The Edge of Chaos (27 page)

“And,” Vraith continued, “as I just said; you are in too deep to be having doubts now.”

Gregor shook his head slowly. “I have many options,” he said.

Vraith forced herself to bite back an angry retort. She smiled. “Well, you do what you need to do. But I assure you that you have nothing to worry about. The truly great have to make hard choices, and oftentimes lesser folks get caught in the way. It is the price of vision.

“We will change the world, you and I,” she told Gregor. And she believed it.

Duvan came to life with a shock. His back arching in spasm, he gulped air. Again, shocks shot through his body, and his chest seemed to be filled with broken glass. A violent exhalation seized him, as though a giant invisible hand clamped down on his chest. He rolled on his side and coughed-up blood and phlegm. Then the pain hit. His back burned where Beaugrat’s blade had pierced him. His head felt like it had been wrenched off and then jammed back into place.

Darkness and silence surrounded him. Me could see nothing, hear nothing. The iron tang of blood that filled his nostrils stank so powerfully that it blocked out all other smells.

Then, filtered through the black cotton in his head, he heard a voice he recognized. “He’s alive,” Kaylinn said. “Welcome back, Duvan.”

Liquid against the back of his throat blazed a trail down to his chest, somewhat dulling the ache that pervaded his muscles and joints. His eyes were open, but he could not see any light. Only tiny pinpricks of light showed in the vast dark gray in front of him.

“Thank you so much, Kaylinn.” That was Slanya’s voice, and he heard tears in the utterance. His heart opened with the sound. Slanya had not betrayed or abandoned him. On the contrary, she had come to save him.

“Thank Kelemvor,” Kaylinn said. “For he allowed Duvan back among the living.”

“His time is not over,” Slanya said, and her voice was not the stoic and rigid Slanya he remembered—the combat cleric who challenged him, who stood by him and fought. No, there was a deep vulnerability in that voice, a touching quality that melted Duvan.

“Where am I?” he asked, but no one seemed to hear him. He couldnt even hear himself. His mouth wasn’t working right.

“He’s trying to talk,” Kaylinn said. “It will take a few hours for him to completely recover all his senses. But he can hear you now.”

Slanya’s voice was in his ear. “You rest now, Duvan,” she said, and her breath smelled of almonds. “You have no cares in the world.”

If the voice said rest, then that’s what he would do.

Some time later, though he had no way of knowing how much, he awoke. His vision came back slowly and in patches. And he could sense that he was lying flat on his back, but the pallet that held him was soft, and the sheets under and over him were elegant and clean. He was naked, he realized then, and had been scrubbed free of dirt.

“How do you feel, Slanya?” came Kaylinn’s voice.

Duvan’s eyes fluttered open to see the High Priestess standing in the open doorway of the small chamber.

“I feel a little more myself” Slanya said. She sat on the foot of his cot, wearing a clean cloth robe. “After I used my spellscar power, everything fragmented. It was as though reality was crumbling around me. I couldn’t trust what I saw. Your healing has helped some.”

“Your spellscar has left you fragile,” Kaylinn said. “And I have reached the limit of my healing abilities.”

Slanya was injured, Duvan realized.

“You must be exceedingly careful to use your power in moderation,” Kaylinn said.

“I understand. Thank you, High Priestess. I will be careful.”

“Well, if you’re stable now,” Kaylinn said. “I am going to go get some rest.” Duvan heard fatigue in Kaylinn’s voice for the first time. “I’m exhausted.”

Light came through a window, red and orange. The setting sun, Duvan guessed, from the tenor of the light. At the foot of his bed, Slanya’s silhouette was limned in red, like a crimson halo. Duvan blinked; the richness of color was overwhelming after the monochromatic gray of the plane of death.

Duvan heard a door slide closed as Kaylinn left to get some rest. Late-summer birds chirped as treble accompaniment to the deep droning of chanting monks in the background. The smells were overwhelming as well. The odor of lilac soap drifted up around him, and he grew increasingly aware of the spicy scent of healing balm permeating the room.

Then the sheets around him rustled, and the smell of woman washed away everything, else. Slanya nestled in next to him, her body warm against his. She wrapped her arms around him in an intimate hug.

