The Edge of Chaos (7 page)

In his vision, Gregor walked through a landscape of fiat green fields covered at regular intervals by archways of blue fire. The spellplague was under perfect and exacting control, forming a lattice threadwork of geometric patterns through the flat, grassy plain.

Here was the possible future—one which was organized and controlled. One in which wild magic interwove with the

plane in knowable and predictable ways. No more random and irrational tragedies.

Just as suddenly as it had come, the vision faded, and Gregor found himself back at the trial ritual. This was first step to achieving that vision, one possible way that the changelands could be ordered.

The veil that marked the border of the Plaguewrought Land shifted then, moved to encapsulate the new bulge and the pilgrims with it. That border had not moved in years, but Vraith had moved it.

“Now!” Vraith screamed. “Break the circle now!”

The pilgrims let go of each other and flung themselves out of the border—inside which the earth was already collapsing and breaking up, flying into the sky like an inverted waterfall of rock.

Or most of them did. Gregor caught sight of two who didn’t make it out in time, whose bodies went flying up with the earth, and who did not come down. They disappeared into the vastness of the Plaguewrought Land.

Clerics rushed to the pilgrims who had made it, examined them, and pronounced them all alive. Not well, but alive. They would require healing for many, many days, and might not make it.

But they had survived the initial exposure, every one. The elixir worked!

Vraith would certainly want more for her full-scale ritual. Much more. All that rested on Slanya now, and the guide Tyrangal said she could get.

Gregor smiled broadly. His head pain was gone, and he felt renewed. His path was clear.

O- §* *** ***

Letting the blanket that served as a curtain fall into place behind him, ten-year-old Duvan stared at what remained

of his village. The houses and barns had been leveled and burned to the ground by the spellplague. Smoke still rose from the ashes. Partial skeletons and scattered bones littered what remained of the single road.

Duvan staggered away from the house, razed except for Duvan’s small room. Some of the bodies were more fully recognizable as people. There was Trelthas, an older girl who had just announced her intention to marry Erephus. Duvan had liked her, and there she was providing a fertile bed for maggots.

His stomach heaved at the stench coming from the corpse, and his knees buckled. He vomited bile, the acid burning his throat.

When the nausea passed, he wiped the tears away angrily and continued his search. He found no one alive and many more bodies, all maggot-riddled and decomposing.

Everyone was gone, including Papa. He searched for Papa’s body, but he never found it. What he did find was a food cache, near one of the huge holes in the ground, over by what was left of Elder Lindraut’s barn. Duvan stared into the jagged scar in the ground and caught sight of the food cellar about ten yards down.

One wall and part of the ceiling had been ripped away like the skin of an orange, and inside he could see shelves of dried fruit, hard bread, and bottles of wine. As with other places in the destroyed village, here and there, patches of the blue gauzy web still flickered like the last clinging remnants of fire to a cinder. There were several small but active patches down in the scar, between him and the store of food.

Still, this was the only food he had found, and his hunger drove him to get it. He climbed down the jagged rock wall, managing to avoid the pockets of spellplague, and slipped into the cellar. He found an empty burlap sack and filled it with as much food as he could lift.

Then he climbed back out. He’d always been good at climbing. He hurried back to Talfani to share the food. “Hey, ‘Fani!” he said, pushing the heavy blanket aside. “It’s eating time!”

Talfani rolled in the bed and stared up at him, her tired eyes full of grief. All color had drained from her face, her normally dark skin pale and her lips almost translucent. Clearly she’d been exposed while he had been searching for food.

Talfani’s illness had worsened after he’d come back with food. He’d tended to her over the next few days as she faded away. He had tried to save her and care for her as best he could. He remembered it like it was yesterday; her soul’s light had dimmed, guttered, and then finally, when it went out, it was a relief for her.

But for ten-year-old Duvan it was no relief. He could not bear it. Talfani had been a joined soul—his twin. He had depended upon her, and with her gone it was as though half of his spirit had been ripped away. When she finally gave up and let go of her body, young Duvan had stopped eating. He’d stopped caring and had just lay with her emaciated corpse for days or tendays. He had no recollection of time passing.

