by Jak Koke
Duvan also noticed how quiet the monastery was. Scores of clerics and monks moved about their business-doing construction work or writing scrolls or even practicing combat training-in near silence.
Duvan found it eerie. The silence made him ill at ease and alert.
Slanya led him through mostly bare corridors, furnished by an occasional wooden table or chair. Their boots clomped on the washed tile floors. They came to a wide doorway and stepped into a small, empty room with a broad wooden table in the middle.
There was an assortment of supplies on the table, and Duvan immediately started to inspect the goods. Even though he suspected that the monks had laid out too much to carry, Duvan didn’t set anything aside. There was plenty of food, and he loaded a portion of it into his own pack. He double-checked his other supplies to make sure he was ready. For Slanya to have a chance of surviving, they’d have to be in and back out of the Plaguewrought Land in less than a day anyway. Still, Duvan always went prepared.
Out of habit, he catalogued the contents of his backpack-extra leathers, weapons, poisons and powders, a sharpening stone, his glideskin, rope, food, oil, soap, and water. Checking Slanya’s pack, he noticed that she seemed well prepared too. Including-
He pulled out a black cloth pouch cinched at one end with a braided rope. It was valuable, he could tell. Opening the pouch, he looked into a black void, but when he reached inside, he felt several objects that could not actually be inside, including a tarp and two bedrolls.
“That’s a bag of holding,” said Slanya. “We’ll use it for collecting the plaguegrass.”
“Nice,” Duvan said. He’d never seen one before, as expensive as the magic pouches were; the fact that these clerics would risk sending one along meant that this mission was very important to them.
“Well met, Brother Gregor,” came Slanya’s voice from the doorway. “This is Duvan.”
A slender man, middle-aged but fit, his cropped black hair split by a tuft of silver growing from where his spellscar cleaved his skull stood in the doorway. Duvan stared at him and wondered what it was like to be touched by the storm of the spellplague remnants in the middle of his head.
“We owe you a debt of gratitude, young sir,” Gregor said, making a slight bow in greeting.
Duvan paused, unsure of the proper response. “I will do my best to keep us both alive,” he said finally.
“And I’m happy to say that you shall have help in that regard,” Gregor said. “My protective elixir is a great discovery indeed.”
Duvan said nothing.
“It’s incredible! It allows someone to be exposed to the Plaguewrought Land and survive. So far I’ve raised the survival rate twentyfold!” Gregor had a huge toothy grin on his bearded face. “Compared to the control group. Even a layman can appreciate those numbers.”
Duvan stifled a shudder. “Control group?”
“Yes,” Gregor said, unconcerned. “Some of the pilgrims got a different elixir that we hoped would have no effect.”
And all of those must have died, Duvan thought. Died thinking that maybe they’d have a better chance.
“How many pilgrims in this control group died?” Duvan asked.
Gregor’s eyebrows arched. “The same number who would have died without any elixir. Spellplague exposure results in death most of the time, on average. It actually depends upon the amount of exposure.”
“The control group didn’t know their elixir was false, I assume,” Duvan said.
Gregor nodded. “For the results to be unbiased, they cannot know. The vials are labeled by color and-”
“So you give them false hope,” Duvan said, feeling his anger rising. “They think they have a better chance and throw away their lives.”
Gregor pondered for a moment. “You are clearly a passionate soul, Duvan.” The monk’s tone was calm and measured. “The truth is that all of these pilgrims were intending to ‘throw away their lives’ before they came to me for the elixir. I would argue that hope is what drives many of these folks to risk their lives at the border of the changelands. Almost all of their hope is false, and I am certainly not adding significantly to it.”
Duvan scowled. Some people held the belief that false hope was better than no hope, but he didn’t buy that. Still, he said nothing.
“Anyhow, back to the immediate need,” Gregor went on. “The thing we’re paying you to help us obtain …”
Duvan nodded.
