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.”
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 herthe 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 inyoung 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 fora 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 effortsand 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.
Where’s Slanya? he wondered. What happened to her? His dream flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d handed him over to the Order.
Nosuspecting Slanya of betrayal was his own paranoia at work. Slanya was nothing like Rhiazzshar. Still, the elf s betrayal made him question everyone’s loyalty. Perhaps it always would.
His leg seemed whole again, although without inspecting it visually and testing it out, he could not know for sure. He could feel a breeze on his toes and legs, which meant he no longer wore his leathers. Instead, a lightweight fabric covered his naked body.
In fact, he felt better than he had in monthsclean and shaved, not hungry, not tired, and no muscle aches. Whatever powerful magic they’d used to heal him, it had worked brilliantly. His skin tingled slightly, but otherwise he felt perfect.
Well, except for the slight itch in his mind that he couldn’t quite figure out. Every time he tried to focus on it and pin down what it reminded him of, the niggling irritation slipped away, defying recognition.
He’d felt this particular sensation before. Someone was scrying him, eavesdropping on what was happening to him.
“He is awake.” The voice was low and scratchy, but melodic. The speaker was female and standing about three paces off to Duvan’s left. The accent was faint, but decidedly northern, perhaps from Waterdeep or Neverwinter.
Duvan opened his eyes to a torch-lit room with an arched stone ceiling, the amber-colored bricks streaked with soot stains. He immediately counted four people in the room, although there could be more behind him.
The woman who had spoken was an elf, slight of build, and she had short-cropped blonde hair. Duvan guessed she was in charge. Standing closer to him, just to his right, was a dark-skinned human man in white clerical robes wearing a pendant that bore the symbol of the Order: a stylized, flaming, blue eyeball. The man’s milky cataracts gave him a reptilian look.
No sign of Slanya. Hopefully, she was spared this indignity. I don’t really suspect her of betraying me, do I?
Behind the cleric stood Beaugrat, his plate mail polished to a silver shine. The big man’s eyes were on the blonde elf. And behind Beaugrat, by the archway that led to the stairs, stood a single guarda spellcaster by the looks of her loose-fitting silk clothing. This guard woman was genasi, her skin the color of the ocean, and she had a spellscar that manifested as flowing tributaries across the hairless, aqua skin of her skull, just above her pointed ears. Duvan could not tell by a quick glance what sort of spellcaster she was, but she would no doubt be powerful.
The blonde elf spoke, her voice like silk-covered glass shards, all smooth but with a sharpness underneath. “It is good to see you are whole and alert, Duvan. I am Commander Accordant Vraith.”
Duvan realized abruptly that his hands and limbs were not bound, but even so he could barely move them.
“You are our guest here,” Vraith continued, “until we decide to let you go. And I assure you that your mundane escape tricks will not work.”
“You have an interesting definition of guest” Duvan said.
“You should see how we treat intruders,” Beaugrat said with a laugh.
“Enough!” Vraith’s eyes fluttered as though she wasn’t quite in control of herself. “We are going to conduct some tests, Duvan. These tests may pose significant danger to your body and mind, but they are necessary. And we have our best healer here to ensure that you will be able to endure them indefinitely.”
“You know,” Duvan said, “while that sounds incredibly inviting, I think I’ll have to pass this time. I really do have someplace else to be.”
Beaugrat gave a chuckle at that.
Vraith, however, failed to see the humor. “Let’s begin,” she said.
Beaugrat grew serious then pressed his wrists together, palms facing Duvan. Gauzy blue flames ignited from the big warrior’s shoulder spellscar and sheathed his arm and hands.
Duvan took a slow breath. Hadn’t he been here before? This was a waste of time.
Beaugrat concentrated and focused. The translucent energy gathered into a ball of twisting folds near the big man’s hands, then shot forth like a spray, directly at Duvan.
Duvan watched as the flames dissipated before they hit him. He didn’t want to flaunt his ability, but other than the challenge of escaping this place, which seemed highly unlikely without help, he was bored.
Gasps and whispers came from onlookers behind Duvan. He could not turn to look, but he heard two more people in the room.
“This was as we expected,” came Vraith’s voice. “Let’s try a stronger dose.”
Beaugrat nodded then took a deep breath. He gathered a larger ball of gauzy flames and sent them lashing out at Duvan again. The light flashed searing white this time, casting the room in sharp shadows.