Duvan might’ve died back then, but for a travelling company of elves bound for Wildhome. They had wandered up to see if they could salvage anything. Ageless and graceful, these noble people had saved Duvan from the wreckage.

He had always wanted to run away and join them, but when they had finally come for him, he didn’t care. He never forgave them for rescuing him … and for what they did to him after.

Lying on the ground, Duvan shook himself and yawned. A hot wind gusted through his hair, drying the sweat on his forehead, and cut the humid jungle air. A magic ring— one of Tyrangal’s treasures—had brought him halfway back to Ormpetarr before depositing him and his horse in a clearing in the middle of the Chondalwood. He had ridden the better part of the remaining distance in the last day, but he still had some time to go before he reached Ormpetarr.

Tendrils of memory clung to him like spider silk. Duvan angrily wiped his eyes as he saddled up his horse. Selune was high, and it was hardly midnight, but if sleep meant the same nightmare remembrances, he’d rather ride than sleep.

Duvan finished packing his saddlebags and mounted up. He spurred the horse into motion and pushed out in the deep blue dark of the half-moon, as the horse slipped as fast as it could toward Ormpetarr, Tyrangal, and the completion of this botched mission.

Not home, Duvan thought. I have no real home.

But he did crave a deep, sound sleep and a long, hot bath. All in the company of his favorite girl-—the inestimable Moirah. Well, Duvan thought with a chuckle, she actually was estimable; he knew exactly how much she charged.

Still, as the night landscape moved under his horse’s hooves, Duvan felt safe in the anonymity of the darkness and silence. Night meant shadows and obscurity. Other creatures, emboldened by the darkness, prowled in the grass and scrubby trees that covered these moonlit hills. Wild and alive, an untamable and primal energy swirled around him.

Duvan rode all night, and by the time the sky had begun to lighten, he was passing caravans of pilgrims headed south to Ormpetarr. He skirted them in the dim light but did not stop despite their jubilance and offers of food and drink. He wanted nothing more than to reach Ormpetarr

and melt into the arms of his temporary lover, his rented friend. Moirah’s attentions were what he needed after this journey, before he reported to Tyrangal. He knew that the tall, strange woman would want him to deliver the recovered tome as soon as he could. But she knew his habits and his needs, and she would wait for him.

Tyrangal understood him better than any other person. They had a mutually beneficial business arrangement, although sometimes Duvan wondered why she had chosen him. Of all the available people, she had sought him out.

It had been Tyrangal who had finally given him liberty when she took him away from the Wildhome elves, many years after Talfani’s death. The same elves who had saved him from wasting away next to Talfani’s corpse had taken him to their alien and beautiful forest city—and had never let him leave their velvet prison.

Duvan shuddered. He would never trust a Wildhome elf again, and he would always hate clerics of Silvanus. Rhiazzshar had forever spoiled their reputation in his eyes. The young elf priestess had come to him when he was outcast and ridiculed. She had comforted him, befriended him, and lured him into trusting her. Duvan had loved her, and she had abused his love.

Finally, as the sun was growing low again, he came over the last hill and stared down into the valley that housed Ormpetarr. Half of the old city had been destroyed by the Spellplague long before Duvan’s time. That half still lay behind the hazy veil of the Plaguewrought Land border.

Looking down into the valley, Duvan marveled at the proliferation of tents and makeshift shelters. Pilgrims were arriving and staying in numbers he’d never seen before.

Ormpetarr consisted of a central thoroughfare surrounded by a bustling merchant district with the Changing House just to the side closest to the border. To the city’s south there was the only recently-built stone building—a temple complex

of all things. And crammed cheek by jowl across the spaces around and in between were hundreds upon hundreds of pilgrims’ tents. Ormpetarr was a boom town. Lots of coin to be had, but wild and quite dangerous. Just the sort of place where people like Duvan thrived.

He grinned and made his way through the gates and into the city. One of Tyrangal’s guards—he recognized the guard’s burnished red chainmail—hailed Duvan.

Duvan waved the man over. “Well met,” he said.

“Well met, sir,” the guard said. “You’ve returned?”

“Yes, and I have news for Tyrangal, for her ears alone. Tell Tyrangal that the ‘scarred man she hired, Beaugrat, is a spy for the Order.”

