“-monk is working with us fully now … best of both worlds.”
“… believes he’s free, but the … visions from … Masters of Absolute Accord.” Laughter.
Then Vraith’s voice rose clear and loud. “We must prepare for the festival now. Soon we shall all be part of an historic moment.”
“What about our guest?”
“Continue the testing as appropriate. Jahin will stay. Push him to his limits, but don’t let him die.”
Duvan shuddered. More pain like he’d been through, only to be healed up for further torture? He’d rather die.
He gritted his teeth.
Duvan’s hands slid free of his bonds, and he sat up quickly. Looking around, he noticed a small table on his left, upon which were several knives and a pair of iron tongs. Apparently the planned torture wasn’t limited to just the magical variety.
Duvan grabbed one of the knives, palmed it, then put his hands back against the bonds. Anyone scrutinizing them would know immediately that he’d slipped out, but a casual glance might not give him away.
Hesitation would mean more pain, more and prolonged agony. And even if all that his escape attempt brought was death and an endless oblivion, it was better than writhing in pain. The door opened.
“I think he’s awake again,” said the genasi. “Shall we continue?”
Duvan had made his decision.
“Let’s try this …”
And with that, dread like a dark hole in the slimy recesses of Duvan’s gut penetrated his soul. He felt unclean and smelled waves of putrid spray sluicing off his body. He was being corrupted from the inside out.
There was no choice. There were no other options. This realignment of his soul felt wrong in every way that something could be wrong. If he could beg for it to stop, he would.
If he had to die to make it stop, he would.
With that thought, his reticence vanished. With practiced agility, he spun the knife in his hand, feeling the hilt lock into position in his grasp. Even if he failed to kill all of his captors, Duvan would be making his own choice at the end. He could decide his own fate.
The genasi mage, Jahin, was closest, her attention focused on the torturous spell she was casting.
Duvan sprang free of the table, leaping at the mage in a blur. He brought the knife to bear, aiming for the genasi’s hands. Anything to stop the spell.
Jahin reacted too slowly. Shocked, she stumbled backward as Duvan’s blade slashed with surgical precision along her arm and wrist.
Duvan’s legs shook and buckled from weakness. As he collapsed to the ground, he watched as Jahin’s blood sprayed from the cut in her wrist. She fell back and came down on one knee.
Pain wracked Duvan’s muscles as he braced his fall with outstretched arms. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he struggled to his feet. Which of his captors would be his next victim? Looking past Jahin, clutching her gushing wrist, Duvan caught sight of Renfod’s dark head.
A frown graced the cleric’s face, but there was no fear there. The man seemed to be irritated, and his mouth was uttering something Duvan couldn’t hear. A prayer for magic.
I need to stop him from finishing, he thought.
With all his effort, Duvan lunged across the room toward Renfod. One step. All his attention focused on the effort to get to the cleric before the spell was complete. Two steps. Duvan knew that he’d be caught again if Renfod was able to finish. Three-
A sudden, searing agony pierced Duvan’s back. He went rigid as a huge blade sword slid through him as easily as if he were made of lard. Beaugrat’s sword, he realized too late.
“No!” Renfod cried out.
“What?” That was Beaugrat’s surprised voice. The blade pulled free, and Duvan slid to the stone floor. “He was going to kill you.”
“You are such a fool,” Renfod said. “Commander Vraith wanted him alive.”
Thick, warm liquid spilled from Duvan’s back and chest, spreading in a sticky pool under him. The thump of his heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out all else. Numbness, starting in his fingers and toes, spread up his arms and legs.
“So heal him,” Beaugrat said.
Duvan’s vision grew dim, the room darkening as if looking through a veil. This was the end, he knew. Was he ready?
“Do you think a healing spell is as simple as swinging your sword?” Renfod demanded. “He’ll be dead before I can start.”
No, not ready. How could anyone be ready for death? Duvan fought down panic and tried to welcome oncoming death. But his body bucked and gasped, spasmed uncontrollably, and struggled to breathe.
“I must join Commander Vraith now,” Renfod said. “I will have to deal you later. Clean up this mess!”
Then all went dark.
All went silent.
Duvan’s last sensation was the iron tang of his own blood in the back of his throat and its overpowering odor in his nose.
All went dead.
CHAPTER TEN
Locked inside his laboratory, Gregor felt his spellscar hum with wild magic in his skull as he focused on the cauldron in front of him. The musty tomes that lined the shelves along the walls had long since faded from his consciousness. He was no longer aware of the flickering candles in their sconces, smelling faintly of vanilla and sage.
Entranced, Gregor’s head resonated with the music of alchemy. Nothing else existed except the dark green, oily concoction bubbling away before him. Nothing else mattered except the slightly sweet scent drifting up from the cauldron.
Almost perfect. Almost there.
Gregor had been cooking his potion for what seemed like hours. He had no way to be sure how much time had passed. His trance skewed his sense of time.
Just a hint more crushed plaguegrass, Gregor thought, and maybe a sprinkle of ground dragon claw. Yes, that was it. Gregor flicked these last ingredients into the pot and very carefully stirred the mixture.
Vibrating in his skull like an internal tuning fork, his spellscar knew the brew was exactly right. Tiny explosions of energy and pleasure burst in his head and cascaded down through his body. This was it; the elixir was perfect. Ready to serve.
For hours, Gregor had let his spellscar show him how to cook the potion. The scar revealed the secrets of the ingredients, helping him to predict what each component would do, what effect it would have on the mixture. And along the way, Gregor had used magic here and there, infusing the elixir with potency-just a tiny sprinkling that allowed the brew of magical and mundane elements to combine in a unique and powerful way.
Gregor delighted in his work. He rejoiced in the process of creating something potent and life-changing. Ever since he’d been a child, he had loved what alchemy could accomplish. Ever since he had seen the utility and power for himself, Gregor had wanted to master it.
Just before his seventh birthday, Gregor had been travelling with Brother Velri, his mentor. They’d been approached by thieves, and Velri had told Gregor to hide in the rocks next to the narrow road.
Too terrified to make a sound, Gregor had watched as the older monk fought the small band. Though Brother Velri’s martial skills took down one of the robbers, the band managed to stab him. They robbed Velri and left him for dead. When the thieves had fled, Gregor had come out of hiding to find the elder monk bleeding and on the verge of death. Velri had been stabbed many times, and thieves had taken any poultices and bandages along with his backpack.
Gregor had been certain that the man was going to die. The two of them were far from the nearest healer.
Velri removed a small pouch of powder from his boot. He told young Gregor to find some water and fill the pouch to the mark, about halfway up. Gregor ran to the small stream that flowed near the road, filled the pouch as instructed, and returned to an ailing Velri, who was nearly dead from his wounds.