Gregor watched as the monk muttered a short incantation over the pouch, mixed it with his finger, and quaffed the entire contents. A few minutes later, Gregor had looked on in awe as Brother Velri stood up and brushed the dirt from his tunic.
Alchemy had saved Velri’s life. And while Gregor eventually far surpassed Velri’s skill, it was the elder monk’s demonstration of alchemy’s power that had inspired Gregor to pursue the arcane art.
Since he’d become spellscarred, Gregor’s brewing sessions had become long and exhausting. Still, he found them exhilarating as well. As he brewed each concoction, Gregor rode a building rush of excitement and pleasure from the first ingredient to the final product. And every time, in the glowing aftermath, satisfaction overwhelmed him.
The elixir in front of him was perfect, complete, and ready for consumption. And with that realization, Gregor found himself coming out of his trance. The chamber around him coalesced into existence again. His bookshelves and walls materialized into his consciousness. He could smell the distracting mustiness of the books and the faint vanilla and sage of the candles.
Gregor blinked, and his knees nearly buckled from sudden weakness. The resonating buzz from his spellscar had faded to nothing, but in its wake came a skull-splitting headache, like the prow of a ship cleaving his skull in twain.
His vision blurry from the pain, Gregor groped toward his potion cabinet. He opened the doors and found the proper remedy, then took a swallow. The thin liquid slid down his throat, leaving a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. In a few minutes the pain would be manageable. Which was good-he didn’t have time to take his normal recovery period.
“Brother Velri!” he croaked, weakened. “Please come in now.”
Gregor became aware of the metallic sound of a key in the door lock. Velri-his one-time mentor, quite elderly but still alive and healthy-had been standing guard, making sure nobody disturbed Gregor during his brewing trance. Any interruption or distraction would have meant ruin for the entire batch.
Squeezing his eyes shut against the debilitating pain, Gregor breathed, “Velri, can you gather some others to help?” Gregor’s breath scratched raw against his bitter throat, each intake of air sending waves of skull-cleaving pain through his head. “We need to move this cauldron to the Festival of Blue Fire.”
“Yes, Brother Gregor,” came the elder monk’s reply. “Are you feeling all right?”
Gregor could already sense the edge of the pain starting to recede. “I will be fine in a few moments,” he said. “Now, we’re in a hurry.”
The elder monk did not respond, but Gregor heard him shuffle off to collect some help.
Gregor concentrated on taking slow and even breaths. With each exhalation, he visualized a portion of the debilitating agony flowing out of him with the air. In with the fresh, out with the pain. And by the time Velri returned with three younger monks, Gregor’s headache had dampened to a dull throb.
Gregor took another deep breath before addressing his brethren. When he exhaled, he could think again.
“It’s imperative that we move quickly, my brothers,” he said. “We cannot be late to the Festival of Blue Fire.” Gregor gestured toward the cauldron full of elixir. “Many pilgrims will die if they are not protected with a dose of this potion.
“We must be quick,” Gregor told them, “but also extremely careful. We cannot afford to spill the concoction.”
Adept and sure, his monks wasted no time. Soon, a metal lid covered the cauldron, the edges sealed with wax to prevent leakage during transport. They wrapped the covered pot with rope, tied tightly in case of jostling.
And finally, three of them carried the heavy pot to the stables and loaded the precious elixir into a small wagon. In a matter of minutes, the wagon had been hitched to a burrow and the whole group headed toward the Festival of Blue Fire.
Shortly, history would soon be made. Soon, Gregor would be taking the first step on the path to fulfilling his vision of a world without rampant spellplague. He smiled. That was a dream worth taking a risk for. A shiver of excitement danced down his spine, as he and his helpers made slow but steady progress away from the monastery.
Despite his personal dislike for Vraith, Gregor remained optimistic that it would all be worth it. The beauteous end result would completely justify the tactics they were forced to use to get there, for that result would be a restoration of order. That result was peace.
Peace was worth substantial risk.
A chill wind slid across Slanya’s skin as Tyrangal teleported her, Kaylinn, and several others whom Kaylinn had enlisted to help rescue Duvan. The light of the afternoon sun winked out as the monastery courtyard vanished. The open, fresh air gave way to a smoky and stuffy enclosed corridor that smelled of tallow and soot.
The hot air made the dark space feel tight and claustrophobic. Slanya struggled to take slow, even breaths while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her heart raced with anticipation, and sweat prickled on her brow from the heat. But as she focused on her breathing, balance returned, and she found herself ready for a fight.
“Duvan is in the room just down these stairs,” Tyrangal whispered. “I scried him earlier. There are five or six people in the room, but Commander Accordant Vraith and her entourage have left. We should be able to overcome those remaining.”
Taking a deep breath, Slanya took a firm grip on her staff. She was ready.
“Hey! What are you-?”
Slanya turned toward the sound, coming from a man in chainmail climbing up the staircase toward them.
She watched as Tyrangal gestured with her hand, her reaction extremely quick. Simultaneously, on the edge of her vision, Slanya could swear that she saw something flick out of Tyrangal’s mouth, stretch out and touch the man on the forehead, then retract. But the whole thing happened in a blink of an eye, leaving Slanya wondering what she’d seen.
“We are friends,” came Tyrangal’s soothing contralto. “We’re here to escort the prisoner to his cell.”
The man’s face slackened from suspicion to understanding. He nodded. “All right,” he said. “Wonderful. Although I don’t think you will be needed.”
“We’ll be the ones to judge that,” Tyrangal said as she swept past the guard. She laid one hand on his head, whispered a quick spell, and the man collapsed.
They crept down the hallway to another door. Tyrangal paused here.
“There’s a guard just inside,” Tyrangal said. “Leave her to me.”
“We’ll try to find Duvan,” Slanya said, looking at Kaylinn, who nodded.
Slanya entered the room behind Tyrangal, who was enshrouded now in a shifting, prismatic aura and was difficult to see. A quick glance around the room showed Slanya a torch-lit dungeon, complete with stone walls and arched ceiling, iron chains and manacles, and several tables fitted with restraints for securing and interrogating prisoners.
To Slanya’s right, she caught sight of Duvan, lying slumped across the floor. He looked unconscious and there was an alarming amount of blood pooled under him. She hoped they weren’t too late.
“Kaylinn,” Slanya called. “There he is.”
the room was mostly empty of Order members, but those remaining had converged on Duvan. There was no sign of Vraith, but Slanya counted three others in addition to the guard. Four, if she included the genasi woman wrapping a bandage around her wrist.
Slanya recognized one of the Order guards-Beaugrat.
“You again!” Beaugrat stood beside Duvan, a bloody sword in his hand. “You should have gotten out when you had the chance.”
Beside Slanya, Kaylinn sent a wave of holy fire into two Order members clustering around Duvan’s body. They backed away as she approached, but not fast enough to avoid the blast. The genasi wizard dodged and started toward Tyrangal
Slanya spun her staff and leveled it at Beaugrat. She advanced on the warrior, moving quickly, but careful to remain steady and aware. She knew her opponent was an accomplished swordsman and was far stronger than he looked. She’d seen that when he had fought Duvan in the ruins outside Tyrangal’s mansion.