“Plaguegrass is a key ingredient,” Gregor said. “And we’re out of it. So we need to replenish our supply if we’re going to save more pilgrims. Slanya has the last two doses of the working elixir.”
So it’s all right then, Duvan thought wryly. Experimenting on pilgrims is a good thing because you discovered a potion that works.
“This is plaguegrass,” Gregor said, holding a long stalk of yellow grass. The stem glittered where flecks of crystal grew. “Take it with you so that you’ll know what you’re looking for. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it once you’re past the border.”
Duvan took the stalk from Gregor, then turned and put it into his pack. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “We’ll bring back plenty.”
“We can save so many lives,” Gregor said, his black eyes flashing. “Imagine no dying pilgrims. Imagine a world where the remnants of the Spellplague cannot kill.”
Duvan shivered. He could not imagine that. It was perilous to imagine that, because it meant dropping his guard. Fantasy. Underestimating the destructive force of the gossamer blue fire was a step on the path to annihilation.
“It takes great hubris,” Duvan said, “to think that the changelands can be controlled or mitigated.”
Gregor’s smile evaporated. “I suppose it does,” he said. “But one does not accomplish great deeds without a little hubris.”
“Fairly spoken,” Duvan admitted. “But in my own experience, efforts to control spellplague have always met with disaster.”
The look of puzzlement on Gregor’s face nearly brought a smile to Duvan’s. “You’ve been involved in such efforts?”
But Duvan’s mind was far away, crouching in a cage of adamantine on a vast and stormy plane inside the Plague-wrought Land, shivering with cold. And waiting for his love, Rhiazzshar, to come and let him out and give him his reward.
“Duvan?” Gregor said. “Are you with us?”
“Just for the record,” Duvan said, “I’m going to help you because Tyrangal has given you her endorsement. But personally, I don’t condone the use of pilgrims or anyone for such experiments, regardless of the possible outcome.”
“They were all volunteers, I assure you,” Gregor said, unfazed. “All well-informed volunteers.”
“We should be going,” Slanya said, interrupting.
“Yes,” Gregor agreed. “Quite right, quite right.”
Duvan nodded, glad Slanya had changed the subject. He finished loading the packs and lifted his to his back. Time to be moving along. Slanya donned the other pack, then bowed slightly to Gregor.
Duvan merely strode away without a good-bye. Gregor might be paying him, but he didn’t have to like the man. They exited through the main gate, heading south on foot. Duvan planned for them to skirt the city, keeping to the east, and intersect the border of Plaguewrought Land.
Gregor climbed up onto the balcony and watched Slanya and her guide slowly pick their way through the tents. He gazed over the encampment pilgrims, many of them sick and dying, past the ever-belching funeral pyre to the city walls, and beyond those, to where the gauzy veil that marked the border of the Plaguewrought Land rose up into the sky like a curtain.
“May your journey be easy and fruitful,” he whispered at the retreating figures. “The salvation of many depends on it.” With the approaching Festival of Blue Fire, his elixir could save many lives, provided he had enough plaguegrass.
When they had disappeared from view, Gregor found himself looking back at the encampment. The sprawling tent hospital was an eyesore, and
despite the best efforts of the monastery’s monks and clerics, it was filthy with excrement. With more than ten plaguechanged or sick pilgrims for every monk, the logistics were overwhelming. So it stank, and when the wind blew just the wrong direction, the stench infiltrated the monastery.
In fact, one of the reasons that the funeral pyre was so near the temple complex’s walls was because the smoke was far more pleasant than the reek of decay, refuse, and feces. Choosing between the lesser of evils was not Gregor’s preferred mode of operation, but in these times and in this location, it would have to do.
Gregor turned from the balcony and retired to his study, using the peacefulness of the monastery to center himself. Abruptly, the images came to him. They always came when he least expected it and took over his mind.
In this vision, Gregor walked at the head of a large crowd of pilgrims, part of a small group that led them into the Plaguewrought Land. There were hundreds of pilgrims, each one drinking Gregor’s draught, his perfect concoction. They formed an arc in front of a wave of blue fire, which raced like wildfire toward them.
