He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, conscious that she knew what had been hounding him this night.

"Marissa," he began then stopped, unable to continue.

The druid came closer, drawing her robe's cowled hood over her head as she did so. She reached out mud-covered fingers to touch his furrowed brow.

"Must you torment yourself now?" Marrisa asked. "Our journey draws to a close, and we may have need of your strength."

Taen nearly snorted.

Strength.

What strength is there in a broken blade?

"You know I cannot sleep when I am like this," he replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice-and failing.

"Then perhaps I can help…" she began.

"No, Marissa," Taen interrupted, "I would rather see the sunrise than lay ensorcelled beneath a spell. You know this too."

He winced slightly at the tone of his voice. After all of their years together, this still lay between them. The druid meant well, and he did not wish to hurt her any more, but anger, he knew from experience, rarely found its true target.

"Very well," she said from the depths of her cowl. Taen couldn't hear any blame or hurt in her calm tones-though he was sure it lay there, hidden.

She took a step back and turned as if to go.

"I wish only peace for you," she said before drifting into the shadows of the camp like a dream.

"I know," he replied to the empty air.

Murderers, he knew, rarely found peace.

Chapter 3

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

The day dawned bright and clear.

Taen rolled out from beneath his furs and squinted as the ground's crystalline snow cover caught and reflected the sunlight. He cupped a hand across his eyes and gazed out at the frozen landscape. All around them, wind-rippled drifts of snow gathered like the waves of a white ocean, trapped in a still moment of time. Ice covered the scattered pine and ash trees surrounding the camp, slowly yielding to the winter sun with chilly tears, and for the first time in nearly a tenday, he could make out the granite shoulders of the Running Rocks looming in the sky to the south. Snow covered the glacial peaks like frigid armor, running almost their entire length.

The half-elf let out a groggy curse at the bracing chill of the air, the too-bright daylight, and, most of all, the weariness that clung to his body and mind like a lodestone. Predictably, he'd tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to find much comfort in sleep's blessed oblivion. He had finally succumbed to exhaustion as the first rays of the sun bloomed pink in the morning sky, only to be awakened by Borovazk's rumbling bass voice.

"Is time for the waking, little friends!" he exclaimed. "Much ground to cover today."

Taen hated that voice-if not the man, he had to admit. The Rashemi ranger had guided them skillfully across the lands of his birth. That much the half-elf had expected. What he hadn't expected was the trust and friendship that was growing between them. As annoying as Borovazk's obvious delight in their own discomfiture was, the broad-shouldered human more than made up for it with his bravery, skill in battle, and willingness to shed his own blood in the course of protecting those who hired him. Taen knew that the others felt the same way, though he doubted they'd admit it, especially during mornings like this.

With a sigh, the half-elf began to gather up his bedroll and stow what little gear he had brought in his pack. He certainly wasn't going to give Borovazk an excuse to berate him further by being the last one ready to go.

When he had finished, Taen grabbed his pack and walked to the center of the small camp to check on the others. Roberc acknowledged his presence with a scowl and a nod of his head. The halfling stood before Cavan, adjusting the straps of the hound's makeshift saddle and drawing deeply from a long, tapered bone pipe. The pungent scent of pipeweed, carried by the crisp morning breeze, filled the half-elf's nostrils.

He looked for Marissa and found her sitting on a small outcropping of rock above the smoldering ash of their fire. The druid gazed deeply at a small yellow flower growing stubbornly in a small crack of the rock's surface. Taen didn't even bother saying good morning to the half-elf, for he knew that she could stay like that all day, contemplating but a single fiber of one of the flower's petals. Marissa had always been like that, but more so now that they had entered this wild, unforgiving land. His own preference was for more temperate surroundings, such as the lush woodlands of his…

Home?

No, certainly not that, he thought. Not anymore. Home was a fable, a myth-a story spun by silver-tongued bards for coin or hearth. He had no home, he had no place to lay his head, except on the rough stones and tree roots of exile.

Borovazk's booming voice, raised lustily in song, broke through the dark turn of Taen's thoughts. The ranger led their horses, two thick-muscled dun geldings and his own chestnut stallion, to the center of camp. The Rashemi horses moved placidly, but Taen had ridden one enough to know that considerable strength and endurance lay within them when needed. The ranger stopped singing when he caught sight of the gathered companions. His strong-jawed face, framed by a thick, short-trimmed yellow-blond beard, broke into a smile, revealing a full set of large, white teeth. Twin lengths of thickly braided blond hair ran down to the center of his back.

"Ah, good morning, little friends," he said, absently stroking the thick mane of his stallion as he did so. "Is good to see you awake and together. Did you enjoy our little breeze last night?"

Despite the misery brought on by yesterday's weather, Taen found himself laughing at the ranger's jest.

"If that's a breeze, Borovazk," Taen replied, "I'd hate to see what it's like around here when the weather turns ugly."

Borovazk returned the laugh. "In bad weather, mostly my people just get drunk on jhuild," he said, referring to the dark reddish brew that others in Faerun called firewine. Taen knew, from unfortunate experience, that jhuild could drop a berserking giant at twenty paces. "This way," he continued, "we not see how bad it really is."

The half-elf shook his head in mock disbelief-though he suspected that Borovazk spoke the truth. Despite the harsh weather they had experienced in Rashemen, all of the native Rashemi he had seen dressed as if it were merely late autumn and not the depth of winter. Even now, amidst the remains of the last few days' wintry assault, the ranger wore a simple fur vest over his chain mail, with thick leather trousers and fur boots covering the lower half of his body. His only concession to the bitter cold of the Rashemi winter was a rough-spun cloak made from the white pelt of a large bear that roamed the North Country of his land. Taen could see the wicked claws of the beast hanging from Borovazk's neck and wrists, bound with a thin leather strip.

"Come," the ranger said, all jesting absent from his voice. "Morning rides on and we will miss it if we do not hurry."

With one last pat of his stallion's crest, the Rashemi swung up onto his mount. Borovazk skillfully adjusted the scabbarded short sword and belted warhammer that were his constant companions while the horse threw its head to the side and snorted, obviously anxious to be away.

Taen grumbled with what he hoped was sufficient restraint so as not to be heard and mounted his own horse. He thought he might need to interrupt Marissa from her reverie but was pleasantly surprised when the druid sidled her own mount next to his and bid him good morning. Roberc, too, was ready, mounted on sturdy Cavan.

On Borovazk's command, the group filed out of the camp and resumed their journey. What little convocations of trees and vegetation they had seen since leaving Mulptan disappeared completely by midmorning, leaving only a wide swath of windswept snow-covered plains. The horses plodded forward, surefooted and untiring, carrying Taen and his companions through league after league of unrelenting whiteness. The half-elf would surely have fallen asleep in his saddle by midday, but the voice of their Rashemi guide cut through his fatigue and boredom. Throughout the day, it would not stop rumbling across their trail. With great vigor, Borovazk regaled them with tales of Rashemen's history-of the mysterious witches and their ages-long battle with the cursed Red Wizards of Thay; of the deeds wrought by the great heroes of the land, many somehow distantly related to the teller of those tales; and finally, of the ranger's own family, his wife and three brawny children.