by Keith Strohm
“Then what happened to change the ambience, Borovazk?” she asked with a laugh as another table toppled beneath the frenzied wrestling match.
“Rumors,” said the stranger standing next to their guide. He wore a frown that accentuated the deep wrinkles covering his face. “Rumors of midnight raids, slaughtered villages, and dark things creeping down from the High Country. The blood of Rashemen quickens at the thought of such events happening. The Iron Lord stirs in his citadel, whipping his warlords into a frenzy, and the whole land is abuzz with the possibility of war.”
Taen listened and fought down a shudder at the old man’s words. Unlike Borovazk, the stranger spoke common almost perfectly, without the heavy accent and tortured syntax that marred the ranger’s speech. This made the man’s statement somehow more menacing.
“I will say no more of this,” he continued, “until you have spoken with the othlor.”
Taen blanched as the stranger finished and noted that the others had similar reactions. If there truly were a traitor among the wychlaran, then it wouldn’t do for too many people to know why they were around. The half-elf was about to stammer out a protest, denying the truth of the old man’s words, but the wizened Rashemi held out his hand.
“Forgive me,” the stranger said. “Here I am blathering on about things you probably want to keep secret and I haven’t even introduced myself.” He gave them all a rueful smile, revealing several cracked teeth. “My name is Selov, and this,” he continued, extending his hand to take in the crowded common room, “is my establishment.”
Taen relaxed at the stranger’s introduction. Once they had agreed to follow Marissa on her journey, they discussed the best place to summon the othlor. It was Borovazk who prevailed upon them to travel to Urling to meet with a certain Selov who, the ranger had insisted, held great knowledge about the ways of the wychlaran.
“Be welcome among us, Selov,” Marissa said, coming to her feet, “and thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
Selov acknowledged the druid’s words with a bow of his head.
“I would be far happier to extend such hospitality at a brighter time in my country’s life,” Selov said. “Still, a single candle in darkness is worth five in the daytime, or at least that is what my mother taught me.” He looked around at the group, wincing once or twice at the sound of breaking glass. “Well, perhaps we can meet somewhere a little less … active,” he said and waved his hand indicating that they should follow him. “I have a private room arranged for us. One of the benefits of ownership—or so I am told.”
Selov maneuvered deftly in the crowded taproom, cutting in between the gaggle of patrons and warriors with the ease of long practice. Taen followed with Borovazk, Marissa, and Roberc close behind. They turned down a small corridor off to the side of the bar and soon found themselves ushered into a comfortable round room. It was cooler in there, a relief from the dank, sweltering atmosphere of the taproom. Several torches burned brightly along the earthen wall, and the embers of a small peat fire glowed invitingly from the room’s hearth.
Taen was surprised to find a large table already set with fruit, cheese, and several pitchers of nut-brown ale. They sat down and ate companionably, telling stories of their journey and asking Selov questions about the Urlingwood. The half-elf studied the wizened innkeeper carefully as they ate.
When the four adventurers had originally decided to meet here at the Green Chapel, Borovazk had informed Taen that Selov was a great wizard—a vremyonni, one of the Old Ones. The half-elf knew very little about the mysterious ways of Rashemen’s arcane culture. However, sitting in the quiet of the inn, Taen found it difficult to envision Selov as anything other than a kindly publican. With his wild, unkempt hair and soiled, ale-soaked clothing, the Rashemi would have fit the description of a thousand innkeepers in a thousand cities all across Faerûn. Power calls to power, and Taen, not an unaccomplished practitioner of the arcane arts, felt nothing from the old man. If Selov was indeed a wizard, the Rashemi disguised it well. It was only when the man spoke of the Urlingwood or recounted a tale soaked in ancient history that something seemed to change about him. Then shadows would gather around his weathered face, and the age lines creasing his skin took on a deeper cast. Silver-gray eyes would cloud with old sorrow, while Selov’s voice would shake and quaver, like a dying tree in the wind. He seemed to the half-elf like a man hollowed out by loss.
