Bladesinger

"You want to know what I believe in?" Roberc asked, grabbing Taen's hand and stopping on the trail. "I believe in my sword. I believe in courage. I believe that a man's life is a candle held out in defiance of the darkness, and it burns, as all things burn, for as long as there is wax, wick, and hope. I believe that in the end, darkness comes for us all-even the gods.

"Life," Roberc whispered, "is in the burning. That's what I believe."

Taen stared at his companion, held still as much by the passion in his voice as by the fierce grip on his arm. What of friendship? He would have asked this of the halfling, but just then Borovazk called for a halt, and Roberc released his grip and went forward to help set up their camp.

Chapter 7

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Marissa dismounted and knelt before the stream.

Within the sound of its burbling water she heard the voice of the spirit, the telthor as Borovazk had called it, speak to her heart. She was aware of the others gathered around her, watching and waiting from tall seats astride their tired mounts. The druid reached to her belt and drew forth her waterskin. Gently, whispering words of thanks and gratitude, she poured the last remaining drops of water from the container, mingling the fresh snow melt from her earlier travels with the clear, sweet runoff from the stream. Deep within, she felt the telthor's approval and found herself smiling as she refilled her skin.

Water spun and rose into the air like a fu

The spirit's presence departed.

Marissa remained on her knees, stu

When the Circle had come for her, Marissa had been ready. Decades she had spent as an Initiate, wandering the rugged land of Cormyr, from the forbidding peaks of the Storm Horn Mountains to the stagnant heart of the Vast Swamp, watching and learning, touching and being touched by the wisdom of soil and seed, root and stone.

She would trade it all, she knew, for a few months more in this strange northern land.

"Come, little witch," Borovazk's rumbled. His touch, however, fell light upon her shoulder. Marissa looked up into the ranger's face, lined with the years and harsh weather. There was something there, a softness that she had never seen before, a chink in the armor of his boisterous good humor.

Hesitancy, she thought. Or fear.

"Is time to be on our way," he continued.

Marissa nodded and stood. She was conscious now of the others. Roberc sat easily on Cavan and raised an enigmatic eyebrow as he puffed away on his pipe, while Taen tightened and retightened the straps on his saddle. Within moments, she sat astride her own horse and waited for Borovazk to lead them forward. The change in the ranger's demeanor didn't trouble her nearly as much as the half-elf's continued withdrawal. Ever since their brief exchange during the night of the hag-wind, he'd seemed sullen and quiet-more so than usual. She had thought he'd worked past it, just for a moment, right before their battle with the trolls. However, Taen had said almost nothing to her since the aftermath of that combat. He'd even engaged the normally surly Roberc in conversation but had found little to say to her except some softly spoken morning pleasantries.

Marissa wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but she knew it would have to stop. When Borovazk started forward, she kicked her dun gelding forward, moving next to Taen's own mount.

"What is it, Marissa?" he asked after she had stared at him for a few moments without saying anything.

"Ah," she responded, trying to keep her tone light, "I see you still have a voice. I was wondering if maybe the ice trolls had frozen it solid within your throat."

The druid watched his face change, as if he'd swallowed something bitter.

"No," Taen said after another moment of silence, "it's just-"

"Just what?" she interrupted. The spring wind had picked up, blowing several strands of Marissa's red hair across her face. She brushed them back irritably. "You've barely said anything to me since we left Mulptan," she continued, "and what you have said has been ruder than a pig farmer during the slaughter." This last she had spoken in Elvish, something that she knew would make the half-elf even more uncomfortable.

With the part of her mind that wasn't ru

"Marissa," Taen began, "I'm… I am sorry. You know that. I've been feeling very strange ever since we crossed into Rashemen. It's as if everything seems somehow more real here. My past. My failure…" He stopped speaking.

Marissa reached out across the short distance between them and grabbed his hand. "Taen," Marrisa said softly, "you can't deny your past, or run from it, but you can be so busy trying that you end up denying your present. We are here, in Rashemen, for a purpose. Don't ignore that or the person that you are. Otherwise, you'll never become the person that you were meant to be."

Taen smiled, giving her hand a squeeze as he did so. "You sound like-" He hesitated.

"Her?" Marissa asked.

The half-elf nodded.

"She sounds like a very wise woman, Taenaran," Marissa said.

She released the half-elf's hand and kicked her horse into a trot. Let him sulk now, she thought. At least he knew that he didn't have to do so completely alone.

Now that she had spoken with Taen, her mind and heart felt free of the burden she had been carrying. By the time Borovazk called their halt, Marissa could think only of their destination-the Red Tree and whatever mysteries she would encounter beneath its branches.

The Red Tree stood like an ancient giant trapped between elemental forces. Its gnarled roots reached deep into the bones of the earth, seeking the marrow-wisdom of stone, while thick-boled limbs stretched toward the freedom of air, wind, and sky. Broad, ovate leaves, some of them dappled and covered with late-autumn red and gold, waved softly in the gentle evening wind. Light from the setting sun kissed the very tips of these leaves, as a noble might kiss the elegant fingers of a courtesan; they flickered and flamed beneath the dying light of the sun.