The night swirled around Gregor, spellplague traces flickering like blue and white ghosts. He couldn’t look directly at the remnants of spellplagueat the hell of chaos that was the core essence of that energywithout losing exacting control over his body.
The blue fire was pure and random violence, destruction in its most wild and primal form. For Gregor, whose entire life had been about achieving and maintaining control, such force in close proximity caused an uncontrollable nausea to flow through, him. Vertigo teased the edges of his mind.
In the presence of Vraith and her entourage from the Order of Blue Fire, however, Gregor was determined not to show any outward signs of discomfort or fear. His invitation to be here, he realized, was more than a courtesy. He supplied a critical component to make this ritual possible, or so they hoped. But it was certainly clear that Vraith wanted him to agree to what they were doing, to support it, and perhaps even to devote his resources and those of the monastery to it.
Gregor was flattered by the attention, and if this ritual worked, the possibilities for containing spellplague across all of Faerun would make it all worth it. But his informal arrangement with Tyrangal would make working with Vraith risky. He didn’t understand exactly why, but the two womenprobably the two most powerful figures in Ormpetarrdid not get along.
Squinting to avoid swirling dust particles in the air, Gregor stood at a safe distance and watched Vraith perform the trial ritual. Even three hours after the sun had set, the wind was warm and fickle. It switched direction seemingly at random, kicking up sand and dirt in the process.
Gregor stood with a small group of observers, about thirty yards from the sharp drop-off that marked the border to the changelands. The sky above was dappled with high, gray clouds and darker spots where motes floated silently. The sky seemed positively serene compared to the ground, which Gregor felt could buckle and shake at any moment, and it was only the knowledge that the border had been stable for nearly a hundred years that allowed him to remain calm-There was a veil of sorts at the cliffan almost imperceptible translucent curtain that held the storm of spellplague in check. Vraith had told him that she’d been studying how the border worked, and how that magic might be manipulatedcontrolled even.
Vraith took the pilgrim volunteers and spaced them out evenly in a semicircle facing the border. Gregor counted nine of them, and each held a vial. His elixir would hopefully be able to help the pilgrims maintain the integrity of their bodies against the wild nature of the spellplague.
“Drink the elixir,” Vraith commanded, her voice like slate. “It will protect you.”
This would be her second trial, Vraith had claimed. The first one had failed because the blue fire killed the pilgrims before the ritual could be completed. Gregor hadn’t asked how they had died, those pilgrims, but he suspected that it had been fairly painful and gruesome.
The pilgrims who came back sick from their pilgrimage to the border of the Plaguewrought Land were only exposed to tiny amounts of spellplaguemere brushstrokes on the canvas of their souls. Many of those were ill for tendays and often didn’t survive even that much exposure.
Gregor did not understand the pilgrims who came to the Plaguewrought Land. Too often, they were unpredictable and driven by unquantifiable forcesit wasn’t logical or even comprehensible for them to risk the integrity of their bodies and their lives by purposefully seeking exposure to the spellplague in hopes of gaining a spellscar and the ability that went with it.
His spellscar had happened by accident. He had not sought it out, and it had nearly killed him. He understood the power that came with the spellscarthe incredible clarity and vision he now had with potions and alchemical concoctions. Still, he would counsel none of these fools to follow his path.
In front of him now, Vraith had started casting a complicated and powerful ritual. She held a small, bejeweled dagger in her hands, pressing its shimmering blue blade to the palms of each pilgrim to make small cuts.
“Join hands now,” she instructed. “Blood to blood, you will form a seamless entity.”
The pilgrims happily obliged. Under her spell, Gregor presumed, they would do almost anything.
“Now, take one step forward in unison.”
Fascination and dread welled inside Gregor as he watched the half-circle move toward the border veil. The pilgrims at either end of the arc nearly touched the spellplague that undulated like liquid fire on the other side of the veil.
Abruptly, wispy tendrils snaked out from Vraith’s chest like red-tinged fog. Standing outside the ring, the wizard’s eyes went milky, and her body swayed in rhythm to her chant. The red tendrils snaked through the pilgrims and wove them all together with their magic. Vraith sang in a language that Gregor did not know. Her voice rose and fell, rose and fell, and as she sang, the acrid odor of the Plaguewrought Land in summer swelled until Gregor felt he was going to retch. He clamped down on his gag reflex, using all his self-control to remain stoic and anchored.
