by Jak Koke
Slanya tried to resist, but Gregor could sense that she was weak. “Duvan-?” she began.
“Duvan will be taken care of,” he said. “Did you find the plaguegrass?”
Slanya nodded. “In the bag.”
Beaugrat handed down the small leather pack that Slanya had carried with her. Gregor opened it and found the bag of holding inside. Loosening the braided silk cord, Gregor looked inside.
The odor of fresh cut grass, humus, and dirt lingered in the air with an undercurrent of sour oranges. Reaching in, Gregor grabbed a fist full of the wet plants. Such a quantity would not only allow him to inoculate all the pilgrims at the festival, but supply him for many years to come. Slanya had performed exceedingly well.
“Not that it matters now,” Slanya said. “The elixir does not work.”
Gregor stepped back as if he’d been slapped. How could she lie thus? The data clearly showed that it did work. “Hush, child,” he said, keeping his tone positive. “You are delirious.”
“I still have my wits,” Slanya said. “The elixir may have helped some, but it did not provide adequate protection.”
“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.
The blonde elf spoke, her voice like silk-covered glass shards, all smooth but with a sharpness underneath. “It is good to see you are whole and alert, Duvan. I am Commander Accordant Vraith.”
Duvan realized abruptly that his hands and limbs were not bound, but even so he could barely move them.
“You are our guest here,” Vraith continued, “until we decide to let you go. And I assure you that your mundane escape tricks will not work.”
“You have an interesting definition of guest,” Duvan said.
“You should see how we treat intruders,” Beaugrat said with a laugh.
“Enough!” Vraith’s eyes fluttered as though she wasn’t quite in control of herself. “We are going to conduct some tests, Duvan. These tests may pose significant danger to your body and mind, but they are necessary. And we have our best healer here to ensure that you will be able to endure them indefinitely.”
“You know,” Duvan said, “while that sounds incredibly inviting, I think I’ll have to pass this time. I really do have someplace else to be.”
Beaugrat gave a chuckle at that.
Vraith, however, failed to see the humor. “Let’s begin,” she said.
Beaugrat grew serious then pressed his wrists together, palms facing Duvan. Gauzy blue flames ignited from the big warrior’s shoulder spellscar and sheathed his arm and hands.
Duvan took a slow breath. Hadn’t he been here before? This was a waste of time.
Beaugrat concentrated and focused. The translucent energy gathered into a ball of twisting folds near the big man’s hands, then shot forth like a spray, directly at Duvan.
Duvan watched as the flames dissipated before they hit him. He didn’t want to flaunt his ability, but other than the challenge of escaping this place, which seemed highly unlikely without help, he was bored.
Gasps and whispers came from onlookers behind Duvan. He could not turn to look, but he heard two more people in the room.
“This was as we expected,” came Vraith’s voice. “Let’s try a stronger dose.”
Beaugrat nodded then took a deep breath. He gathered a larger ball of gauzy flames and sent them lashing out at Duvan again. The light flashed searing white this time, casting the room in sharp shadows.
The familiar melting gut feeling triggered inside Duvan’s abdomen. And again, the wild magic weakened and faded before it could touch him. The coherent burst of white disintegrated into an ineffectual mist when it neared Duvan, then vanished completely, dissipating into nothingness.
More murmurs and gasps from the gallery.
“You know, I could save you some time,” Duvan said. “I have been thoroughly experimented on already.”
“Hold off for a moment, Beaugrat,” Vraith said. After a relieved nod from the plate-clad warrior, she stepped slowly up to Duvan. Her blonde eyebrows narrowed as she looked down on him. “When was that?” she asked.
“A few years ago.” Duvan’s mind flashed on his tenure in the Wildhome cage, huddled against the elements inside the border of the Plaguewrought Land, miserable and waiting for Rhiazzshar to come take him out.
“What can you tell us?” Vraith asked.
“I can tell you the extent of my ability,” Duvan said. “I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”
“Why would I trust you?” Vraith said. “You work for Tyrangal, and she has been less than cooperative.”
“I am a man of my word.”
The faintest of smiles tugged at Vraith’s thin red lips. “Oh, perhaps you are,” she said. “But then again, if you weren’t, you’d say the same thing.”
“True,” Duvan admitted.
“We both know how this is going to go. You are not in a position to negotiate at the moment.” Vraith’s hint of a smile faded completely, and she retreated to stand back out of the way.
“I could agree to stay far away from your operations,” Duvan offered. “I could agree to help-”
“Beaugrat,” Vraith said, ignoring Duvan. “Resume the testing. More power this time.”
