Taen walked toward the halfling fighter with Marissa at his side while Borovazk set to burning the single corpse up on the hillock. The ground where the halfling stood was covered in bloodstained slush and churned earth. As they drew closer, Taen could see that both Roberc and Cavan were bleeding from multiple wounds. Marissa spoke gently to the dog, and he limped toward her, his fur caked in blood, dirt, and gore. The druid knelt before the hurt animal and reached out a slender hand, placing it along the bleeding edge of Cavan's wounds. Singing softly into the dog's ear, the druid sent healing power into the dog until Taen could clearly see Cavan's wounds close. Once they had finished burning the corpses, Taen and his companions gathered around the horses.

"Let us mount, little friends," Borovazk said. "We are not far from the vale, and I do not want to delay us any longer."

Before he mounted, Taen bent to retrieve the sword he had cast aside. Gingerly, he wrapped his fingers around the worn red hilt, as if expecting-he knew not what. As he cleaned the blade and placed it into its scabbard, only silence ruled his heart.

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Fog muffled the sound of their horses' hooves. Taen walked in silence like the others, leading his horse carefully down the steep path, following the surefooted tread of their guide. He peered through the thickening gray haze and caught only the barest hint of their surroundings in the swirling, nebulous curtain: here, the suggestion of a tree; there, a dim outline of rock or the blurred expanse of a berry bramble. Though they hadn't been walking the curving path to Immil Vale for long, the half-elf felt as if he and his companions had left Faerun and now strode through another plane of existence. Everything took on a muzzy cast, vaporous and indistinct, as they walked through this seemingly endless expanse of gloom and fog-until Taen himself felt that he, too, must be half-made from mist, insubstantial as a wraith in this swirling dreamscape.

If he dreamed, at least it was a dream of spring.

Borovazk had been right. Whether through some divine blessing or other more natural means, the area around Immil Vale radiated warmth and life. Soon after leaving behind the remains of their battle with the ice trolls, Taen and his companions had witnessed the snow and slush disappearing, leaving only the rapidly thawing wine-dark soil that covered this part of Rashemen. Shoots and saplings had sprung up across the rolling landscape, tender, green, and tentative. The half-elf had watched them growing thicker and stronger as they neared the vale. By the time his group had reached the trailhead, they were surrounded by a riot of bud and bramble, root and tree. A gentle, misting rain had begun to fall as they set off, wordlessly, into a dream of spring.

The heady, earth-rich scent of loam filled the air, tickling his nose as each step churned the earth beneath his feet. In the silence of the journey, Taen could hear the chittering of marmots, chipmunks, titmice, and squirrels. Birdsong filled the air, distant and muted but familiar-the warble of the grosbeak and hooded crow, the twitter of the nuthatch, and the echoing attack of the woodpecker. Winter was a distant memory, an old song whose words danced across the mind, half forgotten, even as the tune remained. Taen walked on in silence, enjoying the warmth. He'd exchanged his thick leathers and wool robe for lighter clothes and a simple, homespun cloak of rough cloth. The change in weather also made the battle with the trolls seem even more distant, and for that he was very grateful. His experience with the Song unnerved him, not only because of its strength, but also because he had heard another voice in it-the sword's. Never before had he felt the power of his father's blade come alive in such a way. He had heard its voice, and it shook him to the core.

Taen didn't know what it might mean, but it couldn't be good. He thought he'd left all of that behind him in sorrow and in death. He was a Tel'Quessir. A failure. There was no room in his life for the Song-or the hopes of his heart. They were distant memories, reminders of what he could never be.

"How much longer until we've reached the damned tree?" Roberc asked as he caught up with Taen. The halfling's voice, normally gravely, seemed even rougher from lack of use.

The half-elf pushed down his irritation at the fighter's interruption. It was rare for his grizzled companion to begin a conversation. There was no sense in wasting this opportunity, and it offered him a chance to escape from his dark thoughts.

"One day to reach the bottom of the vale," Taen replied, recalling Borovazk's estimation as they had set out upon the trail, "and then half a day's walk to the Red Tree."

Roberc nodded and drew a long draught from his waterskin. When he had finished, he lifted it up, offering it to Taen.

"Do you know what it is she is seeking?" the halfling asked.

The half-elf reached out and grabbed the waterskin, shooting Roberc a thankful look. He took a swig, letting the cool, clear water swish around his dry mouth before swallowing.

"No," he replied after taking another drink, "but I doubt that she does either." He handed the skin back. "Such is the will of the gods, I suppose."

Roberc snorted. "The gods-" he began and looked around, as if seeking something, but never finished his statement.

Which was just as well, as far as Taen was concerned. He'd grown used to the fighter's blasphemous speech and seeming indifference to the various faiths of Faerun.

Even so, the halfling's contempt for piety and the ways of the gods sometimes made him nervous. Taen didn't know what lay behind the fighter's attitude, despite years of adventuring together and countless nights around a fire, with only the wind and their voices to keep them company. The halfling didn't speak much about his past, about his life before he took up adventurering-and he certainly never spoke of the scarred burn near his mouth. Sometimes he would talk about an old battle or tell a story of an evening's diversion in a tavern, otherwise Roberc was a generally quiet, if dour, companion.

A mystery.

When Taen thought about it during quiet moments, it made sense. Marissa, Roberc, and he-all three of them-carried burdens hidden from the world. Their scars ran deeper than flesh, and so did their friendship. They had found each other, these individuals who, separated, would each likely fall prey to despair or the dangers of the world. Together, they offered comfort, hope, and strength, yet their burdens existed, lightened by the sharing, but not healed.

Roberc remained a mystery.

Normally, Taen would let such a mystery lie, for he often kept his own thoughts private and did not relish baring his wounds for all to see, but there was something about the vale-whether it was the ever-present newness of spring, or the feeling of walking in a fog-shrouded dream, Taen couldn't be sure-that raised his curiosity. He found himself turning back to the halfling, searching for the right words.

"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.