The veil moved, then the swirling magic inside the border jumped to the nearest pilgrims. Like flames to tinder, the blue fire leaped from pilgrim to pilgrim, burning through their bodies. Their clothes evaporated. Their hair and skin glowed with translucent energy of the palest blue. Like the finest gauze, spidery and ethereal, the spellplague engulfed the semicircle of pilgrims.
The vision returned then, the vision he’d experienced when the spellplague had first come to him, haunting him like it always did. Gregor reached out for support as his head split in pain for a moment. The world vanished around him. Even the stench was gone.
In his vision, Gregor walked through a landscape of fiat green fields covered at regular intervals by archways of blue fire. The spellplague was under perfect and exacting control, forming a lattice threadwork of geometric patterns through the flat, grassy plain.
Here was the possible futureone which was organized and controlled. One in which wild magic interwove with the plane in knowable and predictable ways. No more random and irrational tragedies.
Just as suddenly as it had come, the vision faded, and Gregor found himself back at the trial ritual. This was first step to achieving that vision, one possible way that the changelands could be ordered.
The veil that marked the border of the Plaguewrought Land shifted then, moved to encapsulate the new bulge and the pilgrims with it. That border had not moved in years, but Vraith had moved it.
“Now!” Vraith screamed. “Break the circle now!”
The pilgrims let go of each other and flung themselves out of the borderinside which the earth was already collapsing and breaking up, flying into the sky like an inverted waterfall of rock.
Or most of them did. Gregor caught sight of two who didn’t make it out in time, whose bodies went flying up with the earth, and who did not come down. They disappeared into the vastness of the Plaguewrought Land.
Clerics rushed to the pilgrims who had made it, examined them, and pronounced them all alive. Not well, but alive. They would require healing for many, many days, and might not make it.
But they had survived the initial exposure, every one. The elixir worked!
Vraith would certainly want more for her full-scale ritual. Much more. All that rested on Slanya now, and the guide Tyrangal said she could get.
Gregor smiled broadly. His head pain was gone, and he felt renewed. His path was clear.
Letting the blanket that served as a curtain fall into place behind him, ten-year-old Duvan stared at what remained of his village. The houses and barns had been leveled and burned to the ground by the spellplague. Smoke still rose from the ashes. Partial skeletons and scattered bones littered what remained of the single road.
Duvan staggered away from the house, razed except for Duvan’s small room. Some of the bodies were more fully recognizable as people. There was Trelthas, an older girl who had just announced her intention to marry Erephus. Duvan had liked her, and there she was providing a fertile bed for maggots.
His stomach heaved at the stench coming from the corpse, and his knees buckled. He vomited bile, the acid burning his throat.
When the nausea passed, he wiped the tears away angrily and continued his search. He found no one alive and many more bodies, all maggot-riddled and decomposing.
Everyone was gone, including Papa. He searched for Papa’s body, but he never found it. What he did find was a food cache, near one of the huge holes in the ground, over by what was left of Elder Lindraut’s barn. Duvan stared into the jagged scar in the ground and caught sight of the food cellar about ten yards down.
One wall and part of the ceiling had been ripped away like the skin of an orange, and inside he could see shelves of dried fruit, hard bread, and bottles of wine. As with other places in the destroyed village, here and there, patches of the blue gauzy web still flickered like the last clinging remnants of fire to a cinder. There were several small but active patches down in the scar, between him and the store of food.
Still, this was the only food he had found, and his hunger drove him to get it. He climbed down the jagged rock wall, managing to avoid the pockets of spellplague, and slipped into the cellar. He found an empty burlap sack and filled it with as much food as he could lift.
Then he climbed back out. He’d always been good at climbing. He hurried back to Talfani to share the food. “Hey, ‘Fani!” he said, pushing the heavy blanket aside. “It’s eating time!”
Talfani rolled in the bed and stared up at him, her tired eyes full of grief. All color had drained from her face, her normally dark skin pale and her lips almost translucent. Clearly she’d been exposed while he had been searching for food.