For all of that, he was a gracious host and answered questions patiently. Taen was surprised when more servers came in to clear plates from the table. Time had passed by quickly as they ate. When the servers had finished, leaving only several more pitchers of ale, the conversation died. Only the fire spoke in the silence, hissing and crackling in its ancient tongue.
The lull continued for several moments, until Marissa cleared her throat.
“Well, Selov,” Marissa said, “Borovazk has told us that we should meet with you before speaking with the wychlaran, and you have told us much about the Urlingwood.” She acknowledged his helpfulness with a broad smile. “However, I am thinking that there is more that you haven’t said.”
Taen watched the shadows gather in Selov’s eyes once again then disappear as the Rashemi answered the druid’s smile with one of his own. When he spoke, it was directly to Borovazk, and his words made the half-elf uneasy.
“I see that you have spoken the truth, my friend. She has the vydda, the witch eye. Such a gift is rare,” he said, this time turning to Marissa. “It sees to the heart of things.”
Selov pushed back his chair and stood, taking them all in with his gaze.
“Very well,” Selov said. “There is, indeed, much that I haven’t said. These are dark times, and I do not wish for the wrong ears to overhear. I trust my staff here at the inn implicitly, but a shadow grows over the heart of Rashemen, and what was once noble and hale withers beneath it.”
“Once, long ago—longer than I can even remember, it seems—I studied and mastered the vyvadnya, becoming an Old One before my thirtieth year. It was rare that one so young would ascend to the brotherhood of the vremyonni, and I felt that honor deeply, treasuring it in my heart. I was determined to live up to my reputation, to surpass all of the other Old Ones in knowledge and mastery. Such a goal became a fever, burning in my veins both day and night.”
Selov paused, taking a long draught from a mug of ale before continuing. “Driven by the goad of my pride, I worked on creating a powerful spell that would, I believed, permanently drain a wizard’s ability to use magic. I had hoped to use it against the damnable Red Wizards. My brothers warned me that such a spell was too dangerous to fashion, that it bent and twisted the flow of magic in a way that made it too difficult to control.
“They were right, of course,” Selov continued, “but I wouldn’t listen. One night while testing the spell, I lost control of the mystical forces and they turned on me. When I awoke, I discovered that my spell chamber had been almost completely destroyed and worse, I could no longer use even the simplest of cantrips. I had stripped myself of the ability to use magic. Ashamed and devastated by what I had done to myself, I fled to Urling. It was the wychlaran who convinced me that I could still serve Rashemen, even without my former power, so I opened the Green Chapel to help anyone who comes to the Urlingwood in search of wisdom from the sisterhood.”
Taen listened to the man’s tale with barely concealed horror. He, too, had broken beneath the weight of his own destiny—though in his case, the half-elf had destroyed more than his own life. Still, even in the aftermath of his failure, he’d retained his skill in magic. Taen’s arcane power had been the only thing that had kept him from seeking oblivion. To live without that—he shuddered. It was beyond comprehension.
“A sad tale to be sure,” Roberc’s voice cut in from his place at the table, “but what does this have to do with helping us complete our journey?”
Taen winced at the halfling’s tone, but if the fighter’s pointed question angered Selov, the man didn’t show it. In
stead, the Rashemi shrugged and offered them a rueful smile.
“Ah,” he said. “Forgive an old man his ramblings. Though I do not have the use of my arcane power, I still hold a great deal of knowledge that will be of use to you. In each of the villages and hamlets dotting the outskirts of the Urlingwood, servants and students of the hathran live side by side with other Rashemi. Had you gone to any of the other villages, it would have been far easier for the traitorous forces within the sisterhood to discover your intent. Borovazk did well in bringing you here.
“The Urlingwood itself is a dangerous place; it is death for any not of the wychlaran to enter its expanse. However, I know a … special place near an ancient well at the edge of the forest. If you gather there beneath the night sky, it will offer you protection against scrying and other forms of spying.”
