rocked inside his laboratory, Gregor felt his spellscar hum with wild magic in his skull as he focused on the cauldron in front of him. The musty tomes that lined the shelves along the walls had long since faded from his consciousness. He was no longer aware of the nickering candles in their sconces, smelling faintly of vanilla and sage.
Entranced, Gregor’s head resonated with the music of alchemy. Nothing else existed except the dark green, oily concoction bubbling away before him. Nothing else mattered except the slightly sweet scent drifting up from the cauldron.
Almost perfect. Almost there.
Gregor had been cooking his potion for what seemed like hours. He had no way to be sure how much time had passed. His trance skewed his sense of time.
Just a hint more crushed plaguegrass, Gregor thought, and maybe a sprinkle of ground dragon claw. Yes, that was it. Gregor flicked these last ingredients into the pot and very carefully stirred the mixture.
Vibrating in his skull like an internal tuning fork, his spellscar knew the brew was exactly right. Tiny explosions of energy and pleasure burst in his head and cascaded down through his body. This was it; the elixir was perfect. Ready to serve.
For hours, Gregor had let his spellscar show him how to cook the potion. The scar revealed the secrets of the ingredients, helping him to predict what each component would do, what effect it would have on the mixture. And along the way, Gregor had used magic here and there, infusing the elixir with potencyjust a tiny sprinkling that allowed the brew of magical and mundane elements to combine in a unique and powerful way.
Gregor delighted in his work. He rejoiced in the process of creating something potent and life-changing. Ever since hed been a child, he had loved what alchemy could accomplish. Ever since he had seen the utility and power for himself, Gregor had wanted to master it.
Just before his seventh birthday, Gregor had been travelling with Brother Velri, his mentor. They’d been approached by thieves, and Velri had told Gregor to hide in the rocks next to the narrow road.
Too terrified to make a sound, Gregor had watched as the older monk fought the small band. Though Brother Velri’s martial skills took down one of the robbers, the band managed to stab him. They robbed Velri and left him for dead. When the thieves had fled, Gregor had come out of hiding to find the elder monk bleeding and on the verge of death. Velri had been stabbed many times, and thieves had taken any poultices and bandages along with his backpack.
Gregor had been certain that the man was going to die. The two of them were far from the nearest healer.
Velri removed a small pouch of powder from his boot. He told young Gregor to find some water and fill the pouch to the mark, about halfway up. Gregor ran to the small stream that flowed near the road, filled the pouch as instructed, and returned to an ailing Velri, who was nearly dead from his wounds.
Gregor watched as the monk muttered a short incantation over the pouch, mixed it with his finger, and quaffed the entire contents. A few minutes later, Gregor had looked on in awe as Brother Velri stood up and brushed the dirt from his tunic.
Alchemy had saved Velri’s life. And while Gregor eventually far surpassed Velri’s skill, it was the elder monk’s demonstration of alchemy’s power that had inspired Gregor to pursue the arcane art.
Since he’d become spellscarred, Gregor’s brewing sessions had become long and exhausting. Still, he found them exhilarating as well. As he brewed each concoction, Gregor rode a building rush of excitement and pleasure from the first ingredient to the final product. And every time, in the glowing aftermath, satisfaction overwhelmed him.
The elixir in front of him was perfect, complete, and ready for consumption. And with that realization, Gregor found himself coming out of his trance. The chamber around him coalesced into existence again. His bookshelves and walls materialized into his consciousness. He could smell the distracting mustiness of the books and the faint vanilla and sage of the candles.
Gregor blinked, and his knees nearly buckled from sudden weakness. The resonating buzz from his spellscar had faded to nothing, but in its wake came a skull-splitting headache, like the prow of a ship cleaving his skull in twain.
His vision blurry from the pain, Gregor groped toward his potion cabinet. He opened the doors and found the proper remedy, then took a swallow. The thin liquid slid down his throat, leaving a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. In a few minutes the pain would be manageable. Which was good he didn’t have time to take his normal recovery period.
“Brother Velri!” he croaked, weakened. “Please come in now.”