“I thought you were gone, Duvan,” she said. Her hands combed through his hair, and the feel of her caress brought tears to his eyes. Whether he was too tired or overwhelmed to fight it, he didn’t know, but he realized that he cared for Slanya.

She cradled him in her arms and petted his brow. “Everything’s all right now,” she whispered.

He curled up in Slanya’s embrace. He surrendered to the overwhelming urge to trust in her. He could be vulnerable with her, and everything would be all right. That was a gift beyond anything he’d imagined possible ever again.

“I’ve got you, Duvan,” Slanya said. “I will take care of you.”

Since Papa had died, nobody had said that. Nobody had ever rescued him. Even Rhiazzshar’s pleasures had been manipulative and full of expectant reciprocity. Slayna’s offer was pure generosity and selflessness. He had always been on his own, and it felt so good to let someone take care of him. Tears welled in Duvan’s eyes, and his voice caught in his throat.

“Thank you,” he mouthed to her through the sobs. “Thank you.”

Gregor stood in the cool air washing across the grassy fields. He shivered, chilly despite the body warmth of the masses of pilgrims gathered for . the Festival of Blue Fire. His silk robe let the wind through, sending waves of goosebumps across his skin.

He clenched his teeth and hoped the events of this night went well. He hated that Order of Blue Fire bitch. Hated that he had fallen into this deal. Hated that she was right when she said he had come too-far to stop.

Taking a deep breath, Gregor calmed himself. Anger would not serve him well. He needed focus. Fortitude.

The prismatic glow of the towering border veil cast an eldritch pall over the crowds and the trampled

grass field. The sun had set hours earlier, and bonfires had sprung up sporadically through the field. Many revelers danced in groups around the fires, although most responded to the instructions by Vraith’s small army of Peacekeepers. They had fallen quite literally into line.

Gregor was impressed with the efficiency and organization of Vraith’s workforce. After only a short time, a long line of pilgrims arced out from a spot on the westernmost edge of the wide field, circumnavigated the bulk of tents and wagons, and came to a head near the eastern edge.

Vraith and a small entourage of her trusted advisors travelled along the line, while Gregor and his helpers trailed behind. “Join us in embracing the Blue Fire together,” Vraith said over and over again as she moved along the line.

Gregor noticed that while most pilgrims had joined the line, quite a few had ignored the call to join in. Quite a few of those were children. He knew that once the ritual was complete, the entire field would be inside the Plaguewrought Land. All those children would be swallowed up by the advancing changelands.

“Here, I need to cut your palm,” Vraith said further down the line. “It hurts but a little and will ensure that you are one with the others when we are all baptized in the light of the Blue Fire.” She sliced their palms and told them not to stop the bleeding until the ritual was complete. They would know when.

Gregor and his monks followed behind her and gave each pilgrim a ladle from the cauldron. “A single swallow will protect you from overexposure to the wild magic,” he told them. And mostly, he believed it. As with most things, the truth was far more complicated and could not be explained in a single sentence.

Using a hollow needle and indigo pigment, Brother Velri marked each pilgrim who received a dose of the elixir. It was important to give everyone enough and there was a

limited supply; he didn’t want people taking more than one drink.

Ahead of them, Vraith paused a second. “Congratulations on the wondrous occasion of your wedding,” she said, speaking to a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in fine lace. “I am extremely honored you have chosen the Festival of Blue Fire to celebrate your personal union.”

The woman beamed a toothy smile at Vraith, and the shorter, portly man beside her gave a respectful bow. His dark eyes showed concern as Vraith cut his new wife’s palms with the ceremonial knife. The woman, for her part, demonstrated no reluctance and showed no evidence of pain.

Gregor and his crew followed, doling out doses. He too congratulated the couple, although he couldn’t help but wonder as he passed them whether their wedding night would be marred by the horrific massacre of scores of children.

No, he thought. Surely, Vraith would hold off until all pilgrims were safe.

Gregor had given out over a thousand doses by the time they were nearing the end of the line. Everyone was in a festive mood, gazing up in awe at the gauzy haze of the border veil punctuated by flashes of blue-white fire behind it. It seemed that even the Plaguewrought Land was restless behind the border, eager to reach out and touch all these willing participants to history.

