weat prickled on Duvan’s brow as he gathered up the rest of his throwing daggers. He removed a blade from the dead archer’s back and wiped the blood on the archer’s linen shirt.
“We must hurry,” Slanya said. “Beaugrat may return with reinforcements.”
Duvan squinted in the bright sun, trying to see his companion’s face clearly. “Beaugrat will be back, yes,” he said. “But he’s too much of a coward to attack when we’re expecting it.”
“When will he come for us?”
Duvan pulled out some rope to bind the prisoners. “Sometime when we’re already beaten down or otherwise occupied. Sometime when he thinks he’ll have a clear advantage.”
“That would be highly unethical,” Slanya said.
Duvan rolled his eyes. For someone so talented and well trained, Slanya was very idealistic about how people acted in the world outside her temple and its grounds. Tyrangal must be punishing me for something, Duvan thought.
He helped Slanya bind and gag the two assailants that shed knocked out. It was foolish not to kill them; Ormpetarr was small enough that it would only be a matter of time before he crossed paths with these two again.
“They’ll just die out here anyway,” he said.
“Bind them to each other, but not to anything else. That should give them a chance, but they won’t be able to follow us.”
“All right,” he said, too tired to argue. She had defeated them, so as far as he was concerned, she held their fate.
Slanya peered at him. “Are you agreeing with me?”
Duvan smiled at her. “Let’s just say, I’m not disagreeing for the moment.” When he was sure the pilgrim and the cleric were tightly bound, he swung up onto one of their horses.
“What are you doing now?”
“Leaving. Taking the horses with us. I hope that’s not a trick question.”
“Help me get this one onto his horse,” she said pointing to the body of the archer.
“Just leave him here. Scavengers will get rid of the body.”
“No,” she said. “He needs a proper funerala ceremony to celebrate his connection to the living and the dead.” Duvan gave her a blank, disbelieving look. “What?” “Everyone deserves”
“Yes, I heard you, and there again, I agree with you, but we don’t have time for ‘a proper funeral.’ It’s not like it’s going to matter to him.”
Slanya scowled. “It will matter to those who cared for him,” she said. “And it’s important. Either we take the body with us to the temple, seek out his loved ones, and give it to them, or burn the body here and now.”
Duvan shook his head and considered arguing. However, if past experience were an indicator, this stubborn cleric would not be swayed. Arguing would just waste more time. He considered leaving. These sorts of disagreements were why he almost always worked alone. But he had promised Tyrangal, and he wouldn’t back out of that promise.
Duvan sighed. “All right. You’re in charge,” he said. “If you insist on a funeral, then we should do it here and now. The fewer people who know what happened here, the better.”
Slanya nodded, then turned to the body of the dead archer. She knelt down and straightened his garments.
Duvan swung down from the horse and helped her prepare the fire. He dragged the corpse through the tall grass to the ruined guard outpost. Crumbling rock walls would hold vigil to his passage, and weed-pitted flagstones would be “his bier.
The man’s clean and well-mended clothes told a story of aristocratic upbringing. He had a callused right hand, so he was well practiced at bowmanship. His face was round and boyishthe son of a merchant, maybe, who ran away to the changelands for his spellscar. Or perhaps he was an Order of Blue Fire recruit from a faraway land, moved here recently. He smelled of soap and perfume, but that was overwhelmed now by the iron tang of blood that leaked out beneath him. And that, in turn, was overwhelmed by the smell of his voided bowels.
There is no dignity in death, Duvan thought. He rifled through the saddlebags and found a small skin that smelled of fire oil. He doused the body with it.
Slanya bowed her head over the corpse. “May Kelemvor judge you well,” she said, “and guide your passage through the Fugue Plane to wherever next you land.” She stepped back and nodded to Duvan.
Striking the rings of his right hand together to ignite a spark, Duvan lit the fire. He stepped back as the oil caught. First the flames were yellow and the smoke billowed clear, but soon enough the flames turned orange, then red. The smoke rose in gray clouds, turning to black as the man’s flesh caught and his fat ignited.
Staring into the flames, Duvan remembered many burnings. Too many people gone to firethe gossamer flames of blue fire. He saw his papa’s dark ruddy face beneath a black beard, always stern. And always right… until he wasn’t. Until he was gone. Spellplague. So many dead. And Duvan the only witness to their passing.
