Slanya!” Duvan yelled into the swirling darkness. He forced himself to sprint. back toward the campfire. Fear of what he would find clamped down on him as he ran. Swirling wind and dust pelted him with needle sharp fragments of stone. Pale blue threads lit up the night around him like ball lightning, itching at the periphery of his sight.
Duvan sped back the way he’d come. Or so he thought. It seemed to be taking too long to find the camp. The changelands were tricky and shifting. Rule number one was to never separate. He shouldn’t have left the fire.
But she had made him so angry. Nobody can understand what it was like to lose a twin like that. If he’d stayed with Talfani, maybe she’d be alive
Just as it would be his fault if something had happened to Slanya.
Duvan slowed his frantic, headlong crashing through the swirling darkness. “Slanya!” he screamed. “Slanya!”
But no answers came through the howling wind. No voices reached his ears, save the growling, mocking laughter of the storm.
Maybe I’ve lost her too, he thought. Maybe I’ve given her to the storm.
Ribbons of blue fire seared the air around him, but none touched. In the flashing, eldritch light Duvan caught sight of red embers and the square shadows of two backpacks in the blackness.
He ran toward the fire, stumbling over a dark lump. “Slanya!”
She lay motionless and silent, curled into a fetal position on the rumbling ground at his feet.
“Slanya?” he gasped. “Slanya, can you hear me?”
She said nothing in response, but he saw that her body started making gentle rocking motions. “Alive,” he breathed quietly. “Alive.”
But when he saw the web pulsing inside her like veins of blue light, he gasped. Not again, he thought. This is not happening again.
Duvan had lost one soul under his care to spellplague, and it had devastated him. It had, in fact, defined his life. And even though he knew that to be true and knew that he should move on, he could not simply shed his guilt and his responsibility. His failure had led to Talfani’s death, and now it would result in Slanya’s.
No, he told himself. No, it would not.
“Slanya,” he said, not sure if she could even hear him. “I’m going to get us out of here if I can. If we stay here you will surely die, and I won’t let that happen.” she’d heard him. He took quick stockshe looked physically whole. There were no major wounds he could see. There was blood coming from her right pinkie finger where it had been cut at the last knuckle.
Duvan grabbed a bandage from his pack and strapped it around her finger. It would help stop the bleeding, at least. That was the only part of her condition that he had any treatment for.
Tiny, translucent blue stars of magic twinkled at hundreds of points on Slanya’s skin. But Duvan could do nothing to address it. Slanya would have to mend herself. Duvan found himself hoping that Gregor had not been lying, that his elixir would save Slanya from the funeral pyre.
He quickly assembled their things, stowing all of Slanya’s gear inside his own backpack. He would also have to carry her, he knew. They had to get out of the Plaguewrought Land before Slanya grew any worse.
“I am going to carry you,” he said. “We’re just going to the edge of the mote for now. I have to see where we are and where we’re headed.”
Duvan put his pack on backward so that it rested on his chest instead of his back, then lifted Slanya across his shoulders and stood up. She was larger than he was but weighed about the same.
The rim of the mote was no more than forty or fifty paces away, but he didn’t want to take the chance of losing Slanya. When he reached the edge, he lowered her to the ground and stared out at the maelstrom.
Their mote seemed to be caught in an ever-tightening vortex, spiraling down.
Duvan watched another mote ahead of them reach the center of the vortex and plunge down abruptly and disappear into the fabric of the land.
Time to vacate this mote, Duvan decided. But how?
He considered Lhe fflMAakin in his hnrlrnarlr Tf ho’rt Kaon alone, using the glideskin might have been ideal for flying off this rock and drifting down on the gentle winds. But he wasn’t alone and the winds were far from gentle. Slanya’s weight in addition to his own would be too much for the glideskin to hold for long, even in ideal conditions. This storm was far from ideal, and falling here would mean death, or worse, surviving and landing in the Underdark.
An entire realm of vile and hostile creatures, the Underdark could be more dangerous than the Plaguewrought Land. Duvan had heard enough from Tyrangal to know that he did not want to go there, ever. Armies of drow elves, cities of mind flayers, hungry beastseven Tyrangal wouldn’t travel the Underdark. Duvan and Slanya would never make it back to the surface alive.
Duvan had failed Slanya once already, like he’d failed Talfani years ago. But this time he was going to get her some help in time to save her. He liked Slanya, and he wasn’t going to let her die.
Duvan looked out over the distance and watched for opportunities. In the purple and blue light, Duvan saw patches of what looked to be relatively solid land masses below. They might be able to lower themselves down with a rope.
Noa quick calculation showed they were most likely too high up for that. At the limit of their rope, they’d still have a long fall. Too long to survive, even with the glideskin.