Gregor became aware of the metallic sound of a key in the door lock. Velrihis one-time mentor, quite elderly but still alive and healthyhad been standing guard, making sure nobody disturbed Gregor during his brewing trance. Any interruption or distraction would have meant ruin for the entire batch.
Squeezing his eyes shut against the debilitating pain, Gregor breathed, “Velri, can you gather some others to help?” Gregor’s breath-scratched raw against his bitter throat, each intake of air sending waves of skull-cleaving pain through his head. “We need to move this cauldron to the Festival of Blue Fire.”
“Yes, Brother Gregor,” came the elder monk’s reply. “Are you feeling all right?”
Gregor could already sense the edge of the pain starting to recede. “I will be fine in a few moments,” he said. “Now, we’re in a hurry.”
The elder monk did not respond, but Gregor heard him shuffle off to collect some help.
Gregor concentrated on taking slow and even breaths. With each exhalation, he visualized a portion of the debilitating agony flowing out of him with the air. In with the fresh, out with the pain. And by the time Velri returned with three younger monks, Gregor’s headache had dampened to a dull throb.
Gregor took another deep breath before addressing his brethren. When he exhaled, he could think again.
“It’s imperative that we move quickly, my brothers,” he said. “We cannot be late to the Festival of Blue Fire.” Gregor gestured toward the cauldron full of elixir. “Many pilgrims will die if they are not protected with a dose of this potion.
“We must be quick,” Gregor told them, “but also extremely careful. We cannot afford to spill the concoction.”
Adept and sure, his monks wasted no time. Soon, a metal lid covered the cauldron, the edges sealed with wax to prevent leakage during transport. They wrapped the covered pot with rope, tied tightly in case of jostling.
And finally, three of them carried the heavy pot to the stables and loaded the precious elixir into a small wagon. In a matter of minutes, the wagon had been hitched to a burrow and the whole group headed toward the Festival of Blue Fire.
Shortly, history would soon be made. Soon, Gregor would be taking the first step on the path to fulfilling his vision of a world without rampant spellplague. He smiled. That was a dream worth taking a risk for. A shiver of excitement danced down his spine, as he and his helpers made slow but steady progress away from the monastery.
Despite his personal dislike for Vraith, Gregor remained optimistic that it would all be worth it. The beauteous end result would completely justify the tactics they were forced to use to get there, for that result would be a restoration of order. That result was peace.
Peace was worth substantial risk.
A chill wind slid across Slanya’s skin as Tyrangal teleported her, Kaylinn, and several others whom Kaylinn had enlisted to help rescue Duvan. The light of the afternoon sun winked out as the monastery courtyard vanished. The open, fresh air gave way to a smoky and stuffy enclosed corridor that smelled of tallow and soot.
The hot air made the dark space feel tight and claustro-. phobic. Slanya struggled to take slow, even breaths while 1 her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her heart raced with § anticipation, and sweat prickled on her brow from the heat.: But as she focused on her breathing, balance returned, and she found herself ready for a fight.
“Duvan is in the room just down these stairs,” Tyran-1 gal whispered. I scried him earlier. There are five or. six j people in the room, but Commander Accordant Vraith and j her entourage have left. We should be able to overcome J those remaining.”
Taking a deep breath, Slanya took a firm grip on her I staff. She was ready.
“Hey! What are you?”
Slanya turned toward the sound, coming from a man in | chainmail climbing up the staircase toward them.
She watched as Tyrangal gestured with her hand, her J reaction extremely quick. Simultaneously, on the edge of | her vision, Slanya could swear that she saw something | flick out of Tyrangal’s mouth, stretch out and touch the J man on the forehead, then retract. But the whole thing J! happened in a blink of an eye, leaving Slanya wondering 1 what she’d seen.
“We are friends,” came Tyrangal’s soothing contralto. I “We’re here to escort the prisoner to his cell.”
The man’s face slackened from suspicion to understanding. He nodded. “All right,” he said. “Wonderful. Although I don’t think you will be needed.”
“We’ll be the ones to judge that,” Tyrangal said as she swept past the guard. She laid one hand on his head, whispered a quick spell, and the man collapsed.
They crept down the hallway to another door. Tyrangal | paused here.
“There’s a guard just inside,” Tyrangal said. “Leave herf tome.”
