The Edge of Chaos (24 page)

Slanya blinked and noticed that she was absently rubbing the stub of her missing pinkie. So much for order and peace of mind.

“Your spellscar is intriguing,” Kaylinn said. “It’s spread throughout your body like a fishing net—concentrated knots of spellscar connected by a web of thinner, physical scars. I don’t recommend you use your spellscar ability too much. Channeling that much wild magic is likely to tear your body apart.”

“Thank you for the advice, High Priestess,” Slanya said, her tongue still thick with the medicine. “Do you know what it… does??”

Kaylinn shrugged. “You will figure it out.”

“Thank you, Priestess, for healing me. I am indebted.”

“Not at all,” Kaylinn said. “You are family. I think you should know that.”

“I do,” Slanya said. “Of course.”

After a short pause, Kaylinn continued, “I need to speak with you about Brother Gregor. I am concerned that he has lost his way, that his pursuit of personal glory has blinded him to the harm he is causing others.”

Slanya nodded.

“This … pact with Vraith is inappropriate, to say the least. The Order has long supported our presence in Ormpetarr, but the situation with the young man and

Gregor’s elixir … I no longer trust they have our congregation’s best interests in mind. We need to determine if something is influencing Gregor and then isolate him from it, if so. I need your help, Sister Slanya. I need the backing of all clerics and monks of our monastery, especially those loyal to him.”

“I agree with you, High Priestess. I will help however lean.”

There was a knock on the door, and Kaylinn’s eyebrows raised in surprise. She went to the door and opened it a crack, and in the space Slanya was shocked to see the tall slender figure of Tyrangal.

“I must speak with Slanya,” she said. Tyrangal was at least two heads taller than Kaylinn, her long auburn hair shining in the sunlight of the courtyard.

Kaylinn didn’t budge. “She’s in no condition.”

Tyrangal’s gaze softened, and a smile graced her young face. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Priestess.” Her voice grew melodic and convincing. “And lam just going to talk with her. I need to tell her something very important.”

Kaylinn frowned. “Do not try to charm me.”

“I apologize for the attempt,” Tyrangal said, “and merely plead urgency as the motivator. It’s imperative that I have a few words with Sister Slanya, and what I have to say cannot wait any longer.”

Kaylinn made no move to allow Tyrangal into the room. “I have no reason to trust you,” she said. “This is a most unusual breach of protocol.”

Slanya spoke. “It’s all right, High Priestess. I will speak with her.”

Kaylinn’s resolve melted just a little. “Very well, but I will remain here.”

Tyrangal gave a catlike smile. “Of course. What I have to say might be important for you as well.” She strode into the room and looked down at Slanya. “I hope you’re feeling up to

some action,” she said, “because we need to rescue Duvan.”

Slanya sat up. “You.know where he is?”

Tyrangal nodded. “I do. He is being held in the Order of Blue Fire headquarters, in one of the underground rooms.”

“Is he well guarded?”

Tyrangal nodded. “Aye,” she said, “but I have considerable resources. My Copper Guard is ready to assist us, but we cannot do it alone. I was hoping that you and a number of your trusted clerics and monks could help us get Duvan out of there.”

Kaylinn interjected, “Why do you want to rescue Duvan? What is he to you?”

“Duvan is my ward,” Tyrangal said. “He is my apprentice, and I am responsible for him. But more than that, Duvan is the only one who can shut down the Order’s plan to extend the Plaguewrought Land.”

“What?” Slanya asked.

“Vraith has developed a ritual that will allow her to move the border of the changelands, and I have no doubt that she’s planning to expand the border until all lands are Plaguewrought Land.”

Slanya remembered the horror of the unbridled Plaguewrought Land, and she shuddered.

“My Copper Guard isn’t large enough to breach their defenses in two places at the same time—besides, we will need your prayers and your magic. Vraith and her inner circle of accordants will be leaving for the festival soon. That’s where my guard will be. We need to get to Duvan, because his resistance to the Spellplague is the only thing that can stop them.”

Slanya thought about it. She wasn’t at all sure about what Tyrangal had said concerning Vraith and the Order. It sounded preposterous and overblown, but she did know that she owed Duvan her life and that she cared for the ornery rogue. She would help to save him.