Then an idea came to him. It was incredibly risky and would take exacting timing, but with luck and skill it could be accomplished. Every few minutes, a smallish mote would shoot across the storm, its trajectory bent by the pull of the vortex.
The fastest motes avoided getting caught by the vortex. Instead they sped out of the center and into calmer sections of the Plaguewrought Land.
Duvan didn’t know if he could do it. but catchin? anv one of those fast motes would probably be safer than staying where they were. The mote they stood on was destined to be crushed and torn apart while being hurled into the Underdark. Not his first choice.
Lying down next to Slanya, Duvan used leather straps to secure the cleric to his back. She was heavy enough that the straps would leave marks in her skin. But it was the only way he could move her.
When she was as secure as he could make her, Duvan struggled to his knees and then pushed up to his feet. Breathing hard and feeling the burn in his legs and back, Duvan went about the business of scanning the sky for incoming motes. He tried to find one big enough to hold them, but that also would fly close enough to theirs so that they’d have a chance of crossing to it.
A short wait later he found a prospect arcing across the plane of the vortex like a comet. It was larger than many of the others, but far, far smaller than the one they were on now. It might be moving toe fast, but Duvan knew they had few options.
First however, they’d have to move. He watched the smaller mote’s trajectory and tried to estimate the rotation of their current mote. They needed to be on the opposite side of their mote.
Duvan checked to make sure the leather straps holding Slanya were secure and tight, then he began the trudge out across the rock. Most of the vegetation had been stripped off by the storm, so it was a little easier to move, but the flashes of light made it hard to see holes and jutting stones. Duvan caught his foot on a rock as he ranhe stumbled. He struggled to keep his balance and sank to his knees.
Slanya groaned in his ear. A good sign. She was still alive, at least.
But he did not fall. Duvan smelted the iron tang of blood minsled with the faint odor of lilac snan from Slflnvn’s skin.
He recovered his footing and pushed. Hopefully there was still time.
The smaller mote was. almost to them by the time he reached the other side. He was still pulling out the rope and grappling hook when it whizzed by and disappeared into the distance.
Chagrined, he watched the mote vanish. One chance gone.
The night wore on, and it looked as though they would have no choice but to ride their mote through the vortex, when he saw another possible opportunity. This time a very small mote hurtled toward them. Tiny, Duvan thought, but perhaps large enough. This one was traveling very fast.
It’s not like we have a surplus of options, he thought wryly.
Duvan predicted that this tiny mote would pass by extremely close. No need for him to carry Slanya very far this time. He took a couple of narrow leather strips from his backpack and lashed the wrists of his fingerless leather gloves so that they wouldn’t slip off his hands. The gloves might just save his palms.
Then he readied his rope and grappling hook. The other mote would pass below them, so he lowered the rope down and swung it so that, as the speedier mote passed by underneath, the hook would catch.
The rope sped through his glove-clad palms. “Time to go,” he whispered to Slanya. “Our coach has finally arrived.” Duvan tightened his grip on the rope as he watched it draw taut. Even so, his arm nearly ripped from its socket as the rope pulled him and his burdenSlanya and pack and all over the edge of the mote.
Wind blasted his face as they fell, his hands sliding on the accelerating rope. Duvan gritted his teeth and held on with all his strength. Even through the reinforced leather of his gloves, he felt the heat of the rope. Finallv. iust when he thought his strength would give out, they came to a stop, swinging like a pendulum beneath their new mote. They sped through the loud and chaotic night.
Duvan folded his legs and feet around the dangling rope, entwining himself with it so that he could use his legs to hold them while he rested his arms and hands. The leather straps that held Slanya’s unconscious body to him chomped deep gouges in his shoulders, but he could hardly feel that over the burn in his hands.
Taking quick stock of their situation, Duvan realized that they couldn’t remain where they were for very long. They were flying through the sky, tethered by a black filament of rope three hundred feet below the mote. Even if Duvan could hold them there for the duration, the chance was great that they’d slam into somethingthe ground or another mote or who-knew-what.
So after a few minutes’ rest, Duvan stretched his thumb muscles. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. He could climb anything on his own, but this load was unlike any he had borne before. He massaged his palms, alternating between the left and the right until much of the burn and ache had receded for the moment.
When he was ready, Duvan started climbing. Hand over hand, he ascended the rope, using his entwined legs as support. Slanya’s body was canted awkwardly, slightly off-center and heavier on his left side. His muscles burned from the effort, especially his left shoulder.
“We’re going to make it,” he said, not sure if he was trying to reassure Slanya or himself. Wind dried sweat on his face as he climbed. Far below, the ground was a dark expanse illuminated in patches by dim blue fog. It seemed mostly solid to Duvan.
Above them, past the small, dark silhouette of the mote at the top of the rope, the black and purple sky was cleaved in twain Thrnncrh the cm ah flnwnH n swirl intr hurricane nf blue galaxies and fiery red motes of fire. Pure chaos and the Nine Hells could not have been more frightening.
