The Edge of Chaos (12 page)

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 instantly—burned 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’s—the

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 business—doing construction work or writing scrolls or even practicing combat training—in 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.