Roberc was right. The night remained too cold for sleeping. Yet it wasn't the harsh breath of winter that kept Taen from sleep. Were he in the jungles of Chult or the feather bed of the finest inn in all of Waterdeep, sleep would still escape him when this mood descended upon him like a dark cloud, and the ghosts of his past whispered accusations with the voice of the wind. They surrounded him, pressing in on all sides, yet these haunting recollections held more than simple weight. "Bitter are the blades of memory." He had heard the el'tael, the swordmasters of Avaelearean, say that often enough. In those days, he had never known how much they had understated the truth of it. Would that he still lived in such ignorance. He'd lived through hundreds of battles and suffered wounds too numerous to count, yet none hurt near as much as those he carried within his heart. Tonight, beneath the lidless eye of the moon, with the wind raging like a banshee through the trees and stones, these wounds ached with a fierce intensity.

Taen ran a calloused hand across the rounded expanse of his head, shaved clean except for the single braided length of blond hair that reached to the center of his back, and let out a curse as his fingers touched the ever-so-slightly pointed tip of his ear. Here was the ultimate cause of his sorrow, the seed from which the razor-sharp thorn of his memories had sprung-not what he had done, but what he was.

Half-elf.

A Tel'Quessir.

Born of two peoples and claimed by none. A failure, unable to master the arts of the laeriaen. An exile.

A murderer.

The half-elf shivered at this last thought. Carefully, he threw a few more logs onto the fire and tried to absorb as much warmth as he could from the blaze. Sparks from the burning logs flew up into the dark sky. Taen gazed into the night long after they had disappeared, alone with his thoughts.

And the wind.

The wolf watched Taen with emerald-green eyes.

It sat on its haunches beneath the rippling limbs of trees. Moonlight bathed its furred pelt, catching flashes of silver across its shoulders and neck. It lifted its elegant muzzle and sniffed the night air redolent with the scent of prey. For a moment, its sleek muscles tensed, ready to carry it forward into the hunt.

Only for a moment.

Marissa Goldenthorn, druid and servant of Rillifane Rallathil, asserted control of the wild instincts coursing through her heart. Roberc and his war-dog were patrolling the far side of the woods, and she caught the musky scent of their Rashemi guide from within the camp. That left only Taenaran.

Taen, she corrected herself. The half-elf only cursed and carried on when she used his full name. For nearly seven years they had traveled together across the length and breadth of Faerun, sometimes toward wealth and adventure, but always away from the past that rode the young half-elf like the Rashemi night hags of legend. He had shared some of the details over the course of their time together, whispered reminiscences during unguarded moments around the fire or when they were both deep in their cups. When that thrice-damned blightlord had taken her arm, Taenaran had held her in the night when the fever dreams wracked her broken body and spoke to her of his own loss.

Of Talaedra and the night that changed his life forever.

Marissa looked down at her wolf form and began to lick at the stub of her left leg. Even now, three years later, the missing limb still caused her pain. The priest had done the best he could, but the corruption of Talona's blight went beyond the power of the human, and it would not heal cleanly.

It was this loss, she supposed, that had bound her so closely to Taenaran. Both of them were incomplete, missing something essential to who they were. As she gazed upon the wounded half-elf, so obviously hounded by the wraiths of his past, the druid wanted nothing more than to cast off her form and go to him, to offer him the comfort that he had once offered to her.

Too much lay between them-history, blood, guilt.

And, Marissa thought sadly, not enough.

A rustling sound in the branches above caught the wolf's attention. Gazing up, Marissa saw a large, ghostly white raven alight on the tree. It peered down upon the wolf with an angry reddish eye before letting a harsh caw echo out into the night.

Marissa understood. The ill wind had finally passed and with it the glacial chill in the air. She barked a series of commands to the albino bird, confident that her magic would cause the raven to comprehend her wishes. With a final caw, it flew from the branch and headed toward the camp.

With the dying of the winter wind, her companions could once more enjoy a restful night's sleep. They were only a few days from the lip of Immil Vale, then a few more to the heart of their journey-the Red Tree. Rashemi tales and legends spoke of the tree, found near the heart of Immil Vale, as a source of mystic lore and spiritual consolation. For months she had felt an inner pull toward Rashemen. Troubled by these thoughts of entering this forbidding land, Marissa had gone to the Silver Grove of Haneathaer, the Great Druid, for help in discerning this call. There, in a dream filled with strange wonder, her god had spoken to her, asking that she make pilgrimage to the ice-filled land of Rashemen and offer herself to the spirits of the Red Tree. The dream had ended after that. Rillifane had given her no other explanation, and she needed none.

The druid remembered her dream as if it had happened yesterday rather than months ago. Filled with pride and love for the god who had chosen her, she had asked her companions, brooding Taenaran and dour Roberc, to journey with her. They had both said yes-each for his reasons of his own, she knew.

At first, the harsh, snow-covered land of Rashemen had daunted her, but now, after nearly a month traversing its broad back, she saw its beauty. Nature's bounty touched every part of Faerun, but here in Rashemen, the very land itself was alive and aware. Power suffused the entire landscape-from root-tip to mountaintop. The very air itself thrummed with the sacred, wild energy of creation.

Marissa nearly howled at the sheer joy of it, giving voice to the elation she felt within. Only the silent, brooding form of Taenaran held her silent. Soon she would fulfill the call of her god, then-who knew where life would take her.

With that thought, the wolf stood on her three legs and padded with the ease of long practice toward their camp.

For the first time in several days, quiet ruled the night.

Taen nearly jumped back, startled, when the silver wolf appeared before him. He would have given a shout of warning, but the creature's shape began to shift. Fur melted, blurred, and became thick black cloth; hind legs elongated, stretching as the supine form stood on two legs. For a moment, two shapes occupied the same space-wolf and woman-until the blurring stopped, leaving the woman in its place. Only her eyes remained the same, bright, crystalline green beneath a soft, smooth brow.

She smiled at him, accenting the angular planes of her high cheekbones. For a moment, Taen found it hard to catch his breath-so much did her smile remind him of another captivating woman. He watched as the druid unselfconsciously picked small twigs and burrs out of the rioting cascade of fiery red hair spilling down from her head. Though part human, Marissa favored her elf blood. Were the druid's graceful ears visible beneath the length of her lustrous hair, Taen knew that they would be almost indistinguishable from that of a full-blooded elf.

"Taen," she said to him in a rich, warm voice, "the hag-wind has ended. Go and find some rest with what is left of the night."