It took over an hour and several rest stops along the way, but finally Duvan was able to pull himself and Slanya up over the ledge and onto the stone surface of the mote. There was just enough level ground for them both to fit lying down.
Duvan made sure that Slanya was fully on solid earth, then he tied the rope around them and collapsed. And as exhaustion took hold of him, he realized that they were headed back north toward the border, roughly in the direction of Ormpetarr.
“I did it,” he said. “I got us off that mote.”
Slanya said nothing in response, and perhaps she was already dead, strapped to his back. But for now, he was too exhausted to do anything but lay there with the grit of gravel against his cheek, and stare out at the approaching horizon.
They were far from safe, he knew. But at least they still had a chance. At least, for the moment, they weren’t in imminent danger of being sucked though a hurricane of blue fire and vomited into the Underdark.
Duvan knew there was a huge array of things that could still go wrong, and that he should get up and start dealing with them. But he was too exhausted to move. Too tired to even think about moving. Those problems would have to wait their turn.
He needed to rest. And if something killed them while he was recovering, then so be it. Duvan closed his eyes as his exhaustion overcame his pain and pulled his consciousness down into the sweet dark numbness of oblivion.
Gregor felt the last drops of the thick liquid on his lips and swallowed. The oilv notion t. nst. prf nf hlnnrihnrk and lavender. He immediately found the small cot in the corner of his lab and lay down on it.
In moments, his awareness was out of his body, slicing through vaporous walls and ghostly objects. The magic of the potion allowed him only limited time, but his awareness could move fast.
Gregor’s awareness moved past the throngs of pilgrims in their tents and wagons and through Ormpetarr’s city walls. He skirted the thoroughfare, noticing that the veil on the border of the Plaguewrought Land was milky and opaque in his mind vision, like a cataract.’
Gregor moved away from the border, back out of Ormpetarr, and up the hill to the ruins outside Tyrangal’s mansion. There was a haze surrounding parts of the burned-out structures.
The hard stone of Tyrangal’s mansion was woven with a magical latticework of some sort of wardingprotection from clairvoyant spies and extraplanar intruders. Gregor admired the order of it, the beauty of the perfect crisscrossing web of shining copper light.
No matter. He had done this before.
Gregor pushed his awareness up to the entrance and focused. I seek audience with you, Tyrangal, he said through his mind. I have important news.
A small opening formed in the latticework of protective magic, and Gregor’s awareness moved inside.
Tyrangal seemed to uncoil in front of him like an elegant and shining metal snake. The form she had chosen to display to him was difficult to identify, so brightly did she shine. But her movements were sinuous in the smooth way she turned and rose to face him.
Gregor felt, more than saw, Tyrangal’s smirk, but it seemed more like the smile of a cobra about to strike a mouse who dared get too close. Gregor knew she was just trying to make him afraKA eiflnar anA Via laiiarhad inwnrHlv It. wafl wnrtinff
Well met, young monk, she said sleepily. To what do I owe the pleasure!
And he heard the danger in her words. Do not waste her time was the subtext. Do not wake her from a nap for no good reason. Do not make her angry, for she is powerful and can destroy you. What he said was, I have news that your…friend, Duvan, is in danger. The Order of Blue Fire wants him for’questioning.’
In this form, Tyrangal’s head reared at the news. Gregor did not know what Tyrangal washuman wizard as she most often appeared, or something else entirelybut one thing that he knew for certain was that she was immensely powerful. In any case, she was a force to be respected.
Vraith? she asked.
Yes.
Tyrangal snorted derisively. That elf is ambitious beyond caution. I’ve watched her rise too fast in the Order. She is not as powerful a wizard as she would like everyone to believe, but she’s charismatic and knows the ancient art of manipulation exceedingly well.
Gregor remembered the ritual from the night before. He doubted he’d seen a ritual that powerful before. It seemed clear that Tyrangal underestimated Vraith.
Her spellscar is also a problem, Tyrangal went on. She has some sort of ability to see and manipulate the essence of creatures. Have you noticed? That is the true source of her power, and like virtually everyone who gains access to great power quickly and without proportionate cost and training, she abuses and misuses hers.
Certainly, Gregor said, knowing that Tyrangal was on his side.
In fact, Tyrangal said, one of the reasons I have supported your work, Gregor, is because you seemed different. You have a great ability, but you have been mostly cautious in its use. for rrner a hundred Twrs I hmm open t. hj pinrltmre Thj aront danger of obtaining a spellscar is that the ‘scarred lack the wisdom to use their abilities conscientiously. With great power comes great responsibility. Do not forget that.
Of course, Gregor said. Normally, a part of him thought, he would have rankled to be lectured this way. But there was something about Tyrangal… something about her voice… 7 have been exceedingly careful with mine.
