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.”