Gregor frowned. Vraith’s magic would organize and contain plaguelands, he said. It would create order from chaos.
Tyrangal’s golden eyes flashed. This ritual might be able to accomplish that, young monk, she said. But Vraith and the Order of Blue Fire will not use it for containment. I guarantee you that that is not their plan.
What does she intend then?
A hint of anger was evident in Tyrangal’s voice, Vraith will use this ritual to move the border of the Plaguewrought Land, to expand the total area of these plaguelands. Of that I am sure. The Order wants to increase the blue fire’s reach, and if they gain control over the border, they will eventually be able to unleash the spellplague contained within.
She continued, I have been monitoring the border, and it has been stable for a hundred years now-not the longest time, but long enough to indicate that, barring some major magical catastrophe, it’s unlikely to move. This is a good thing. This is a necessary thing for the survival of most creatures.
I didn’t know what Vraith was planning, Gregor said.
So now that you do, Tyrangal said, her words dripping with honey, you will refuse to make the elixir for the festival. She must not be allowed to proceed with a larger ritual.
That sounded reasonable to Gregor. If he didn’t supply the elixir then Vraith couldn’t perform the ritual.
Perhaps.
All those pilgrims were already gathering in the valley, all preparing for the festival. Even without the elixir, they will all be heading to the Plaguewrought Land. Vraith might or might not try to proceed without enough elixir to protect the pilgrims, and if she did proceed then all those pilgrims would die. If she didn’t proceed, then most of those pilgrims would die anyway.
Gregor shook his head. No, he said. There must be another way to stop her. If I don’t make the elixir, then thousands of pilgrims will die. I can’t be responsible for that.
Tyrangal’s anger was like the lash of a whip. You will not supply her with the elixir. Trust me: you do not want me as an enemy.
I trust that, Gregor said. I don’t want to be your adversary. He felt Tyrangal’s charm dissipating fully. But I cannot have the deaths of thousands on my conscience when I know that I can prevent it. I will make the elixir to protect the pilgrims. That is why I came to Ormpetarr, and that is what I will do.
That decision is regrettable, Tyrangal said. I have supported your quest to perfect the elixir because such knowledge is critical to diminishing the impact and power of the spellplague in Faerun. I have provided you with knowledge and with Duvan’s services.
But there’s a reason it’s called a plague, Tyrangal continued. And if Vraith succeeds in her ritual, she will be set to wreak far more havoc and cause countless more deaths than a paltry few thousand pilgrims.
There must be another way, Gregor said. There must be a way to save the pilgrims.
Your concern for the pilgrims is disingenuous, monk, Tyrangal sneered. You were fine sacrificing pilgrims to serve the greater good when you were experimenting on them. As long as you were going to be the hero, it was all right to lose a few hundred or a thousand ‘volunteers.’
Gregor cringed at the anger in her voice. I’m sorry, he offered.
You’re not as sorry as you will be if you enable Vraith’s plan, Tyrangal said.
But I can’t oppose her; the Order is too powerful. They will make me pay a high, long-term price.
Then you have a decision to make, Tyrangal said. You are fortunate, actually; you get to choose your enemies. Most people don’t have that freedom.
Gregor’s awareness snapped back across the distance. He was in his own body, his heart pounding and his breath coming in gulps as a sheen of sweat chilled his skin.
Gods, he thought, what have I done?
Duvan woke to wind whipping across his face and the red glow of the sun shining through his closed eyelids. He could feel the sun’s heat slowly roasting him.
Duvan’s lips cracked as his tongue-dry as a dusty road itself-pushed through his glued-together lips and tried to wet them. I need water, he thought, breathing in hot air as dry as a desert wind.
There was a waterskin attached to his backpack. His backpack was still on his chest. Slanya was still on his back. She lay beside him, unmoving. The makeshift leather straps that he’d used to attach her to his shoulders had dug so deep into his flesh that the muscles burned at the slightest movement.
First, he thought, untie the straps so that he could move.
His hands protested, pain shooting down the muscles of his fingers and forearms with the very smallest effort. But after repeated attempts, he had managed to detach himself from Slanya and his backpack.
Second, sit up.
That step proved to be far more difficult and painful. His could barely move his arms; they felt dead, numb and heavy. Yet he needed to sit up. He kept trying and falling down, trying again, only to fall down again. But Duvan knew he needed to drink, and he knew that the more he moved, the more the ache would fade. Mobility would come back.
Eventually, Duvan had propped himself against the squat boulder.
Third, drink.
Duvan rested with his back against the hard stone. He struggled with the straps, but eventually he managed to detach his waterskin from his pack. The liquid inside was warm and bitter, but it quenched his thirst ever so slightly. It wet his mouth and throat. He resisted the urge to take a second drink. Who knew how long they’d need to make it last?
Duvan examined Slanya, sprawled in an unnatural position next to him. The gentle rise and fall of her chest meant she lived. Good.
Her unconscious, open-eyed stare was partially protected from the sun by the shadow of the squat boulder. One of her arms was pinned awkwardly behind her back and looked broken, but when he checked it he found that not one of the bones was fractured.
She was anything but whole, however. Duvan had never seen anything quite like the network of spellscarring that pervaded Slanya’s body. Usually someone with so much exposure died instantly.
Duvan carefully straightened Slanya’s back, which had been severely twisted. He closed her eyes and propped her feet up as he’d been taught by the Wildhome shaman who had trained him for a summer. He dribbled some water from the skin onto Slanya’s lips and held her mouth closed.
“Come on,” he said aloud. “You can’t die. Not after I was being so nice to you.”
Duvan had learned rudimentary healing skills during his imprisonment at Wildhome. He carried some oils and ointments to help healing. They would help protect Slanya’s skin from prolonged exposure to the sun.
“I’m never nice,” Duvan said. “You should know that about me. I don’t like caring about people.” He spread healing salve over the skin of Slanya’s face and skull.
“But,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a secret: I like you. You remind me of-of people I cared about in the past.” Talfani. Rhiazzshar. “Not that things worked out so well with them,” he continued wryly. One he allowed to die, and the other betrayed him.
“And since I do care, I will bend the world for you. I’ll even try the superstitious and stupid, just on the belief that I don’t know everything, and perhaps something I don’t know can help.”