The familiar melting gut feeling triggered inside Duvan’s abdomen. And again, the wild magic weakened and faded before it could touch him. The coherent burst of white disintegrated into an ineffectual mist when it neared Duvan, then vanished completely, dissipating into nothingness.
More murmurs and gasps from the gallery.
“You know, I could save you some time,” Duvan said. “I have been thoroughly experimented on already.”
“Hold off for a moment, Beaugrat,” Vraith said. After a relieved nod from the plate-clad warrior, she stepped slowly up to Duvan. Her blonde eyebrows narrowed as she looked down on him. “When was that?” she asked.
“A few years ago.” Duvan’s mind flashed on his tenure in the Wildhome cage, huddled against the elements inside the border of the Plaguewrought Land, miserable and waiting for Rhiazzshar to come take him out.
“What can you tell us?” Vraith asked.
“I can tell you the extent of my ability,” Duvan said. “I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”
“Why would I trust you?” Vraith said. “You work for Tyrangal, and she has been less than cooperative.”
“I am a man of my word.”
The faintest of smiles tugged at Vraith’s thin red lips. “Oh, perhaps you are,” she said. “But then again, if you weren’t, you’d say the same thing.”
“True,” Duvan admitted.
“We both know how this is going to go. You are not in a position to negotiate at the moment.” Vraith’s hint of a smile faded completely, and she retreated to stand back out of the way.
“I could agree to stay far away from your operations,” Duvan offered. “I could agree to help”
“Beaugrat,” Vraith said, ignoring Duvan. “Resume the testing. More power this time.”
Lashing blue-white fire struck out at him again. Then once more. Over and over, with increased intensity, each successive attack. Each time, he felt no hint of an effect. Nothing.
Finally, Beaugrat collapsed to his knees with exertion. “That’s all I can do.”
“It’s enough,” Vraith said. “He is immune to the Blue Fire.”
Duvan sighed. “I could have told you that and saved poor Beaugrat some embarrassment.”
Ignoring Duvan, Vraith said, “Let the next stage of tests begin. Guraru, you’re up.”
A dark figure stepped out from behind hima dwarf with a brilliant red beard intricately plaited down his portly front. The dwarf nodded, the dry brown skin of his balding head stretched over his skull like aging parchment. “Let’s try some heat,” he said. The dwarf muttered an incantation so softly that Duvan could not hear the words, while at the same time his hands traced the lines of an invisible glyph in the air.
Suddenly Duvan was on fire, his skin blistering and blackening from the heat. Agony took hold of him, his whole being burned. Duvan clenched his jaw, trying to resist the urge to scream. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. But he felt like he was being drowned in a vat of boiling oil. His skin singed and blackened. His eyeballs seemed to melt in his head.
He gave in. He let out a guttural scream that was at least as much anger as it was pain. This dwarf must be stopped. Duvan would happily kill him to make the pain go away. Duvan would kill them all. He screamed and screamed, and he wished he could pass out from the pain.
“Heal him.”
Duvan breathed a sigh of relief as the searing diminished to an afterimage of the burning agony. Then he was whole and sound again. But while the reprieve from the pain was a welcome numbness, his mind flinched from the residual memory of the torment.
“Again,” came Vraith’s voice. “I want exact measures of his tolerances.”
Duvan started to speak. He could tell them. There was no reason to keep testing him. He had no resistance. Fire and ice and dread and mind magic all worked on him. But he never got the chance to speak before the fire engulfed him a second time.
The first attack was a mere hint of the crisp, soul-searing agony that consumed him the second time. The fire erupted everywhere at once: inside his chest, all over his skin, under his fingernails. His hair burned. His skin blistered and blackened. And all of it happened in the briefest flare of the sun.
The world went dark around him, and Duvan found himself fluttering like silk in a gray wind. All around him was a flat, dark plane, only discernible in shades of gray. He could not move of his own accord, could not step through onto the plane; his presence here was insubstantial.
Against the backdrop of gray, Duvan flashed on Talfani’s frail and emaciated body as he held her in those last moments. He remembered curling around her, holding her, and stroking her hair gently so it would not fall out in chunks.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated to her over and over, hoping that she would hear him. Hoping that she would forgive him.
Talfani never spoke a word during the days between getting sick and when she finally gave in and stopped breathing. The damage from the plaguestorm had taken away her voice so that she could just stare at him with huge, pleading eyes and try to signal that she couldn’t eat or drink.