Talfani’s illness had worsened after he’d come back with food. He’d tended to her over the next few days as she faded away. He had tried to save her and care for her as best he could. He remembered it like it was yesterday; her soul’s light had dimmed, guttered, and then finally, when it went out, it was a relief for her.
But for ten-year-old Duvan it was no relief. He could not bear it. Talfani had been a joined soulhis twin. He had depended upon her, and with her gone it was as though half of his spirit had been ripped away. When she finally gave up and let go of her body, young Duvan had stopped eating. He’d stopped caring and had just lay with her emaciated corpse for days or tendays. He had no recollection of time passing.
Duvan might’ve died back then, but for a travelling company of elves bound for Wildhome. They had wandered up to see if they could salvage anything. Ageless and graceful, these noble people had saved Duvan from the wreckage.
He had always wanted to run away and join them, but when they had finally come for him, he didn’t care. He never forgave them for rescuing him… and for what they did to him after.
Lying on the ground, Duvan shook himself and yawned. A hot wind gusted through his hair, drying the sweat on his forehead, and cut the humid jungle air. A magic ring one of Tyrangal’s treasureshad brought him halfway back to Ormpetarr before depositing him and his horse in a clearing in the middle of the Chondalwood. He had ridden the better part of the remaining distance in the last day, but he still had some time to go before he reached Ormpetarr.
Tendrils of memory clung to him like spider silk. Duvan angrily wiped his eyes as he saddled up his horse. Selune was high, and it was hardly midnight, but if sleep meant the same nightmare remembrances, he’d rather ride than sleep.
Duvan finished packing his saddlebags and mounted up. He spurred the horse into motion and pushed out in the deep blue dark of the half-moon, as the horse slipped as fast as it could toward Ormpetarr, Tyrangal, and the completion of this botched mission.
Not home, Duvan thought. I have no real home.
But he did crave a deep, sound sleep and a long, hot bath. All in the company of his favorite girl-the inestimable Moirah. Well, Duvan thought with a chuckle, she actually was estimable; he knew exactly how much she charged.
Still, as the night landscape moved under his horse’s hooves, Duvan felt safe in the anonymity of the darkness and silence. Night meant shadows and obscurity. Other creatures, emboldened by the darkness, prowled in the grass and scrubby trees that covered these moonlit hills. Wild and alive, an untamable and primal energy swirled around him.
Duvan rode all night, and by the time the sky had begun to lighten, he was passing caravans of pilgrims headed south to Ormpetarr. He skirted them in the dim light but did not stop despite their jubilance and offers of food and drink. He wanted nothing more than to reach Ormpetarr and melt into the arms of his temporary lover, his rented friend. Moirah’s attentions were what he needed after this journey, before he reported to Tyrangal. He knew that the tall, strange woman would want him to deliver the recovered tome as soon as he could. But she knew his habits and his needs, and she would wait for him.
Tyrangal understood him better than any other person. They had a mutually beneficial business arrangement, although sometimes Duvan wondered why she had chosen him. Of all the available people, she had sought him out.
It had been Tyrangal who had finally given him liberty when she took him away from the Wildhome elves, many years after Talfani’s death. The same elves who had saved him from wasting away next to Talfani’s corpse had taken him to their alien and beautiful forest cityand had never let him leave their velvet prison.
Duvan shuddered. He would never trust a Wildhome elf again, and he would always hate clerics of Silvanus. Rhiazzshar had forever spoiled their reputation in his eyes. The young elf priestess had come to him when he was outcast and ridiculed. She had comforted him, befriended him, and lured him into trusting her. Duvan had loved her, and she had abused his love.
Finally, as the sun was growing low again, he came over the last hill and stared down into the valley that housed Ormpetarr. Half of the old city had been destroyed by the Spellplague long before Duvan’s time. That half still lay behind the hazy veil of the Plaguewrought Land border.
Looking down into the valley, Duvan marveled at the proliferation of tents and makeshift shelters. Pilgrims were arriving and staying in numbers he’d never seen before.