True, Tyrangal said, for the most part you have. What else do you know about Vraith?
Gregor smiled. Confiding in her was exactly the right thing to do, he thought. It would feel so good to share this information, any information, with her.
Go ahead, came the melodic voice. Tell me everything that happened.
He told her of the ritual on the border of the Plaguewrought Land, how his elixir allowed the pilgrims to survive long enough to move the border. He still wasn’t sure of how the elixir workedmore tests needed to be donebut it was clearly powerful.
A rush of warmth filled Gregor. Confiding in Tyrangal was exactly right. She would be happy with him, and her approval was critical. He needed her to like him. He told Tyrangal everything, for she was his ally and she needed to know.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gregor had an inkling that she was using magic on him, charming or persuading him to tell her things. But, nohe pushed that suspicion aside. Tyrangal was his friend. He wanted to tell her. Gregor didn’t do things he didn’t want to do.
Gregor told her of his visions. That Vraith’s ritual would help achieve control over spellplague storms outside the Plaguewrought Land. With this magic, all of the blue fire in Paerun could eventually be tamed!
And after he was done, Tyrangal spoke. Of course she wants Duvan, she said. He could harm her. But she must not get
Gregor frowned. Vraith’s magic would organize and contain plaguelands, he said. It would create order from chaos.
Tyrangal’s golden eyes flashed. This ritual might be able to accomplish that, young monk, she said. But Vraith and the Order of Blue Fire will not use it for containment. I guarantee you that that is not their plan.
What does she intend then?
A hint of anger was evident in Tyrangal’s voice, Vraith will use this ritual to move the border of the Plaguewrought Land, to expand the total area of these plaguelands. Of that I dm sure. The Order wants to increase the blue fire’s reach, and if they gain control over the border, they will eventually be able to unleash the spellplague contained within.
She continued, I have been monitoring the border, and it has been stable for a hundred years nownot the longest time, but long enough to indicate that, barring some major magical catastrophe, it’s unlikely to move. This is a good thing. This is a necessary thing for the survival of most creatures.
I didn’t know what Vraith was planning, Gregor said.
So now that you do, Tyrangar said, her words dripping with honey, you will refuse to make the elixir for the festival. Sfie must not be allowed to proceed with a larger ritual.
That sounded reasonable to Gregor. If he didn’t supply the elixir then Vraith couldn’t perform the ritual.
Perhaps.
All those pilgrims were already gathering in the valley, all preparing for the festival. Even without the elixir, they will all be heading to the Plaguewrought Land. Vraith might or might not try to proceed without enough elixir to protect the pilgrims, and if she did proceed then all those pilgrims would die. If she didn’t proceed, then most of those pilgrims would die anyway. way to stop her. If I don’t make the elixir, then thousands of pilgrims will die. I can’t be responsible for that
Tyrangal’s anger was like the lash of a whip. You will not supply her with the elixir. Trust me: you do not want me as an enemy.
I trust that, Gregor said. I don’t want to be your adversary. He felt Tyrangal’s charm dissipating fully. But I cannot have the deaths of thousands on my conscience when I know that I can prevent it. I will make the elixir to protect the pilgrims. That is why I came to Ormpetarr, and that is what I will do.
That decision is regrettable, Tyrangal said. I have supported your quest to perfect the elixir because such knowledge is critical to diminishing the impact and power of the spellplague in Faerun. I have provided you with knowledge and with Duvan’s services.
But there’s a reason it’s called a plague, Tyrangal continued. And ifVraith succeeds in her ritual, she will be set to wreak far more havoc and cause countless more deaths than a paltry few thousand pilgrims.
There must be another way, Gregor said. There must be. a way to save the pilgrims.
Your concern for the pilgrims is disingenuous, monk, Tyrangal sneered. You were fine sacrificing pilgrims to serve the greater good when you were experimenting on them. As long as you were going to be the hero, it was all right to lose a few hundred or a thousand ‘volunteers.’
Gregor cringed at the anger in her voice. I’m sorry, he offered.
You’re not as sorry as you will be if you enable Vraith’s plan, Tyrangal said.
But I can’t oppose her; the Order is too powerful. They will make me pay a high, long-term price.
Then you have a decision to make, Tyrangal said. You are fortunate, actually; you get to choose your enemies. Most
Gregor’s awareness snapped back across the distance. He was in his own body, his heart pounding and his breath coming in gulps as a sheen of sweat chilled his skin.
Gods, he thought, what have I done?
Duvan woke to wind whipping across his face and the red glow of the sun shining through his closed eyelids. He could feel the sun’s heat slowly roasting him.
Duvan’s lips cracked as his tonguedry as a dusty road itselfpushed through his glued-together lips and tried to wet them. I need water, he thought, breathing in hot air as dry as a desert wind.