She just wanted him to hold her, to stay with her, like he should’ve done the entire time. If he had stayed with her, she wouldn’t have gotten sick. She wouldn’t have withered, her once vibrant soul wasted away and dried up.
Lying on her bed, cradling her frail figure, young Duvan cried as he felt her breath rattle to a halt. He cried as she slowly grew cold in his arms. Her spirit had left; the twin to his soul, gone. Where she had gone, he did not know.
Perhaps he could follow her.
But young Duvan lacked the will to do anything active to take his own life. He merely lay with Talfani’s spiritless corpse slowly souring next to him. He blocked out the devastation of his village outside. He cried and cried that he had let this happen to her. He didn’t deserve to live when she was gone. He didn’t want to live if that meant being alone.
And Duvan might have died there too. Starvation or pestilence may have eventually taken him if the Wildhome elves hadn’t come through the village.
“He’s coming around.” The voice was deep and male.
“Was he dead, Renfod?” Vraith asked.
“Nearly, but not quite,” said the clipped voice. “I have healed him, but you might want to be more careful.”
“I’ll determine that.”
“Of course, Commander.”
The fluttering gray gave way to dim torchlight as Duvan opened his eyes. Milky, cataract-clouded eyes stared down at him, very close, seeming to look through and beyond Duvan at that same time. After a moment, the man blinked and stood up, retreating slightly.
Renfod, Duvan guessed, the cleric who so graciously brought him back to endure more torture. Renfod’s thin, brown face displayed dour concern. He did not seem to be enjoying this part of his job one bit.
Next to the dark cleric, Beaugrat’s wide, boyish face grinned down at him. He seemed to be relishing Duvan’s torture. Duyan silently vowed to kill the big fighter, if he ever made it through this.
“Renfod, step back if he is healed,” Vraith said. “Let’s continue. Guraru?”
Renfod retreated to stand next to Vraith. Into Duvan’s field of vision stepped the red-bearded dwarf again. Oh, this is going to hurt, Duvan thought.
Abruptly, an icy dread crystallized in his chest. The dread spread through Duvan, freezing him to his very core. The chill seized the marrow of his arms and legs. He struggled to breathe against the chill.
One breath, two breaths.
The third breath didn’t come, and he felt the sharp tingle of frostbite in his fingers and toes. His skin grew numb, and the numbness spread behind advancing waves of needles, to his heart.’
Duvan welcomed the numbness. He felt no pain by the end. And he welcomed the approaching death. He could just barely see the gray plane again as he wavered between worlds like a fluttering ghost.
Finally, he might be able to rest.
Slanya’s head pounded with pain, sharp and pervasive. But even so she felt more integrated with her body, more whole. Her vision was no longer fragmented and split into disparate shards. In the quiet of her chambers-, she was acutely aware of the persistent ringing in her ears, but she was confident that it was fading slowly. Her hearing was otherwise keen.
Almost back to normal.
Slanya’s throat was thick with the taste of medicine. She scraped the top of her tongue with her teeth to try to get rid of the bitter anise flavor. Sitting on her straw cot, in the quiet of her small chamber, she took slow, deep breaths and tried to clear her mind.
The yellow light of the late-afternoon sun streamed through the small window opening and warmed her face. Some of the clerics and monks sang evening prayers in the chapel, and she smelled the smoke from the funeral pyre, but it was faint.
In the back of her mind, she knew that further challenges lay in her pathdangerous and full of perilbut for this moment in time, she sought to clear her mind and body. To bring calm and unification, and with that, health and renewed strength, so that she could meet those challenges.
After a few moments of meditation, there was a soft knock on the door, after which it cracked open admitting High Priestess Kaylinn. She wore her daily cleric’s robes, and Slanya noticed that the beige fabric bore fresh bloodstains.
“It’s good to see you awake,” Kaylinn said. Concern was evident in her voice. “I think I’ve done all I can do. The rest is up to you, but you are as whole as I can make you by magic. I also gave you something for the pain. You’ve had a great deal more exposure to the plaguelands than most pilgrims who manage to survive.”
Slanya blinked and noticed that she was absently rubbing the stub of her missing pinkie. So much for order and peace of mind.
“Your spellscar is intriguing,” Kaylinn said. “It’s spread throughout your body like a fishing netconcentrated knots of spellscar connected by a web of thinner, physical scars. I don’t recommend you use your spellscar ability too much. Channeling that much wild magic is likely to tear your body apart.”
