Stars littered the blue-black sky, burning coldly as they marched along, and the moon hung above them like a crescent pendant carved from purest silver. In the distance, the witches' wood brooded in darkness, a shadowy mass of tangled branches, thick trunks, and gnarled wisdom. Even from where he walked, Taen caught the sense of menace emanating from its shadow-strewn depths. It was as if the very trees were fixing him with a penetrating gaze, judging his life against a span of years that circled back to the first flowering of the world. He felt small and insignificant beneath the weight of that vernal stare; the thought of even attempting to steal past the vigilance of the forest's edge sent a shudder through his body. No wonder the Rashemi spoke of the Urlingwood with both awe and fear.
Not for the first time, he felt his misgivings about their journey rise to the surface. Ancient pacts broken, traitors within an arcane sisterhood, and a growing darkness within Rashemen-these had been far away from his thoughts when he had first agreed to accompany Marissa on her pilgrimage. Now he was right in the middle of a war for the soul of a nation, and even though he and his companions were on the side of good, the half-elf found the prospect of meeting the leaders of the wychlaran a little daunting. Perhaps it was the chill that he hadn't been able shake since he'd entered Rashemen's borders, or the unforgiving presence of the Urlingwood itself, but Taen felt as if somehow the power of this land threatened to twist the sense of shame and failure that had defined his life, exposing his secrets the way an ancient oak's roots can twine and twist around a house wall, pulling it down over time and exposing the inside to sunlight. Over the course of the past ten years, Taen had made an uneasy truce with his past. All of that threatened to disappear. Now all he felt was a constant sense of guilt. Of course, he thought bitterly, stealing out of Urling like a thief in the night hadn't helped his mood any either.
At Selov's insistence, Taen and his companions had dined in the common room of the Green Chapel, mixing small talk in with humorous anecdotes from their travels, playing the part of gracious guests. As the evening wore on, the innkeeper had once again invited them rather publicly back to a reserved room to enjoy some of his best wine and mead. Away from prying eyes, the group had waited, with their gear already neatly packed and stowed, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Finally, after the candles had burned low and the fires of the inn were banked, Selov gave them a sign. At once, they gathered up their gear and followed the innkeeper through a secret tunnel and out into the fields to the west of Urling.
Now Taen and his companions found themselves furtively traveling in the long, bleak silence of the night. Roberc led the group, sitting astride Cavan, who, the half-elf noted, walked easily despite the weight of rider and barding. Borovazk strode alongside the mounted halfling, his deep voice muffled and oddly gentle as he whispered some passing story to his newfound companion. Taen smiled as he thought about the unlikely pair. Whether dicing, drinking, or exchanging raucous insults, the giantlike Rashemi ranger and the diminutive fighter were becoming fast friends.
Selov followed a few steps behind, his almost skeletal frame wrapped in a thick gray cloak. The former wizard had insisted on walking without aid, even when their brisk pace had sent the Rashemi into a paroxysm of wheezing. He had waved off the suggestion that they slow down, vowing that he would not delay them. So far, Taen noted, he hadn't.
Even so, Marissa kept close to the wizened innkeeper, walking alongside him and asking questions about the Urlingwood and the telthor that he knew of in the area. Taen watched the druid as she walked-seemingly carefree and easy along the twisting path-and nearly forgot to breathe. Marissa wore the moonlight like a mantle. It spilled down the length of her hair and traced the graceful outline of her body like molten silver. Everything about her caught and reflected that light; she glittered and gleamed beneath the dome of the night sky. With the Staff of the Red Tree held lightly in her right hand, casting its own pale illumination, the druid looked like nothing so much as one of the Seldarine, or an avatar of Sehanine Moonbow, gracing this plane with her presence.
He shook his head sharply, as if to shake away those fanciful thoughts. Whatever had happened to Marissa since she had come under Rashemen's spell, it was clear to Taen that she seemed more whole than she had been ever since the blightlord had destroyed her arm. That night was a terrible one-for her as well as for him. His heart wept for Marissa as she shouted and thrashed beneath the fury of the fever raging through her body. He bared his soul to her, thinking that she would never remember but wanting to offer her some comfort, some knowledge that she was not alone in the world, that he, too, had lost something so dear it was like losing a part of himself.
What had happened next was even worse-for the druid had remembered. Now that night of intimacy lay between them, a treasured memory and a goad in his side. Taen's heart had already been given-and pierced beneath a moon just like this one.
Talaedra! He nearly cried her name out loud.
Beneath the sharpness of that grief, Taen knew that he could never give himself to another, so he and Marissa had spent the years dancing endlessly between intimacy and friendship.
Until now, he thought with a terrible certainty. Now she was whole.
And-perhaps-beyond him.
He wanted to find out now, in the midst of their journey to meet the wychlaran. Such was the burden he felt that it lay like a geas on his heart, but just as he began to quicken his pace in an effort to draw near the druid, Selov called a halt.
"We are close to the well," he said after a long draught from his waterskin. "There is a deer track about half a candle's walk west of here. It cuts northeast for a ways and then opens into an abandoned trade road. If we follow the track and then walk along the road, we'll come to a large oak that has been split by lightning. The well is just a short walk beyond the oak."
The others nodded, passing around a skin of wine and some salted beef before pressing on. The stillness of the deep night held as they marched onward. Taen tried several subtle attempts to draw Marissa into a private conversation, but the druid seemed distracted, answering him with simple grunts or not at all. As they picked their way carefully through the deer track, avoiding the fallen trunks of trees and the thorns of the thick underbrush, the half-elf finally lost patience.
"Marissa," he snapped. "Are you listening to me at all?"
"Hmm… what?" the druid replied after a moment. Then, as if waking from a dream, she stopped to look back at him. "Oh, Taenaran," she said, "I'm sorry. I… I guess I am a little distracted. It's this," she said, holding out the length of the staff she received from the Red Tree. "I can feel it-the same way I could feel the presence of the Red Tree, only this time it's gentle, like a soft whisper in my mind."
Taen nodded. "I understand," he said uneasily. Though he knew that powerful magic items could sometimes manifest intelligence and an independent will, the half-elf was more than suspicious of whatever sentience lurked within the confines of that staff.
"Look," he continued, "I know we're right in the middle of something really big here, but we need to talk." He had schooled himself against her anger, and he was prepared to defend himself on any number of grounds, all eminently logical and rational.