Free Bladesinger by Keith Francis Strohm Page B

said to the young woman, “going on about her name.” Then, suddenly, she leaned close to Marissa. The druid caught the faint scent of rosemary and mint. “So,” Imsha continued, “you belong to Old Greenshanks, do you? Well, little kitten, his power is far from here.” The old woman’s eyes glowed with purplish light.
    Marissa knew that she should be afraid. Imsha was right; Rillifane’s power burned low in Rashemen. She wasn’t sure if he could protect her now. Here. In this place. Still, he had asked her to come, and she would not fail him.
    “Rillifane’s power may be far from Rashemen,” the druid responded firmly, “but there is true power in the hills and plains of this land. He asked me to come, and I did. If I may be of service to this power, then at his request I shall do so.”
    “Hmm… hmm…,” Imsha mumbled. “I see that the kitten has claws.”
    “And sight,” Tamlith added, “for she sees true.”
    “Is that so?” asked Imsha. “Then tell me, my tiger—who are we?”
    Both women stood now, forcing Marissa to gaze up at them. She tried to stand but found herself rooted in place.
    “You are telthor,” she answered, after a moment of thought, “tied to the Red Tree of Immil Vale.”
    “What else?” asked Tamlith, expectation apparent in her soft voice.
    Marissa closed her eyes to concentrate—and nearly gasped with surprise. She could still see both Imsha and Tamlith standing over her. At last, the answer came, like a fresh breeze after a winter gale.
    “You are witches,” she said finally, “and you’ve somehow transformed your essences to become linked with the Red Tree.”
    “Witches,” Imsha barked, clearly taking umbrage with the title. “Little tiger, we are othlor, the Wise Ones of the hathran who lead the wychlaran. Still,” she continued, reaching out her hand to Marissa, “you saw and spoke the truth.”
    “Which is more than some among us do,” added Tamlith.
    The druid accepted Imsha’s hand and stood up, grateful for the freedom. “I don’t…” Marissa hesitated. “I don’t understand.”
    “You will, my dear,” the old woman said, patting the druid gently on her cheek. Both of the witches were smiling now. “For there is poison at the root, and we all wither and die while it eats away at us.”
    “Enough riddles,” Tamlith said to her companion. “Though time moves differently here, there is still much for her to do.” Turning to Marissa, the young witch’s smile disappeared. “Rashemen is in grave danger,” she said simply. “One of our number has betrayed us and broken the ildva, the bond that we have forged with the vremyonni. Even now, this traitor bends her blasphemous will upon the land. She holds an Old One imprisoned and uses his very being to power her own corrupt spells.”
    “The ildva has held our land together,” continued old Imsha. “Through countless centuries the vremyonni and the wychlaran have defended Rashemen from all enemies. With the ancient bond broken, we are weakened. It has kept the peace between us and prevented either group from struggling against the other for dominion of the land. Already the vremyonni refuse counsel with the hathran, suspecting us of betrayal. They scheme now within their own dark caverns, plotting the downfall of the wychlaran. Without the ildva, I fear for the future of Rashemen.”
    Marissa shook her head in disbelief. This was almost too much for her to handle. She had come to the Red Tree hoping for—what? She didn’t even know, but finding herself in the middle of an arcane struggle between the ancient protectors of Rashemen was the farthest thing from her mind. She could almost hear Roberc swearing now, and the thought nearly brought a chuckle to her lips. Marissa clamped down on it fast. This, clearly, was not the time, but what was she to do?
    “Why don’t you just inform the other hathran of what’s happened?” Marissa asked the two witches. “Why do you even need