The pilgrims formed a wall with their bodies, catching the wave of spellplague, and as they moved to complete the circle, capturing it. Containing the chaos. Bringing order to the Plaguewrought Land’s wildness.
His elixir kept them alive. His creation made it possible for ordinary people to help make sudden spellplague storms and appearances harmless. He was rendering the most wild and chaotic force in all of Faerun impotent. The vision faded, leaving him feeling euphoric and wanting more.
The visions seemed to be coming from outside him. And they weren’t a prediction of the future, he knew, but more of a divine guidance, the hand of Oghma providing direction. The visions helped shape his decisions, showing him what to strive for and which path to take. They had started sometime after he got his spellscar, after that morning he had awakened with a cloud of spellplague hovering next to his simple bed, back before he had come to Ormpetarr. The visions had started subtly, like waking dreams. Over time, they had grown in strength and frequency.
As he reached the door to his study, he saw Kaylinn approaching. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “Yes, Priestess?”
Kaylinn gave a short bow. “There is a group here from the Order of Blue Fire,” she said. “They want to speak with you, and they’re quite demanding.”
Gregor noted Kaylinn’s tone. She was suspicious of the Order. “Have they said or done anything offensive?”
Kaylinn’s look softened a bit. “Not really. Just arrogance, perhaps. As much as they claim to strive for the betterment of all people, they aren’t guided by the same principles that we are. I find their charitable activities to be more self-serving than altruistic.”
Gregor nodded. Kaylinn was a very astute observer and her judgment had been a good guide for both him and the monastery for years. “I understand,” he said.
“I advise caution in your dealings with them, Brother Gregor,” she said, concern on her face. “I don’t profess to understand the intricacies of your projects, and you have always been trustworthy, but don’t let yourself be manipulated.”
“I am exercising great care in this,” Gregor said. “But I envision a great revolution in how people regard the change-lands. No longer will they fear them. No longer will their loved ones disappear without warning, or worse, end up as plaguechanged monsters. I am on the verge of achieving that vision, and unfortunately collaboration with the Order of Blue Fire is required for me to proceed.”
Kaylinn frowned. “Collaboration is a good thing,” she said. “But do not be blinded by your vision. Ends do not justify means, Brother Gregor.”
“Of course,” he demurred. “Thank you for your sagacity. As usual, your view is wise.”
The high priestess gave a small smile. “I worry about you,” she said. “You have been … distracted. I worry that you’re driving yourself too hard.”
Gregor gave his most earnest smile. “I have never felt this clear-headed,” he said. “And I am close to the end. We are doing great good here on the changelands border.”
“That’s true,” Kaylinn said, with a nod. “Very well, I will stop worrying. Where will you meet them?”
“In here is fine, but I can escort them back.”
“No, no. I’ll get them.”
“Many thanks.”
After Kaylinn left, Gregor opened the ledger which showed the numbers and mortality rates of the pilgrims who had tested the latest elixir. Gregor paged past all the other experiments. Hundreds of pilgrims had been tested, and five different elixirs, their data compared with that of the false elixirs.
The last formula had a twenty-onefold increase in survivability, while those taking the false elixir fared in the usual range. Gregor smiled. Numbers didn’t lie.
The door opened again. Following Kaylinn came the blonde elf-Vraith, slim and looking even more delicate in silky, sky-blue robes. Behind her clomped a huge human wearing shiny plate armor with a section of his right pauldron cut out to reveal a spellscar.
“Well met, my friends,” Gregor said. “I think things went successfully last night, no?”
Vraith gave an abbreviated bow. “May the Blue Fire burn inside you.” The human stood a pace behind her in deference, and he did not speak.
“Last night went quite satisfactorily,” Vraith said. “But that is not why we’ve come.”
Oh? Gregor thought, and he wondered what brought this arrogant priestess down out of her nest of followers. What he said was, “How can I be of help?”