There was a waterskin attached to his backpack. His backpack was still on his chest. Slanya was still on his back. She lay beside him, uhmoving. The makeshift leather straps that he’d used to attach her to his shoulders had dug so deep into his flesh that the muscles burned at the slightest movement.
First, he thought, untie the straps so that he could move.
His hands protested, pain shooting down the muscles of his fingers and forearms with the very smallest effort. But after repeated attempts, he had managed to detach himself from Slanya and his backpack.
Second, sit up.
That step proved to be far more difficult and painful. His could barely move his arms; they felt dead, numb and heavy. Yet he needed to sit up. He kept trying and falling down, trying again, only to fall down again. But Duvan knew he needed to drink, and he knew that the more he moved, the more the ache would fade. Mobility would come back.
Eventually, Duvan had propped himself against the squat
Third, drink.
Duvan rested with his back against the hard stone. He struggled with the straps, but eventually he managed to detach his waterskin from his pack. The liquid inside was warm and bitter, but it quenched his thirst ever so slightly. It wet his mouth and throat. He resisted the urge to take a second drink. Who knew how long they’d need to make it last?
Duvan examined Slanya, sprawled in an unnatural position next to him. The gentle rise and fall of her chest meant she lived. Good.
Her unconscious, open-eyed stare was partially protected from the sun by the shadow of the squat boulder. One of her arms was pinned awkwardly behind her back and looked broken, but when he checked it he found that not one of the bones was fractured.
She was anything but whole, however. Duvan had never seen anything quite like the network of spellscarring that pervaded Slanya’s body. Usually someone with so much exposure died instantly.
Duvan carefully straightened Slanya’s back, which had been severely twisted. He closed her eyes and propped her feet up as he’d been taught by the Wildhome shaman who had trained him for a summer. He dribbled some water from the skin onto Slanya’s lips and held her mouth closed.
“Come on,” he said aloud. “You can’t die. Not after I was being so nice to you.”
Duvan had learned rudimentary healing skills during his imprisonment at Wildhome. He carried some oils and ointments to help healing. They would help protect Slanya’s skin from prolonged exposure to the sun.
“I’m never nice,” Duvan said. “You should know that about me. I don’t like caring about people.” He spread healing salve over the skin of Slanya’s face and skull.
You remind me ofof people I cared about in the past.” Talfani. Rhiazzshar. “Not that things worked out so well with them,” he continued wryly. One he allowed to die, and the other betrayed him.
“And since I do care, I will bend the world for you. I’ll even try the superstitious and stupid, just on the belief that I don’t know everything, and perhaps something I don’t know can help.”
With that thought hanging in the air, Duvan rummaged through Slanya’s belongings. He knew she must have some of Gregor’s elixir left. Maybe it would help her after the fact. Maybe Gregor’s alchemy could save Slanya when he couldn’t.
Duvan found the last flask of the elixir in her smallish pack, which he had stuffed inside his own. The crystal vial was nearly empty, but surely the shimmering liquid was a single remaining dose.
He parted her dry lips and poured the contents into her mouth. He hadn’t felt such a strong bond for anyone since Rhiazzshar. Perhaps it was because he felt responsible for her well-being, as he had felt for Talfani’s. The symmetry was uncanny, and that had to mean something. Slanya did not deserve to die. She was a good person. Better than he was, that was for sure. She wanted to help people. She wanted to make Faerun a better place.
When he’d done all he knew to do for her, Duvan made the heroic effort to stand up. He needed to survey their new mote. But painful as it was, getting to his feet proved easier than he’d expected. -
Smooth rock, covered in places with sharp gravel, the mote was small, perhaps only a handful of paces across. The boulder that had been shading them took up a chunk of the level land near one side. And the whole thing was moving fast, heading almost due north from what Duvan could tell.
The mote was flying lower than the previous mote, but his right, like a dark stain against the dusty green hills in the distance. High enough, hopefully, to clear the cliff wall at the border.
They hadn’t left the changelands yet, but they were out of the vortex, which is what Duvan had hoped would happen. There was no food or water on this mote, however, and his stores were almost out.
There was also no shade except for the table-sized boulder. But at the rate they were flying, Duvan estimated they’d reach the border of the changelands before midday. The challenge then would be to figure out how to get safely off a mote moving at such speed.
Once they passed through the border veil, this mote Would be relatively low to the ground so the fall might not kill them. But what the mote lost in altitude it made up for in velocity. This hunk of rock was moving mighty fast.
Duvan sat on the boulder and watched the approaching edge of the changelands. It seemed like they should be there any minute, and he knew the border zone would be concentrated with more intense blue fire. He had to be ready.