Ormpetarr consisted of a central thoroughfare surrounded by a bustling merchant district with the Changing House just to the side closest to the border. To the city’s south there was the only recently-built stone buildinga temple complex of all things. And crammed cheek by jowl across the spaces around and in between were hundreds upon hundreds of pilgrims’ tents. Ormpetarr was a boom town. Lots of coin to be had, but wild and quite dangerous. Just the sort of place where people like Duvan thrived.
He grinned and made his way through the gates and into the city. One of Tyrangal’s guardshe recognized the guard’s burnished red chainmailhailed Duvan.
Duvan waved the man over. “Well met,” he said.
“Well met, sir,” the guard said. “You’ve returned?”
“Yes, and I have news for Tyrangal, for her ears alone. Tell Tyrangal that the ‘scarred man she hired, Beaugrat, is a spy for the Order.”
The man’s eyes went wide. “He passed this gate no more than an hour ago, sir. Looked tired. Nearly fell off his horse.”
“Too bad he didnt,” muttered Duvan. He jerked his head in the direction of Tyrangal’s abode. “Go, now.”
The guard bowed slightly, then turned and made his way along the road that led up the hill. Tyrangal lived in an old stone mansion overlooking the city. The better to keep an eye on its inhabitants, Duvan supposed. Duvan would pay her a visit later in the day, but first he wanted to get some dreamless sleep. There was only one person he knew who could help him with that.
Thus, a few minutes later, as the sky grew light, Duvan found himself the sole patron of the Jewel. He sat at the polished wood bar, whose numerous knife and burn scars were more of a testament to its less-than-savory clientele than to its age.
Duvan ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. He needed a bath, he knew. The dirt of the road stuck to him like dried sweat, and his leathers were permeated with travel grime and the blood of the past evening’s events.
A bath and a shave, he thought. Now that would feel good.
Duvan downed the last of his ale. Moirah could help when she got in. Ah, Moirah. “Another tankard, Pritchov,” Duvan said.
The half-ore nodded and slid a freshly filled tankard down the bar to him.
Duvan sipped the ale. Not as bad now as the first half-mug. The Jewel didn’t have the best food and drink, but they made up for it in the quality of their other offerings. He set a silver coin on the bar. “Just keep ‘em coming, Pritchov. At least until Moirah gets in.”
“I’m here.” Moirah’s voice was the perfect growly blend of raspy and sweet, like honey over toasted seed-bread.
The stale-beer-and-piss-pot odor gave way to jasmine perfume as she approached. If he weren’t already intoxicated, she would have done the job at one sighting.
Moirah was a slight woman with an elf s build and raven curls. Her dark eyes gazed dreamily at Duvan. It was a look, he knew, that was either calculated or drug induced. Still, he pretended there was some sincerity. Their interaction was a performance, a dance, and a business exchange. He rarely let himself lose his edge, but when he did, he went all the way.
Duvan found himself smiling, his gaze tracking over Moirah as she walked toward him. Her slow saunter agonized him. Her over-red lips and her eyes said, “Come and get me.” But Duvan waited. He’d played this game before, and she had to dictate the pace. Slow was good, he knew. Slow was exceedingly good in the end.
Gauzy blue and purple silks wrapped her body, layered enticingly to hide all the most desirable parts. Her navel was showing, and below it was her spellscar, nearly translucent, trailing down and disappearing into the sash at her waist. That scar, and the ability that came with it, was a good part of why Duvan always asked for Moirah.
She reached the bar and pulled his head down to breathe into his ear. “I’m ready when you are,” she whispered.
Duvan looked at Pritchov. “No interruptions,” he said, lifting his pack. Then he let Moirah lead him by his belt down the hall and into a room.
Slanya awoke well before dawn, donned her travelling leathers, ate a quick breakfast, and left the temple on foot. She walked past the hospital tents and the smoldering funeral pit, heading into the city. Gregor had said that Tyrangal was expecting her at dawn, and she intended to be prompt despite her doubts.
Chances were slim that the guild leader would know of anyone willing to guide her into the changelands, let alone someone capable. Slanya figured such a guide didn’t exist. Who would be stupid or desperate enough to risk his or her life like that?
