artially encased in ice, Duvan slammed into the ground. He felt the jolt in his skull and ribs. He heard the snap and crunch of bones breaking and frozen flesh shattering. The pain, however, seemed to be muted and far away, numbed by the cold.
The ice shattered around him, breaking away as he impacted the ground. Once, he bounced high into the air. Twice, spinning and sliding, and the bounce was lower this time. Thrice, until he finally skittered to a stop near one of the abandoned bonfires. Frozen and rigid, he skipped like a chip of crystal across the trampled grass.
As they broke free, the shards of ice peeled away the outer layer of the skin on his face and scalp. It felt like a scab being ripped away across his entire head, and he imagined huge chunks of his hair torn away in the ice.
Darkness closed in. His chest frozen, Duvan couldn’t pull in any air. He desperately needed to breathe. He was drowning in ice. Flares and sparkles flickered in the closing blackness at the edges of his vision.
“Duvan! Duvan!” Slanya’s voice came faintly to his ears.
He couldn’t answer, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“Duvan!” Horse hooves thudded next to him, growing louder by the moment. And then Slanya was on the ground, cradling his head. Her hot touch burned his raw skin.
“You’re so cold,” she said. “Can you breathe?”
He struggled to pull in a breath. He failed.
She pressed her mouth to his. She breathed warm air into him, and it seemed like she was filling his lungs with broken glass.
But the chill in his chest melted ever so slightly and he could move again. He gasped and sucked in a breath of crystalline air on his own power.
“Good,” she said, pulling back and looking into his eyes. “Now I need you to watch over me. So don’t die; I need your protection.”
Duvan grimaced. “I can’t even protect myself,” he said.
In the field beyond the line of pilgrims burned with blue-white fire. It was a beautiful and frightening sight. The circuit was complete, Duvan saw. So bright was the fire that Duvan could hardly see the individual bodies of the pilgrims. They had become one entity. Vraith’s ritual had transformed them into a wall, a new barrier of souls.
“I think you and I can fix this whole thing together,” she said.
Duvan didn’t know what she was talking about. Feeling was trickling into his flesh, most of it burning and painful. He looked up into her face, tried to ask her what she meant, but no words would form.
Slanya’s eyes were filled with wild urgency. The thin line of her mouth was set with determination. She seemed ready to jump into the fires of chaos. In a way, she already had, he knew. By coming inside the arc, she’d risked death.
How can we stop this? he thought. We are so small.
Above him, the border veil flickered. Dark perforations formed on the oily surface, and at each hole, the fabric of the curtain weakened. The perforations spread rapidly, each one like an eruption of thousands of black ants eating away at the veil.
Soon the border would lose cohesion, and the Plaguewrought Land would claim this area. Many souls were going to be trapped inside. Stay close by me, he tried to say to Slanya, but his mouth wasn’t working.
Off to his right, Duvan Caught sight of Tyrangal’s massive form, stirring as she lifted herself out of the deep furrow created by her impact. Melting ice sluiced off the sides of the huge dragon as she got to her feet and stretched her wings.
She was still alive, thank the gods.
But as Duvan watched, the veil behind and above Tyrangal went completely dark. The eldritch light from the massive curtain flickered one last time and was extinguished. The border shifted, snapping to its new location along the line of burning pilgrims.
Tyrangal, too, was trapped inside.
Duvan watched as the plagueland rushed out to fill the void, like water released from a broken levee. And then Tyrangal was lost behind the flood of blue fire.
Slanya stroked his hair as she concentrated. “I have the power to affect the spellscar abilities of others,” she said. “When we rescued you, I discovered that I can dampen them. That’s how I defeated Beaugrat. But I also learned that I can amplify others’ abilities. I’m hoping I can do that to yours.”
Duvan felt his stomach liquefy as the tide washed over them. The sounds of screaming pilgrims faded as the blue fire rushed to the next barrier. But Duvan and Slanya had their own isolated and protected bubble.
Resting in Slanya’s lap, Duvan felt his power grow. It swelled and expanded, the shell of protection increased in size, doubling at first, then tripling. Sweat beaded on Slanya’s brow as needles of pain shot through Duvan’s thawing and broken body.
By ourselves we are small. But together…
Together…
Duvan could feel Slanya tapping into his ability. She fed his power, multiplied it. Duvan felt his shell of spellplague protection expand. And he used that power, directing his protection out toward Tyrangal, toward the line of pilgrims. He fed off Slanya’s ability and extended his protection as far as it would reach.
