Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

“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.

Slanya watched as the mote crashed into the rocky 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 her arms. This close to the ground, the obstacles grew larger and larger; they passed by faster and 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 bleeding, 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 glint of plate metal shining 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.

“Sister Slanya,” came a familiar voice. “So glad to have found you.”

“What do you want, Beaugrat?” Slanya said. Duvan heard the warning in her voice, but the whole exchange seemed to be coming from a great distance away.

“We want to help you back to your monastery. The Order of Blue Fire has reached an agreement with Brother Gregor, and we have guaranteed your safe return.”

“What about Duvan?”

Her concern brought a smile to Duvan’s lips. He concentrated on the sun warming his skin, on the feel of lumpy earth and grass against his back. His leg throbbed, and he knew he’d lost a lot of blood, but he needed to pull himself together.

“Duvan will be taken care of as well,” Beaugrat said.

Duvan checked himself for daggers. He catalogued two on his chest and one in the scabbard strapped to his right thigh. He took a breath and waited. There would be an opportunity, perhaps, for him to use the daggers.

He opened his eyes to assess the situation. Beaugrat towered over a brave, but obviously weakened, Slanya in her torn and dirt-encrusted leathers. She stood leaning to the left as though not quite sure of the ground.

In the blurry background, Duvan could make out four others on horseback, but despite the effort he wasn’t able to identify their strengths and weaknesses. He smelled horses and something else he couldn’t identify. Like burning metal. Something was wrong with his mind.

Beaugrat said, “The Order will guarantee he makes a full recovery.”

“I’m certain you will,” Slanya said. “How about this for a deal: You give us a ride back to the monastery where we can heal up. After that you can talk to Duvan as much as you’d like, as long as it’s all right with him.”