“We’ll try to find Duvan,” Slanya said, looking at Kaylinn, who nodded.
Slanya entered the room behind Tyrangal, who was enshrouded now in a shifting, prismatic aura and was difficult to see. A quick glance around the room showed Slanya a torch-lit dungeon, complete with stone walls and arched ceiling, iron chains and manacles, and several tables fitted with restraints for securing and interrogating prisoners.
To Slanya’s right, she caught sight of Duvan, lying slumped across the floor. He looked unconscious and there was an alarming amount of blood pooled under him. She hoped they weren’t too late.
“Kaylinn,” Slanya called. “There he is.” the room was mostly empty of Order members, but those remaining had converged on Duvan. There was no sign of Vraith, but Slanya counted three others in addition to the guard. Four, if she included the genasi woman wrapping a bandage around her wrist.
Slanya recognized one of the Order guardsBeaugrat.
“You again!” Beaugrat stood beside Duvan, a bloody sword in his hand. “You should have gotten out when you had the chance.”
Beside Slanya, Kaylinn sent a wave of holy fire into two Order members clustering around Duvan’s body. They backed away as she approached, but not fast enough to avoid the blast. The genasi wizard dodged and started toward Tyrangal
Slanya spun her staff and leveled it at Beaugrat. She advanced on the warrior, moving quickly, but careful to remain steady and aware. She knew her opponent was an accomplished swordsman and was far stronger than he looked. She’d seen that when he had fought Duvan in the ruins outside Tyrangal’s mansion.
Beaugrat drew his huge sword and leveled it at Slanya. He held the weapon with both hands and swung it with surprising deftness and agility. If he but hit her once, Slanya would be out of the fight.
Best not let him hit me then, she thought wryly.
Circling him, Slanya was aware of the escalating magical battle between Tyrangal and the genasi wizard. The woman’s aquamarine skin glowed, and the spellscar on her head seemed to flow with silver. She had manifested some sort of magical shield around herselfa clear bubble of power that absorbed and deflected Tyrangal’s fiery blasts. Inside, the genasi appeared to be unharmed.
Tyrangal’s attacks increased in power, but each one merely rolled off the protective bubble and scorched the walls and floor around her. The splash damage from their combat could easily fry everyone in the room.
Beaugrat stepped forward and brought his large sword down on Slanyaa quick strike, but one she easily dodged.
Breathe. Counterattack. Her staff glanced off his neck guard, but she followed it by stepping lightly to her left and cracking her staff against his hands. Perhaps she could loosen his grip on his weapon.
Her strike landed hard, and it was like hitting a stone wall. No give at all. Her staff vibrated in her grip, and she barely held on.
Beaugrat hardly seemed to notice.
As she sidestepped another swing, Slanya calculated her next strike. Her quickness meant that she could make several attacks to each of his. His head was the only part of him that was exposed. He was vulnerable there. She whipped her staff around and struck the big man in the side of head, just over his left ear.
Her staff was a blur, and Beaugrat had no time to dodge. The weapon shook in her hands as the blunt end thudded home. Slanya was gratified to see dark blood welling through Beaugrat’s blond hair.
“Nice hit,” he snarled, but his expression was of a wounded animal, cornered and more vicious than before. “Now it’s your turn.”
Abruptly, Beaugrat sheathed his sword. He pressed his wrists together with his palms facing Slanya. What was he doing?
Blue fire flickered to life from the spellscar on his shoulder, rippling like ignited oil down to his elbow and encasing his whole arm.
A wave of nausea pulsed through Slanya. But as she focused on Beaugrat’s spellscar, she felt something awaken inside her. Energy sparking from one point to another, prickling against her skin. Her own spellscar activated, illuminating her skin. And as the wild magic permeated her and fragmented her, she suddenly she understood how Beaugrat created the blue fire.
‘ She understood, and she reached out to affect it. As her spellscar web attuned to Beaugrat’s power, Slanya’s reality split and split again until she could barely keep her mind integrated. But she found the essence of Beaugrat’s ability. Slanya felt the wild magic flowing through Beaugrat’s scar, and she willed it to stop. In an instant, the web of filaments that made up her spellscar closed down his power.