A network of fine filaments of the palest blue glowed in Slanya’s flesh as the flood of spellplague retreated in a wide, darkening sphere around them. This sphere of protection was the size of four city blocks now, and still growing.
Duvan focused his attention on the line of pilgrims ablaze from Vraith’s ritual. The brilliant line of pilgrims dimmed then went dark as his sphere of protection grew to engulf them. Duvan watched in satisfaction as the blue fire burning through them retreated and guttered out. The wild magic extinguished.
Many of the pilgrims fell out of the line instantly, releasing hold of their neighbors’ hands and collapsing to the ground like a sack of burned bones. Others seemed to crystallize in place, standing like alabaster statues. Their skin ablated, all that remained of their flesh was the translucent blue of spellscar. From Duvan’s perspective, it seemed like the solid wall of blue fire gave way to a haphazard line of white shapesjagged quartz teeth along the ground.
Abruntlv. with the perimeter circuit broken, there came the sound of a snapping whip, only a hundred times louder. Duvan’s ears broke as the border veil crashed back to its previous location. He flinched from the thunderous impact of the sound.
In the wake of the veil shift, a multitude of spellplague pockets remained outside the curtain. Loosed from the changelands, the blazes of blue fire burned through the charred grass. Duvan watched as these pockets of wild magic, now free of the Plaguewrought Land, created chaos as they scattered into the night.
Silence descended on Duvan and Slanya. Around them people lay scattered like crystallized corpses, some of them still partially alive. Some others seemed mostly whole physically, but wandered aimlessly, traumatized. Duvan could not see Tyrangal, and he hoped she had survived.
Above him, the lines of Slanya’s spellscar glowed blue white through her translucent flesh. Her wide, innocent eyes bulged with the growing activation of her spellscar. Blue lines traced her face, pulsing like magic along a web embedded into her flesh,
Ignoring the pain in his legs and chest, Duvan sat up next to her. “You did it,” he said. “You stopped them!”
Slanya’s spellscar was so pervasive that the natural flesh around the filaments lost its Cohesion. Duvan watched in growing alarm as the muscles and skin of Slanya’s face sagged and started leaking fluid. He soon realized that she was bleeding from hundreds of tiny wounds all over her body.
Slanya gasped, and Duvan felt his heart lurch as she slumped to the ground in a growing puddle of her own fluids.
For a single, glorious moment, Vraith luxuriated in sublime achievement. The line of nilcrrimsno longer individualsformed a unified fabric, woven with the tendrils of their life force. These strands appeared in Vraith’s vision like black and blood-red filaments superimposed over physical reality.
The glory of the moment stretched on and on.
Standing at one end of the line of pilgrims, just next to where it intersected with the border veil, Vraith was surrounded by Order Peacekeepers and her personal guard. Renfod kept a close watch on her as well, knowing that she would be vulnerable during the ritual.
Vraith did not trust Renfod, but that was only because she trusted no one. Renfod had never actually done anything to merit distrust. In his own way, the cleric cared for her. And for that, she had taken him along on her rise to power.
Wild magic pulsed through Vraith’s sternum like blood through her heart. The threads of her soul formed a bridge between the huge, complex curtain that defined the border of the Plaguewrought Land and the new entity she had just created.
Red tendrils intertwined the veil with her core. Black strands weaved her spirit with the life patterns of the pilgrim entity. This fabric formed a foundation matrix for the border veil, which fluttered along the surface of Vraith’s tapestry of pilgrims’ souls. The border curtain would soon attach to the tapestry, Vraith knew, and become permanent.
Only then could she disentangle herself and the pilgrims. Success was mere moments away.
Already a flood of wild magic had rushed in to fill the new opening. Already the blue fire spread its spectacular chaos into the gap.
Gazing with blue-lit faces, the group of Peacekeepers and guards around her gasped in awe and wonder as the border veil settled along its new path. The prismatic curtain flickered and fluttered, still partially unstable, but solidifying by the moment. Renfod was saying, “Fantastic accomplishment! This will go down in history as a defining achievement of the Order.”
Abruptly and without warning, the moment of perfection and awe passed. Amidst the blinding blue-white fire, darkness sprouted.
Making the final loops and knots in her ritual weave, Vraith pondered the black spot in the fabric of her magic. What could be wrong? she wondered. How is this possible?
