Nevertheless, the temptation remained. Marissa hadn't expected a hero's welcome from the wychlaran. The open hostility of their current reception, however, went beyond her understanding. Perhaps, she thought, this was a test, a way of weeding out those who were unworthy of the wychlaran's help, or the thought came unbidden, perhaps the witch Najra lurked behind the troubles of Rashemen. Could she be the traitor? Would it be that easy?

Marissa's mind whirled with the possibilities, and through it all, she knew that Taenaran needed her help, that he suffered deeply from the wraith's touch, as did Borovazk, though the ranger fared far better and bore his wounds silently. Distracted by these thoughts, it took Marissa a few moments to realize that Najra had stopped speaking. All eyes in the clearing had fallen on her; she could feel the weight of the stares, bearing her down.

She cleared her throat before speaking.

"Wise Ones," Marissa began, "please forgive the… abruptness of our call. Were our need, and Rashemen's, not so great, we would never treat you so."

Marissa cast a glance at Najra. The witch glared from behind her mask but said nothing.

"Selov speaks the truth," she continued. "If you are angry, direct your anger toward us and the telthor of your land. It was they who sent us to you, bearing a message of warning. Please-"

"You lie," Najra shouted, interrupting the druid. "If Rashemen were truly in peril, do you not think that we would sense it? We are the defenders of this land, not some outland impostors without the sense to make their lies even remotely believable." The witch drew even with Marissa. "You are lucky that the telthor tolerate your presence in Rashemen, let alone speak with you."

The witch's anger was a palpable thing, hot and sharp edged. Marissa took a step back, despite her own mounting emotion, and struggled to regain her composure. One wrong word or heated phrase could jeopardize the future of Rashemen-not to mention doom one of the most important people in her life. She was grateful when Roberc dismounted from Cavan and walked to her side. The halfling strode slowly and purposefully to stand within arm's reach, his chain mail rattling with each step.

Najra looked askance at the warrior's approach but did not seem impressed by his show of solidarity.

If anything, it looked to Marissa as if the diminutive fighter's presence poured oil on the fire of the witch's ire. Najra drew breath to speak again, but the sound of the halfling's sword slowly sliding from its worn scabbard stilled her tongue.

"Nadir, or Nadya-or whatever your name is," Roberc began softly, in a voice that held the promise of menace, "all we have done since we have entered this blasted land is freeze and bleed. We never asked to be the bearers of apocalyptic news, and we certainly never asked to be on the ass-end of a tongue whipping that my own grandmother, dead these twenty years, could have done better."

The witch sputtered and hissed behind her mask, obviously stunned by the halfling's audacity and struggling to put words to her anger.

Roberc continued, looking out at each of the witches as he spoke.

"You all may be the most powerful of the guardians of Rashemen," Roberc said, "but you don't seem to see very well at all. We are wounded and bleeding because someone didn't want us to make it to this meeting. They sent a wraith lord and its foul servants after us in the shadow of Urlingwood, right under your noses. Why would such a thing happen if we were making this whole thing up?"

Marissa held her breath as the halfling's question hung in the air. All around her, she could sense the hum of the witches' mental communion rise to a fevered pitch. For good or for ill, Roberc had spoken the truth, she thought, and now that truth would either save or damn them all.

"You dare!" Najra shouted, finally finding her voice. "You, a stranger and a man, dare to insult the wychlaran. Sisters," she said, turning toward the assembled witches, "I demand that these outlanders be punished for their transgressions-for violating the sanctity of the Red Tree and perverting its power to summon us from our duties."

With that, she raised a pale white hand over her head and began to chant softly in the language of magic. Roberc leaped forward before Marissa could stop him, sword poised to strike at the figure. She watched the first steps of the halfling's deadly dance as if he moved in slow motion, watched the arc of the sword begin to cut downward, and watched as Selov and Borovazk inched forward, trying somehow to stop what was to come.

Too late.

Everything was too late. The witches would move against them, and even if they could survive, they would have to escape from Rashemen while they were being hunted by the wychlaran.

Taenaran would still be lost in the midst of the wraith lord's cursed touch.

For a moment, Marissa lost faith. She wondered why Rillifane would have called her to Rashemen only to have things end so poorly. Why had she come?

Then she heard a word whispered softly from across a great distance, and her heart grew strong once more. The word grew, becoming louder as it traveled, swelling across the great gap of time and space, gathering force. When it finally broke forth among them, it shattered rock and split the earth with its power, knocking everyone to the ground.

"Enough!" the voice thundered.

Marissa stumbled to her feet, clapping hands to ears in pain, as the voice echoed in the clearing and in her mind. When she had recovered, the druid looked in amazement at the shimmering form of an old woman floating above the well. Silver and golden energy coruscated around the figure, dancing and arcing in a wild circle. The others gathered around as well-all of them, including the witches, who had recovered their balance with astonishing aplomb. Collectively, they stared at the radiant presence in their midst. Squinting against the pulsating illumination emanating from the figure, it took Marissa a few moments to recognize the shimmering crone.

Imsha had come as promised.

The druid nearly cried with relief-though the telthor's first words bore little comfort.

"You fools," Imsha said. "The wolf raids the henhouse while the shepherds drink to their good fortune! How long will you sit their squabbling amongst yourselves while Rashemen crumbles around you?"

Marissa would have responded but stopped in wonder as each of the witches bowed low to the telthor-even Najra, though she seemed to struggle with it. Watching it all unfold, the druid could barely contain her emotion. Both joy and guilt warred within her-joy at the presence of Imsha and the effect that it had upon the witches-there was hope now for both Taenaran and for her mission-and guilt at how quickly she had questioned her faith in the midst of adversity.

Rillifane, forgive me, she cried silently to her god.

As one, the witches finished their obeisance and gathered together. Marissa knew that they deliberated amongst themselves in the silence of their bond, but she no longer feared. When at last one of them spoke, she was surprised to hear a voice other than Najra's.

"You rebuke us all, dear sister," the witch said.

Marissa cast a glance at the speaking othlor but could see nothing beyond the contours of her white mask, its face opened in a gentle smile.

"Well do we remember your presence among us, Imsha," the witch continued. "You were the wisest of us." The othlor spoke her words quietly, in a voice surprisingly soft and melodic.

The warm tones seemed lost on the telthor. Imsha floated above the well, her aged face still stretched in a scowl.

"I rebuke only because I must," the floating crone said, though Marissa could hear both warmth and regret in the telthor's voice. "They have all spoken the truth, Mahara," the crone continued, "though maybe not as diplomatically as some would like." At this last, she turned toward Roberc who, Marissa noted thankfully, had sheathed his sword. The halfling returned the telthor's gaze evenly, a thin smile splitting the grizzled contours of his face.