The Edge of Chaos (22 page)

“Sister Slanya,” came a familiar voice. “So glad to have found you.”

“What do you want, Beaugrat?” Slanya said. Duvan heard the warning in her voice, but the whole exchange seemed to be coming from a great distance away.

“We want to help you back to your monastery. The Order of Blue Fire has reached an agreement with Brother Gregor, and we have guaranteed your safe return.”

“What about Duvan?”

Her concern brought a smile to Duvan’s lips. He concentrated on the sun warming his skin, on the feel of lumpy earth and grass against his back. His leg throbbed, and he knew he’d lost a lot of blood, but he needed to pull himself together.

“Duvan will be taken care of as well,” Beaugrat said.

Duvan checked himself for daggers. He catalogued two on his chest and one in the scabbard strapped to his right thigh. He took a breath and waited. There would be an opportunity, perhaps, for him to use the daggers.

He opened his eyes to assess the situation. Beaugrat towered over a brave, but obviously weakened, Slanya in her torn and dirt-encrusted leathers. She stood leaning to the left as though not Quite sure of the ground.

In the blurry background, Duvan could make out four others on horseback, but despite the effort he wasn’t able to identify their strengths and weaknesses. He smelled horses and something else he couldn’t identify. Like burning metal. Something was wrong with his mind.

Beaugrat said, “The Order will guarantee he makes a full recovery.”

“I’m certain you will,” Slanya said. “How about this for a deal: You give us a ride back to the monastery where we can heal up. After that you can talk to Duvan as much as you’d like, as long as it’s all right with him.”

Beaugrat said, “Let’s see … No!”

Duvan heard the sound of swords being drawn, metal on leather, and the cocking of a crossbow. Slanya said, “You don’t want to fight me. I’ve had a pretty bad day, and I’m not in the mood to let you live.”

Beaugrat laughed. “Well, it’s true that I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “But we outnumber you, and you’re both sick or injured. You have surprised me in the past, which is why I’m not taking chances this time. Cedril, now.”

Duvan heard the crossbow spring, and the quarrel made an unusually faint sound as it hit something solid. His mind imagined a lightweight bolt, perhaps hollow. From Slanya’s gasp, he presumed it had hit her. There was movement around him as Slanya attacked. Duvan grabbed for his dagger, but his hands never closed around the hilt.

“Don’t worry, the poison isn’t deadly. It will only put you to sleep for a short time.”

“How kind of you.” Slanya’s sarcasm brought a wry smile to Duvan’s lips. But then her words slowed and stopped. Duvan heard her body collapse to the ground next to him.

“What about him?” The voice floated on the air, but he couldn’t tell who was speaking. “He doesn’t look so well.”

“He looks dead,” Beaugrat said. “Like we’re going to be if that CoDDer Guard contingent catches us out here.”

Unconsciousness inked over Duvan’s vision before he caught the answer to the question. And then he was falling into the pit of night that yawned beneath him.

Was this what death was like?

Gregor stood on the balcony and shaded his eyes to look across the valley and south along the dirty road coming over the dull green hills. The sun burned overhead, its light fading and leaving the sky a bruised color in the distance where the Plaguewrought Land changed all the rules. The odor of charred flesh drifted over from the funeral pyre on the ground below. Gray smoke was all that was left of the afternoon’s dead.

With luck, Slanya would return soon with the plaguegrass, and the funeral pyre could be extinguished. The elixir would stop the procession of dead and dying.

“Come home, young one,” Gregor whispered to her. “Come home safe.”

IW,nllŤ oAť.Ql~-l–1–-*- ”
––––’

Gregor had cared for her as if she were his own child. He had been the one to take her from the orphanage. He had been the one to choose her—the neglected and abused girl. The sole survivor of a tragic fire.

It was the policy of the temple complex to take in children who could benefit from rigorous training, meditation, and adherence to a life of the religious orders. Ideal children showed great internal fortitude and strength of will. They demonstrated passion and the potential for great power. But above all Gregor chose young children who would feel enormous gratitude and obligation.

There had been something about Slanya, a fire inside her, a thirst for knowledge. He saw himself in her, or so he thought at the time. He saw a defiance burning deep in her soul that appealed to Gregor and made them the same in their passionate pursuit to impact the universe.