The man’s eyes went wide. “He passed this gate no more than an hour ago, sir. Looked tired. Nearly fell off his horse.”

“Too bad he didnt,” muttered Duvan. He jerked his head in the direction of Tyrangal’s abode. “Go, now.”

The guard bowed slightly, then turned and made his way along the road that led up the hill. Tyrangal lived in an old stone mansion overlooking the city. The better to keep an eye on its inhabitants, Duvan supposed. Duvan would pay her a visit later in the day, but first he wanted to get some dreamless sleep. There was only one person he knew who could help him with that.

Thus, a few minutes later, as the sky grew light, Duvan found himself the sole patron of the Jewel. He sat at the polished wood bar, whose numerous knife and burn scars were more of a testament to its less-than-savory clientele than to its age.

Duvan ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. He needed a bath, he knew. The dirt of the road stuck to him like dried sweat, and his leathers were permeated with travel grime and the blood of the past evening’s events.

A bath and a shave, he thought. Now that would feel good.

Duvan downed the last of his ale. Moirah could help when she got in. Ah, Moirah. “Another tankard, Pritchov,” Duvan said.

The half-ore nodded and slid a freshly filled tankard down the bar to him.

Duvan sipped the ale. Not as bad now as the first half-mug. The Jewel didn’t have the best food and drink, but they made up for it in the quality of their other offerings. He set a silver coin on the bar. “Just keep ‘em coming, Pritchov. At least until Moirah gets in.”

“I’m here.” Moirah’s voice was the perfect growly blend of raspy and sweet, like honey over toasted seed-bread.

The stale-beer-and-piss-pot odor gave way to jasmine perfume as she approached. If he weren’t already intoxicated, she would have done the job at one sighting.

Moirah was a slight woman with an elf s build and raven curls. Her dark eyes gazed dreamily at Duvan. It was a look, he knew, that was either calculated or drug induced. Still, he pretended there was some sincerity. Their interaction was a performance, a dance, and a business exchange. He rarely let himself lose his edge, but when he did, he went all the way.

Duvan found himself smiling, his gaze tracking over Moirah as she walked toward him. Her slow saunter agonized him. Her over-red lips and her eyes said, “Come and get me.” But Duvan waited. He’d played this game before, and she had to dictate the pace. Slow was good, he knew. Slow was exceedingly good in the end.

Gauzy blue and purple silks wrapped her body, layered enticingly to hide all the most desirable parts. Her navel was showing, and below it was her spellscar, nearly translucent, trailing down and disappearing into the sash at her waist. That scar, and the ability that came with it, was a good part of why Duvan always asked for Moirah.

She reached the bar and pulled his head down to breathe into his ear. “I’m ready when you are,” she whispered.

Duvan looked at Pritchov. “No interruptions,” he said, lifting his pack. Then he let Moirah lead him by his belt down the hall and into a room.

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

Slanya awoke well before dawn, donned her travelling leathers, ate a quick breakfast, and left the temple on foot. She walked past the hospital tents and the smoldering funeral pit, heading into the city. Gregor had said that Tyrangal was expecting her at dawn, and she intended to be prompt despite her doubts.

Chances were slim that the guild leader would know of anyone willing to guide her into the changelands, let alone someone capable. Slanya figured such a guide didn’t exist. Who would be stupid or desperate enough to risk his or her life like that?

Slanya skirted the main thoroughfare, which was already awake with locals and eager pilgrims. She fought down a surge of disgust. These people sought power and uniqueness but were unwilling to work hard for it. Greedy for their spellscars and whatever abilities that came with them, the pilgrims risked their lives for an instantaneous transformation. .

Sighing, Slanya reminded herself that she was here to help the pilgrims, not to pity or despise them. Fools would always exist, would always hasten their own deaths. Such was the way of things. If she succeeded in gathering more plaguegrass for Gregor, perhaps the elixir would help give some of them a second chance.

Slanya walked up the ancient road that led north out of Ormpetarr and up toward Tyrangal’s mansion—away from the Plaguewrought Land. Slanya had never been to the changelands before, nor had she seen the border from closer than the city’s main thoroughfare. It was danger enough living so close to the edge of the wild magic.