by Jak Koke
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 didn’t,” 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-orc 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.
Tearing her gaze from the border veil, which stretched up into the sky, Slanya passed through the once-grand city gate and out of the city. The cool pre-dawn light cast the city walls and structures in deep indigo and cobalt.
Tyrangal’s home stood just up the hill from the northeast corner of Ormpetarr and was easily the most expansive and commanding building in the whole city. As she climbed up the winding road toward the mansion, Slanya realized that she was being watched. She caught glimpses of burnished red armor-members of Tyrangal’s Copper Guard, which kept peace in Ormpetarr as well as protected Tyrangal’s interests, whatever those were. But nobody approached or detained Slanya. The benefits of making an appointment, she presumed.
Slanya passed through an old iron gate hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. Then she picked her way across an expanse of pitted rubble and collapsed stone buildings. Huge craters gaped where house-sized chunks of earth had been uprooted.
The smell of soot and blackened pitch mingled with the odor of brine blowing in from the dry mud flats on the far edge of the ruins. Ormpetarr had been a lake town in its heyday-a bustling commercial port. But the huge lake had dried up decades earlier, drained into the Underchasm like the seas themselves.
Finally, Slanya reached the doors of Tyrangal’s mansion. Gargoyles leered down from the gutters and cornices of the clean and sturdy masonry. A gemstone amongst trash, Slanya mused-and a well-protected gemstone at that. She knocked on the carved wooden door that towered in front of her, filling a stone archway at least three times her height.
The door opened to reveal a high-ceilinged vestibule. “Please come in, Sister Slanya.” The voice was melodious and deep for a woman’s. “I won’t bite, I promise.”
Feeling drawn forward, Slanya stepped inside. And before she realized it the door was closing behind her, plunging the room into darkness. “I have had brief communication with your Brother Gregor,” came that musical voice again, seeming to harmonize with itself. Slanya wanted to listen to it for hours.
The light filtering in through the high windows did little to allay the darkness in the room. Slanya hesitated while her eyes adjusted. Soon she found herself fascinated by the room itself. The marble floor was inlaid with a mosaic of a dragon, the sinuous likeness crafted from many tiny shards of polished copper. The stone walls held paintings and alcoves for statues, but there was no order to them. Too many valuable pieces crammed cheek by jowl together.
Slanya pursed her lips in distaste. The display conveyed not beauty or elegance, but excess and wealth.
“Mistress Tyrangal,” Slanya said in the direction of the voice. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Tyrangal stepped into view from the shadows. “Please just call me Tyrangal-no ‘mistress’ necessary.”
Slanya was tall for a human, but Tyrangal stood a head taller. She wore a rust-colored silk robe embroidered with runes that Slanya couldn’t read. Tyrangal looked older than Slanya, but how much older Slanya couldn’t say: the other woman’s face had a timeless quality. The most striking thing about Tyrangal, however, was her hair. Hanging straight down to the backs of her knees, it shimmered a strangely metallic auburn in the dim light.
“Certainly, Tyrangal,” Slanya said, gathering her wits. She had no reason to be intimidated, but the thought did her no good.
“Can I offer you nourishment?” Tyrangal asked.
“Thank you; I have eaten already this morning.”
“Ah, but do you not desire to try new things? Curiosity, Slanya, and new experiences are what keep us alive.”
“Certainly,” Slanya said. “But my matter is of some urgency to Brother Gregor, and I would do well by him to conduct our business first.”
A smirk flickered across Tyrangal’s features-amused and predatory all at once. “Very well,” she said. “We shall start with business. What can I acquire for you?”
“I need a guide into the changelands.”
“You wish to become spellscarred?”
Slanya shook her head. “No. Brother Gregor has perfected an elixir that can protect the exposed from getting sick and dying. One of the ingredients can be found in abundance only inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Land.”
“So this guide would have to travel into the changelands with you and help you find and gather this ingredient?”
Slanya shrugged. “Does such a person even exist?”
“Well,” Tyrangal said with a coy smile, “it turns out that I know someone qualified to do just that.”
“In truth?” Slanya hadn’t believed anyone would be foolish enough to do that, even for the kind of coin Gregor was willing to pay.
“In truth.” Tyrangal’s tone was playful. “Although, in truth, if I were lying-which I have been known to do from time to time-you would not be able to discern it from truth.”