“Thank you for the advice, High Priestess,” Slanya said, her tongue still thick with the medicine. “Do you know what it… does??”
Kaylinn shrugged. “You will figure it out.”
“Thank you, Priestess, for healing me. I am indebted.”
“Not at all,” Kaylinn said. “You are family. I think you should know that.”
“I do,” Slanya said. “Of course.”
After a short pause, Kaylinn continued, “I need to speak with you about Brother Gregor. I am concerned that he has lost his way, that his pursuit of personal glory has blinded him to the harm he is causing others.”
Slanya nodded.
“This… pact with Vraith is inappropriate, to say the least. The Order has long supported our presence in Ormpetarr, but the situation with the young man and
Gregor’s elixir… I no longer trust they have our congregation’s best interests in mind. We need to determine if something is influencing Gregor and then isolate him from it, if so. I need your help, Sister Slanya. I need the backing of all clerics and monks of our monastery, especially those loyal to him.”
“I agree with you, High Priestess. I will help however lean.”
There was a knock on the door, and Kaylinn’s eyebrows raised in surprise. She went to the door and opened it a crack, and in the space Slanya was shocked to see the tall slender figure of Tyrangal.
“I must speak with Slanya,” she said. Tyrangal was at least two heads taller than Kaylinn, her long auburn hair shining in the sunlight of the courtyard.
Kaylinn didn’t budge. “She’s in no condition.”
Tyrangal’s gaze softened, and a smile graced her young face. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Priestess.” Her voice grew melodic and convincing. “And lam just going to talk with her. I need to tell her something very important.”
Kaylinn frowned. “Do not try to charm me.”
“I apologize for the attempt,” Tyrangal said, “and merely plead urgency as the motivator. It’s imperative that I have a few words with Sister Slanya, and what I have to say cannot wait any longer.”
Kaylinn made no move to allow Tyrangal into the room. “I have no reason to trust you,” she said. “This is a most unusual breach of protocol.”
Slanya spoke. “It’s all right, High Priestess. I will speak with her.”
Kaylinn’s resolve melted just a little. “Very well, but I will remain here.”
Tyrangal gave a catlike smile. “Of course. What I have to say might be important for you as well.” She strode into the room and looked down at Slanya. “I hope you’re feeling up to some action,” she said, “because we need to rescue Duvan.”
Slanya sat up. “You. know where he is?”
Tyrangal nodded. “I do. He is being held in the Order of Blue Fire headquarters, in one of the underground rooms.”
“Is he well guarded?”
Tyrangal nodded. “Aye,” she said, “but I have considerable resources. My Copper Guard is ready to assist us, but we cannot do it alone. I was hoping that you and a number of your trusted clerics and monks could help us get Duvan out of there.”
Kaylinn interjected, “Why do you want to rescue Duvan? What is he to you?”
“Duvan is my ward,” Tyrangal said. “He is my apprentice, and I am responsible for him. But more than that, Duvan is the only one who can shut down the Order’s plan to extend the Plaguewrought Land.”
“What?” Slanya asked.
“Vraith has developed a ritual that will allow her to move the border of the changelands, and I have no doubt that she’s planning to expand the border until all lands are Plaguewrought Land.”
Slanya remembered the horror of the unbridled Plaguewrought Land, and she shuddered.
“My Copper Guard isn’t large enough to breach their defenses in two places at the same timebesides, we will need your prayers and your magic. Vraith and her inner circle of accordants will be leaving for the festival soon. That’s where my guard will be. We need to get to Duvan, because his resistance to the Spellplague is the only thing that can stop them.”
Slanya thought about it. She wasn’t at all sure about what Tyrangal had said concerning Vraith and the Order. It sounded preposterous and overblown, but she did know that she owed Duvan her life and that she cared for the ornery rogue. She would help to save him.
“I will go with you. Duvan saved my life more than once. It’s time to repay the debt.”
Kaylinn looked at Slanya, her eyes wide. “I never trusted Vraith, and I’ve suspected Brother Gregor to be under the influence of some obsession. Ever since he became spellscarred and convinced me to move us halfway across Faerun, I’ve had my doubts about his objectives.”
“Does that mean you’ll help us?” Tyrangal asked.
“Yes,” Kaylinn responded. “And I think I can persuade a few others to join us as well.”