But that was another life, another existence. He had often wished he’d died along with everyone else, and perhaps he had. His death had not been due to fire, but to the loss of everything he knew. After Talfani had finally succumbed, leaving him alone among the decomposing corpses, Duvan had gone as cold inside as drifting snow.
He knew he’d gone cold hearted, and yet he didn’t care. It was better that way. Ice couldn’t be hurt. Imperviousness to emotional pain was far better than compassion.
As he watched the fire consume the flesh of this unnamed archer, he saw Talfani’s face in the fire. It had been a gossamer fire that had taken them all, but shehis sweet sisterhad lingered on, sick and suffering.
Steeling himself, Duvan grit his teeth and forced away the memories. Since Talfani’s death years earlier, he’d shunned friendships. No reason to risk pain. Even Tyrangal was not a true friend, although they understood each other. Perhaps Duvan would miss her, ever so slightly, if she were gone.
“Good-bye,” he whispered into the flames engulfing the dead archer’s corpse. “I did not know you, but I hope that your continuing journey be not alone, but among friends.”
Standing in the heat of the rising sun, the sharp sculptures of ancient crumbling masonry like twisted sentinels around them, Slanya reflected on Duvan’s words. They struck a chord inside her. For all that he lacked in civility, there was a vestige of compassion in this wildman.
The fire caught on the dead man’s clothes soaked in oil. Slanya resisted watching at first. But the flames drew her, and she stared into them. They glowed like sunlight through an open doorwaya gateway to a realm of chaos and light, a portal into a wild universe, abandonment of reason and law.
Involuntarily Slanya took a step toward the funeral fire. The searing heat coming off of it stung her skin, and she felt water rising in her eyes.
“We should leave now.”
Duvan’s voice snapped her from her trance.
“It’s not safe to stay here any longer,” he said.
Not safe, she thought.
Flames licked the body in front of her, leaving blackened and blistering trails. The smell of burning fat brought her back to her childhood, back to her memory of the event.
The vision was always the same. Evening had come to the city and the cacophony of the sprawl had finally quieted. Aunt Ewesia’s breathing had slowed, and she had started to snoreasleep in her rocking chair.
It was the only time little Slanya could relax. The only time she knew that she wouldn’t get in trouble.
In the vision, she looked down on her younger self. Little Slanya in her stained dress was six years old with blond hair flying out in tufts from the braids that tried to keep it organized. She watched in her mind as little Slanya finished removing the linens from their drying line next to the fire, folded them, and put them away. They had to be folded just so, or she would have to do it again when Aunt Ewesia discovered her failure.
When little Slanya returned from the bedroom, Aunt
Ewesia was on fire. Alarmed and frightened even then that she would be punished for this accident, young Slanya blanched and she held her breath. Aunt Ewesia’s clothes blazed, but she awoke slowly despite that. The infusion she drank to put her to sleep every night worked too well.
And then, the fiery behemoth that had been her aunt heaved itself from the chair, screaming like a thousand banshees, making the hair on Slanya’s skin stick straight out. Aunt Ewesia lurched toward Slanya. The flames had ripped through the cotton and wool of her clothing and had started in on her skin.
Slanya felt her breath catch as she watched her younger self run from the groping, screaming demon. Later she was ashamed that she had run. Later she would tell the other orphans that she had tried to help, but couldn’t stop the fire. But she hadn’t tried to help; fear had gripped her, and she had run away from the beast of flame and anger.
“Can you ride?” Duvan’s voice shook her from her reverie.
Slanya squeezed her eyes closed to block out the fire. She held her breath to avoid smelling the burning body. She waited until her heart’s frantic beating slowed and some semblance of calm returned to her.
Then, nodding to Duvan, she took the reins of the pilgrim’s black mare. Slanya straightened and stretched her back. “I’m ready,” she said, climbing up into the saddle.
Riding the dead archer’s horse, Duvan led them expertly through the rubble away from the pillar of black smoke that rose from the burning body. He headed away from the old outpost and along the path that led around the city to the monastery.
After a minute of silence, Duvan spoke. “Thank you for standing by me back there,” he said. “It means a lot.”
Slanya’s face wrinkled into a puzzled expression. It had never occurred to her to run.
“Not many folks have fought for me,” he added.
“Well, I couldn’t very well lose my guide, could I?” she said, but regretted it as soon as the words escaped her lips. Here he was expressing true gratitude, and the least she could do was accept it.