“I will go with you. Duvan saved my life more than once. It’s time to repay the debt.”

Kaylinn looked at Slanya, her eyes wide. “I never trusted Vraith, and I’ve suspected Brother Gregor to be under the influence of some obsession. Ever since he became spellscarred and convinced me to move us halfway across Faerun, I’ve had my doubts about his objectives.”

“Does that mean you’ll help us?” Tyrangal asked.

“Yes,” Kaylinn responded. “And I think I can persuade a few others to join us as well.”

“Excellent,” Slanya said, invigorated. The pain in her head had receded. She found herself growing excited, and the impending thrill had chased away her craving for calm and balance.

****** ****** ***

Dizzy and exhausted to the point of delirium, teenage Duvan staggered toward the fluctuating prismatic veil and peered through the haze at the tall waterfall of crystal-clear water. Waves of blue fire pulsed like irregular heartbeats just inside the border here. Thirst clawed at his throat.

How long had it been since his last drink? Days? Tendays? He could not remember.

Since escaping from the Wildhome cage, Duvan had scrabbled and clawed his way across terrain straight from images of the Nine Hells. And now, he scraped his way up steep, bare rock. Pulses of spellplague washed over him, and he ignored them.

Younger Duvan pushed through the oily curtain and emerged into the light. Monochrome purple gave way to verdant fields. Dust and static and cold dissipated as he trudged out of the Plaguewrought Land. He’d made it across!

A flash of white—

The lush waterfall vanished as young Duvan dragged

himself, exhausted, across a small meadow and collapsed by the trunk of a small cypress tree. The spray that had fractured the sun into rainbow droplets vanished, leaving behind dry grass and sporadic scrubby trees.

Just a mirage. Disappointment flooded him, and he let it sap his will to go on.

Sun shone down on him, warming the chill in his bones. Compared to the excessive gusts of the Plaguewrought Land, filled with flying rocks and dust, the gentle wind felt like a caress. Maybe he could still make it. He’d made it this far through agility and determination and never giving up. He just needed to gather his strength. Then he could find water.

A flash of green—

He must have passed out. He awoke to find elf faces staring down at him. They had bronze skin and long hair adorned with forest plants to camouflage them. The elves looked at him with pity, with fear, with concern.

They had come from Wildhome, this small cadre of elven rangers and druids. They offered him food and water, and he accepted. They set up camp around him, too afraid that moving would injure him. Rhiazzshar was not among them. These were not elves he knew, although he thought he might have seen one or two when the wide-ranging scouting teams had come through the Chondalwood.

Had they come for him? How had they known to find him here? He had just made it across the changelands, crawling through the belly of the beast.

The elves were going to take him back. After the impossible trip through the most chaotic and dangerous place in Faerun, he was just going to go back to captivity, to Rhiazzshar. To torture. He wouldn’t let them. He would kill himself rather than go back. He hated them all.

A flash of red—

A few days later, the encampment came alive when sounds

of a troop of men on horseback approached. Led by a tall woman with long, auburn hair, the armed force looked well enough trained that it would give the small encampment trouble.

First, however, the tall woman spoke to them in sweet, honeyed words. Tyrangal was her name, and just listening to her gave Duvan a rush of joy. Many of the elves obviously felt the same way, and those who didn’t were afraid of her. They certainly would not risk engaging the Copper Guard in combat.

Duvan watched in awe as the elves packed up and rode away, leaving him with Tyrangal and her men. He did not know what this wonderful and frightening new captor would do with him. He did not entertain hope. He’d been down that path before, and it always had led to greater disappointment.

Tyrangal sent the elves home. And after the last horse had disappeared down over the low, rolling grassland hills, the strange woman came to Duvan. She dispelled the charm she had put on him and the others, and she told him that he was free to go wherever he wished. She told him that she would like him to work for her. And that if he did, he would be paid handsomely for his efforts.

She laid out the possibility of a new life for Duvan—a life of learning and adventure, if he allowed her to guide him. But she emphasized that he was free to refuse her offer. She was not going to force him to do anything. He could walk away freely if he wanted.