Too slowly, she realized everything was over. The darkness bloomed quickly like a fetid flower. Starting out as a small black spot, the anomaly grew like a rampant plague, sapping the power of the changelands and nullifying the foundation for the border veil.
A deafening crack shattered Vraith’s ears, and the ground shook under her feet.
Vraith could not move to maintain her balance, and she started to tip backward. Renfod rushed with reactive urgency to stabilize her, putting his arms around her to hold her up. She silently thanked him, noticing that many of the Peacekeepers did not fare as well. Armed men and women tumbled around her like dolls.
Doubling over as though she’d been kicked in the gut, Vraith watched in red and black as the border veil snapped back to its original position. Only the presence of Renfod’s strong arms allowed her to keep her feet.
Vraith gasped as the darkness erased the glorious creation she had built. In an instant, her dreams of imminent rapture blackened and vanished into the dark. She could not believe it at first. Stunned, she reacted too slowly to avoid the collapse of the pilgrim wall tapestry she had created.
“I’ve got you,” Renfod said.
Screams of shock and pain met her bleeding ears. Everythingand everyoneconnected to the border veil split asunder as it snapped back. Vraith had woven the souls of every pilgrim through herself and into the fabric of the border curtain. All of those threads tore.
Many of the pilgrims died instantly, leaving only statues of crumbling white chalk. Others seemed to have survived, but Vraith could see that their minds and hearts had unhinged as the border veil claimed sections of their life essence.
Vraith smelled burning flesh and ashesthe odor of death and failure. She had the briefest of moments to wonder whether she would be able to survive this catastrophe. If anything, she was more interconnected with the magical fabric of the border veil than any of the pilgrims.
She was grateful, suddenly, for Renfod. He was possibly her only friend. If she could count on anyone, it was him. And she knew with certainty that if she died tonight, Renfod would not hesitate to resurrect her.
This failure would prove a huge setback, and it would no doubt be very painful. But she would be back to try it again. She would figure out what had gone wrong and what would rectify it. Eventually, she would succeed. It was just a matter of time.
Vraith felt a sharp tug. The tendrils of her own spirit, intricately intertwined with the border veil, yanked her spirit out of her flesh. A ripple of the border curtain plucked her soul from her body, leaving her lifeless corpse suddenly slumped in the hands of the faithful Renfod.
It happened so fast that Vraith hardly had time to process the tidal wave of excruciating pain. So she was going to die after all. Vraith felt her consciousness stretch and spread as the threads of her spirit dispersed across the surface of the border veil. She felt herself grow thinner and thinner.
Was she dying? She did not think so.
Neither was this the rapture she had dreamed about, the ascension into the consciousness of the sham that she had wanted for almost all her life. Merging with the sharn, those wondrous nieht black creatures of wild magic, would give her eternal life and supreme knowledge. Incredible power.
This felt different. Vastly different.
With her last coherent thought, Vraith recognized the horror of her mistake. So interwoven with the border curtain, her spirit was irrevocably caught in its matrix. And as the border jerked back into its normal spot, Vraith’s soul stretched across its surfaceimpossibly thin, she spread over the vast expanse of the border veil like a droplet of oil on a still lake.
There could be no resurrection if she was not actually dead. Renfod would no doubt try to bring her back, but she knew it would not work. She had not died, but she had failed. She had failed so utterly that the Order would never attempt such a ritual again. Her plan to expand the Plaguewrought Land was dead even if she was not, her dream to join the sharn forever gone.
For Vraith, trapped and lost across the border curtain, failure was worse than death.
A blazing halo of light shone in the darkness around Slanya. The deep rumbling of a multitude of indistinct voices murmured in the spaces beyond the light. She stood naked on a featureless, gray surface. If she stood in the center, the light gave off no heat.
Gome to me, my child. And she knew it was the voice of Kelemvor.
Blink.
A shock of pain rocketed through her, and she was alive again. Sounds filtered through to her. The rumble of voices faded, replaced by screams of the dying and the clomp of hooves.
The border veil stretched up into the sky. It was back to its previous positionwhere it had been for a hundred vears if historians were correct. The veil cast a ghostly light over the field, making the dying pilgrims look like spirits.
Slanya caught sight of Gregor’s cauldron, lying overturned just beyond what had been the line of pilgrims. The ritual had left half of the pilgrims as towers of blue-tinged salt, crumbling crystalline statues whose entire beings had been dried up by Vraith’s ritual. Some of the monks lay injured among the pilgrims, and others tended to the wounded and sick.