“I suppose not,” he said. “But thanks all the same.”
“You have been alone all your life?” Slanya asked.
He considered the question for a moment. “Yes,” he said, but Slanya could tell there was more than he was letting on. “For the most part, I don’t play well with others.”
“Well, I’d say we made a good team back there.”
Duvan glanced over at her, his dark eyes examining her face. Perhaps he was looking for a lie or exaggeration, but if he saw anything he gave no indication. After all, Slanya had been serious, and at least on one level had been telling the truth. As far as the fighting went, they were a great team.
“Yes,” Duvan said. “We do make a good team.”
That made Slanya smile, not least because something in his tone and expression told her that those words had rarely, if ever, escaped his mouth before.
Duvan dismounted just outside the temple complex, amid the stench of the afflicted. Tents full of dying pilgrims surrounded the unfinished stone structure.
He didn’t understand the pilgrims. Why would anyone come here by choice? Why would they leave a comfortable life full of friends and family? And for what?
Perhaps they just didn’t realize that of all the possible outcomes of spellplague exposure, emerging alive with a spellscar and a wonderful new power was by far the least likely. Most just died instantlyburned up before they had a chance to scream.
And of those who came out alive, a good many were doomed from too much exposure. They grew sick, while death lingered around them, their bodies riddled with the chaos of the Plaguewrought Lands.
Duvan wondered if anyone would come if they’d been told what it was really like instead of the propaganda disseminated by the Order of Blue Fire. Travel to the Plaguewrought Land to be touched by the divine fire. Spellplague will give you power and change your life forever!
He imagined bards would attract smaller crowds with lines like, “Want pain and death? Visit the Plaguewrought Land.”
Monks and monastery clerics of Kelemvor moved among the sick and dying, providing comfort and aid. Also scattered in the mix of tents and grass mats were Order of Blue Fire volunteers in their pale blue robes.
“Lots of Order around, Slanya,” Duvan said. “Why is that?” He knew his tone was suspicious, and he didn’t care.
“Nothing nefarious, I assure you,” Slanya said. “They come to ease the pain of the sick and dying. Most of them are unskilled, but they can clean up excrement with the best of them.”
“But clearly your monastery has dealings with the Order,” Duvan said. “That may or may not be cause for alarm.”
“These volunteers don’t come inside the monastery,” Slanya said. “I know of only one formal arrangement, and that’s for a supply of Brother Gregor’s elixir.”
Duvan scrutinized Slanya’s face. Not lying.
“Let’s just get our supplies and move out,” Slanya suggested.
Duvan nodded his agreement.
“Sister Slanya,” said a short cleric, bald except for a long auburn sidelock. Duvan caught sight of a tattoo at the base of her skull, in the same location as Slanya’sthe scales of Kelemvor in simple blue ink. “Gregor has your supplies ready.”
Slanya nodded. “Thank you, High Priestess.”
The cleric turned to Duvan. “I am Kaylinn, head of the monastery.”
Duvan gave a head bow. “I am glad to meet you,” he said. “I’m Duvan.”
Slanya interrupted, “We should get these horses to the stables.”
“I’ll take the horses,” Kaylinn said. “Brother Gregor will meet you in the chapel anteroom; that’s where your supplies are.”
Slanya gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”
The stench of dying pilgrims and smoldering bodies lessened as they made their way into the monastery. Here Duvan breathed a little easier. If he wasn’t careful, the smell that floated on the summer air in the Plaguewrought Land would trigger painful memories.
Looking around, Duvan noticed how clean and ordered things were inside the monastery. The walls were white and scrubbed, the appointments spare. Most of the halls had stanchions for torches or candles, but there was no art or decoration of any kind, save for a simple mosaic of Kelemvor’s skeletal hand holding his scales of death.
Duvan also noticed how quiet the monastery was. Scores of clerics and monks moved about their businessdoing construction work or writing scrolls or even practicing combat trainingin near silence.
Duvan found it eerie. The silence made him ill at ease and alert.
Slanya led him through mostly bare corridors, furnished by an occasional wooden table or chair. Their boots clomped on the washed tile floors. They came to a wide doorway and stepped into a small, empty room with a broad wooden table in the middle.
