out now. He’d placed his bet. The stakes were high, but the payoff would be massive. All of Faerun would reap the profits of this gamble.
Tyrangal would see that. And if she did not, she would be left behind.
Gregor looked across the field, bathed in the gray light of the border. There were still many, many pilgrims who had ignored the call to line up. Every one of them would be exposed if they were inside the arc when the ritual started.
Bonfires provided hubs of warmth and celebration. In the glow from the changelands, and the warmth of the bonfires, the festival had managed to mutate this plain into a landscape of dancing and music. The smell of spiced meat and roasting garlic and warm bread mingled in the air, temporarily masking the lingering scent of the funeral pyres and the Plaguewrought Landthe stench of oranges and carrion.
Gregor gave over the task of distributing elixir to Brother Velri. “We need to encourage everyone to drink a dose,” Gregor said. “All of these who are determined to stay inside the arc. And give it to children first. It will protect them all.”
Velri nodded.
“I’m going to talk with Vraith,” Gregor said. “To see how much time we have. All these folks should be outside the arc just in case, and the Order Peacekeepers can help with that.”
Gregor stepped up his pace and caught up to Vraith. Surrounded by Order Peacekeepers and clerics, Vraith barked instructions to her minions to get the lined-up pilgrims to space themselves evenly and hold hands. “The blood bond must be complete for this to work!”
“Vraith,” Gregor said, pushing through the Peacekeepers, who reluctantly allowed him to pass.
“Gregor,” Vraith grinned at him. “Thank you for your good work. Now, you and your monks should move outside the arc.”
“We’re trying to get the remaining pilgrims inoculated.” He gestured at the bonfires still surrounded by dancers and drunken pilgrims passed out on the ground.
Vraith shrugged. “I don’t think they’ll cause trouble for the ritual.”
Gregor was appalled at her lack of compassion. “Yes, but that means that hundreds of pilgrims remain unprotected and will likely die.”
Vraith’s angular face went stone hard. “I understand that, monk. And it is not my concern. They all know what they are risking. It is their choice to make.”
Momentary shock took hold of Gregor, but he quickly quelled it. He glared at her. “That doesn’t excuse genocide, wizard.”
Vraith’s straight-chopped blonde head shook slowly back and forth. “I don’t have time for this,” she said. “These few stragglers,” she waved at the pilgrims inside the arc, “were told the same thing as those thousand or so.” She pointed at the line. “I wash my hands of the ignorant and selfish. You do what you need to do.”
“At least give me time to give these folks the elixir,” Gregor said.
“You can do that if you’d like, of course, but the ritual will begin as soon as the circuit is complete.” “How much time do I have?”
Vraith glanced around at the line of pilgrims. There were still places where people weren’t lined up perfectly, sections where the pilgrims weren’t holding bloody palms to their neighbors’. “I’d say about a half hour,” she said. “An hour at most.”
An hour? Gregor thought. An hour to save all these pilgrims?
An hour was no time at all.
A faint breeze tickled Duvan’s skin. A dim flare of red slowly grew brighter. A burlap-covered pillow scratched against his cheek as he drowsed. The weight of Slanya’s arm draped across his chest made him feel secure, reassured that he wasn’t alone in the universe. Not anymore.
The red light brightened, spurring him awake. The door to the small chamber was opening. He opened his eyes and realized that he felt refreshed and alert. He should be exhausted after all that had happened. He’d only been asleep for several hours, but for the first time in years, no dream memories had haunted him.
Slanya stirred in the bed next to him. Sweet Slanya.
The sky outside the window had grown dark during their sleep, and the room was dark except for the torchlight coming through the opening door. The torch’s red flicker cast sharp shadows into the room as someone entered.
“Duvan?” came Tyrangal’s voice from the opening door. “Time to get up! I need your help.”
He came fully awake and sat up in the bed. Despite feeling alert and rested, pain shot through him with the movement. His back itched and burned where he’d been stabbed, and the bones of his recently broken leg ached. Magical healing and resurrection were phenomenal things, but the body still remembered the trauma. Duvan’s body was telling him that it was time to rest.
Hopefully, he would soon get to do so. “What do you need, mistress?” he said. “I am a little worse for wear, but I will do whatever you require of me.”
Tyrangal stepped into the room, tall and radiant. Her face seemed to glow with inner fire, and her eyes were like embers. She looked at Duvan, and then at Slanya slipping out of the bed on the other side.
Duvan turned to watch as Slanya shrugged into a thin, brown robe. The colorful tattoo of Kelemvor’s scales disappeared beneath the garment as it came down over her neck and back.
Slanya turned and met his gaze. Her thin lips spread into a broad smile, lighting up her whole face. Affection and gratitude welled inside him. He felt better than he’d felt in a very long time.
Tyrangal’s tone grew even more urgent. “The Festival of Blue Fire is underway right now. Vraith has Gregor’s elixir, and with it she can expand the changelands. She can unleash the Spellplague once more. Even with my guard, I cannot defeat the Order without help.”
Duvan looked around for his combat leathers and found them on the small wooden table, clean and folded. He dressed quickly, despite residual pain throughout his body, pulling on his worn and abused pants and lacing them up. He donned his thick leather tunic, and with sure hands he arranged and tightened all his gear so that he would ready for whatever challenges lay ahead this night. “I’m not sure what I can do that you cannot,” he said. “But I am with you.”
“You are immune’ to the touch of the plaguelands,” Tyrangal said. “You can destroy the Order’s plans.”
Duvan shook his head, remembering the torture. “They can easily kill me in other ways,” he said with a harsh laugh. He remembered the searing burn of the fire and the deep soul-wrenching dread he had experienced during torture.
Glancing over at Slanya, Duvan saw that she was nearly fully dressed in her combat gear now. He didn’t know how their friendship would evolve from here or if it would develop into something more. But he did know that it was a friendship and that was something worth keeping. Worth living for.
In fact, he had a Jot to live for, not the least of which was to avoid ending up as part of Kelemvor’s city wall. Duvan knew he wanted to do something good with his life. He needed his life to mean something. Right now he would help Tyrangal stop the expansion of the Plaguewrought Land.
Stop the plaguestorms from spreading. Prevent villages like his from being wiped off the map. That was worth doing.
He met Slanya’s eyes. “I’m going to do this,” he said. “But you-don’t have to go.” He turned to look at Tyrangal. “She doesn’t have to go, does she?”
Slanya gave a grim chuckle. “You’re going, so I’m going,” she said. “And I’ll roust the other doomguides too.”
Tyrangal’s aristocratic face registered awareness at this exchange, but When she spoke, there was a deep sadness in her voice. “I need Duvan to come with me now,” she said then gazed at Slanya. “If you wish to help, make all haste possible to the festival field.”
Duvan finished preparing himself. He stood, feeling marginally more ready for battle but still a shadow of his normal self. Like a husk, ready to be blown aside on a gust of wind. Still, Tyrangal said it was important, and he owed her his life.
He turned to Slanya, who was fully dressed and heading for the door. He reached out for her hand, and his touch stopped her. Surprised, she turned to him. He mouthed, “Thank you,” then let go.
Her smile was brief, but it was enough. And then he watched her pass through the door and disappear down