Of Gregor himself, there was no sign.
Pain rocketed through her, burning up her skin. And in the spaces between the pulses of pain, she could feel Duvan’s arms cradling her. She watched him with a distant curiosity. Chunks of his long, dark hair had been pulled out, giving him the look of an abused doll.
He seemed alarmed. “Help!” he yelled. “She needs help! Cleric!” There was panic in his voice, and deep concern.
But she was wet and falling apart. Dying, she knew. Finally stepping into the fire.
Blink.
Aunt Ewesia’s paddle came down hard on the backs of little Slanya’s thighs. She deserved it and worse for what she had done, Aunt said. Moving the cups in the kitchen to a new cupboard was one thing, but forgetting the lye in the laundry basin was inexcusable. She’d been told more than once.
The paddle came down again. Pain radiated out from the point of impact. Despite the calluses, this beating would leave marks. Later, she was thinking. Later she will be asleep and I can have peace.
Blink.
Duvan’s usual three-day beard had been stripped away, leaving exposed and bleeding skin on his face. But when he spoke, his voice was calm, showing no evidence of the pain hT tniiat he in “Halo is cnminTr.” Duvan said. “Hane on.”
She shook her head. The lie in his voice was sweet, but unnecessary. “No,” she mouthed. “Don’t lie to me.”
In response, Duvan gave a solemn nod, but she saw deep sadness in his eyes. He did not want to accept the truth of matters.
Her back itched as though a thousand beetles crawled across her skin. Then the itch turned to pain as the beetles all burrowed into her flesh simultaneously. Each gurgling breath came with great exertion, great agony.
“Duvan,” she said, gritting her teeth from the pain incurred by just speaking. “I need your help to die.”
“No,” he said. “No. No.” His head was shaking. “Kaylinn is sure to be here soon, right? Or another cleric? You just have to hang on.”
He still doesn’t understand, she thought. But she would try to make him. “But it is my time,” she said. “Kelemvor is calling me to him.”
Fear made Duvan’s eyes grow wide as shook his head. Poor, dear friend, Slanya thought.
“I achieved greatness,” Slanya whispered. “We achieved it together, and for that I am proud.” A pulse of agony caused her to spasm and arch her back.
Blink.
Aunt Ewesia’s snores resonated through the room, and Slanya knew it was safe now. Drunk and unconscious, Aunt would be out until morning. Hatred rose up inside Slanya, and despair. Why did she end up with this woman who didn’t want her? She couldn’t run away; everyone in the small town knew her and would return her to Aunt.
Little Slanya was practical enough to know that she’d never make it far enough away, and that the punishment for trying to escape would be severe. No, that wouldn’t work. She must destroy her life. She might die trying, but she might escape. She might be reborn.
Verv deliberately, little Slanva scooted the urate ant tram its place in front of the fire. Moving quietly, she leaned the grate up against the wall. Then she dragged the basket of laundry to a spot just in front of the fire, setting it way too close.
It took far longer than it should have, but little Slanya was patient. Crouching in the shadows by the door, she watched with detachment and pragmatic calculation as the fire finally jumped into the laundry. She stayed at her vigil, breathing through laced fingers, until the room had ignited and Aunt was on fire too. She felt nothing inside at the sight.
Blink.
“Slanya?” Duvan said, wiping at his eyes with an angry, hurried motion.
She couldn’t feel her legs how. “My time has come,” she said flatly. “I can never be put back together. I will die here tonight, but how I die is important.”
Through blurred vision, she watched the devastating realization of her seriousness wreak havoc across Duvan’s face. Underneath the rough, prickly surface, he was a sweet, generous man who kept his word and would do anything for his friends. He had been so very badly mistreated for much of his life; he didn’t deserve more pain.
She loved Duvan, she had come to realize, and hated to hurt him. But she needed him to do this one last difficult thing for her.
“I… don’t know if I can,” Duvan’s voice broke. “It may be selfish, but I want you to stay.”
“I want to stay too,” Slanya said. “But that is not among the choices I now have. I can die slowly in a great deal of pain and anguish. Or” She gurgled fluid in her throat, struggling to breathe. She spat up bloody phlegm.
Tears streamed down Duvan’s dark face now, turning red in the dim light as they mingled with his bloody skin.