Slanya skirted the main thoroughfare, which was already awake with locals and eager pilgrims. She fought down a surge of disgust. These people sought power and uniqueness but were unwilling to work hard for it. Greedy for their spellscars and whatever abilities that came with them, the pilgrims risked their lives for an instantaneous transformation..
Sighing, Slanya reminded herself that she was here to help the pilgrims, not to pity or despise them. Fools would always exist, would always hasten their own deaths. Such was the way of things. If she succeeded in gathering more plaguegrass for Gregor, perhaps the elixir would help give some of them a second chance.
Slanya walked up the ancient road that led north out of Ormpetarr and up toward Tyrangal’s mansionaway from the Plaguewrought Land. Slanya had never been to the changelands before, nor had she seen the border from closer than the city’s main thoroughfare. It was danger enough living so close to the edge of the wild magic.
Tearing her gaze from the border veil, which stretched up into the sky, Slanya passed through the once-grand city gate and out of the city. The cool pre-dawn light cast the city walls and structures in deep indigo and cobalt.
Tyrangal’s home stood just up the hill from the northeast corner of Ormpetarr and was easily the most expansive and commanding building in the whole city. As she climbed up the winding road toward the mansion, Slanya realized that she was being watched. She caught glimpses of burnished red armormembers of Tyrangal’s Copper Guard, which kept peace in Ormpetarr as well as protected Tyrangal’s interests, whatever those were. But nobody approached or detained Slanya. The benefits of making an appointment, she presumed.
Slanya passed through an old iron gate hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. Then she picked her way across an expanse of pitted rubble and collapsed stone buildings. Huge craters gaped where house-sized chunks of earth had been uprooted.
The smell of soot and blackened pitch mingled with the odor of brine blowing in from the dry mud flats on the far edge of the ruins. Ormpetarr had been a lake town in its heydaya bustling commercial port. But the huge lake had dried up decades earlier, drained into the Underchasm like the seas themselves.
Finally, Slanya reached the doors of Tyrangal’s mansion. Gargoyles leered down from the gutters and cornices of the clean and sturdy masonry. A gemstone amongst trash, Slanya musedand a well-protected gemstone at that. She knocked on the carved wooden door that towered in front of her, filling a stone archway at least three times her height.
The door opened to reveal a high-ceilinged vestibule. “Please come in, Sister Slanya.” The voice was melodious and deep for a woman’s. “I won’t bite, I promise.”
Feeling drawn forward, Slanya stepped inside. And before she realized it the door was closing behind her, plunging the room into darkness. “I have had brief communication with your Brother Gregor,” came that musical voice again, seeming to harmonize with itself. Slanya wanted to listen to it for hours.
The light filtering in through the high windows did little to allay the darkness in the room. Slanya hesitated while her eyes adjusted. Soon she found herself fascinated by the room itself. The marble floor was inlaid with a mosaic of a dragon, the sinuous likeness crafted from many tiny shards of polished Copper. The stone walls held paintings and alcoves for statues, but there was no order to them. Too many valuable pieces crammed cheek by jowl together.
Slanya pursed her lips in distaste. The display conveyed not beauty or elegance, but excess and wealth.
“Mistress Tyrangal,” Slanya said in the direction of the voice. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Tyrangal stepped into view from the shadows. “Please just call me Tyrangalno ‘mistress’ necessary.”
Slanya was tall for a human, but Tyrangal stood a head taller. She wore a rust-colored silk robe embroidered with runes that Slanya couldn’t read. Tyrangal looked older than Slanya, but how much older Slanya couldn’t say: the other woman’s face had a timeless quality. The most striking thing about Tyrangal, however, was her hair. Hanging straight down to the backs of her knees, it shimmered a strangely metallic auburn in the dim light.
“Certainly, Tyrangal,” Slanya said, gathering her wits. She had no reason to be intimidated, but the thought did her no good.
“Can I offer you nourishment?” Tyrangal asked.
“Thank you; I have eaten already this morning.”
“Ah, but do you not desire to try new things? Curiosity, Slanya, and new experiences are what keep us alive.”
“Certainly,” Slanya said. “But my matter is of some urgency to Brother Gregor, and I would do well by him to conduct our business first.”
