“Or maybe you’re here for a job?” Slanya glanced left toward this new voice. Leaning against a post was a middle-aged dwarf woman wearing makeup and brightly colored, fancy clothes. “You’re a mite threatening,” the dwarf continued, “but not unattractive … and the bald, tattooed-scalp look would attract a whole new clientele!”
The bartender laughed. Other than the two who had greeted her, the Jewel was predominately empty. A small group of halflings and humans spoke in hushed tones in one corner, and there was an elf in scarred black leather standing at the bar.
Slanya felt her face start to redden, but she concentrated to make it not show. “I’m here looking for a human named Duvan,” she said. “It’s important.”
“Duvan is here,” said the bartender. “But he’s, ah … indisposed, if you know what I mean. Knowing Duvan and Moirah, he will be here all day, and maybe all night as well.”
The dwarf woman spoke. “You’d best come back tomorrow, girl. Unless you fancy a drink, a rattle and roll, or a turn in one of our comfy beds. I guarantee they’re more comfortable than the burlap and straw you’re used to.”
Slanya took a slow breath to avoid the anger she felt rising. Anger was the enemy of self-control. All of her identity and abilities required control of her body and mind. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer and the advice, but I need to find Duvan now. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“It’s your funeral,” said the bartender.
“All life is,” Slanya said. Stepping into the hall, she started opening doors.
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
Commander Accordant Vraith rolled over and went back to sleep in her darkened bedroom on the top story of the Changing House. Her wide bed was luxuriously appointed with down-stuffed pillows and silk bed linens.
Such comfort befitted a person of her stature, and she wasn’t about to relinquish her privileges just because the Order had assigned her to this pit. Working at the very edge of the Plaguewrought Land was supposed to be the highest honor, but Vraith hated it.
She was only here to make her chances of rapture-of absorption into the sharn-more likely. Once she’d followed through on its prophecy and had completed the rituals then she would be truly transcendent. She could escape this grubby mortality completely.
Ever since the spellplague had appeared to her on thirteenth birthday, hovering like a ghost of blue fire in her dormitory room at the wizard academy, she had wanted to merge with it. Ever since the spellplague had touched her, blossoming a spellscar in her chest, Vraith had pursued a singular agenda.
She would learn and work, manipulate and coerce, struggle and create to achieve her goal. Whatever it took, Vraith would do it. Her passion was unmatched, her dedication unparalleled.
Vraith was convinced that when her ritual expansion of the Plaguewrought Land succeeded, the sharn-creatures of pure chaos and power-would see the benefit of her contribution and welcome her into their immortal essence.
Only when she had become part of that godly communal consciousness would her rapture be complete. Only then could she escape this dingy backwater.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
What could the perpetrator be thinking? she wondered. She had a reputation for quick anger and decisive justice for those who disobeyed her commands. And one of the reasons she had cultivated that reputation was so that her sleep would not be interrupted.
Vraith slipped out of the silk sheets. “This had better be important” she said, standing in the cool dark.
“My apologies, Mistress Vraith,” came the muffled reply. “I have urgent news.”
Vraith had trouble placing the voice at first, primarily because she was expecting Renfod or one of his lackeys. Standing naked in the darkened chamber, Vraith’s small body gathered energy. Wrath was a great source of power, and Vraith knew how to use it.
She walked to the door and opened the small viewing square in the top of it. “What is so important that it justifies waking me?” she snapped.
“I am sorry.” Beaugrat cowered on his knees outside the door. “I needed to speak with you right away.”
Vraith’s spellscar seemed to burn in her gut. Looking down on her nakedness, Vraith watched her spellscar, which formed a jagged, deep black line from her sternum to her crotch. Her abdomen glowed slightly red with the scar’s activation, and suddenly she could see Beaugrat’s soul, the spirit energy of his life force.
Red tendrils wisped out from her spellscar and intertwined through the door with the threads of Beaugrat’s soul. She probed his being and understood the weave of his life energy. One magical tug and he would be dead.
“Go on,” she said. “Explain.”
“Tyrangal’s pet. Duvan.” Beaugrat’s speech came haltingly. “He seems to be immune to the Blue Fire.”
That got Vraith’s attention. Such a power could be devastating to the Order and to her plans. “How do you know?”
“Our team went with him as instructed,” Beaugrat said. “We lost the sorcerer, but Seerah and I tried to take the items that Tyrangal had sent him to get.”
“You failed to get the items?”
“Yes. The rogue is very resourceful; he killed Seerah, and when I tried to kill him by summoning the Blue Fire …” Beaugrat gestured at his shoulder spellscar. “It had no effect.”
Questions swirled around Vraith’s consciousness. Was this true immunity or just resistance? Was it an active power that needed to be invoked, or an innate aspect of this person? Did it require components? Speech or motion? Did it come from a spellscar?
Too many questions and not enough answers.
“We need to capture this person, Beaugrat. For now, I will overlook your failure to acquire the items. Your new task: assemble a team and bring Duvan to me. We need to discover the extent of this ability.”
Beaugrat bowed his head. “Thank you for your lenience, Commander. I will capture him today.”
“Use whatever means necessary. This is important, but I do not have time to deal with it myself.”
“Of course, Commander. May the Blue Fire burn inside you.”
Vraith closed the view window and latched it. Her scar throbbed below her sternum, and she sank to the cool floor. She needed rest to prepare for the next stage of the ritual; she couldn’t allow anything to get in the way, certainly not some no-account rogue.
Soon she put it out of her head and slipped back into her bed. It was possible that he didn’t even know what he could do. Tyrangal might know, and that was some cause for concern. But the boy himself was no threat. Soon this wrinkle would be ironed out. If this Duvan proved a threat, he would be eliminated. Simple.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the small room at the Jewel, Moirah danced with Duvan. Their choreography started with playful gestures, discreet and calculated steps. He wanted her, but she dictated the tempo. She gave the instructions, and he obeyed. She took care of him-a tease of the tongue here, a tender caress there. And he played because he knew the game was rigged; she would give him what he wanted in the end.
The deliberate progression of their flirting into passionate embrace allowed Duvan to lose himself. Moirah freed him from his worries, letting him unleash the wild animal inside him as he rolled with her, as he pressed her into the bed beneath him. Her magic urged him to lose himself. Nothing else mattered and he took her as she wanted him to, as she begged him to, as she willed him to.
Her spellscar magic controlled him and set him free. Free from making decisions. Free from his nightmares. Free from his thoughts of remorse, regret, and anger. And, ultimately, free to rest in peaceful bliss.
Moirah made all the decisions and held him safe, and he loved her for it. In that instant, he loved her. In that isolated moment, she was all that mattered. All that made sense.
“Now,” she commanded.
And with her permission explicitly granted, he lost the last vestige of control. His body and mind were one in feral heat. Primal, animal sex washed away all his cares and concerns.