“Please do this, Duvan,” she said, coughing. “You are a true friend. I know this is hard for you, but I’m imploring you. I have already lived a meaningful life.”
“That’s more than I can say,” Duvan said. “I’ve cheated death so many times without even knowing or caring about life.”
Duvan’s black eyes hardened above her, his face set in stone as he accepted what she said. “I can take…” His voice wavered. “Take the pain away,” he said. “And you will pass quickly.”
“Do it,” Slanya begged. “Now.”
Moments passed, and she hardly noticed Duvan moving. His arms still held her to his own broken and battered body. She could not think of anywhere else she’d rather die. Slanya barely felt the dagger prick in her shoulder. But the numbing poison spread its paralytic quickly. Anesthetic chased the pain like water chasing away thirst, rapidly washing over her body and cleansing it. Calming her.
“Thank you, my good friend,” she whispered with her last words.
Duvan’s voice was soft and punctuated by sobs. “Good night, friend,” came his words from far, far way. Blink.
Standing naked again on the featureless, gray plane, Slanya stood encircled by the halo of fire. The deep, resonating rumble of voices murmuring in the distance felt reassuring and comforting.
Slanya forgave herself for setting the fire that had killed Aunt Ewesia. She forgave herself for wanting her aunt dead, for knowing that her aunt would probably die. It had been her only way out of an abusive and horrifying childhood, her only way to take control in a situation where she had no power.
Come to me, child. Kelemvor’s voice resonated through her entire soul. And I will calculate the balance of your spirit and set you on your next path.
Slanya found that she could move now. She stepped out of the center of the halo of flames and felt the infernal heat purge her as she walked into the fire. Flames consumed her, but they did not hurt.
And as she passed through, she was cleansed. Her material burdens were lifted from her. This is what she wanted, to be erased and purged, reinvented and incarnated anew.
Slanya found peace.
Sitting on the hard ground with Slanya’s perforated and leaking body slumped in his lap, Duvan stared at the tip of his dagger as he pulled it slowly out of her shoulder. He had killed her to take away her pain. She’d asked him to, and she had been of sound mind. What he had done was a good thing, right?
Knowing all of that didn’t make him feel any better. A deep aching pain filled his chest, making it hard to breathe.
His dagger was still in his hand, its blade glimmering oily green from the sheen of paralytic poison that coated itthe very same blade that he’d used to hasten Slanya’s journey to her death.
Duvan’s blade held plenty more poison to speed him along with Slanya. It would be so fast, so easy. Just a momentary jab and in moments he’d be dead too. No muss, no fuss. Painless and quick.
But she was already gone, he knew. She’d left him and passed to whatever lay beyond. He could die, but he could not follow. Kelemvor would not send him to where she had gone.
Duvan set his blade down. If he could not follow, then he would live. At least for today. For this moment in time, he would live.
Around him, the night was in pandemonium. Dead and
Avina niltrrimK lav everywhere. Rcatteredand bleedinsr. some screaming, some moaning, others passing beyond the pale in quiet anonymity. Those still alive and mobile fled the area by the hundreds, scattering as far away from the border as they could get. There was no way to know for certain that the Plaguewrought Land would stay secure behind the veil.
Duvan noticed that the only people staying to help were the clerics and monks from the monastery. The Order of Blue Fire members had fled with the others. Vraith and her inner circle of accordants seem to have disappeared. Even Tyrangal was not to be found, and her Copper Guard had dispersed., Duvan couldn’t move if he’d wanted to. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever, without help. He merely cradled Slanya’s body and concentrated on his next breath. He focused on his own pains and aches, of which there were plenty. His right leg was broken in at least one place, maybe two. His left leg might also be broken, but he wasn’t sure.
He bled slowly from a hundred tiny abrasions and cuts, but the pain of those was like a deep, burning itch all across his body. Unconsciousness crawled like a swarm of ants at the edges of his mind, advancing then retreating and advancing again. Several times he nearly passed out from weakness and loss of blood, but he was determined not to allow the scavengers or potential poachers near Slanya. By the gods, he would defend her.
Perhaps, she could still be brought back. Kaylinn or another of her clerics could accomplish that, like they had done to him. Duvan hadn’t given up hope yet. And even if Slanya could not be brought back, she deserved a proper funerala celebration of her life, her accomplishments and sacrifices.
“Duvan?” the voice came from behind him.
He croaked out an unintelligible reply.