A smirk flickered across Tyrangal’s featuresamused and predatory all at once. “Very well,” she said. “We shall start with business. What can I acquire for you?”
“I need a guide into the changelands.”
“You wish to become spellscar red?”
Slanya shook her head. “No. Brother Gregor has perfected an elixir that can protect the exposed from getting sick and dying. One of the ingredients can be found in abundance only inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Land.”
“So this guide would have to travel into the changelands with you and help you find and gather this ingredient?”
Slanya shrugged. “Does such a person even exist?”
“Well,” Tyrangal said with a coy smile, “it turns out that I know someone qualified to do just that.”
“In truth?” Slanya hadn’t believed anyone would be foolish enough to do that, even for the kind of coin Gregor was willing to pay.
“In truth.” Tyrangal’s tone was playful. “Although, in truth, if I were lyingwhich I have been known to do from time to timeyou would not be able to discern it from truth.”
Slanya considered. She would have to trust Tyrangal on this. “You have a good reputation.”
Tyrangal laughed, and it was a melody of the gods to Slanya’s ears. “Yes, dear girl. Trust in society comes from a collection of opinions. I like you.”
Unsure how to take that, Slanya remained quiet.
“There are some things that you should know,” Tyrangal continued. “One, the journey will test you. Two, you have a good chance of dying. And three”
“Are you trying to scare me into not going?”
“Not at all. Not at all,” Tyrangal said. “These are just things I can tell. I can also see that you’ve never been inside the border of the changelands.”
Slanya nodded. The statement was true enough, although she suspected shed be tempted to agree with whatever that wonderful voice told her, true or not.
“If there is an order, purpose, or logical organization to the Spellplague’s destructive force, then I know not what it is,” Tyrangal continued. “The changelands are the one place in Faerun where the rules of law are always changing, where nature follows no patterns and the only constant is chaos.”
Tyrangal paused, her smirk gone. Her golden eyes shone yellow in the morning light. “That seems like a dangerous place for someone who holds tight to an ordered world.”
Slanya remembered the funeral fire from yesterday, the allure of the flames oh so close. All the fires from her past came to her mind, and the temptation of losing her control rose up in her in that remembrance. Yes, there was something to Tyrangal’s assertion.
“I understand,” Slanya said. “And thank you. But you need not concern yourself with me.”
Tyrangal smiled. “I’m not ‘concerned,’ but I do like to give my customers the full benefit of my knowledge. You’re paying for these warnings. Perhaps they will help you prepare.”
Slanya nodded. “Thank you. What was number three?”
“Three, you will find the guide is a bit… wild and unruly.”
Slanya gave a confident smile. “That, I think I can handle.”
Tyrangal appraised Slanya carefully. “I think you might, at that,” she said.
“So where might I find this guide?”
“He is currently out on a task I have given him. I expect him to return to me by tonight or tomorrow.”
“That long?” Slanya asked. “With the Festival of Blue Fire in two days, we need vastly more elixir than we can currently make. Otherwise hundreds of pilgrims will get sick and die.”
“Well,” Tyrangal said slyly. “I do happen to know that he’s arrived back in Ormpetarr, but he hasn’t personally paid me a visit just yet. Not his style to come to me right away. He attends to…other needs first.”
Slanya frowned. “I’d like to speak with him as soon as possible. If he’s in Ormpetarr, I shall seek him out.”
“I don’t recommend it; he will return when he is ready. Hurrying him isn’t likely to speed your departure any, and it certainly won’t win you any favors.”
Shifting from foot to foot, Slanya considered her options. She could ignore Tyrangal’s counsel, or she could wait.
“However,” Tyrangal continued, “I can see that you feel you cannot sit idle. So for your own sense of accomplishment I will tell you this: His name is Duvan, and you will likely find him at the Jewelthe festhall and gambling house across from Finara’s Inn on the main thoroughfare.”
“Thank you,” Slanya said, wanting the interview to be over. “I shall seek him but”.
“Be careful, young cleric,” Tyrangal said. “Duvan is a feral beast on his best days, but he is truly the only person who can accomplish what you seek to do. I have considerable influence over him, but he is completely free to make his own choices. I advise against angering him.”