“Excellent,” Slanya said, invigorated. The pain in her head had receded. She found herself growing excited, and the impending thrill had chased away her craving for calm and balance.
Dizzy and exhausted to the point of delirium, teenage Duvan staggered toward the fluctuating prismatic veil and peered through the haze at the tall waterfall of crystal-clear water. Waves of blue fire pulsed like irregular heartbeats just inside the border here. Thirst clawed at his throat.
How long had it been since his last drink? Days? Tendays? He could not remember.
Since escaping from the Wildhome cage, Duvan had scrabbled and clawed his way across terrain straight from images of the Nine Hells. And now, he scraped his way up steep, bare rock. Pulses of spellplague washed over him, and he ignored them.
Younger Duvan pushed through the oily curtain and emerged into the light. Monochrome purple gave way to verdant fields. Dust and static and cold dissipated as he trudged out of the Plaguewrought Land. He’d made it across!
A flash of white
The lush waterfall vanished as young Duvan dragged himself, exhausted, across a small meadow and collapsed by the trunk of a small cypress tree. The spray that had fractured the sun into rainbow droplets vanished, leaving behind dry grass and sporadic scrubby trees.
Just a mirage. Disappointment flooded him, and he let it sap his will to go on.
Sun shone down on him, warming the chill in his bones. Compared to the excessive gusts of the Plaguewrought Land, filled with flying rocks and dust, the gentle wind felt like a caress. Maybe he could still make it. He’d made it this far through agility and determination and never giving up. He just needed to gather his strength. Then he could find water.
A flash of green
He must have passed out. He awoke to find elf faces staring down at him. They had bronze skin and long hair adorned with forest plants to camouflage them. The elves looked at him with pity, with fear, with concern.
They had come from Wildhome, this small cadre of elven rangers and druids. They offered him food and water, and he accepted. They set up camp around him, too afraid that moving would injure him. Rhiazzshar was not among them. These were not elves he knew, although he thought he might have seen one or two when the wide-ranging scouting teams had come through the Chondalwood.
Had they come for him? How had they known to find him here? He had just made it across the changelands, crawling through the belly of the beast.
The elves were going to take him back. After the impossible trip through the most chaotic and dangerous place in Faerun, he was just going to go back to captivity, to Rhiazzshar. To torture. He wouldn’t let them. He would kill himself rather than go back. He hated them all.
A flash of red
A few days later, the encampment came alive when sounds of a troop of men on horseback approached. Led by a tall woman with long, auburn hair, the armed force looked well enough trained that it would give the small encampment trouble.
First, however, the tall woman spoke to them in sweet, honeyed words. Tyrangal was her name, and just listening to her gave Duvan a rush of joy. Many of the elves obviously felt the same way, and those who didn’t were afraid of her. They certainly would not risk engaging the Copper Guard in combat.
Duvan watched in awe as the elves packed up and rode away, leaving him with Tyrangal and her men. He did not know what this wonderful and frightening new captor would do with him. He did not entertain hope. He’d been down that path before, and it always had led to greater disappointment.
Tyrangal sent the elves home. And after the last horse had disappeared down over the low, rolling grassland hills, the strange woman came to Duvan. She dispelled the charm she had put on him and the others, and she told him that he was free to go wherever he wished. She told him that she would like him to work for her. And that if he did, he would be paid handsomely for his efforts.
She laid out the possibility of a new life for Duvana life of learning and adventure, if he allowed her to guide him. But she emphasized that he was free to refuse her offer. She was not going to force him to do anything. He could walk away freely if he wanted.
Duvan didn’t believe it. And over time, as he slowly came to realize that she had not been lying, he broke down and cried. He still had the nightmares every night, but now he was in charge of his own destiny. Tyrangal hoped that he would stay with her and perform the tasks she requested, but he was always asked and never forced.
A flash of blue
Duvan awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and looked around. Arched stone ceiling streaked with soot. He was in the same room, most likely underground. Maybe beneath the Changing House. The smell of sweat and ashes and healing balm filled the room.
He was still lying on the table where he’d been tortured. Apparently not dead yet, he thought wryly, as ghost sensations of earlier pain filtered back into this consciousness. The room was quiet and felt largely empty, except for Vraith speaking with two others on the other side of the door. He could only catch snatches of words and phrases.
His magical bonds from earlier had been replaced with leather ones. One of the absent spellcasters must’ve been keeping him immobile earlier.
