"Thank you," she said in a soft voice. "It means a lot to me that you agreed to help the wychlaran."

For a moment, Taen did not reply. Being in such close proximity to the druid brought all of his emotions rushing around him like a whirlwind.

"How could I say no?" he responded. Especially, he thought, when he knew that wild hippogriffs wouldn't prevent Marissa from giving her aid to the othlor. "The people of this land have no one to turn to."

Marissa held his gaze for a few heartbeats without saying anything. "Still," she responded finally, "I am glad that you will be at my side through this."

Taen nodded dumbly, knowing that his voice would betray the raw mix of feeling swirling beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. He turned as if to continue with his preparations, but Marissa's hand held firmly to his shoulder.

"Taenaran," she whispered, "I promise you that we will talk after this is all over."

With that, the druid offered his shoulder a single squeeze then walked away, returning to her own preparation. Taen watched her graceful form glide toward the edge of the clearing.

Despite himself, he could not keep a smile from alighting upon his face.

Taen stood in a circle with his companions.

The chill afternoon breeze ran ice-tipped fingers across his skin. He shivered slightly beneath its unrelenting touch and gathered his cloak around him. The familiar weight of his armor offered some measure of comfort in the dying light of the sun, but he knew from speaking with Borovazk that the citadel to which they would be teleported sat high in the Sunrise Mountains, wrapped in winter like a king draped in royal finery.

"It is time," Mahara said, interrupting his thoughts.

He watched with keen interest as the assembled othlor gathered around them in silent convocation. First one then the rest of the masked witches raised pale hands into the air. Suddenly, the clearing fell silent-neither wind nor bird nor shifting branch broke the stillness. With his own arcane senses, Taen could feel the slow buildup of mystic forces, like the gathering of power before a storm.

"May the telthor guide your steps," Mahara said then began a complex chant.

As her voice rose and fell to the rhythmic patterns that would focus and seal the power of the witch's spell, Taen's vision began to shift and blur, as if the world itself stretched and coiled around itself. He nearly jumped as he felt a hand grip his own. By its size and calloused feel, it could only be that of Borovazk. Blindly, he reached out until he could feel Marissa's shoulder; he rested his hand heavily upon it.

The flow of the arcane energy shifted violently, and Taen knew, from his own mastery of magic, that something was wrong.

"The traitor has some sort of mystic shield repelling our spell, Mahara," Najra called out, confirming what the half-elf had already suspected.

"Whatever she has in place," Mahara shouted, "the power of the Urlingwood will not be denied!"

With that, the witch slammed both of her hands together, palm to palm. Eldritch energy roiled from her joined hands, spilling out in waves upon Taen and his waiting friends. The world lurched madly then disappeared in a single moment of violent disorientation. Taen's mind tried to rebel at the utter nothingness around him, but years of arcane study had prepared him for the sense of dislocation.

Half a heartbeat later, the world resolved into a faded tableau of gray stone-the suggestion of a wall, the hint of an uneven floor-then just as suddenly, it disappeared in another gut-wrenching twist out of reality.

This time, Taen counted the heartbeats spent suspended in nothingness. Though he knew that he remained linked to his companions, all sense of touch had disappeared. Clearly, something had gone wrong! He'd used enough teleport spells in his day to know that some outside force had forcibly changed their destination. Now he worried that they would spend the rest of their lives trapped on the astral plane.

He was just about to cast a spell of his own when the darkness shifted around him again. When the nauseating sense of disorientation abated, Taen could once more feel solid ground beneath his feet, and the touch of his companions. The darkness, however, had not parted. It covered them like an impenetrable skin.

"What in all of the Nine Hells was that?" Roberc swore.

Before Taen could answer, something skittered and hissed somewhere in the darkness beyond them.

"Borovazk not like the sound of that, little friends," the ranger said.

Taen heard the sound of the Rashemi's weapons slide from their resting places. Quickly, he spoke an arcane word into the pitch black emptiness. The world exploded into light.

And the screaming began.

The Year of the Arch

(1353 DR)

Steel rang against steel in the forest clearing. Sweat ran down Taenaran's face, stinging eyes and running in tiny rivulets down his back. The half-elf struggled to bring his sword into the third position, angled slightly above his head, when the silver-haired elf standing in the clearing's center called for the next attack. Arvaedra was a harsh swordmaster, and Taenaran knew that if he performed the maneuver even slightly off-center, the el'tael 's quick eyes would catch it, and she would pounce on him like a wyrmling on a fatted calf. All of the tael knew that the only thing quicker than Arvaedra's sword was her tongue.

A cool breeze swept through the clearing, rustling branches and the long green cloaks of the other masters watching from the shadowy edges of the clearing. The wind sent a soft shiver down Taenaran's spine. He tried to ignore it in the same way that he tried to ignore the cold, impassive gaze of the other masters, made worse by the fact that his own father watched from the shadows-critiquing, finding fault, noting and cataloging the imperfections and weakness in his execution of the forms. Later, when they returned home, Aelrindel would correct him gently.

The half-elf shook his head, banishing thoughts of the future. There was only this moment, this place in the Song, as the masters would say. If only it weren't so painful, he thought bitterly. Taenaran's wrist and shoulder burned with fatigue, and the muscles in his legs were trembling with exhaustion. He breathed deeply, trying to return to the haera, or the center-and nearly dropped the sword as his opponent's blade struck. The shock of the attack set the hilt of his sword humming; the blade turned in his hand, causing his opponent's weapon to slide with deadly speed down its steel length.

Taenaran braced himself for the stinging kiss of the blade, only to find Arvaedra's sword intervening at the last moment, flicking the oncoming blade away with a fast turn of her wrist. The half-elf let out a hiss of relief. Tael swords were not crafted razor sharp, but they still held an edge, enough to remind an errant apprentice to pay attention.

"Halt," the swordmaster shouted to the assembled tael.

Swords hissed instantly into their sheaths, as the apprentices sank to their knees, assuming the traditional sitting position, back straight, body resting on calves, and feet angled toward each other, nearly touching. She stared for a moment at Taenaran, and he nearly flinched at the swordmaster's cold glance.

"Taenaran," she said, using his name like a whip, "the rest of us were practicing the Seven Forms. Do you mind telling me what it was that you were doing?"

The half-elf sat completely still, trying to contain the feeling of shame that threatened to drown him. Though his hearing was not as sensitive as that of a full-blooded elf, still he could make out the soft, dreadful sound of snickering among the other tael. The tips of his ears flamed red.