Wind buffeted his face, cooling him as he dug into his backpack and removed his glideskin in case they needed it. The sun shone high in a pale sky as he prepared his grappling hook for another throwit never hurt to be ready for everything.
Due to the height or the distances or his misjudging of their speed, the border never seemed to get closer. Several times, he thought they were almost to the border veil, but then another quarter hour passed without the edge of the changelands nearing visibly.
This is a wild ride, he thought as the sun arced farther across the sky. One I will never forget. How many people can say they rode an earthmote through a spellplague storm?
Sometime later, he said, “Hang in there, Slanya. We’re
“Duvan?”
Slanya stirred. She rolled over and coughed up blood.
“I’m right here,” he said, instantly at her side. “We are nearly out of the changelands. Everything is going to be all right.”
Slanya gave a pained smile. “That’s an outright lie,” she said.
Duvan laughed. He was just so relieved to see her awake. “Yes, you’re right. I am lying. I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
After seeming to be perpetually on the horizon, the border veil loomed suddenly large and imminent. The heavy, liquid tugging of nausea in Duvan’s gut told him that the blue fire was particularly intense.
The mote plowed through the border veil, exploding into normal light. There was a bone-rattling 600m, and then stability and order were abruptly restored. Duvan’s skin stopped tingling, and his gut settled. The air smelled of humans and genasi and dwarves, of livestock and feces and the fires of the dead. It smelled like home, and Duvan felt grounded here. A feeling of rightness pervaded all of his being.
The mote, however, didn’t act like all was right in the world. Duvan felt a shudder, deep and resonant, in the rock beneath them. The passage through the border had weakened the stone.
A large hunk of the mote tore away from the rest of it, spinning away like a satellite island in the air. The mote split into two, neither piece large enough to hold altitude. Below them, the ground just outside the border was grooved from years of fallen motes. And apparently, they were on one.
Its magic stripped away, the mote lost buoyancy and started to fall.
Pain.
Slanya’s entire being was pain. It was as if she stood in the center of the funeral pyre and burned. As if she let herself, mind and body, be consumed by the razor-sharp licks of the flames, her skin blistering and blackening, her eyes boiling.
Slanya found herself rubbing the bandage over her right pinkie. Dried crusts of blood peeled away as she scratched at it. Even Slanya’s intensive training could not cope with the anarchy that had been wrought upon her. She struggled to take stock of herself, but nothing was familiar. She was no longer the same.
Slanya tried to maintain diligence, starting with her hands and focusing on every inch of her body. Her mind recognized parts of her arm and chest and leg, some familiar fragments of herself, and she tried to use those fragments as an anchor from which she could rebuild her sense of self.
A cleric’s mind and body were a conduit of her god. She called on Kelemvor to help cure her, and perhaps he would help save her.
Or he could call her to him. She needed to prepare herself for both possibilities.
“Slanya,” came Duvan’s voice like a rock in a surging sea. “We are going to have a big problem in a minute.”
Can they get bigger? she thought.
Slanya felt the ground falling away, sending her stomach into her throat. I guess they can, she thought. She rolled over and vomited, clutching her gut and heaving.
She was dimly aware of Duvan above her, his quick, sure movements reassuringly decisive. He reached down for somethinga large triangular piece of leather. Then he lashed the corners to himself, securing his gear and donning his pack.
He is saving himself, she thought. He’s leaving me to save himself. Slanya’s heart leaned in panic. By Kelemvor, he’s nhandonine me to die.
Then Duvan was lying down behind her, intimately close to her, cradling her. His proximity felt good, reassuring. He smelled of earth and sweat; his presence exuded confidence. If anyone could save her, he could.
Duvan reached around her, threading a thick leather strap under her arms and across her chest. “I’m tying us together,” he said. “I don’t know if our combined weight will be too much for the glideskin, but it will be much better than doing nothing. Doing nothing means crashing to the ground.”
Slanya nodded. Warmth filled her; she was touched by Duvan’s gesture. He wasn’t leaving her to die alone. He hadn’t left her before when she was sick. “Thank you,” she croaked, coughing. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Purely selfish of meI need someone to argue with.”
She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a lopsided grimace.
“Besides, you stood by me, which counts for a lot. Only one other person has stood by me, ever.” “Tyrangal?”
He nodded. “But for now, you’re not saved yet. Thank me fully when we’re both on the ground, alive and well.”
Slanya shook her head. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’m thanking you now, in case I die and can’t thank you later.” She needed to express her gratitude. She’d been betrayed and lied to by Gregor, who’d promised his elixir would protect her. Instead, she’d found trust and friendship in this rogue.
“You won’t die,” Duvan said. “I’m not letting that happen.”
“Good to know,” Slanya said, smiling. “I really appreciate it.” And in that moment she felt a surge of euphoric affection toward Duvan.
Duvan laughed then said, “However, this may hurt a little. Hold on.”