Discreetly, he started testing the limits of his bonds, while focusing to try to understand the conversation outside the room. Vraith’s northern accent was easy to recognize, but he could barely hear enough to follow what they were saying.
“monk is working with us fully now… best of both worlds.”
“… believes he’s free, but the… visions from… Masters of Absolute Accord.” Laughter.
Then Vraith’s voice rose clear and loud. “We must prepare for the festival now. Soon we shall all be part of an historic moment.”
“What about our guest?”
“Continue the testing as appropriate. Jahin will stay. Push him to his limits, but don’t let him die.”
Duvan shuddered. More pain like he’d been through, only to be healed up for further torture? He’d rather die.
He gritted his teeth.
Duvan’s hands slid free of his bonds, and he sat up quickly. Looking around, he noticed a small table on his left, upon which were several knives and a pair of iron tongs. Apparently the planned torture wasn’t limited to just the magical variety.
Duvan grabbed one of the knives, palmed it, then put his hands back against the bonds. Anyone scrutinizing them would know immediately that he’d slipped out, but a casual glance might not give him away.
Hesitation would mean more pain, more and prolonged agony. And even if all that his escape attempt brought was death and an endless oblivion, it was better than writhing in pain. The door opened.
“I think he’s awake again,” said the genasi. “Shall we continue?”
Duvan had made his decision.
“Let’s try this…”
And with that, dread like a dark hole in the slimy recesses of Duvan’s gut penetrated his soul. He felt unclean and smelled waves of putrid spray sluicing off his body. He was being corrupted from the inside out.
There was no choice. There were no other options. This realignment of his soul felt wrong in every way that something could be wrong. If he could beg for it to stop, he would.
If he had to die to make it stop, he would.
With that thought, his reticence vanished. With practiced agility, he spun the knife in his hand, feeling the hilt lock into position in his grasp. Even if he failed to kill all of his captors, Duvan would be making his own choice at the end. He could decide his own fate.
The genasi mage, Jahin. was closest, her attention focused on the torturous spell she was casting.
Duvan sprang free of the table, leaping at the mage in a blur. He brought the knife to bear, aiming for the genasi’s hands. Anything to stop the spell.
Jahin reacted too slowly. Shocked, she stumbled backward as Duvan’s blade slashed with surgical precision along her arm and wrist.
Duvan’s legs shook and buckled from weakness. As he collapsed to the ground, he watched as Jahin’s blood sprayed from the cut in her wrist. She fell back and came down on one knee.
Pain wracked Duvan’s muscles as he braced his fall with outstretched arms. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he struggled to his feet. Which of his captors would be his next victim? Looking past Jahin, clutching her gushing wrist, Duvan caught sight of Renfod’s dark head.
A frown graced the cleric’s face, but there was no fear there. The man seemed to be irritated, and his mouth was uttering something Duvan couldn’t hear. A prayer for magic.
I need to stop him from finishing, he thought.
With all his effort, Duvan lunged across the room toward Renfod. One step. All his attention focused on the effort to get to the cleric before the spell was complete. Two steps. Duvan knew that he’d be caught again if Renfod was able to finish. Three
A sudden, searing agony pierced Duvan’s back. He went rigid as a huge blade sword slid through him as easily as if he were made of lard. Beaugrat’s sword, he realized too late.
“No!” Renfod cried out.
“What?” That was Beaugrat’s surprised voice. The blade pulled free, and Duvan slid to the stone floor. “He was going to kill you.”
“You are such a fool,” Renfod said. “Commander Vraith wanted him alive.”
Thick, warm liquid spilled from Duvan’s back and chest, spreading in a sticky pool under him. The thump of his heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out all else. Numbness, starting in his fingers and toes, spread up his arms and legs.
“So heal him,” Beaugrat said.
Duvan’s vision grew dim, the room darkening as if looking through a veil. This was the end, he knew. Was he ready?
“Do you think a healing spell is as simple as swinging your sword?” Renfod demanded. “He’ll be dead before I can start.”
No, not ready. How could anyone be ready for death? Duvan fought down panic and tried to welcome oncoming death. But his body bucked and gasped, spasmed uncontrollably, and struggled to breathe.
“I must join Commander Vraith now,” Renfod said. “I will have to deal you later. Clean up this mess!”
Then all went dark.
All went silent.
Duvan’s last sensation was the iron tang of his own blood in the back of his throat and its overpowering odor in his nose.
All went dead.