It was the only time little Slanya could relax. The only time she knew that she wouldn’t get in trouble.
In the vision, she looked down on her younger self. Little Slanya in her stained dress was six years old with blond hair flying out in tufts from the braids that tried to keep it organized. She watched in her mind as little Slanya finished removing the linens from their drying line next to the fire, folded them, and put them away. They had to be folded just so, or she would have to do it again when Aunt Ewesia discovered her failure.
When little Slanya returned from the bedroom, Aunt
Ewesia was on fire. Alarmed and frightened even then that she would be punished for this accident, young Slanya blanched and she held her breath. Aunt Ewesia’s clothes blazed, but she awoke slowly despite that. The infusion she drank to put her to sleep every night worked too well.
And then, the fiery behemoth that had been her aunt heaved itself from the chair, screaming like a thousand banshees, making the hair on Slanya’s skin stick straight out. Aunt Ewesia lurched toward Slanya. The flames had ripped through the cotton and wool of her clothing and had started in on her skin.
Slanya felt her breath catch as she watched her younger self run from the groping, screaming demon. Later she was ashamed that she had run. Later she would tell the other orphans that she had tried to help, but couldn’t stop the fire. But she hadn’t tried to help; fear had gripped her, and she had run away from the beast of flame and anger.
“Can you ride?” Duvan’s voice shook her from her reverie.
Slanya squeezed her eyes closed to block out the fire. She held her breath to avoid smelling the burning body. She waited until her heart’s frantic beating slowed and some semblance of calm returned to her.
Then, nodding to Duvan, she took the reins of the pilgrim’s black mare. Slanya straightened and stretched her back. “I’m ready,” she said, climbing up into the saddle.
Riding the dead archer’s horse, Duvan led them expertly through the rubble away from the pillar of black smoke that rose from the burning body. He headed away from the old outpost and along the path that led around the city to the monastery.
After a minute of silence, Duvan spoke. “Thank you for standing by me back there,” he said. “It means a lot.”
Slanya’s face wrinkled into a puzzled expression. It had never occurred to her to run.
“Not many folks have fought for me,” he added.
“Well, I couldn’t very well lose my guide, could I?” she said, but regretted it as soon as the words escaped her lips. Here he was expressing true gratitude, and the least she could do was accept it.
“I suppose not,” he said. “But thanks all the same.”
“You have been alone all your life?” Slanya asked.
He considered the question for a moment. “Yes,” he said, but Slanya could tell there was more than he was letting on. “For the most part, I don’t play well with others.”
“Well, I’d say we made a good team back there.”
Duvan glanced over at her, his dark eyes examining her face. Perhaps he was looking for a lie or exaggeration, but if he saw anything he gave no indication. After all, Slanya had been serious, and at least on one level had been telling the truth. As far as the fighting went, they were a great team.
“Yes,” Duvan said. “We do make a good team.”
That made Slanya smile, not least because something in his tone and expression told her that those words had rarely, if ever, escaped his mouth before.
Duvan dismounted just outside the temple complex, amid the stench of the afflicted. Tents full of dying pilgrims surrounded the unfinished stone structure.
He didn’t understand the pilgrims. Why would anyone come here by choice? Why would they leave a comfortable life full of friends and family? And for what?
Perhaps they just didn’t realize that of all the possible outcomes of spellplague exposure, emerging alive with a spellscar and a wonderful new power was by far the least likely. Most just died instantlyburned up before they had a chance to scream.
And of those who came out alive, a good many were doomed from too much exposure. They grew sick, while death lingered around them, their bodies riddled with the chaos of the Plaguewrought Lands.
Duvan wondered if anyone would come if they’d been told what it was really like instead of the propaganda disseminated by the Order of Blue Fire. Travel to the Plaguewrought Land to be touched by the divine fire. Spellplague will give you power and change your life forever!
He imagined bards would attract smaller crowds with lines like, “Want pain and death? Visit the Plaguewrought Land.”
Monks and monastery clerics of Kelemvor moved among the sick and dying, providing comfort and aid. Also scattered in the mix of tents and grass mats were Order of Blue Fire volunteers in their pale blue robes.
“Lots of Order around, Slanya,” Duvan said. “Why is that?” He knew his tone was suspicious, and he didn’t care.
“Nothing nefarious, I assure you,” Slanya said. “They come to ease the pain of the sick and dying. Most of them are unskilled, but they can clean up excrement with the best of them.”
“But clearly your monastery has dealings with the Order,” Duvan said. “That may or may not be cause for alarm.”
“These volunteers don’t come inside the monastery,” Slanya said. “I know of only one formal arrangement, and that’s for a supply of Brother Gregor’s elixir.”
Duvan scrutinized Slanya’s face. Not lying.
“Let’s just get our supplies and move out,” Slanya suggested.
Duvan nodded his agreement.
“Sister Slanya,” said a short cleric, bald except for a long auburn sidelock. Duvan caught sight of a tattoo at the base of her skull, in the same location as Slanya’sthe scales of Kelemvor in simple blue ink. “Gregor has your supplies ready.”
Slanya nodded. “Thank you, High Priestess.”
The cleric turned to Duvan. “I am Kaylinn, head of the monastery.”
Duvan gave a head bow. “I am glad to meet you,” he said. “I’m Duvan.”
Slanya interrupted, “We should get these horses to the stables.”
“I’ll take the horses,” Kaylinn said. “Brother Gregor will meet you in the chapel anteroom; that’s where your supplies are.”
Slanya gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”
The stench of dying pilgrims and smoldering bodies lessened as they made their way into the monastery. Here Duvan breathed a little easier. If he wasn’t careful, the smell that floated on the summer air in the Plaguewrought Land would trigger painful memories.
Looking around, Duvan noticed how clean and ordered things were inside the monastery. The walls were white and scrubbed, the appointments spare. Most of the halls had stanchions for torches or candles, but there was no art or decoration of any kind, save for a simple mosaic of Kelemvor’s skeletal hand holding his scales of death.
Duvan also noticed how quiet the monastery was. Scores of clerics and monks moved about their businessdoing construction work or writing scrolls or even practicing combat trainingin near silence.
Duvan found it eerie. The silence made him ill at ease and alert.
Slanya led him through mostly bare corridors, furnished by an occasional wooden table or chair. Their boots clomped on the washed tile floors. They came to a wide doorway and stepped into a small, empty room with a broad wooden table in the middle.
There was an assortment of supplies on the table, and Duvan immediately started to inspect the goods. Even though he suspected that the monks had laid out too much to carry, Duvan didn’t set anything aside. There was plenty of food, and he loaded a portion of it into his own pack. He double-checked his other supplies to make sure he was ready. For Slanya to have a chance of surviving, they’d have to be in and back out of the Plaguewrought Land in less than a day anyway. Still, Duvan always went prepared.
Out of habit, he catalogued the contents of his backpack extra leathers, weapons, poisons and powders, a sharpening stone, his glideskin, rope, food, oil, soap, and water. Checking Slanya’s pack, he noticed that she
