tie up loose ends," Taenaran suggested.
Marissa reached out with her other hand and placed it softly upon Taenaran's shoulder. Rashemen owes you a great debt, but there are other places in Faerun that need your help.
He wanted to protest, to explain that he could do the greatest good here in Rashemen, but he knew deep down that it wasn't the truth. He was a bladesinger now—a vessel for the art of his people. There were many elves who would need his help and perhaps—one day—he would even find himself returning home, so Taenaran simply nodded in response.
Please watch over Roberc and Borovazk, Marissa continued, and make sure they don't drink too much firewine!
The bladesinger laughed at that, but his laughter soon caught in his throat as Marissa's figure began to fade before his eyes.
I must go, Taenaran. Please know that I will always be here when you need me. Thank you, my love—for everything. With that, Marissa disappeared, fading completely from view.
Slowly, Taenaran turned toward the Red Tree and bowed profoundly. "I love you, Marissa."
He rose up once more, wiping a few stray tears from his eyes before turning back toward the path that would lead away from the Red Tree and ultimately away from Rashemen. As he walked forward, Taenaran felt the hollowness of grief begin to fill with gratefulness and with the warm memories of Marissa's presence in his life. It was as if a stone had rolled away from the dark tomb of his heart, letting in sunlight and air. It was enough that Marissa's life hadn't ended in darkness and pain. It was enough that he had seen her once more—and she was happy.
It was more than enough.
Slowly, Taenaran, bladesinger and hero of Rashemen, walked down the path toward his friends.
Behind him, the raucous cawing of an albino raven echoed throughout the vale.
About the Author
Keith Francis Strohm is the current Chief Operating Officer of Paizo Publishing, LLC, and the Publisher of Dragon and Dungeon magazines. Prior to that, he was the Vice President of Pokemon®, the Director of the Roleplaying and Miniatures categories, and the Brand Manager for Dungeons & Dragons®—all at Wizards of the Coast. He is the author of the Greyhawk® novel The Tomb of Horrors, and he has written three short stories for the Forgotten Realms. This is his second novel.
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