Marissa smiled at the man’s words.
“Thank you, dear Selov,” Marissa said. “Your assistance means a great deal to us.”
“Well,” Selov replied, “don’t thank me just yet. There is a price for my knowledge.”
Taen watched Marissa’s eyebrows rise in response.
“What is that price?” Marissa asked.
Selov looked long at the druid then at each of his guests before responding.
“You must take me with you,” Selov said with a smile.
Marissa caught Taen’s eye, and he could read the question there. Slightly, imperceptibly, he nodded his head. Taen felt as if they sailed across a dark and stormy sea riddled with hidden reefs and riptides that could sink them at any moment. They could not afford to turn down aid.
The druid raised her mug of ale.
“Done,” she said to Selov, “and gladly so.”
Taen drained his own mug then several more as the conversation turned to the particulars of their journey. By the time the half-elf rose from his seat and navigated the shadow-filled corridor back to his room, it was very late. Fighting back sleep, he never saw the long-skirted servant idly cleaning by the door of the rounded chamber.
CHAPTER 12
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
They left Urling well after nightfall.
Crept out would be more like it, Taen thought as he walked softly along the snow-covered track. No wind stirred the soft needles of the pine trees around them or rustled the lengths of wool cloaks they wore. Instead, the night air lay still—suspended, as if the world were holding its breath. The silence unnerved him. Taen found himself grateful for the creak of leather and harness, the jangle of mail, and the crunch of ice-crusted snow beneath his feet.
Stars littered the blue-black sky, burning coldly as they marched along, and the moon hung above them like a crescent pendant carved from purest silver. In the distance, the witches’ wood brooded in darkness, a shadowy mass of tangled branches, thick trunks, and gnarled wisdom. Even from where he walked, Taen caught the sense of menace emanating from its shadow-strewn depths. It was as if the very trees were fixing him with a penetrating gaze, judging his life against a span of years that circled back to the first flowering of the world. He felt small and insignificant beneath the weight of that vernal stare; the thought of even attempting to steal past the vigilance of the forest’s edge sent a shudder through his body. No wonder the Rashemi spoke of the Urlingwood with both awe and fear.
Not for the first time, he felt his misgivings about their journey rise to the surface. Ancient pacts broken, traitors within an arcane sisterhood, and a growing darkness within Rashemen—these had been far away from his thoughts when he had first agreed to accompany Marissa on her pilgrimage. Now he was right in the middle of a war for the soul of a nation, and even though he and his companions were on the side of good, the half-elf found the prospect of meeting the leaders of the wychlaran a little daunting. Perhaps it was the chill that he hadn’t been able shake since he’d entered Rashemen’s borders, or the unforgiving presence of the Urlingwood itself, but Taen felt as if somehow the power of this land threatened to twist the sense of shame and failure that had defined his life, exposing his secrets the way an ancient oak’s roots can twine and twist around a house wall, pulling it down over time and exposing the inside to sunlight. Over the course of the past ten years, Taen had made an uneasy truce with his past. All of that threatened to disappear. Now all he felt was a constant sense of guilt. Of course, he thought bitterly, stealing out of Urling like a thief in the night hadn’t helped his mood any either.
At Selov’s insistence, Taen and his companions had dined in the common room of the Green Chapel, mixing small talk in with humorous anecdotes from their travels, playing the part of gracious guests. As the evening wore on, the innkeeper had once again invited them rather publicly back to a reserved room to enjoy some of his best wine and mead. Away from prying eyes, the group had waited, with their gear already neatly packed and stowed, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Finally, after the candles had burned low and the fires of the inn were banked, Selov gave them a sign. At once, they gathered up their gear and followed the innkeeper through a secret tunnel and out into the fields to the west of Urling.