Duvan didn’t believe it. And over time, as he slowly came to realize that she had not been lying, he broke down and cried. He still had the nightmares every night, but now he was in charge of his own destiny. Tyrangal hoped that he would stay with her and perform the tasks she requested, but he was always asked and never forced.

A flash of blue—

Duvan awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and looked

around. Arched stone ceiling streaked with soot. He was in the same room, most likely underground. Maybe beneath the Changing House. The smell of sweat and ashes and healing balm filled the room.

He was still lying on the table where he’d been tortured. Apparently not dead yet, he thought wryly, as ghost sensations of earlier pain filtered back into this consciousness. The room was quiet and felt largely empty, except for Vraith speaking with two others on the other side of the door. He could only catch snatches of words and phrases.

His magical bonds from earlier had been replaced with leather ones. One of the absent spellcasters must’ve been keeping him immobile earlier.

Discreetly, he started testing the limits of his bonds, while focusing to try to understand the conversation outside the room. Vraith’s northern accent was easy to recognize, but he could barely hear enough to follow what they were saying.

“—monk is working with us fully now … best of both worlds.”

“… believes he’s free, but the… visions from… Masters of Absolute Accord.” Laughter.

Then Vraith’s voice rose clear and loud. “We must prepare for the festival now. Soon we shall all be part of an historic moment.”

“What about our guest?”

“Continue the testing as appropriate. Jahin will stay. Push him to his limits, but don’t let him die.”

Duvan shuddered. More pain like he’d been through, only to be healed up for further torture? He’d rather die.

He gritted his teeth.

Duvan’s hands slid free of his bonds, and he sat up quickly. Looking around, he noticed a small table on his left, upon which were several knives and a pair of iron tongs. Apparently the planned torture wasn’t limited to just the magical variety.

Duvan grabbed one of the knives, palmed it, then put his hands back against the bonds. Anyone scrutinizing them would know immediately that he’d slipped out, but a casual glance might not give him away.

Hesitation would mean more pain, more and prolonged agony. And even if all that his escape attempt brought was death and an endless oblivion, it was better than writhing in pain. The door opened.

“I think he’s awake again,” said the genasi. “Shall we continue?”

Duvan had made his decision.

“Let’s try this …”

And with that, dread like a dark hole in the slimy recesses of Duvan’s gut penetrated his soul. He felt unclean and smelled waves of putrid spray sluicing off his body. He was being corrupted from the inside out.

There was no choice. There were no other options. This realignment of his soul felt wrong in every way that something could be wrong. If he could beg for it to stop, he would.

If he had to die to make it stop, he would.

With that thought, his reticence vanished. With practiced agility, he spun the knife in his hand, feeling the hilt lock into position in his grasp. Even if he failed to kill all of his captors, Duvan would be making his own choice at the end. He could decide his own fate.

The genasi mage, Jahin. was closest, her attention focused on the torturous spell she was casting.

Duvan sprang free of the table, leaping at the mage in a blur. He brought the knife to bear, aiming for the genasi’s hands. Anything to stop the spell.

Jahin reacted too slowly. Shocked, she stumbled backward as Duvan’s blade slashed with surgical precision along her arm and wrist.

Duvan’s legs shook and buckled from weakness. As he collapsed to the ground, he watched as Jahin’s blood sprayed

from the cut in her wrist. She fell back and came down on one knee.

Pain wracked Duvan’s muscles as he braced his fall with outstretched arms.Gritting his teeth against the agony, he struggled to his feet. Which of his captors would be his next victim? Looking past Jahin, clutching her gushing wrist, Duvan caught sight of Renfod’s dark head.

A frown graced the cleric’s face, but there was no fear there. The man seemed to be irritated, and his mouth was uttering something Duvan couldn’t hear. A prayer for magic.

I need to stop him from finishing, he thought.

With all his effort, Duvan lunged across the room toward Renfod. One step. All his attention focused on the effort to get to the cleric before the spell was complete. Two steps. Duvan knew that he’d be caught again if Renfod was able to finish. Three—

A sudden, searing agony pierced Duvan’s back. He went rigid as a huge blade sword slid through him as easily as if he were made of lard. Beaugrat’s sword, he realized too late.