“Your counsel is Very much appreciated, Tyrangal, If my need weren’t so pressing…”
“But I see that it is. You may go, and may the gods watch over you.”
Slanya took her leave and headed back down into Ormpetarr, her gaze studiously avoiding the gut-heaving swirl of the border veil. And by the time she’d made the walk back down the hill, through the gate and into heart of Ormpetarr, the Sun had fully risen.
Beneath a cloudless sky of palest blue, peppered with motes flowing out from the changelands, the thoroughfare bustled with activity. The cobbles and flagstones from the city had pitted and become uneven, replaced with dirt and mud. Wooden shop fronts and businesses of all kinds lined the thoroughfare while merchants with wagons and carts, tents and tarps crowded the streets. Under the vigilant gaze of Tyrangal’s guards and the Order of Blue Fire Peacekeepers, merchants plied their wares to the crowd.
Slanya insinuated her way through the people, heading for the Jewel and its reportedly seedy clientele… including her guide. Not for the first time, Slanya wondered what she’d gotten herself into. This Duvan character sounded uncivilized and potentially dangerous.
Ormpetarr drew all races and all professions. It was a magnet for adventurers, danger seekers, and those on the extreme edge of reason. Dwarves and elves worked side by side with humans, halflings, and genasi. Order was intermittently enforced, and yet everyone seemed to operate under similar basic understandings. Still, there wasn’t enough of a social contract for Slanya’s comfort. In the monastery they learned about the interdependence of the different parts of society. Kaylinn required all her clerics and monks to acknowledge this interdependence and make explicit their agreement to maintain the order.
The rules of commerce and social convention in Ormpetarr were more haphazard and arbitrary than Slanya was comfortable with. For all her helpfulness, Tyrangal wielded her Copper Guard like a weapon, and the only group powerful enough to thwart their influence was the Order of Blue Fire.
Slanya didn’t know all the ins and outs of the city’s power struggles. This absence of the rule of law was certainly unfair to the newcomer pilgrim, who could easily get fleeced by predatory swindlers and street vendors.
The Jewel was in an older wooden structure in the center of the town, across from the main inn and down the street from the Order of Blue Fire’s headquarters. Slanya entered through the swinging doors and stood alert and ready.
“Welcome to the Jewel,” came a deep voice from the darkness to her right. “I’m guessing you’re not here for a drink, and you don’t look like you’ll be buying our usual services… although we are discreet if that’s what you’re looking for.” The voice held an amused edge. Slanya’s eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light in the room to see the voice’s owner, a large half-ore wearing an apron and tending the bar.
“Or maybe you’re here for a job?” Slanya glanced left toward this new voice. Leaning against a post was a middle-aged dwarf woman wearing makeup and brightly colored, fancy clothes. “You’re a mite threatening,” the dwarf continued, “but not unattractive… and the bald, tattooed-scalp look would attract a whole new clientele!”
The bartender laughed. Other than the two who had greeted her, the Jewel was predominately empty. A small group of halflings and humans spoke in hushed tones in one corner, and there was an elf in scarred black leather standing at the bar.
Slanya felt her face start to redden, but she concentrated to make it not show. “I’m here looking for a human named Duvan,” she said. “It’s important.”
“Duvan is here,” said the bartender. “But he’s, ah… indisposed, if you know what I mean. Knowing Duvan and Moirah, he will be here all day, and maybe all night as well.”
The dwarf woman spoke. “You’d best come back tomorrow, girl. Unless you fancy a drink, a rattle and roll, or a turn in one of our comfy beds. I guarantee they’re more comfortable than the burlap and straw you’re used to.”
Slanya took a slow breath to avoid the anger she felt rising. Anger was the enemy of self-control. All of her identity and abilities required control of her body and mind. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer and the advice, but I need to find Duvan now. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“It’s your funeral,” said the bartender.
“All life is,” Slanya said. Stepping into the hall, she started opening doors.
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
Commander Accordant Vraith rolled over and went back to sleep in her darkened bedroom on the top story of the Changing House. Her wide bed Was luxuriously appointed with down-stuffed pillows and silk bed linens.