Above her, Duvan unfurled the elideskin. Slanva heard it catch the wind like a kite. Duvan held on to the leather straps attached to each corner. The glideskin used magic and air to stay aloft, but it was only built for one.
Suddenly, the leather straps that held her to Duvan came taut, digging painful rows into her waist and shoulders. At her back, Duvan grunted from strain, and Slanya watched as the mote fell out from under their feet as they lifted off.
The straps held tight as she hung suspended from Duvan, who hung suspended from a wide triangle of leather. Her vision was fractured and uneven, and her body seemed to be dissociated from her mind. This was something alien to her, but she willed herself to be calm, to breathe evenly. Slowly.
Below her, the mote grew smaller against the massive, unyielding landscape. Autumn had nearly taken complete hold. Browning grass covered the rolling hills and plains as far as she could see. Away to their left was the dark line of a road, and a geometric, angular shape that had to be Ormpetarr.
Slanya knew they might die any minute, and the urge to confess overwhelmed her. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice insistent. “In case we die.”
Duvan huffed in her ear. “I’m sort of busy here.”
“You were right about the story I told,” she said. “It was too glib, too organized. The truth is that my aunt used to beat me with a belt, if I took too long washing the dishes or stacking the firewood. She used to burn the backs of my thighs with an iron if I broke a mug or spilled the chamber pot.”
“Hells.”
“The truth is, I wanted my aunt to die. I hated her and wanted her dead.”
A gust of wind buffeted them, and they suddenly rose and turned. Duvan shifted his weight to steady them and keep their gliding descent steady.
“I forgive you,” Duvan said through teeth gritted from exertion.
Slanva wafohed as the mote crashed into the rockv hillock below, breaking apart in an explosion of sand and pulverized stone. They would not have survived that. Duvan’s glideskin might not save them, but at least it gave them a chance.
Duvan whispered in her ear, “You should try to forgive yourself.”
Abruptly, they fell. Slanya’s stomach leaped to her throat, and her breath caught. But, grunting and straining, Duvan managed to right them one more time. He seemed to be aiming them for the ground about five hundred paces out. Still, they were moving far too fast for a survivable landing. Slanya hoped Duvan could slow them down before impact.
Otherwise, they would meet Kelemvor together.
“Take it from me,” Duvan said with a laugh, “and do what I say rather than what I do: forgive yourself.”
Slanya knew he was right. And yet, she didn’t know if she could. She still hated Aunt Ewesia. She still despised how she was treated, and the only way she had been able to move on was to rewrite her own historyto structure her past in such a way as to blur the horrific things.
Duvan moved again, nosing the glideskin up to try to get the air to brake them. The glideskin creaked and fluttered, shaking violently for a second before Duvan regained control. But they’d slowed a little, and by the time they were a staff-length off the ground, Duvan had brought their speed down to a horse’s gallop.
Slanya was grateful for Duvan’s forgiveness and understanding but found no other relief. Every time she thought about what had happened to her in that tiny row house with Aunt Ewesia, she felt the past slip away until she was thinking about the fire and Gregor and not what had happened before. She could not forgive herself for what had happened. She could not even remember all that had happened.
The ground sped by beneath her. Dark rocks and tall, brown grass almost within reach if she stretched hTr arms
This close to the ground, the obstacles grew larger and larger; they passed by faster abd faster the closer they got.
Duvan angled the glideskin up slightly again to slow them down and they almost stalled. Five yards up now, maybe lower. Perhaps even low enough to survive. Slanya put her arms over her head to protect it as they dropped the final distance. She brought her feet into her chest to form a fetal crouch as they hit.
Landing in a skidding, sliding heap, Duvan curled himself around her. Her stomach heaved as they lurched and bounced, but she felt protected and safe in Duvan’s embrace. When they finally came to a dusty stop, she wiped the dust and grime from her eyes before opening them again. Her muscles ached, and there was deep burning pain where the leather straps dug into her.
But they were out of the Plaguewrought Land. They’d made it! Solid and unchanging ground was beneath them. The rules of order and magic were consistent and predictable. The air smelled of harvest and dry grass and burning fields.
All in all, despite falling out of the sky, Slanya felt better than she had since entering the changelands.
Behind her, Duvan groaned. “I think my leg is broken,” he said.
Duvan’s left leg throbbed in agony, crumpled underneath the combined weight of Slanya and himself. He’d felt it snap when they had impacteda sharp, shooting agony in his shin. Even with the glideskin, the collision had been too hard.
The sharp pain had mostly edged into the background, replaced by a deep throbbing in sync with the beating of his heart. Something wet and sticky slicked his leg, and he feared he was bleedine. but he couldn’t turn to see how much. Sweat prickled on his brow, and he felt lightheaded and cold. Injury and trauma could have that effect, he knew. It had happened to him before. He did not want to pass out.
