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
rocked 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 nickering 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 potencyjust 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 hed 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.
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. Velrihis one-time mentor, quite elderly but still alive and healthyhad 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
