The Edge of Chaos (21 page)

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 throw—it 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.

*** S

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 something—a 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 me—I 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 history—to 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 hŤr 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 impacted—a 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.