“Duvan?” It was Kaylinn’s voice. The cleric gasped as she noticed Slanya’s dead body. But her words were soothing. “I’ve found vou. now.” she said. Her voice was both motherlv and commanding. “I will take care of everything.”
At Kaylinn’s arrival, Duvan let Slanya’s hand go. He released his embrace of his dead friend and curled up on the ground next to her body. As Kaylinn’s hands passed over him, examining his injuries, more people arrived to help.
Duvan heard Kaylinn finishing an incantation as though from a great distance. He felt warmth seep into him, and he sensed Kaylinn giving instructions, but he lacked the energy to focus anymore. Duvan let the dark tide of unconsciousness wash over him. Kaylinn would take care of things. Thank the gods for her.
Some time later, Duvan awoke from a dreamless sleep. The smell of jasmine and sage filled his nostrils. The smell reminded him of his home with Papa and Talfani. His wounds had been mended, and his body had been cleaned.
Lying flat on his back, Duvan opened his eyes to a modest monastery room. Through the small window, he saw the first hints of light from the rising sun. Morning birds called and chirped outside.
It was another day. The end of the world had been avoided once more.
Duvan gave a wry chuckle. Then the full impact of Slanya’s death flooded back over him, filling his chest with breath-catching pain. Duvan rolled on his side and pulled the pillow close. He wore a body-length tunic of light cotton, but the fabric felt rough against his battered skin.
Now, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, to disappear into the oblivion. It seemed that his shell of cynicism had lost its ability to deflect pain. He understood that, and he wasn’t even sad about it. He’d been living behind that shell for too long.
“You did well.” The voice sounded musical and enlightening, despite being barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I let you fall.”
She emerged from the shadows by the corner away from the door. Tall and stately, regal in her shimmering garments and coppery rain of hair.
Duvan found he was both glad to see Tyrangal and immensely sad that she wasn’t Slanya.
“I am sorry about Slanya,” Tyrangal said. “The clerics say they’re unable to raise her.”
His gut imploded as though she’d kicked him in the stomach. He gasped as the realization trampled him that he would never see Slanya again. Still, he wasn’t completely surprised.
“It was because of herand youthat we were able to negate Vraith’s ritual,” Tyrangal said. “You two disrupted the ritual magic and put the border back to its original location. Stopped the dam from breaking. Thank you,”
Duvan hugged his pillow into the hollow of his gut, wrapping himself around it. Lonely and aching, the hole in his chest would not be filled.
“Of course it was far from a complete victory. I had to reveal my true self. I may have to move. There are those who will remember me from… before. You should know that I have been called by many names over the centuries ‘Gaulauntyr’ most recently on this world. I fled after the rage and returned only after Mystra’s death.”
Duvan. blinked. Tyrangal grew more interesting and strange by the minute. And yet for all her power, she had been unable to stop the Order of Blue Fire by herself. For all her age and knowledge, she had been unable to prevent Slanya’s death. She could not bring Slanya back.
Tyrangal continued, “Vraith was lost to the Plaguewrought Land and is perhaps dead. But that’s not certain, and if her knowledge of the ritual gets into the hands of her masters, they will certainly try the ritual again in the future. Of course, with Gregor’s disappearance, it will take them a long while to find another elixir.”
Duvan blinked. Gregor was gone? Not that he cared for Gregor; the man had sold him to be tortured by Vraith.
But he also had rescued Slanya after her house had burned down. He was not all bad.
Tyrangal’s hand touched Duvan on the shoulder. “I am not much good at relationships, Duvan,” she said. “Your lives are too short and your actions are colored by the fear of death. But you are different, my friend. It may not seem like it, but I care for you and I consider you a friend.”
Duvan felt the words chase away the emptiness, if only slightly,
“I am rarely one to wax emotional, so please know that I mean it when I tell you this. I want you to stay with me at my mansion or wherever I settle. I have many lairs.”
Duvan took in a breath. This offer was unexpected, and he did not know whether he trusted it. Did she truly want him? Or just his aura of protection?
“I also would like you to consider helping me to keep tabs on the Order of Blue Fire. It is extremely hard to find someone I can trust. I can trust you, Duvan.”
But can I trust you? Duvan wondered. Tyrangal had kept her true nature hidden from him. Had she just saved him from the WildhOme elves to use him for his spellplague resistance? Duvan didn’t know if he could trust anyone besides Slanya.