The young Slanya had needed so much more than the orphanage could ever offer. But Gregor knew that if she was able to maintain her studies, she would be eternally grateful for the opportunity that he’d given her.

Gregor had been a young monk of about twenty when he’d taken her in—young and idealistic and brave. He had fallen smitten with the angel with the smudgy face and dirty, blonde hair. So cordial and proper on the outside, little Slanya’s manners were belied by mischievous eyes and sly glances.

Standing on the monastery balcony, gazing across the field for sign of her return, Gregor smiled. Young Slanya had taken to the monastery life with difficulty. Originally he’d imagined training her to be his assistant, to embrace the life of a monk of Oghma, but the discipline proved too much for her wayward mind. After she’d run away the third time, only to return a few days later, Gregor gave her over to Kaylinn.

Kelemvor had room for her, and the orphaned young

care of the dead and dying with unusual focus, and Gregor’s influence over her faded somewhat after that. He still cared for her, still checked in on her, but his child of choice had moved on for the most part.

Gregor sighed. Such eventualities always came with the passage of time, he supposed.

Scanning the horizon, he caught sight of horses as they crested a hill to the southeast. And after a brief wait, he could tell that they were the team Vraith had sent out. Beaugrat and his companions.

Gregor strained to see if there were other riders with them, but they dipped into the shadow of another hill before he could discern. When they emerged into the light, however, he did see that one of the horses carried two people, and another horse dragged a makeshift wooden travois upon which someone had been strapped.

Excellent! Gregor thought. Now to see if they’ve got the plaguegrass with them!

The recent meeting with Tyrangal weighed on him. He didn’t want her as an enemy, but he wasn’t convinced that she was right about Vraith and the ultimate intentions of the Order. His vision was so strong, and it had come to him again later that night. The vision showed him hope and a future to strive for—a Faerun where all the pockets of spellplague were stable and mapped. Ordered. Contained.

It was worth the risk to let Vraith continue with the ritual. Gregor would reevaluate after tomorrow’s festival. And in the meantime, he would have to watch out for Tyrangal; he did not really know the extent of her power. He didn’t doubt that she could be a formidable adversary, but as yet she had not made a move against him. Wait and see, that was his plan. Be ready and prepared for whatever might come.

A few minutes later, Gregor descended to greet the travelers. In the lead, Beaugrat drew reins and slid from his

rogue, and what looked like a pair of human wizards. Quite the party to capture one thief.

Slanya slid woozily from her saddle. Her puffy, red face was burned, though she did not seem to notice. She came to him. “Brother Gregor, you must—” She doubled over and heaved up blood-streaked bile.

“Blessed gods!” High Priestess Kaylinn stood in the doorway to the courtyard, flanked by two of her clerics. She came up next to Gregor. “You are ill, Sister,” she said to Slanya. “We must get you to the infirmary.” Kaylinn nodded to one of the clerics, Edwaif, who stepped up to support Slanya’s weight.

Slanya tried to resist, but Gregor could sense that she was weak. “Duvan—?” she began.

“Duvan will be taken care of,” he said. “Did you find the plaguegrass?”

Slanya nodded. “In the bag.”

Beaugrat handed down the small leather pack that Slanya had carried with her. Gregor opened it and found the bag of holding inside. Loosening the braided silk cord, Gregor looked inside.

The odor of fresh cut grass, humus, and dirt lingered in the air with an undercurrent of sour oranges. Reaching in, Gregor grabbed a fist full of the wet plants. Such a quantity would not only allow him to inoculate all the pilgrims at the festival, but supply him for many years to come. Slanya had performed exceedingly well.

“Not that it matters now,” Slanya said. “The elixir does not work.”

Gregor stepped back as if he’d been slapped. How could she lie thus? The data clearly showed that it did work. “Hush, child,” he said, keeping his tone positive. “You are delirious.”

“I still have my wits,” Slanya said. “The elixir may have helped some, but it did not provide adequate protection.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you, Sister?”

“I’m alive because Duvan saved me. With just the elixir I was deathly ill. It does not work!”

“Nonsense! I never promised that you wouldn’t get sick, but clearly it did save you from dying. Argue as much as you like, but you’re living proof that it works, and soon all these pilgrims will be like you.” Gregor’s sweeping gesture indicated the entire field of pilgrims.

