Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

“You’re alive, aren’t you, Sister?”

“I’m alive because Duvan saved me. With just the elixir I was deathly ill. It does not work!”

“Nonsense! I never promised that you wouldn’t get sick, but clearly it did save you from dying. Argue as much as you like, but you’re living proof that it works, and soon all these pilgrims will be like you.” Gregor’s sweeping gesture indicated the entire field of pilgrims.

Beaugrat turned his horse. “We will be going now,” he said. “You have what we agreed on?”

Gregor nodded. He was sorry to give Duvan up, but the man was not his concern. His delivery to Vraith was a small price to pay for the salvation of thousands upon thousands of pilgrims.

“Wait!” Slanya tried to turn, but she was weak. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed into Edwaif’s supporting grip. “Where are you taking him?” she asked.

Beaugrat ignored her and led his small party away toward Ormpetarr with an unconscious Duvan bound to the travois behind the dwarf cleric.

Gregor looked at Kaylinn. “Shouldn’t she be taken to the infirmary?”

“What are they doing with Duvan?” Slanya protested. She tried to stand, but Edwaif refused to let go. “Gregor?” She coughed. “You said he would be taken care of.”

Gregor sighed. “An agreement had to be made, child,” he said.

“But what are they going to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” Gregor said honestly. “I’m sure they will heal his wounds.” But while he didn’t really know exactly what Vraith had in mind for Duvan, Gregor could hazard a guess.

“Their cleric already mended his leg,” Slanya said. “The better for the Order to experiment on him, isn’t that it?”

Gregor startled. Slanya held a new bitterness and cynicism in her tone and demeanor. This was not the same Slanya who had left the monastery two days ago. He would have to be careful with her, but that did not mean he would be dishonest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hate to be a party to such suffering. You must believe me that your efforts-and his sacrifice-will mean a great many pilgrims will be safe.”

Slanya glared up at Gregor. “No, they won’t,” she said. “And now, you have given Duvan to the Order without a fight.”

“It was the right decision. I have you and the plaguegrass. If I had made no deal, the Order would have those in addition to Duvan.”

“But they’re going kill him.”

“No,” Gregor said. “They merely want to subject him to various magics to see how strong his resistance really is.”

“Torture him, you mean?”

“I advise you not to let yourself be limited by semantics,” he said. “This is for the good of us all.”

“Enough,” Kaylinn said. “We will discuss your actions later, Brother Gregor. Slanya, we’ll speak as well, but you need to rest. Now.”

Slanya’s whole body seemed to sag from exhaustion. “All right,” she said to Kaylinn. “Thank you, but I do not need to rest.”

Kaylinn said, “You know you do. Let wisdom guide you. Choose to take action when you can be effective. You must gather your strength.”

Slanya glared at Gregor. “If harm comes to Duvan, I will not forgive you,” she said.

“I am sorry, my child,” Gregor said. “But I had no choice.”

Besides, Gregor thought, I warned Tyrangal about Vraith’s plans for Duvan. Gregor was certain that he’d gone above and beyond any measure of the call of duty. He owed Duvan nothing, and the rogue was no longer his problem.

And as Kaylinn and Edwaif led Slanya away to the infirmary, Gregor turned his attention to the plaguegrass and the elixir. He needed to get to his lab and get started; the elixir would take hours to brew, and the festival was tonight!

Rhiazzshar’s sly, angled face glowed with ecstasy above Duvan as she moved her hips against him. Her amber eyes stared down into his. Her mahogany hair fell around his face, smelling of freshly crushed pine needles. “I love you, Duvan,” she mouthed. “I love you.”

I love you … That persistent honeyed lie hung in the air.

Then it was gone, snatched away by the howling, swirling maelstrom. He huddled in his cage, cold and exposed, his knees pulled into a tight ball as purple threads of lightning struck around him. Rhiazzshar’s image dissipated like a betraying phantom in the storm, leaving him alone at the mercy of the Plaguewrought Land.

Just before she disappeared, her face above him changed. Her hair was replaced by a head, shaved except for a blonde sidelock. Slanya’s serious expression admonished him. “You should’ve seen this coming,” she said, her voice hollow and ghostly.

Duvan came awake to voices above and around him. He kept his eyes closed and tried to get a picture of his predicament before revealing that he was awake. He lay flat on his back, and his skin and hair felt as though they had been washed.

The smell of peppermint soap wafted from his body, mingling with the tallow and tar smells of candles and torches. That meant that it was either nighttime or this room was underground. The surface beneath him was hard like wood or stone.

Where’s Slanya? he wondered. What happened to her? His dream flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d handed him over to the Order.

No-suspecting Slanya of betrayal was his own paranoia at work. Slanya was nothing like Rhiazzshar. Still, the elf’s betrayal made him question everyone’s loyalty. Perhaps it always would.

His leg seemed whole again, although without inspecting it visually and testing it out, he could not know for sure. He could feel a breeze on his toes and legs, which meant he no longer wore his leathers. Instead, a lightweight fabric covered his naked body.

In fact, he felt better than he had in months-clean and shaved, not hungry, not tired, and no muscle aches. Whatever powerful magic they’d used to heal him, it had worked brilliantly. His skin tingled slightly, but otherwise he felt perfect.

Well, except for the slight itch in his mind that he couldn’t quite figure out. Every time he tried to focus on it and pin down what it reminded him of, the niggling irritation slipped away, defying recognition.

He’d felt this particular sensation before. Someone was scrying him, eavesdropping on what was happening to him.

“He is awake.” The voice was low and scratchy, but melodic. The speaker was female and standing about three paces off to Duvan’s left. The accent was faint, but decidedly northern, perhaps from Waterdeep or Neverwinter.

Duvan opened his eyes to a torch-lit room with an arched stone ceiling, the amber-colored bricks streaked with soot stains. He immediately counted four people in the room, although there could be more behind him.

The woman who had spoken was an elf, slight of build, and she had short-cropped blonde hair. Duvan guessed she was in charge. Standing closer to him, just to his right, was a dark-skinned human man in white clerical robes wearing a pendant that bore the symbol of the Order: a stylized, flaming, blue eyeball. The man’s milky cataracts gave him a reptilian look.

No sign of Slanya. Hopefully, she was spared this indignity. I don’t really suspect her of betraying me, do I?

Behind the cleric stood Beaugrat, his plate mail polished to a silver shine. The big man’s eyes were on the blonde elf. And behind Beaugrat, by the archway that led to the stairs, stood a single guard-a spellcaster by the looks of her loose-fitting silk clothing. This guard woman was genasi, her skin the color of the ocean, and she had a spellscar that manifested as flowing tributaries across the hairless, aqua skin of her skull, just above her pointed ears. Duvan could not tell by a quick glance what sort of spellcaster she was, but she would no doubt be powerful.