Tyrangal stood up straight. “The offer of my home is not contingent upon anything. You can come and go as you wish. You can help me combat the Order or not as you wish. However, I sense you are ready for a new journey, friend.”
Duvan nodded. “I just want to rest,” he said. “Just rest.”
“Do that then,” Tyrangal said. “Take some time to rest. Take some time to say good-bye. That is important. But know that you can come to me whenever you need me.”
Duvan took a deep breath and sat up. “Thank you, Tyrangal.” Duvan stood and faced his rescuer, his long-time employer, andjust perhapshis friend. He took her into his arms and hugged her.
She returned the hug with less awkwardness than he expected. Up close she smelled of smoke and hot metal.
“Thank you for everything,” he said. “I am not sure what I will do, but you have been kind and generous to me. You have treated me more like a friend than have most humans.”
Yet, as much as Tyrangal’s relationship was important to him, she was still alien in her thinking, still a dragon at heart. And while he respected her immensely, and he appreciated all that she had done for him, he could not really relate to her with any degree of closeness, especially when contrasted against the intimacy of the bond he had shared with Slanya.
“You are most welcome, Duvan. You are a remarkable human. Don’t believe anyone who says otherwise. Despite the hardships you have endured, or perhaps because of them, you are unique and valuable.”
Duvan gave her an awkward grin. All those things may be true, he thought. And part of him appreciated that Tyrangal had made a point of mentioning them. But none of those things made losing his closest friend any easier.
Sadly, nothing Tyrangal could say would make the hurt of Slanya’s death go away. “I need to leave now,” she said. “But I hope to see you again soon.” And with that she vanished, leaving Duvan standing alone in the room.
Gregor paced the perimeter of the massive chamber one more time. There had to be a way out, just had to be. A domed, stone ceiling arched overhead, polished like red marble veined with black and green.
The floor was made of more of the same, smooth as glass except where ancient crates and piles of what looked like valuable sculptures and ceramics, embroidered pennants and crested armor drifted haphazardly. Gresror hadnt tried to move the piles yet, to see if there were any exits through the floor, but that would come in time, if necessary.
The light in here seemed to come from crystals set into the domed ceiling high above, but if there was another source, such as windows to the outside, Gregor couldn’t tell. His flying abilities were lacking for the moment.
He chuckled, then caught himself. A few hours in here and he was already starting to lose his discipline. That was a bad sign.
But so far his diligent, methodical check of the room had revealed nothing. So far his adherence to order was doing him no good.
“Good to see you haven’t given up.”
The abrupt appearance of a very large dragon in the room startled Gregor. As it was no doubt supposed to do, he thought.
“Tyrangal?” he guessed.
Muscles rippled underneath heavy copper scales. Her batlike wings stretched for a moment before folding against her body. Her lips peeled back to reveal huge teeth. “Very good.”
“I saw you fall to the ground at the ritual. And watched as the plagueland swallowed you.”
“That wasn’t very enjoyable,” Tyrangal said. “But I survived, thanks to your elixir. I drank the rest of the cauldron just before the border broke down.”
Gregor smiled, determined not to show his fear. The horns that curved from her skull were as long and sharp as swords, and the disconcerting bitter smell of acid hung over her. “You’re welcome, then,” he said.
“We won, actually, if you haven’t heard.”
“I” Gregor considered. “The last things I remember are the ritual failing and the border snapping back into place.”
“fin thanks to vou.” Tvraneal’s tone had erown mean.
Her claws scraped against the polished stone floor, the sharp sound raising the hairs on Gregor’s neck.
“I was pursuing a vision,” Gregor said, defensive. “The ritual could be used to reduce the size of the Plaguewrought Land and eventually contain all the remnants of the Spellplague.”
Tyrangal’s deep laugh rumbled through the cavern.
“You can laugh, but it is a noble vision. I thought it worth pursuing and even convinced High Priestess Kaylinn to move to Ormpetarr in pursuit of it.”
Tyrangal’s laughter cut abruptly off. “Yes, a noble vision, but a naive one. Your visions, my young monk, were sent to you by creatures who help shape the Order agenda.”
“What?” Gregor felt like he’d been kicked in the gut.
“The Order of Blue Fire has been sending you images of what you want to see. Ultimately, they were hoping that you’d join the Order, but at a minimum they just needed your elixir. And that, you happily supplied to them.”
Gregor’s gasped for breath. His dreams had been fabricated? He’d been manipulated?