Beaugrat turned his horse. “We will be going now,” he said. “You have what we agreed on?”

Gregor nodded. He was sorry to give Duvan up, but the man was not his concern. His delivery to Vraith was a small price to pay for the salvation of thousands upon thousands of pilgrims.

“Wait!” Slanya tried to turn, but she was weak. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed into Edwaif s supporting grip. “Where are you taking him?” she asked.

Beaugrat ignored her and led his small party away toward Ormpetarr with an unconscious Duvan bound to the travois behind the dwarf cleric.

Gregor looked at Kaylinn. “Shouldn’t she be taken to the infirmary?”

“What are they doing with Duvan?” Slanya protested. She tried to stand, but Edwaif refused to let go. “Gregor?” She coughed. “You said he would be taken care of.”

Gregor sighed. “An agreement had to be made, child,” he said.

“But what are they going to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” Gregor said honestly. “I’m sure they will heal his wounds.” But while he didn’t really know exactly what Vraith had in mind for Duvan, Gregor could hazard a guess.

“Their cleric already mended his leg Slanya said. “The better for the Order to-experiment on him, isn’t that it?”

Gregor startled. Slanya held a new bitterness and cynicism in her tone and demeanor. This was not the

same Slanya who had left the monastery two days ago. He would have to be careful with her, but that did not mean he would be dishonest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hate to be a party to such suffering. You must believe me that your efforts—and his sacrifice— will mean a great many pilgrims will be safe.”

Slanya glared up at Gregor. “No, they won’t,” she said. “And now, you have given Duvan to the Order without a fight.”

“It was the right decision. I have you and the plaguegrass. If I had made no deal, the Order would have those in addition to Duvan.”

“But they’re going kill him.”

“No,” Gregor said. “They merely want to subject him to various magics to see how strong his resistance really is.” “Torture him, you mean?”

“I advise you not to let yourself be limited by semantics,” he said. “This is for the good of us all.”

“Enough,” Kaylinn said. “We will discuss your actions later, Brother Gregor. Slanya, we’ll speak as well, but you need to rest. Now.”

Slanya’s whole body seemed to sag from exhaustion. “All right,” she said to Kaylinn. “Thank you, but I do not need to rest.”

Kaylinn said, “You know you do. Let wisdom guide you. Choose to take action when you can be effective. You must gather your strength.”

Slanya glared at Gregor. “If harm comes to Duvan, I will not forgive you,” she said.

“I am sorry, my child,” Gregor said. “But I had no choice.”

Besides, Gregor thought, I warned Tyrangal about Vraith’s plans for Duvan. Gregor was certain that he’d gone above and beyond any measure of the call of duty. He owed Duvan nothing, and the rogue was no longer his problem.

And as Kaylinn and Edwaif led Slanya away to the infirmary, Gregor turned his attention to the plaguegrass and the elixir. He needed to get to his lab and get started; the elixir would take hours to brew, and the festival was tonight!

****** *** *** ***

Rhiazzshar’s sly, angled face glowed with ecstasy above Duvan as she moved her hips against him. Her amber eyes stared down into his. Her mahogany hair fell around his face, smelling of freshly crushed pine needles. “I love you, Duvan,” she mouthed. “I love you.”

I love you … That persistent honeyed lie hung in the air.

Then it was gone, snatched away by the howling, swirling maelstrom. He huddled in his cage, cold and exposed, his knees pulled into a tight ball as purple threads of lightning struck around him. Rhiazzshar’s image dissipated like a betraying phantom in the storm, leaving him alone at the mercy of the Plaguewrought Land.

Just before she disappeared, her face above him changed. Her hair was replaced by a head, shaved except for a blonde sidelock. Slanya’s serious expression admonished him. “You should’ve seen this coming,” she said, her voice hollow and ghostly.

Duvan came awake to voices above and around him. He kept his eyes closed and tried to get a picture of his predicament before revealing that he was awake. He lay flat on his back, and his skin and hair felt as though they had been washed.

The smell of peppermint soap wafted from his body, mingling with the tallow and tar smells of candles and torches. That meant that it was either nighttime or this room was underground. The surface beneath him was hard like wood or stone.