Slanya considered. She would have to trust Tyrangal on this. “You have a good reputation.”
Tyrangal laughed, and it was a melody of the gods to Slanya’s ears. “Yes, dear girl. Trust in society comes from a collection of opinions. I like you.”
Unsure how to take that, Slanya remained quiet.
“There are some things that you should know,” Tyrangal continued. “One, the journey will test you. Two, you have a good chance of dying. And three-”
“Are you trying to scare me into not going?”
“Not at all. Not at all,” Tyrangal said. “These are just things I can tell. I can also see that you’ve never been inside the border of the changelands.”
Slanya nodded. The statement was true enough, although she suspected she’d be tempted to agree with whatever that wonderful voice told her, true or not.
“If there is an order, purpose, or logical organization to the Spellplague’s destructive force, then I know not what it is,” Tyrangal continued. “The changelands are the one place in Faerun where the rules of law are always changing, where nature follows no patterns and the only constant is chaos.”
Tyrangal paused, her smirk gone. Her golden eyes shone yellow in the morning light. “That seems like a dangerous place for someone who holds tight to an ordered world.”
Slanya remembered the funeral fire from yesterday, the allure of the flames oh so close. All the fires from her past came to her mind, and the temptation of losing her control rose up in her in that remembrance. Yes, there was something to Tyrangal’s assertion.
“I understand,” Slanya said. “And thank you. But you need not concern yourself with me.”
Tyrangal smiled. “I’m not ‘concerned,’ but I do like to give my customers the full benefit of my knowledge. You’re paying for these warnings. Perhaps they will help you prepare.”
Slanya nodded. “Thank you. What was number three?”
“Three, you will find the guide is a bit … wild and unruly.”
Slanya gave a confident smile. “That, I think I can handle.”
Tyrangal appraised Slanya carefully. “I think you might, at that,” she said.
“So where might I find this guide?”
“He is currently out on a task I have given him. I expect him to return to me by tonight or tomorrow.”
“That long?” Slanya asked. “With the Festival of Blue Fire in two days, we need vastly more elixir than we can currently make. Otherwise hundreds of pilgrims will get sick and die.”
“Well,” Tyrangal said slyly. “I do happen to know that he’s arrived back in Ormpetarr, but he hasn’t personally paid me a visit just yet. Not his style to come to me right away. He attends to … other needs first.”
Slanya frown
ed. “I’d like to speak with him as soon as possible. If he’s in Ormpetarr, I shall seek him out.”
“I don’t recommend it; he will return when he is ready. Hurrying him isn’t likely to speed your departure any, and it certainly won’t win you any favors.”
Shifting from foot to foot, Slanya considered her options. She could ignore Tyrangal’s counsel, or she could wait.
“However,” Tyrangal continued, “I can see that you feel you cannot sit idle. So for your own sense of accomplishment I will tell you this: His name is Duvan, and you will likely find him at the Jewel-the festhall and gambling house across from Finara’s Inn on the main thoroughfare.”
“Thank you,” Slanya said, wanting the interview to be over. “I shall seek him out.”
“Be careful, young cleric,” Tyrangal said. “Duvan is a feral beast on his best days, but he is truly the only person who can accomplish what you seek to do. I have considerable influence over him, but he is completely free to make his own choices. I advise against angering him.”
“Your counsel is very much appreciated, Tyrangal. If my need weren’t so pressing …”
“But I see that it is. You may go, and may the gods watch over you.”
Slanya took her leave and headed back down into Ormpetarr, her gaze studiously avoiding the gut-heaving swirl of the border veil. And by the time she’d made the walk back down the hill, through the gate and into heart of Ormpetarr, the sun had fully risen.
Beneath a cloudless sky of palest blue, peppered with motes flowing out from the changelands, the thoroughfare bustled with activity. The cobbles and flagstones from the city had pitted and become uneven, replaced with dirt and mud. Wooden shop fronts and businesses of all kinds lined the thoroughfare while merchants with wagons and carts, tents and tarps crowded the streets. Under the vigilant gaze of Tyrangal’s guards and the Order of Blue Fire Peacekeepers, merchants plied their wares to the crowd.
Slanya insinuated her way through the people, heading for the Jewel and its reportedly seedy clientele … including her guide. Not for the first time, Slanya wondered what she’d gotten herself into. This Duvan character sounded uncivilized and potentially dangerous.