There was an assortment of supplies on the table, and Duvan immediately started to inspect the goods. Even though he suspected that the monks had laid out too much to carry, Duvan didn’t set anything aside. There was plenty of food, and he loaded a portion of it into his own pack. He double-checked his other supplies to make sure he was ready. For Slanya to have a chance of surviving, they’d have to be in and back out of the Plaguewrought Land in less than a day anyway. Still, Duvan always went prepared.
Out of habit, he catalogued the contents of his backpack extra leathers, weapons, poisons and powders, a sharpening stone, his glideskin, rope, food, oil, soap, and water. Checking Slanya’s pack, he noticed that she seemed well prepared too. Including
He pulled out a black cloth pouch cinched at one end with a braided rope. It was valuable, he could tell. Opening the pouch, he looked into a black void, but when he reached inside, he felt several objects that could not actually be inside, including a tarp and two bedrolls.
“That’s a bag of holding,” said Slanya. “We’ll use it for collecting the plaguegrass.”
“Nice,” Duvan said. He’d never seen one before, as expensive as the magic pouches were; the fact that these clerics would risk sending one along meant that this mission was very important to them.
“Well met, Brother Gregor,” came Slanya’s voice from the doorway. “This is Duvan.”
A slender man, middle-aged but fit, his cropped black hair split by a tuft of silver growing from where his spellscar cleaved his skull stood in the doorway. Duvan stared at him and wondered what it was like to be touched by the storm of the spellplague remnants in the middle of his head.
“We owe you a debt of gratitude, young sir,” Gregor said, making a slight bow in greeting.
Duvan paused, unsure of the proper response. “I will do my best to keep us both alive,” he said finally.
“And I’m happy to say that you shall have help in that regard,” Gregor said. “My protective elixir is a great discovery indeed.”
Duvan said nothing.
“It’s incredible! It allows someone to be exposed to the Plaguewrought Land and survive. So far IVe raised the survival rate twentyfold!” Gregor had a huge toothy grin on his bearded face. “Compared to the control group. Even a layman can appreciate those numbers.”
Duvan stifled a shudder. “Control group?”
“Yes,” Gregor said, unconcerned. “Some of the pilgrims got a different elixir that we hoped would have no effect.”
And all of those must have died, Duvan thought. Died thinking that maybe they’d have a better chance.
“How many pilgrims in this control group died?” Duvan asked.
Gregor’s eyebrows arched. “The same number who would have died without any elixir. Spellplague exposure results in death most of the time, on average. It actually depends upon the amount of exposure.”
“The control group didn’t know their elixir was false, I assume,” Duvan said.
Gregor nodded. “For the results to be unbiased, they cannot know. The vials are labeled by color and”
“So you give them false hope,” Duvan said, feeling his anger rising. “They think they have a better chance and throw away their lives.”
Gregor pondered for a moment. “You are clearly a passionate soul, Duvan.” The monk’s tone was calm and measured. “The truth is that all of these pilgrims were intending to ‘throw away their lives’ before they came to me for the elixir. I would argue that hope is what drives many of these folks to risk their lives at the border of the changelands. Almost all of their hope is false, and I am certainly not adding significantly to it.”
Duvan scowled. Some people held the belief that false hope was better than no hope, but he didn’t buy that. Still, he said nothing.
“Anyhow, back to the immediate need,” Gregor went on. “The thing we’re paying you to help us obtain…”
Duvan nodded.
“Plaguegrass is a key ingredient,” Gregor said. “And we’re out of it. So we need to replenish our supply if we’re going to save more pilgrims. Slanya has the last two doses of the working elixir.”
So it’s all right then, Duvan thought wryly. Experimenting on pilgrims is a good thing because you discovered a potion that works.
“This is plaguegrass,” Gregor said, holding a long stalk of yellow grass. The stem glittered where flecks of crystal grew. “Take it with you so that you’ll know what you’re looking for. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it once you’re past the border.”
Duvan took the stalk from Gregor, then turned and put it into his pack. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “We’ll bring back plenty.”
“We can save so many lives,” Gregor said, his black eyes flashing. “Imagine no dying pilgrims. Imagine a world where the remnants of the Spellplague cannot kill.”
Duvan shivered. He could not imagine that. It was perilous to imagine that, because it meant dropping his guard. Fantasy. Underestimating the destructive force of the gossamer blue fire was a step on the path to annihilation.
“It takes great hubris,” Duvan said, “to think that the changelands can be controlled or mitigated.”
Gregor’s smile evaporated. “I suppose it does,” he said. “But one does not accomplish great deeds without a little hubris.”