The blue fire on Beaugrat’s arm guttered and dwindled away then died. He stared at his hands in disbelief. “How did you…?”
Slanya didn’t really know. When her spellscar flared to life, she simply understood how Beaugrat’s own spellscar workedand how to stop it from working.
The big man stumbled, weakened and in shock. He fell to his knees, his plate armor ringing against the tile floor.
Slanya wasted no time. The fragments of her reality made physical combat difficult and quick movements nauseating. Her staff came down hard on his head, and Beaugrat collapsed to the floor in a heap of metal and flesh.
Slanya glanced around. Tyrangal and the genasi guard fought vigorously, each unable to do serious harm to the other. Tyrangal was clearly the more powerful wizard, but the genasi’s shield made her invulnerable to attacks. On the opposite side of the room, Kaylinn and two others from the monastery had reached Duvan. They were examining him, and as much as she wanted to go to Duvan, her skills were needed elsewhere for the moment.
Can I do it again? Slanya wondered. Turning, she reached out with her ability and touched the genasi wizard fighting to a near stalemate with Tyrangal. Yes. In moments, Slanya understood the source and nature of the guard’s protective shield. She saw how the shield ability worked.
Different shards of reality vied for the attention of Slanya’s mind. She could not hold everything together, and part of her knew that if she didn’t stop using her spellscar ability shortly, her mind would unhinge completely from the physical world around her.
She wanted to try one more thing first. Whether it was worth the risk to herself, she never considered. Watching as though from farther and farther away, Slanya tried to reverse the process. She used her spellscar ability and tried to amplify the guard’s shield.
And she saw the shield double in diameter, then triple. Before her fragmenting eyes, Slanya watched as the shield grew so large that it soon encompassed Tyrangal as well. The genasi’s eyes went wide in astonishment.
Astonishment turned to fear as the full power of Tyrangal’s spells descended upon her. Cast from inside the bubble, Tyrangal’s flames incinerated the genasi guard.
The guard’s aquamarine skin blackened, charred, and blistered. In seconds, the genasi was reduced to soot hovering in the space where a fully alive being had been. The shield vanished, and the genasi’s remains drifted in the air like dust.
Turning slowly, Slanya’s mind sparkling like a constellation of independent stars, she became aware that Kaylinn was yelling something from where she stood over Duvan’s limp body. As Slanya’s spellscar waned in successive pulses, she tried to focus, tried to reintegrate herself. It seemed to take forever, but eventually she heard what Kaylinn was yelling.
“He’s dead!” Kaylinn said. “Duvan is dead.”
Stunned and enraged, Slanya screamed, “No!” But she could barely hear herself.
Beaugrat lay slumped at Slanya’s feet, completely helpless. Anger rose up in her. Duvan was dead, and it was this man’s fault. Duvan did not deserve to be dead. Duvan had saved her life several times. He was her friend.
As if watching herself from far away, from different vantage points simultaneously, Slanya reached down and took hold of Beaugrat’s bruised head. She crooked his jaw into the fold of her right elbow and made sure her grip would not slip.
Anger welled up inside her. She clenched her jaw and with all her strength, jerked Beaugrat’s head in a rapid, wrenching twist. The snap of his spine made a satisfying crunch, and she knew he was dead.
Part of her knew she shouldn’t want revenge. She had been taught that revenge accomplished nothing. Part of her knew she’d done this before, a long time ago as a little girl. But that time it had accomplished something. That time, revenge had changed her life.
That wasn’t revenge, she realized. That was escape. Survival.
Here, too, killing Beaugrat was survival. The man had proven that he would keep coming back. His continued existence was a danger to Duvan. Well, not anymore.
Slanya stood, her reality fragmented. Queasy, her awareness floating out of her body, she collapsed next to her dead victim.
Duvan stood on a featureless planea flat gray landscape stretching as far as he could see. The sky overhead was a lighter shade of gray. Ahead, there were no trees or rocks or hills or vegetation of any kind. He could no longer taste the intense iron tang of blood in the back of his throat, and the thick smell of blood had disappeared.