In the tall grass, Slanya rustled next to him. She was alive at least. Not gone yet. “Don’t move,” she said.
Duvan laughed grimly. “That’s easy advice to follow.”
“I hear horses, and I’d prefer not to have unwanted company right now.”
Duvan listened for horses; he hadn’t heard any. But focusing now, he realized that his ears were filled with ringing, and all sound was dulled through that noise. “How do you know they won’t help us?”
“If they’re on horseback, chances are they’re road agents or maybe wealthy pilgrims. Either way, they’re unlikely to help us.”
“Cynicism from such a trusting soul. I’m impressed.” Slanya rolled over and coughed. Still considerably unwell.
Despite her advice to remain still, Duvan unlashed the leather straps and edged himself carefully and slowly out from under her weight. And although he desperately wanted to sit up and examine his leg, he remained supine. Sitting up would increase his risk of blacking out, and that would only slow them down.
When her coughing had subsided, Slanya whispered, “They must’ve seen us; they’re approaching.”
Duvan decided that he needed to risk a look and propped himself up on his elbows. Sun burnished, grassy fields rolled out around them, but he couldn’t see any horses.
No, wait. There they were, straight south, a group of five or six horses and riders. They seemed to be riding quickly, directly toward Duvan and Slanya’s location.
The silver flint of nlate metal shininsr from one of the riders seemed familiar, but before he could place it, a wave of sparks rippled across his skin. The edges of his vision darkened.
Duvan lowered himself back down, and slowly the darkness retreated. I must be bleeding more than I expected, he thought.
Next to him, he felt Slanya rustle and try to stand. Escaping the Plaguewrought Land seemed to have given her renewed strength. “I am too weak to mount a fight,” she said. “And you’re in no condition for one either.”
Duvan had no argument to that.
In moments, the riders were on them. One of them dismounted and removed his plate helm.
“Sister Slanya,” came a familiar voice. “So glad to have found you.”
“What do you want, Beaugrat?” Slanya said. Duvan heard the warning in her voice, but the whole exchange seemed to be coming from a great distance away.
“We want to help you back to your monastery. The Order of Blue Fire has reached an agreement with Brother Gregor, and we have guaranteed your safe return.”
“What about Duvan?”
Her concern brought a smile to Duvan’s lips. He concentrated on the sun warming his skin, on the feel of lumpy earth and grass against his back. His leg throbbed, and he knew he’d lost a lot of blood, but he needed to pull himself together.
“Duvan will be taken care of as well,” Beaugrat said.
Duvan checked himself for daggers. He catalogued two on his chest and one in the scabbard strapped to his right thigh. He took a breath and waited. There would be an opportunity, perhaps, for him to use the daggers.
He opened his eyes to assess the situation. Beaugrat towered over a brave, but obviously weakened, Slanya in her torn and dirt-encrusted leathers. She stood leaning to the left as though not Quite sure of the ground.
In the blurry background, Duvan could make out four others on horseback, but despite the effort he wasn’t able to identify their strengths and weaknesses. He smelled horses and something else he couldn’t identify. Like burning metal. Something was wrong with his mind.
Beaugrat said, “The Order will guarantee he makes a full recovery.”
“I’m certain you will,” Slanya said. “How about this for a deal: You give us a ride back to the monastery where we can heal up. After that you can talk to Duvan as much as you’d like, as long as it’s all right with him.”
Beaugrat said, “Let’s see… No!”
Duvan heard the sound of swords being drawn, metal on leather, and the cocking of a crossbow. Slanya said, “You don’t want to fight me. I’ve had a pretty bad day, and I’m not in the mood to let you live.”
Beaugrat laughed. “Well, it’s true that I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “But we outnumber you, and you’re both sick or injured. You have surprised me in the past, which is why I’m not taking chances this time. Cedril, now.”
Duvan heard the crossbow spring, and the quarrel made an unusually faint sound as it hit something solid. His mind imagined a lightweight bolt, perhaps hollow. From Slanya’s gasp, he presumed it had hit her. There was movement around him as Slanya attacked. Duvan grabbed for his dagger, but his hands never closed around the hilt.
“Don’t worry, the poison isn’t deadly. It will only put you to sleep for a short time.”
“How kind of you.” Slanya’s sarcasm brought a wry smile to Duvan’s lips. But then her words slowed and stopped. Duvan heard her body collapse to the ground next to him.
“What about him?” The voice floated on the air, but he couldn’t tell who was speaking. “He doesn’t look so well.”
“He looks dead,” Beaugrat said. “Like we’re going to be if that CoDDer Guard contingent catches us out here.”
Unconsciousness inked over Duvan’s vision before he caught the answer to the question. And then he was falling into the pit of night that yawned beneath him.
Was this what death was like?