“Fairly spoken,” Duvan admitted. “But in my own experience, efforts to control spellplague have always met with disaster.”
The look of puzzlement on Gregor’s face nearly brought a smile to Duvan’s. “You’ve been involved in such efforts?”
But Duvan’s mind was far away, crouching in a cage of adamantine on a vast and stormy plane inside the Plaguewrought Land, shivering with cold. And waiting for his love, Rhiazzshar, to come and let him out and give him his reward.
“Duvan?” Gregor said. “Are you with us?”
“Just for the record,” Duvan said, “Fm going to help you because Tyrangal has given you her endorsement. But per: sonally, I don’t condone the use of pilgrims or anyone for such experiments, regardless of the possible outcome.”
“They were all volunteers, I assure you,” Gregor said, unfazed. “All well-informed volunteers.”
“We should be going,” Slanya said, interrupting.
“Yes,” Gregor agreed. “Quite right, quite right.”
Duvan nodded, glad Slanya had changed the subject. He finished loading the packs and lifted his to his back. Time to be moving along. Slanya donned the other pack, then bowed slightly to Gregor.
Duvan merely strode away without a good-bye. Gregor might be paying him, but he didn’t have to like the man. They exited through the main gate, heading south on foot. Duvan planned for them to skirt the city, keeping to the east, and intersect the border of Plaguewrought Land.
Gregor climbed up onto the balcony and watched Slanya and her guide slowly pick their way through the tents. He gazed over the encampment pilgrims, many of them sick and dying, past the ever-belching funeral pyre to the city walls, and beyond those, to where the gauzy veil that marked the border of the Plaguewrought Land rose up into the sky like a curtain.
“May your journey be easy and fruitful,” he whispered at the retreating figures. “The salvation of many depends on it.” With the approaching Festival of Blue Fire, his elixir could save many lives, provided he had enough plaguegrass.
When they had disappeared from view, Gregor found himself looking back at the encampment. The sprawling tent hospital was an eyesore, and despite the best efforts of the monastery’s monks and clerics, it was filthy with excrement. With more than ten plaguechanged or sick pilgrims for every monk, the logistics were overwhelming. So it stank, and when the wind blew just the wrong direction, the stench infiltrated the monastery.
In fact, one of the reasons that the funeral pyre was so near the temple complex’s walls was because the smoke was far more pleasant than the reek of decay, refuse, and feces. Choosing between the lesser of evils was not Gregor’s preferred mode of operation, but in these times and in this location, it would have to do.
Gregor turned from the balcony and retired to his study, using the peacefulness of the monastery to center himself. Abruptly, the images came to him. They always came when he least expected it and took over his mind.
In this vision, Gregor walked at the head of a large crowd of pilgrims, part of a small group that led them into the Plaguewrought Land. There were hundreds of pilgrims, each one drinking Gregor’s draught, his perfect concoction. They formed an arc in front of a wave of blue fire, which raced like wildfire toward them.
The pilgrims formed a wall with their bodies, catching the wave of spellplague, and as they moved to complete the circle, capturing it. Containing the chaos. Bringing order to the Plaguewrought Land’s wildness.
His elixir kept them alive. His creation made it possible for ordinary people to help make sudden spellplague storms and appearances harmless. He was rendering the most wild and chaotic force in all of Faerun impotent. The vision faded, leaving him feeling euphoric and wanting more.
The visions seemed to be coming from outside him. And they weren’t a prediction of the future, he knew, but more of a divine guidance, the hand of Oghma providing direction. The visions helped shape his decisions, showing him what to strive for and which path to take. They had started sometime after he got his spellscar, after that morning he had awakened with a cloud of spellplague hovering next to his simple bed, back before he had come to Ormpetarr. The visions had started subtly, like waking dreams. Over time, they had grown in strength and frequency.
As he reached the door to his study, he saw Kaylinn approaching. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “Yes, Priestess?”
Kaylinn gave a short bow. “There is a group here from the Order of Blue Fire,” she said. “They want to speak with you, and they’re quite demanding.”
Gregor noted Kaylinn’s tone. She was suspicious of the Order. “Have they said or done anything offensive?”
Kaylinn’s look softened a bit. “Not really. Just arrogance, perhaps. As much as they claim to strive for the betterment of all people, they aren’t guided by the same principles that we are. I find their charitable activities to be more self-serving than altruistic.”