There were no other people on this vast plane, none close enough to see at least. However, he could hear something. Whispers and hissing bass voices were the only sound, an undercurrent of indistinguishable vocal droning that seemed to come from all around. Those whispers permeated his spirit, seeming to snap at his soul like dogs.
Where am I? he wondered.
Duvan examined himself. He was whole, his body sound except far a dry cut under his ribcage. No blood there, but the scar remained open. It didn’t hurt. In fact he felt nothing-no pain, no joy. Nothing. Only emptiness.
He felt like an animated huska hollowed-out marionette.
Turning, Duvan caught sight of a small, gray bump on the horizona tiny blip on the flat landscape of gray. He started walking toward it, his progress marked only by the shape’s fractional increase in size. But whatever it was, that dTH bump on the otherwise Sat plane, Duvan felt drawn to it.
Deep gray and black shadows drifted like tatters of wind-driven fog all around him as he walked. He felt no fear and no fatigue as he walked and walked. For hours he walked, and the dark bump on the horizon grew little by little. Days and tendays and even months seemed to pass as: he trudged forward. He had no sense of time in this place.
Fragments of memory flitted through his mind. He’d heard tell that souls passed to the Fugue Plane, Kelemvor’s home, to be judged. Perhaps that is where I am, he thought. But where is Kelemvor?
After more hours of walking, some of the whispered voices grew more distinct. One of them started talking to him, telling him that he didn’t have to go to the City of Judgment. Telling him that there were better options. The gods might not want him, but there were lords elsewhere who would accept him with open arms. He would start out at the bottom, but a soul like his could rise quickly. He would have power and eventual dominion over many others.
Duvan shook his head and marched on.
You should consider the offer, the whispers murmured. You are one of the Faithless. Your fate will otherwise be an eternity of boredom and monotony. The death god will entomb you in the walls of his city, forever.
Duvan walked on, considering. The Faithlesshe had heard of that legend. No god to speak for him meant spending eternity as part of the City of Judgment. Duvan felt detached from himself, but even so he knew that he did not want to end up that way.
But the alternative? An eternity in the thrall of the demons of the Abyss. Endless boredom or endless pain.
As if on cuealthough it could have been hours later since Duvan had completely lost track of timeanother voice came to him. “Duvan?” It was not the low hiss of the demons’ voices. This was a voice he recognized. “Duvan?”
He turned to see a shimmering archway shining with blinding light, so bright he couldn’t see anyone through it. “I am here,” he said.
“I have come to guide you back, if you will come,” the voice said. “You must decide quickly, for the spell does not last long.”
Somewhere in the distant, hollow recesses of his mind, Duvan remembered his lifethe struggles, the distrust, the pain.
There was also pleasure, he remembered. That had been part of his life. And contentment. Sadness, yes, but also humor and even joy, once or twice.
“I will come,” he told the voicea voice he recognized as belonging to the High Priestess Kaylinn of Slanya’s monastery. Slanya had not betrayed him after all. His friend Slanya had come to save him.
His friend. Duvan liked the thought of that.
“Step through,” Kaylinn said. “Come back into the light.”
And so he did.
Commander Accordant Vraith strode purposefully through the throngs of revelers who had arrived for the Festival of Blue Fire. Pilgrims young and old had come to this broad, grassy field on the boundary between the mundane and the glorious. Entire families celebrated here along the border of the Plaguewrought Land.
The pilgrims had brought their wagons full of supplies and had built huge bonfires whose flames licked the sky. Here and there, pilgrims danced to music and singing. They feasted on roasted food and drank wine and ale without restraint. Many children joined in the festivities, and Vraith noticed more than a few coming-of-age rituals under way.
They smelled of joy and intoxication. Chaos and abandonment.
Vraith felt the stirrings of her spellscar beneath her sternum, eager to pull the threads of their souls and weave them together. If her ritual worked, some part of each of these lucky volunteers would end up locked inside the new border.
Vraith’s deputyRenfod, himself a Loremaster Accordant came up next to her, joining a handful of others here to carry out her instructions. The chaotic crowd would have to be at least minimally structured, which she knew might prove more difficult than performing the actual ritual. It was one thing to arrange five or ten people, and quite another to organize a thousand or so.