“A young man was seen with one of the temple’s clerics this morning,” Vraith said. “We need to know where he is.”
“A young man? What does he look like?”
Vraith’s eyebrows arched up to disappear into her hairline. “You don’t know of whom I speak?”
“Perhaps I do,” Gregor said. “And perhaps I do not. Many people matching the description of ‘young man’ pass through and near the monastery every day.”
Vraith gestured to the plate-clad human. “Beaugrat, describe this Duvan person.”
Beaugrat stepped forward. “Duvan is dark skinned, of average height and sinewy. Very quick. Black hair, black eyes, and a day-old beard. He is known to work for the head of the Copper Guard, Tyrangal.”
Gregor kept his face implacable. “And what is your business with this man?”
Vraith said, “He has committed offenses against our members and is wanted for questioning.”
It was Gregor’s turn to be incredulous. “Offenses? What offenses?”
Beaugrat said, “He killed two members and stole their property.”
Gregor laughed. “Sounds like he’s wanted for more than questioning.”
“Do you know where he is or not?” Vraith asked, her tone darkening.
“I do not,” he said, dodging the question. “But I may have valuable information concerning his whereabouts.”
“And do you plan to tell me, or do I need to have you questioned as well?”
Behind Vraith, Kaylinn raised an eyebrow at Gregor. The half-elf’s tone and attitude had been pushing at him the whole time, and he finally snapped. “I will not be commanded in my own home, Vraith,” he said, his own tone growing fierce. “We work together, and together we can accomplish much. Apart …” He let the implied threat hang in the air.
Vraith stared at him, her pale gray eyes as hard as slate behind her translucent blonde lashes. She seemed to be weighing the merits of arguing with him or defying him some other way. But finally, she averted her gaze. “Yes, yes,” she said, waving her hand. “Solidarity and cooperation and all that. It’s very important that we find this man.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Gregor thought. “All right,” he said. “We may be able to come to an arrangement. But first you will tell me the true reason you seek this man.”
CHAPTER SIX
Under a bright afternoon sky, Duvan guided Slanya toward the border of the Plaguewrought Land. It wa
s a journey he’d taken several times before, but the path he chose was a little different each time.
“To be honest with you, Duvan,” Slanya said, “I’m nervous.”
Duvan regarded his companion. Slanya took sure and confident steps; no doubt she’d trained intensively. She also seemed to have some measure of the body control that monks were famous for. She’d demonstrated quick thinking as well as enviable discipline.
All of which would mean nothing in the face of the changelands.
“You shouldn’t be nervous,” Duvan said. “You should be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid to die.”
“Really?” Duvan had yet to meet anyone else besides himself who did not fear death.
Slanya shrugged. “My death will come as everyone’s will. Why should I fear that? If the cause is right and I am true to myself, then my death will have meaning, as will my life. Kelemvor will welcome me, and I will pass on to the next life.”
Duvan remained silent as they passed into the shadow of a large mote which hung precariously low in the sky. Large motes tended to be stable, but Duvan had seen smaller ones sustain damage as they passed through the border veil. Quite a few of those lost their buoyancy and plummeted to the ground. In fact the terrain along the border was littered with boulders and the deep furrows they had made upon impact.
Around him, the gentle hills gave way to steeper ones, the grassy knolls replaced by bare rock dotted sporadically with tenacious weeds. The faint sensation of the disturbance in the Weave the Plaguewrought Land caused made the hairs on his arms stand on end. The faint odor of oranges and decaying flesh drifted occasionally on the warm wind-the sour and sweet stench of the plaguelands of the Plaguewrought Land in summer.
“Have you ever been very close to the changelands?” Duvan asked. “I know you understand what they can do, but if you haven’t experienced living plaguelands, it’s likely to be a shock.”
Slanya looked at him, her eyes narrowing. Perhaps she was trying to figure out why he was asking the question. “I have seen it from afar, through the border veil. And I have prepared myself by talking to many who have been exposed. I believe I know what to expect.”