With that thought hanging in the air, Duvan rummaged through Slanya’s belongings. He knew she must have some of Gregor’s elixir left. Maybe it would help her after the fact. Maybe Gregor’s alchemy could save Slanya when he couldn’t.
Duvan found the last flask of the elixir in her smallish pack, which he had stuffed inside his own. The crystal vial was nearly empty, but surely the shimmering liquid was a single remaining dose.
He parted her dry lips and poured the contents into her mouth. He hadn’t felt such a strong bond for anyone since Rhiazzshar. Perhaps it was because he felt responsible for her well-being, as he had felt for Talfani’s. The symmetry was uncanny, and that had to mean something. Slanya did not deserve to die. She was a good person. Better than he was, that was for sure. She wanted to help people. She wanted to make Faerun a better place.
When he’d done all he knew to do for her, Duvan made the heroic effort to stand up. He needed to survey their new mote. But painful as it was, getting to his feet proved easier than he’d expected.
Smooth rock, covered in places with sharp gravel, the mote was small, perhaps only a handful of paces across. The boulder that had been shading them took up a chunk of the level land near one side. And the whole thing was moving fast, heading almost due north from what Duvan could tell.
The mote was flying lower than the previous mote, but high enough that he could see the Chondalwood far off to his right, like a dark stain against the dusty green hills in the distance. High enough, hopefully, to clear the cliff wall at the border.
They hadn’t left the changelands yet, but they were out of the vortex, which is what Duvan had hoped would happen. There was no food or water on this mote, however, and his stores were almost out.
There was also no shade except for the table-sized boulder. But at the rate they were flying, Duvan estimated they’d reach the border of the changelands before midday. The challenge then would be to figure out how to get safely off a mote moving at such speed.
Once they passed through the border veil, this mote would be relatively low to the ground so the fall might not kill them. But what the mote lost in altitude it made up for in velocity. This hunk of rock was moving mighty fast.
Duvan sat on the boulder and watched the approaching edge of the changelands. It seemed like they should be there any minute, and he knew the border zone would be concentrated with more intense blue fire. He had to be ready.
Wind buffeted his face, cooling him as he dug into his backpack and removed his glideskin in case they needed it. The sun shone high in a pale sky as he prepared his grappling hook for another throw-it never hurt to be ready for everything.
Due to the height or the distances or his misjudging of their speed, the border never seemed to get closer. Several times, he thought they were almost to the border veil, but then another quarter hour passed without the edge of the changelands nearing visibly.
This is a wild ride, he thought as the sun arced farther across the sky. One I will never forget. How many people can say they rode an earthmote through a spellplague storm?
Sometime later, he said, “Hang in there, Slanya. We’re almost out of here. Almost home.”
“Duvan?”
Slanya stirred. She rolled over and coughed up blood.
“I’m right here,” he said, instantly at her side. “We are nearly out of the changelands. Everything is going to be all right.”
Slanya gave a pained smile. “That’s an outright lie,” she said.
Duvan laughed. He was just so relieved to see her awake. “Yes, you’re right. I am lying. I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
After seeming to be perpetually on the horizon, the border veil loomed suddenly large and imminent. The heavy, liquid tugging of nausea in Duvan’s gut told him that the blue fire was particularly intense.
The mote plowed through the border veil, exploding into normal light. There was a bone-rattling boom, and then stability and order were abruptly restored. Duvan’s skin stopped tingling, and his gut settled. The air smelled of humans and genasi and dwarves, of livestock and feces and the fires of the dead. It smelled like home, and Duvan felt grounded here. A feeling of rightness pervaded all of his being.
The mote, however, didn’t act like all was right in the world. Duvan felt a shudder, deep and resonant, in the rock beneath them. The passage through the border had weakened the stone.
A large hunk of the mote tore away from the rest of it, spinning away like a satellite island in the air. The mote split into two, neither piece large enough to hold altitude. Below them, the ground just outside the border was grooved from years of fallen motes. And apparently, they were on one.
Its magic stripped away, the mote lost buoyancy and started to fall.
Pain.
Slanya’s entire being was pain. It was as if she stood in the center of the funeral pyre and burned. As if she let herself, mind and body, be consumed by the razor-sharp licks of the flames, her skin blistering and blackening, her eyes boiling.
Slanya found herself rubbing the bandage over her right pinkie. Dried crusts of blood peeled away as she scratched at it. Even Slanya’s intensive training could not cope with the anarchy that had been wrought upon her. She struggled to take stock of herself, but nothing was familiar. She was no longer the same.
Slanya tried to maintain diligence, starting with her hands and focusing on every inch of her body. Her mind recognized parts of her arm and chest and leg, some familiar fragments of herself, and she tried to use those fragments as an anchor from which she could rebuild her sense of self.
A cleric’s mind and body were a conduit of her god. She called on Kelemvor to help cure her, and perhaps he would help save her.
Or he could call her to him. She needed to prepare herself for both possibilities.
“Slanya,” came Duvan’s voice like a rock in a surging sea. “We are going to have a big problem in a minute.”
Can they get bigger? she thought.
Slanya felt the ground falling away, sending her stomach into her throat. I guess they can, she thought. She rolled over and vomited, clutching her gut and heaving.
She was dimly aware of Duvan above her, his quick, sure movements reassuringly decisive. He reached down for something-a large triangular piece of leather. Then he lashed the corners to himself, securing his gear and donning his pack.
He is saving himself, she thought. He’s leaving me to save himself. Slanya’s heart leaped in panic. By Kelemvor, he’s abandoning me to die.
Then Duvan was lying down behind her, intimately close to her, cradling her. His proximity felt good, reassuring. He smelled of earth and sweat; his presence exuded confidence. If anyone could save her, he could.
Duvan reached around her, threading a thick leather strap under her arms and across her chest. “I’m tying us together,” he said. “I don’t know if our combined weight will be too much for the glideskin, but it will be much better than doing nothing. Doing nothing means crashing to the ground.”
Slanya nodded. Warmth filled her; she was touched by Duvan’s gesture. He wasn’t leaving her to die alone. He hadn’t left her before when she was sick. “Thank you,” she croaked, coughing. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Purely selfish of me-I need someone to argue with.”
She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a lopsided grimace.
“Besides, you stood by me, which counts for a lot. Only one other person has stood by me, ever.”
“Tyrangal?”
He nodded. “But for now, you’re not saved yet. Thank me fully when we’re both on the ground, alive and well.”
Slanya shook her head. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’m thanking you now, in case I die and can’t thank you later.” She needed to express her gratitude. She’d been betrayed and lied to by Gregor, who’d promised his elixir would protect her. Instead, she’d found trust and friendship in this rogue.