Lashing blue-white fire struck out at him again. Then once more. Over and over, with increased intensity, each successive attack. Each time, he felt no hint of an effect. Nothing.
Finally, Beaugrat collapsed to his knees with exertion. “That’s all I can do.”
“It’s enough,” Vraith said. “He is immune to the Blue Fire.”
Duvan sighed. “I could have told you that and saved poor Beaugrat some embarrassment.”
Ignoring Duvan, Vraith said, “Let the next stage of tests begin. Guraru, you’re up.”
A dark figure stepped out from behind him-a dwarf with a brilliant red beard intricately plaited down his portly front. The dwarf nodded, the dry brown skin of his balding head stretched over his skull like aging parchment. “Let’s try some heat,” he said. The dwarf muttered an incantation so softly that Duvan could not hear the words, while at the same time his hands traced the lines of an invisible glyph in the air.
Suddenly Duvan was on fire, his skin blistering and blackening from the heat. Agony took hold of him, his whole being burned. Duvan clenched his jaw, trying to resist the urge to scream. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. But he felt like he was being drowned in a vat of boiling oil. His skin singed and blackened. His eyeballs seemed to melt in his head.
He gave in. He let out a guttural scream that was at least as much anger as it was pain. This dwarf must be stopped. Duvan would happily kill him to make the pain go away. Duvan would kill them all. He screamed and screamed, and he wished he could pass out from the pain.
“Heal him.”
Duvan breathed a sigh of relief as the searing diminished to an afterimage of the burning agony. Then he was whole and sound again. But while the reprieve from the pain was a welcome numbness, his mind flinched from the residual memory of the torment.
“Again,” came Vraith’s voice. “I want exact measures of his tolerances.”
Duvan started to speak. He could tell them. There was no reason to keep testing him. He had no resistance. Fire and ice and dread and mind magic all worked on him. But he never got the chance to speak before the fire engulfed him a second time.
The first attack was a mere hint of the crisp, soul-searing agony that consumed him the second time. The fire erupted everywhere at once: inside his chest, all over his skin, under his fingernails. His hair burned. His skin blistered and blackened. And all of it happened in the briefest flare of the sun.
The world went dark around him, and Duvan found himself fluttering like silk in a gray wind. All around him was a flat, dark plane, only discernible in shades of gray. He could not move of his own accord, could not step through onto the plane; his presence here was insubstantial.
Against the backdrop of gray, Duvan flashed on Talfani’s frail and emaciated body as he held her in those last moments. He remembered curling around her, holding her, and stroking her hair gently so it would not fall out in chunks.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated to her over and over, hoping that she would hear him. Hoping that she would forgive him.
Talfani never spoke a word during the days between getting sick and when she finally gave in and stoppe
d breathing. The damage from the plaguestorm had taken away her voice so that she could just stare at him with huge, pleading eyes and try to signal that she couldn’t eat or drink.
She just wanted him to hold her, to stay with her, like he should’ve done the entire time. If he had stayed with her, she wouldn’t have gotten sick. She wouldn’t have withered, her once vibrant soul wasted away and dried up.
Lying on her bed, cradling her frail figure, young Duvan cried as he felt her breath rattle to a halt. He cried as she slowly grew cold in his arms. Her spirit had left; the twin to his soul, gone. Where she had gone, he did not know.
Perhaps he could follow her.
But young Duvan lacked the will to do anything active to take his own life. He merely lay with Talfani’s spiritless corpse slowly souring next to him. He blocked out the devastation of his village outside. He cried and cried that he had let this happen to her. He didn’t deserve to live when she was gone. He didn’t want to live if that meant being alone.
And Duvan might have died there too. Starvation or pestilence may have eventually taken him if the Wildhome elves hadn’t come through the village.
“He’s coming around.” The voice was deep and male.
“Was he dead, Renfod?” Vraith asked.
“Nearly, but not quite,” said the clipped voice. “I have healed him, but you might want to be more careful.”
“I’ll determine that.”
“Of course, Commander.”
The fluttering gray gave way to dim torchlight as Duvan opened his eyes. Milky, cataract-clouded eyes stared down at him, very close, seeming to look through and beyond Duvan at that same time. After a moment, the man blinked and stood up, retreating slightly.
Renfod, Duvan guessed, the cleric who so graciously brought him back to endure more torture. Renfod’s thin, brown face displayed dour concern. He did not seem to be enjoying this part of his job one bit.
Next to the dark cleric, Beaugrat’s wide, boyish face grinned down at him. He seemed to be relishing Duvan’s torture. Duvan silently vowed to kill the big fighter, if he ever made it through this.
