"Mahara," Najra hissed, "these outsiders must be made to pay for their transgression. Whether they come at Imsha's request or not, they have violated our laws. They must receive punishment."

Marissa could sense that several of the other witches agreed with Najra's sentiment but was reassured at the telthor's response.

"Be silent, Najra," the crone said harshly. "Even as an ethran, you always hated others telling you what to do-and nothing has changed. The fact that you were summoned by this woman's power," she said, pointing to Marissa, "is the sole reason for your anger. There will be no punishment. These travelers are under my protection, I will deal personally with anyone who harms them."

Imsha's gaze passed over the assembled group like a scythe. Marissa blanched as the crone's fierce eyes met her own. She was glad that the telthor saw her as an ally and not an enemy, for her eyes held the promise of death within their gleaming depths.

Mahara turned at last to Marissa and her companions.

"Forgive us our rudeness," the othlor said. "We do not often receive strangers in our midst, let alone into our most private of councils. The wisdom and strength of the wychlaran have in the past always proved sufficient to meet the dangers threatening Rashemen. We have become too sure of ourselves, like kings locked in our strongholds, secure in our power while the kingdom burns around us."

The witch stepped forward, bringing both of her hands together and placing them before her heart.

"Be welcome at this council, strangers." Mahara bowed low. "I greet you in the name of the wychlaran, the ancient defenders of our land."

Speechless, Marissa returned the bow, noting with relief that the others did the same. When she had finished, Rusella cawed loudly from a tree at the edge of the clearing. With three swift beats of her wings, the raven flew like an arrow to the druid, landing softly and gracefully upon the tip of the Staff of the Red Tree.

Mahara chuckled from behind her mask.

"We often say that 'one can know the heart of a person by the mettle of those she travels with.' It seems you have a fine heart, indeed." Mahara paused for a moment, surveying the group. "Come," the witch said. "Your comrades have need of some rest and healing." She eyed the still-shimmering telthor. "We will listen to what you have to say."

As the othlor converged upon her friends, Marissa cast one last glance at Imsha before she turned her attention to Taenaran. The telthor's eyes gazed upon her with tenderness.

You would have made a fine hathran, the sound of Imsha's voice broke into her thoughts. Startled, she stared back at the wizened figure. Imsha raised a hand in farewell as she faded slowly into the night. There was a sense of permanence in the telthor's fading, and a wave of sadness passed through the druid as she realized that the ancient spirit had depleted her power by appearing to the assembled othlor. Tears ran down her cheeks as she heard the telthor's final words.

Perhaps, the voice came again, you still will.

Darkness.

Everything was darkness-wrapped in shadow and emptiness and pain.

He breathed it in, absorbed it until the shadow became a part of him-or he became a part of the shadow. It whispered to him softly, as a lover would. A shudder ran through him at its voice, part delight and part terror. He wanted to run but couldn't. He was empty, so empty that he had forgotten what it was like to be filled with laughter, love, and life-to be whole.

There was no wholeness where he lay, only hunger and desire, a need so vast that it gnawed him from within.

He was lost within shadow, until everything around him erupted into light. He drew back, cowering and fearful at the sudden brightness of it all, at the harsh touch of its hot fingers. But there was something about that light from which he could not hide. He tried to deny it, to push it away, to return to the cool darkness that whispered to him even now:

Careful, it said. The light burns-forever.

Light also called to him, called his name, and called him out of the darkness that lay around him like a shroud. Taen felt his body rise through that darkness, ascending. Night fell away and became dawn. Gray fog and mist burned away beneath implacable light.

At last, he opened his eyes, blinking hard in the morning sunlight. Marissa knelt over him, cupping his hand in hers. Tears blurred his vision, but Taen thought that he could see a masked figure looming over the druid.

"Welcome back," Marissa said and gave him a gentle smile.

Taen heard the effort it took her to constrain the flood of emotion behind those simple words and returned her smile.

"Remind me," Taen said in a voice that shook with fatigue, "not to accept your next invitation to go on a pilgrimage."

Her laughter followed him as he fell into the restful arms of sleep.

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Taen gazed into the well.

A stark face, fatigue etched in every curve and angle, stared back from the surface of its dark waters. Though he and his companions had only spent a few tendays traveling through Rashemen, the half-elf felt as though it had been several lifetimes since he first crossed the borders of this unforgiving land. It wasn't just the life-draining touch of the wraith lord, either-though he still felt the undead creature's hand reaching into him despite the powerful restorative magic of the wychlaran. Something deeper wore at him, weighing down his heart.

A swift slap of his hand knocked several pebbles that had gathered near the lip of the well into the water. His reflection distorted and eventually disappeared, pulled apart by the swirling ripples caused by the fallen debris. That was exactly how he felt-misshapen, pulled apart by conflicting emotions. Unlike the water, which had already started to settle, he doubted that his heart would do likewise. A frisson of fear ran down his spine at the thought that his life would be forever caught between the swirling chaos of emotions stirred up by both the wilds of Rashemen and the even wilder druid who had dragged him into its borders.

Disgusted with the maudlin direction of his thoughts, Taen gazed out at the clearing, determined to find himself anywhere else than where he was now. Borovazk and Selov sat beneath a growth of thin-limbed trees, drinking slowly from leather skins and conversing in their native tongue. The half-elf had heard about the firestorm that had erupted when they met up with the wychlaran. He knew it must have been tough for the fierce Rashemi to stand on divided ground, his loyalties torn between unwavering obedience to the will of the othlor and the strength of his newfound bond with Taen and his companions. Even from this distance, the half-elf could see that the normally boisterous ranger remained uncomfortable beneath the masked gaze of the wychlaran.

The sound of a blade running over a whetstone caught Taen's attention. He turned to see Roberc carefully sharpening the edge of his second sword. The blade gleamed in the light of the late-morning sun. Cavan rested easily by the halfling's side, staring out beyond the clearing, ears twitching at sounds only he could hear. After Taen had awoken from his sleep, Roberc had described their initial encounter with the othlor, as well as the details of their continued conversation. Imsha had apparently made a lasting impression on the witches, for they had listened intently to the news of a traitor in their midst, asking pointed questions when Marissa had finished recounting her message to them. When they had finished, the witches withdrew from the clearing, leaving the druid free to check in on Taen.