Gregor shivered. This minor expansion of the Plaguewrought Land was temporary. It was a necessary test to achieving his vision—a proof of concept on a grand scale. If this worked, then he would work to enforce the agreement he’d made with Vraith.

The Commander Accordant’s perfected ritual would make it possible to contain rampant spellplague storms. They would be able to create borders where none existed before. And eventually all of the tumultuous changelands that existed in the world would be organized.

And yet, Gregor had grown more and more suspicious that Vraith did not share his vision. The ritual was dependent upon her. Her spellscar ability was critical, and even if the same result could be achieved without her, Gregor had no inkling of how that might be accomplished. If it turned out that Vraith was not willing or motivated to use the ritual to contain spellplague storms, then Gregor’s help now was more than a waste. He was all too aware that it made him complicit in the destabilization of the Plaguewrought Land.

Tyrangal’s words haunted him. Vraith will use this ritual to move the border of the Plaguewrought Land, to expand the total area of these plaguelands. Of that I am 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.

As he came to the last pilgrims in the line and gave them drinks of his concoction, Gregor straightened. His work tonight was nearly done. Ironically, Vraith was right about him. He despised her, but it was too late to back out now. He’d placed his bet. The stakes were high, but the payoff would be massive. All of Faerun would reap the profits of this gamble.

Tyrangal would see that. And if she did not, she would be left behind.

Gregor looked across the field, bathed in the gray light of the border. There were still many, many pilgrims who had ignored the call to line up. Every one of them would be exposed if they were inside the arc when the ritual started.

Bonfires provided hubs of warmth and celebration. In the glow from the changelands, and the warmth of the bonfires, the festival had managed to mutate this plain into a landscape of dancing and music. The smell of spiced meat and roasting garlic and warm bread mingled in the air, temporarily masking the lingering scent of the funeral pyres and the Plaguewrought Land—the stench of oranges and carrion.

Gregor gave over the task of distributing elixir to Brother Velri. “We need to encourage everyone to drink a dose,” Gregor said. “All of these who are determined to stay inside the arc. And give it to children first. It will protect them all.”

Velri nodded.

“I’m going to talk with Vraith,” Gregor said. “To see how much time we have. All these folks should be outside the arc just in case, and the Order Peacekeepers can help with that.”

Gregor stepped up his pace and caught up to Vraith. Surrounded by Order Peacekeepers and clerics, Vraith barked instructions to her minions to get the lined-up pilgrims to space themselves evenly and hold hands. “The blood bond must be complete for this to work!”

“Vraith,” Gregor said, pushing through the Peacekeepers, who reluctantly allowed him to pass.

“Gregor,” Vraith grinned at him. “Thank you for your good work. Now, you and your monks should move outside the arc.”

“We’re trying to get the remaining pilgrims inoculated.” He gestured at the bonfires still surrounded by dancers and drunken pilgrims passed out on the ground.

Vraith shrugged. “I don’t think they’ll cause trouble for the ritual.”

Gregor was appalled at her lack of compassion. “Yes, but that means that hundreds of pilgrims remain unprotected and will likely die.”

Vraith’s angular face went stone hard. “I understand that, monk. And it is not my concern. They all know what they are risking. It is their choice to make.”

Momentary shock took hold of Gregor, but he quickly quelled it. He glared at her. “That doesn’t excuse genocide, wizard.”

Vraith’s straight-chopped blonde head shook slowly back and forth. “I don’t have time for this,” she said. “These few stragglers,” she waved at the pilgrims inside the arc, “were

told the same thing as those thousand or so.” She pointed at the line. “I wash my hands of the ignorant and selfish. You do what you need to do.”

“At least give me time to give these folks the elixir,” Gregor said.

“You can do that if you’d like, of course, but the ritual will begin as soon as the circuit is complete.” “How much time do I have?”

Vraith glanced around at the line of pilgrims. There were still places where people weren’t lined up perfectly, sections where the pilgrims weren’t holding bloody palms to their neighbors’. “I’d say about a half hour,” she said. “An hour at most.”