Now Taen and his companions found themselves furtively traveling in the long, bleak silence of the night. Roberc led the group, sitting astride Cavan, who, the half-elf noted, walked easily despite the weight of rider and barding. Borovazk strode alongside the mounted halfling, his deep voice muffled and oddly gentle as he whispered some passing story to his newfound companion. Taen smiled as he thought about the unlikely pair. Whether dicing, drinking, or exchanging raucous insults, the giantlike Rashemi ranger and the diminutive fighter were becoming fast friends.
Selov followed a few steps behind, his almost skeletal frame wrapped in a thick gray cloak. The former wizard had insisted on walking without aid, even when their brisk pace had sent the Rashemi into a paroxysm of wheezing. He had waved off the suggestion that they slow down, vowing that he would not delay them. So far, Taen noted, he hadn’t.
Even so, Marissa kept close to the wizened innkeeper, walking alongside him and asking questions about the Urlingwood and the telthor that he knew of in the area. Taen watched the druid as she walked—seemingly carefree and easy along the twisting path—and nearly forgot to breathe. Marissa wore the moonlight like a mantle. It spilled down the length of her hair and traced the graceful outline of her body like molten silver. Everything about her caught and reflected that light; she glittered and gleamed beneath the dome of the night sky. With the Staff of the Red Tree held lightly in her right hand, casting its own pale illumination, the druid looked like nothing so much as one of the Seldarine, or an avatar of Sehanine Moonbow, gracing this plane with her presence.
He shook his head sharply, as if to shake away those fanciful thoughts. Whatever had happened to Marissa since she had come under Rashemen’s spell, it was clear to Taen that she seemed more whole than she had been ever since the blightlord had destroyed her arm. That night was a terrible one—for her as well as for him. His heart wept for Marissa as she shouted and thrashed beneath the fury of the fever raging through her body. He bared his soul to her, thinking that she would never remember but wanting to offer her some comfort, some knowledge that she was not alone in the world, that he, too, had lost something so dear it was like losing a part of himself.
What had happened next was even worse—for the druid had remembered. Now that night of intimacy lay between them, a treasured memory and a goad in his side. Taen’s heart had already been given—and pierced beneath a moon just like this one.
Talaedra! He nearly cried her name out loud.
Beneath the sharpness of that grief, Taen knew that he could never give himself to another, so he and Marissa had spent the years dancing endlessly between intimacy and friendship.
Until now, he thought with a terrible certainty. Now she was whole.
And—perhaps—beyond him.
He wanted to find out now, in the midst of their journey to meet the wychlaran. Such was the burden he felt that it lay li
ke a geas on his heart, but just as he began to quicken his pace in an effort to draw near the druid, Selov called a halt.
“We are close to the well,” he said after a long draught from his waterskin. “There is a deer track about half a candle’s walk west of here. It cuts northeast for a ways and then opens into an abandoned trade road. If we follow the track and then walk along the road, we’ll come to a large oak that has been split by lightning. The well is just a short walk beyond the oak.”
The others nodded, passing around a skin of wine and some salted beef before pressing on. The stillness of the deep night held as they marched onward. Taen tried several subtle attempts to draw Marissa into a private conversation, but the druid seemed distracted, answering him with simple grunts or not at all. As they picked their way carefully through the deer track, avoiding the fallen trunks of trees and the thorns of the thick underbrush, the half-elf finally lost patience.
“Marissa,” he snapped. “Are you listening to me at all?”
“Hmm … what?” the druid replied after a moment. Then, as if waking from a dream, she stopped to look back at him. “Oh, Taenaran,” she said, “I’m sorry. I … I guess I am a little distracted. It’s this,” she said, holding out the length of the staff she received from the Red Tree. “I can feel it—the same way I could feel the presence of the Red Tree, only this time it’s gentle, like a soft whisper in my mind.”
Taen nodded. “I understand,” he said uneasily. Though he knew that powerful magic items could sometimes manifest intelligence and an independent will, the half-elf was more than suspicious of whatever sentience lurked within the confines of that staff.