Such comfort befitted a person of her stature, and she wasn’t about to relinquish her privileges just because the Order had assigned her to this pit. Working at the very edge of the Plaguewrought Land was supposed to be the highest honor, but Vraith hated it.
She was only here to make her chances of raptureof absorption into the shammore likely. Once she’d followed through on its prophecy and had completed the rituals then she would be truly transcendent. She could escape this grubby mortality completely.
Ever since the spellplague had appeared to her on thirteenth birthday, hovering like a ghost of blue fire in her dormitory room at the wizard academy, she had wanted to merge with it. Ever since the spellplague had touched her, blossoming a spellscar in her chest, Vraith had pursued a singular agenda.
She would learn and work, manipulate and coerce, struggle and create to achieve her goal. Whatever it took, Vraith would do it. Her passion was unmatched, her dedication unparalleled.
Vraith was convinced that when her ritual expansion of the Plaguewrought Land succeeded, the sharn creatures of pure chaos and powerwould see the benefit of her contribution and welcome, her into their immortal essence.
Only when she had become part of that godly communal consciousness would her rapture be complete. Only then could she escape this dingy backwater.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
What could the perpetrator be thinking? she wondered. She had a reputation for quick anger and decisive justice for those who disobeyed her commands. And one of the reasons she had cultivated that reputation was so that her sleep would not be interrupted.
Vraith slipped out of the silk sheets. “This had better be important” she said, standing in the cool dark.
“My apologies, Mistress Vraith,” came the muffled reply. “I have urgent news.”
Vraith had trouble placing the voice at first, primarily because she was expecting Renfod or one of his lackeys. Standing naked in the darkened chamber, Vraith’s small body gathered energy. Wrath was a great source of power, and Vraith knew how to use it.
She walked to the door and opened the small viewing square in the top of it. “What is so important that it justifies waking me? ” she snapped.
“I am sorry.” Beaugrat cowered on his knees outside the door. “I needed to speak with you right away.”
Vraith’s spellscar seemed to burn in her gut. Looking down on her nakedness, Vraith watched her spellscar, which formed a jagged, deep black line from her sternum to her crotch. Her abdomen glowed slightly red with the scar’s activation, and suddenly she could see Beaugrat’s soul, the spirit energy of his life force.
Red tendrils wisped out from her spellscar and intertwined through the door with the threads of Beaugrat’s soul. She probed his being and understood the weave of his life energy. One magical tug and he would be dead. “Go on,” she said. “Explain.”
“Tyrangal’s pet..Duvan.” Beaugrat’s speech came haltingly. “He seems to be immune to the Blue Fire.”
That got Vraith’s attention. Such a power could be devastating to the Order and to her plans. “How do you know?”
“Our team went with him as instructed,” Beaugrat said. “We lost the sorcerer, but Seerah and I tried to take the items that Tyrangal had sent him to get.”
“You failed to get the items?”
“Yes. The rogue is very resourceful; he killed Seerah, and when I tried to kill him by summoning the Blue Fire…” Beaugrat gestured at his shoulder spellscar. “It had no effect.”
Questions swirled around Vraith’s consciousness. Was this true immunity or just resistance? Was it an active power that needed to be invoked, or an innate aspect of this person? Did it require components? Speech or motion? Did it come from a spellscar?
Too many questions and not enough answers.
“We need to capture this person, Beaugrat. For now, I will overlook your failure to acquire the items. Your new task: assemble a team and bring Duvan to me. We need to discover the extent of this ability.”
Beaugrat bowed his head. “Thank you for your lenience, Commander. I will capture him today.”
“Use whatever means necessary. This is important, but I do not have time to deal with it myself.”
“Of course, Commander. May the Blue Fire burn inside you.”
Vraith closed the view window and latched it. Her scar throbbed below her sternum, and she sank to the cool floor. She needed rest to prepare for the next stage of the ritual; she couldn’t allow anything to get in the way, certainly not some no-account rogue.
Soon she put it out of her head and slipped, back into her bed. It was possible that he didn’t even know what he could do. Tyrangal might know, and that was some cause for concern. But the boy himself was no threat. Soon this wrinkle would be ironed out. If this Duvan proved a threat, he would be eliminated. Simple.