“The Spellplague cannot be contained,” Tyrangal went on. “It is, in fact, a major feat that your elixir works at all, and that is the reason I helped you. That is the reason you are still alive.”
Suddenly, Tyrangal was standing next to him in human form. Her long, auburn hair shone brightly in the light from the crystals above, and her round, golden eyes appraised him kindly. “Let me show you something.” She reached out and touched him on the shoulder.
In a flash, the room disappeared. And suddenly the two of them stood side by side in a richly appointed chamber lined with bookshelves and reagent bottles. Gregor stepped back in shock; the books on the shelves were his books. The labels on the reagent bottles were written in his handwriting.
“TVe hrnucrht. vnnr lnh horo n she aaiA “T want wwi tr, continue your work, but for me this time. Here you will be shielded from the influence of the Order, from their visions.”
Gregor looked around. If anything, this lab was better equipped than his own. “And if I refuse?”
Tyrangal stared into his eyes, and for a brief moment, her gold eyes became reptilian slits. Her tone, however, was matter-of-fact. “We live in dangerous times, Gregor. An epic battle is shaping. You can choose to be a part of it. Or through negligence, become a casualty. I don’t have a lot of patience for apathy.”
Gregor grimaced. It was clear that she would kill him in some way if he didn’t agree. “Such options! What are we working on?”
Tyrangal grinned. “I suspected you would listen to reason,” she said. “You are a pragmatic being. This location should be shielded enough so that you won’t get any confusing visions. Vraith may still be out there, and even if she’s dead, the Order of Blue Fire will replace her with another. There are big forces at work.”
Gregor nodded. So she wants help, he thought. And he realized that they were mostly on the same side. Perhaps he wouldn’t be compromising his ideals by helping her. Not that he had much choice.
“To begin with,” Tyrangal said, “we’ll need more of your elixir. And also, I think you’ll be interested in taking a look at this.” She indicated a thick tome lying on the table. “This is something that Duvan graciously acquired for me recently.”
Gregor stepped up to the table and looked closely at the heavy book. The cover was crafted from thick hide and inlaid with gold runes. “What is it?”
“When the goddess Mystra died,” Tyrangal said, “much old magic was lost. Many spells and powers that used her Weave no longer work. This tome contains some of the most powerful, and I am only able to cast a small fraction of them in the current climate.” The dragon’s tone grew soothing, reassuring. “You have an extraordinary ability to infuse magic into your potions, Gregor. You understand how modern magic works.”
Gregor was somewhat confused, and apparently it showed on his face.
“There are some potion recipes in here,” Tyrangal said. “They are yours. I want you to figure out how to make them work now. And I want you to show me your process. I think you can teach me. Perhaps I can use your methodology to adapt the other spells to the modern rules of magic.”
“Ah,” Gregor said. “Well, I will try.” He tried to sound indifferent, but truth be told, he was quite intrigued by the tome. Perhaps this captivity would be interesting. “But I am curious…”
“Yes?”
“If I cooperate fully, how long do you intend to keep me prisoner here?”
“You have not shown me that you are trustworthy. You went against my counsel and aided the Order.”
Gregor lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can see now that I made a grievous error.”
“However,” Tyrangal continued, “I abhor slavery. I know what it is like to be overcome by passions and visions that compel you to do things you would otherwise not do. I have done things that I regret. For many years I was a victim of the Rage.
“I banished myself until it passed, until I could return with the ability to act as an intelligent and free creature. And that is what I hope to do for you here. Dry you out and free you of your obsession with these visions. Free you of your addiction.”
Gregor nodded. He had already started missing them.
“I believe that in time, your visions will fade from your mind. You have a strong will, Gregor. You did not join the
Order when that would have been the easy path. In large part, that is why I have invested so much in you. I believe you can be rehabilitated.”
Gregor took a deep breath, realizing that Tyrangal had not given him a time frame. She might never release him.
“And then, Gregor, when I have gained a measure of trust in you, I will free you.”
“Well at least that’s something to work toward,” he said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
“I have big plans, Gregor,” Tyrangal said. “You and I will make excellent partners.”
Gregor wondered if he could ever believe that.
“For now, take a look through the tome that Duvan brought me; I think you will find it very engaging. Meanwhile, I must leave you for a while. I have much to do, much to prepare for.” With that she teleported away, leaving him alone.
Gregor looked at the tome. Yes, he had to admit he was intrigued. But first, he started pacing the perimeter, looking for a way out. Just in case.