The evening sky reddened overhead as she neared the border veil. Like a sheen of oil on water, the barrier reflected an undulating rainbow, stretching like a semi-translucent curtain as far as she could see in all directions. Most of the pilgrims gave the barrier a wide berth.
“Has anyone seen Brother Gregor?” Vraith asked nobody in particular. “He’d better have brought his elixir.”
Renfod nodded, then said, “He’s here, Commander. At the edge of the festivities.”
Vraith smiled. “Excellent. We’ll start with him. Lead on.”
Renfod’s dark form angled away from the border veil and through the crowds of drinking and dancing pilgrims. Vraith appreciated the man’s efficiency, his obedience, and willingness to serve.
Still, there was no need to get sentimental. He was just one filament in the tapestry of her rise to authority and power. A willing filament to be sure, but nothing more. Her ascendancy would culminate, ultimately, in her raptureher melding with the sharn. She would become one with the transcendent collective minds of the sharn; she would live in the Blue Fire and across many universes simultaneously.
Unfortunately, while Renfod bent over backward to help her further her cause, the same could not be said for Brother Gregor.
She hated that she needed him. But there was nobody else who could work the alchemical magic that he could. The man had a gift. She’d had to resort to non-magical forms of manipulationpersuasion and cunning. That was all right with Vraith, however; she was good at those talents too.
Renfod and his entourage cleared a path to the periphery of the festival throng. They passed a wedding ceremony underway. The tall bride was all smiles in her lace finery, while her portly groom looked nervous behind his well-clipped beard.
“There he is,” Renfod said as they circumnavigated the wedding, pointing a little ways ahead at Gregor.
The monk’s shock of white hair was a beacon tinged with red in the light of the waning sun. He stood with several other monks and clerics from the monastery, all surrounding a large metal cauldron. Vraith could see as she approached that the cauldron was full of dull green liquid.
“May the Blue Fire burn inside you,” Vraith said.
“Pray Oghma grants you wisdom,” Gregor replied, his tone icy.
Vraith pretended to ignore Gregor’s cold attitude; she gestured at the cauldron with her hand. “I trust the elixir is ready?”
“It is,” he said. “Now I just need to get people to drink it.”
“I can help,” she said. Then, turning to Renfod, “Let’s get our militia to arrange everyone in a long line. Tell them that I will come by and bless them each individually with a small cut on their palms and a drink from the cauldron. The ritual can begin only when this is completed.”
Renfod nodded and then strode away, barking orders.
“This thing you do,” Gregor said. “I have your word that it will be used to tame and capture the spellplague in all its forms across Faerun?”
Vraith stared hard into Gregor’s gray eyes. “Don’t start having second thoughts now, monk. You’re in too deep to swim to the surface on your own.”
Gregor refused to back down. “You didn’t answer the question.”
So he was going to need her to lie. That was fine with her; lies came easily to her. “Someone’s word,” she said, “is as fickle as the next famine or plague or war. I give you my word, for whatever that is worth to you.”
Gregor’s brow knitted in puzzlement.
“But,” Vraith said, “nobody’s word is worth what you think it is. The only thing that you have of value is your own internal compass, your own faith. Gregor, you either trust me to do what you believe needs to be done, or you do not. My word cannot change that.
“And,” Vraith continued, “as I just said; you are in too deep to be having doubts now.”
Gregor shook his head slowly. “I have many options,” he said.
Vraith forced herself to bite back an angry retort. She smiled. “Well, you do what you need to do. But I assure you that you have nothing to worry about. The truly great have to make hard choices, and oftentimes lesser folks get caught in the way. It is the price of vision.
“We will change the world, you and I,” she told Gregor. And she believed it.
Duvan came to life with a shock. His back arching in spasm, he gulped air. Again, shocks shot through his body, and his chest seemed to be filled with broken glass. A violent exhalation seized him, as though a giant invisible hand clamped down on his chest. He rolled on his side and coughed-up blood and phlegm. Then the pain hit. His back burned where Beaugrat’s blade had pierced him. His head felt like it had been wrenched off and then jammed back into place.
Darkness and silence surrounded him. Me could see nothing, hear nothing. The iron tang of blood that filled his nostrils stank so powerfully that it blocked out all other smells.