Gregor nodded. Kaylinn was a very astute observer and her judgment had been a good guide for both him and the monastery for years. “I understand,” he said.
“I advise caution in your dealings with them, Brother Gregor,” she said, concern on her face. “I don’t profess to understand the intricacies of your projects, and you have always been trustworthy, but don’t let yourself be manipulated.”
“I am exercising great care in this,” Gregor said. “But I envision a great revolution in how people regard the changelands. No longer will they fear them. No longer will their loved ones disappear without warning, or worse, end up as plaguechanged monsters. I am on the verge of achieving that vision, and unfortunately collaboration with the Order of Blue Fire is required for me to proceed.”
Kaylinn frowned. “Collaboration is a good thing,” she said. “But do not be blinded by your vision. Ends do not justify means, Brother Gregor.”
“Of course,” he demurred. “Thank you for your sagacity. As usual, your view is wise.”
The high priestess gave a small smile. “I worry about you,” she said. “You have been… distracted. I worry that you’re driving yourself too hard.”
Gregor gave his most earnest smile. “I have never felt this clear-headed,” he said. “And I am close to the end. We are doing great good here on the changelands border.”
“That’s true,” Kaylinn said, with a nod. “Very well, I will stop worrying. Where will you meet them?”
“In here is fine, but I can escort them back.”
“No, no. I’ll get them.”
“Many thanks.”
After Kaylinn left, Gregor opened the ledger which showed the numbers and mortality rates of the pilgrims who had tested the latest elixir. Gregor paged past all the other experiments. Hundreds of pilgrims had been tested, and five different elixirs, their data compared with that of the false elixirs.
The last formula had a twenty-onefold increase in survivability, while those taking the false elixir fared in the usual range. Gregor smiled. Numbers didn’t lie.
The door opened again. Following Kaylinn came the blonde elfVraith, slim and looking even more delicate in silky, sky-blue robes. Behind her clomped a huge human wearing shiny plate armor with a section of his right pauldron cut out to reveal a spellscar.
“Well met, my friends,” Gregor said. “I think things went successfully last night, no?”
Vraith gave an abbreviated bow. “May the Blue Fire burn inside you.” The human stood a pace behind her in deference, and he did not speak.
“Last night went quite satisfactorily,” Vraith said. “But that is not why we’ve come.”
Oh? Gregor thought, and he wondered what brought this arrogant priestess down out of her nest of followers. What he said was, “How can I be of help?”
“A young man was seen with one of the temple’s clerics this morning,” Vraith said. “We need to know where he is.”
“A young man? What does he look like?”
Vraith’s eyebrows arched up to disappear into her hairline. “You don’t know of whom I speak?”
“Perhaps I do,” Gregor said. “And perhaps I do not. Many people matching the description of’young man’ pass through and near the monastery every day.”
Vraith gestured to the plate-clad human. “Beaugrat, describe this Duvan person.”
Beaugrat stepped forward. “Duvan is dark skinned, of average height and sinewy. Very quick. Black hair, black eyes, and a day-old beard. He is known to work for the head of the Copper Guard, Tyrangal.”
Gregor kept his face implacable. “And what is your business with this man?”
Vraith said, “He has committed offenses against our members and is wanted for questioning.”
It was Gregor’s turn to be incredulous. “Offenses? What offenses?”
Beaugrat said, “He killed two members and Stole their property.”
Gregor laughed. “Sounds like he’s wanted for more than questioning.”
“Do you know where he is or not?” Vraith asked, her tone darkening.
“I do not,” he said, dodging the question. “But I may have valuable information concerning his whereabouts.”
“And do you plan to tell me, or do I need to have you questioned as well?”
Behind Vraith, Kaylinn raised an eyebrow at Gregor. The half-elf s tone and attitude had been pushing at him the whole time, and he finally snapped. “I will not be commanded in my own home, Vraith,” he said, his own tone growing fierce. “We work together, and together we can accomplish much. Apart…” He let the implied threat hang in the air.
Vraith stared at him, her pale gray eyes as hard as slate behind her translucent blonde lashes. She seemed to be weighing the merits of arguing with him or defying him some other way. But finally, she averted her gaze. “Yes, yes,” she said, waving her hand. “Solidarity and cooperation and all that. It’s very important that we find this man.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Gregor thought. “All right,” he said. “We may be able to come to an arrangement. But first you will tell me the true reason you seek this man.”