Then, filtered through the black cotton in his head, he heard a voice he recognized. “He’s alive,” Kaylinn said. “Welcome back, Duvan.”
Liquid against the back of his throat blazed a trail down to his chest, somewhat dulling the ache that pervaded his muscles and joints. His eyes were open, but he could not see any light. Only tiny pinpricks of light showed in the vast dark gray in front of him.
“Thank you so much, Kaylinn.” That was Slanya’s voice, and he heard tears in the utterance. His heart opened with the sound. Slanya had not betrayed or abandoned him. On the contrary, she had come to save him.
“Thank Kelemvor,” Kaylinn said. “For he allowed Duvan back among the living.”
“His time is not over,” Slanya said, and her voice was not the stoic and rigid Slanya he rememberedthe combat cleric who challenged him, who stood by him and fought. No, there was a deep vulnerability in that voice, a touching quality that melted Duvan.
“Where am I?” he asked, but no one seemed to hear him. He couldnt even hear himself. His mouth wasn’t working right.
“He’s trying to talk,” Kaylinn said. “It will take a few hours for him to completely recover all his senses. But he can hear you now.”
Slanya’s voice was in his ear. “You rest now, Duvan,” she said, and her breath smelled of almonds. “You have no cares in the world.”
If the voice said rest, then that’s what he would do.
Some time later, though he had no way of knowing how much, he awoke. His vision came back slowly and in patches. And he could sense that he was lying flat on his back, but the pallet that held him was soft, and the sheets under and over him were elegant and clean. He was naked, he realized then, and had been scrubbed free of dirt.
“How do you feel, Slanya?” came Kaylinn’s voice.
Duvan’s eyes fluttered open to see the High Priestess standing in the open doorway of the small chamber.
“I feel a little more myself” Slanya said. She sat on the foot of his cot, wearing a clean cloth robe. “After I used my spellscar power, everything fragmented. It was as though reality was crumbling around me. I couldn’t trust what I saw. Your healing has helped some.”
“Your spellscar has left you fragile,” Kaylinn said. “And I have reached the limit of my healing abilities.”
Slanya was injured, Duvan realized.
“You must be exceedingly careful to use your power in moderation,” Kaylinn said.
“I understand. Thank you, High Priestess. I will be careful.”
“Well, if you’re stable now,” Kaylinn said. “I am going to go get some rest.” Duvan heard fatigue in Kaylinn’s voice for the first time. “I’m exhausted.”
Light came through a window, red and orange. The setting sun, Duvan guessed, from the tenor of the light. At the foot of his bed, Slanya’s silhouette was limned in red, like a crimson halo. Duvan blinked; the richness of color was overwhelming after the monochromatic gray of the plane of death.
Duvan heard a door slide closed as Kaylinn left to get some rest. Late-summer birds chirped as treble accompaniment to the deep droning of chanting monks in the background. The smells were overwhelming as well. The odor of lilac soap drifted up around him, and he grew increasingly aware of the spicy scent of healing balm permeating the room.
Then the sheets around him rustled, and the smell of woman washed away everything, else. Slanya nestled in next to him, her body warm against his. She wrapped her arms around him in an intimate hug.
“I thought you were gone, Duvan,” she said. Her hands combed through his hair, and the feel of her caress brought tears to his eyes. Whether he was too tired or overwhelmed to fight it, he didn’t know, but he realized that he cared for Slanya.
She cradled him in her arms and petted his brow. “Everything’s all right now,” she whispered.
He curled up in Slanya’s embrace. He surrendered to the overwhelming urge to trust in her. He could be vulnerable with her, and everything would be all right. That was a gift beyond anything he’d imagined possible ever again.
“I’ve got you, Duvan,” Slanya said. “I will take care of you.”
Since Papa had died, nobody had said that. Nobody had ever rescued him. Even Rhiazzshar’s pleasures had been manipulative and full of expectant reciprocity. Slayna’s offer was pure generosity and selflessness. He had always been on his own, and it felt so good to let someone take care of him. Tears welled in Duvan’s eyes, and his voice caught in his throat.
“Thank you,” he mouthed to her through the sobs. “Thank you.”