Vraith felt a sharp tug. The tendrils of her own spirit, intricately intertwined with the border veil, yanked her spirit out of her flesh. A ripple of the border curtain plucked her soul from her body, leaving her lifeless corpse suddenly slumped in the hands of the faithful Renfod.
It happened so fast that Vraith hardly had time to process the tidal wave of excruciating pain. So she was going to die after all. Vraith felt her consciousness stretch and spread as the threads of her spirit dispersed across the surface of the border veil. She felt herself grow thinner and thinner.
Was she dying? She did not think so.
Neither was this the rapture she had dreamed about, the ascension into the consciousness of the sham that she had wanted for almost all her life. Merging with the sharn, those wondrous nieht black creatures of wild magic, would give her eternal life and supreme knowledge. Incredible power.
This felt different. Vastly different.
With her last coherent thought, Vraith recognized the horror of her mistake. So interwoven with the border curtain, her spirit was irrevocably caught in its matrix. And as the border jerked back into its normal spot, Vraith’s soul stretched across its surfaceimpossibly thin, she spread over the vast expanse of the border veil like a droplet of oil on a still lake.
There could be no resurrection if she was not actually dead. Renfod would no doubt try to bring her back, but she knew it would not work. She had not died, but she had failed. She had failed so utterly that the Order would never attempt such a ritual again. Her plan to expand the Plaguewrought Land was dead even if she was not, her dream to join the sharn forever gone.
For Vraith, trapped and lost across the border curtain, failure was worse than death.
A blazing halo of light shone in the darkness around Slanya. The deep rumbling of a multitude of indistinct voices murmured in the spaces beyond the light. She stood naked on a featureless, gray surface. If she stood in the center, the light gave off no heat.
Gome to me, my child. And she knew it was the voice of Kelemvor.
Blink.
A shock of pain rocketed through her, and she was alive again. Sounds filtered through to her. The rumble of voices faded, replaced by screams of the dying and the clomp of hooves.
The border veil stretched up into the sky. It was back to its previous positionwhere it had been for a hundred vears if historians were correct. The veil cast a ghostly light over the field, making the dying pilgrims look like spirits.
Slanya caught sight of Gregor’s cauldron, lying overturned just beyond what had been the line of pilgrims. The ritual had left half of the pilgrims as towers of blue-tinged salt, crumbling crystalline statues whose entire beings had been dried up by Vraith’s ritual. Some of the monks lay injured among the pilgrims, and others tended to the wounded and sick.
Of Gregor himself, there was no sign.
Pain rocketed through her, burning up her skin. And in the spaces between the pulses of pain, she could feel Duvan’s arms cradling her. She watched him with a distant curiosity. Chunks of his long, dark hair had been pulled out, giving him the look of an abused doll.
He seemed alarmed. “Help!” he yelled. “She needs help! Cleric!” There was panic in his voice, and deep concern.
But she was wet and falling apart. Dying, she knew. Finally stepping into the fire.
Blink.
Aunt Ewesia’s paddle came down hard on the backs of little Slanya’s thighs. She deserved it and worse for what she had done, Aunt said. Moving the cups in the kitchen to a new cupboard was one thing, but forgetting the lye in the laundry basin was inexcusable. She’d been told more than once.
The paddle came down again. Pain radiated out from the point of impact. Despite the calluses, this beating would leave marks. Later, she was thinking. Later she will be asleep and I can have peace.
Blink.
Duvan’s usual three-day beard had been stripped away, leaving exposed and bleeding skin on his face. But when he spoke, his voice was calm, showing no evidence of the pain hT tniiat he in “Halo is cnminTr.” Duvan said. “Hane on.”
She shook her head. The lie in his voice was sweet, but unnecessary. “No,” she mouthed. “Don’t lie to me.”
In response, Duvan gave a solemn nod, but she saw deep sadness in his eyes. He did not want to accept the truth of matters.
Her back itched as though a thousand beetles crawled across her skin. Then the itch turned to pain as the beetles all burrowed into her flesh simultaneously. Each gurgling breath came with great exertion, great agony.
“Duvan,” she said, gritting her teeth from the pain incurred by just speaking. “I need your help to die.”
“No,” he said. “No. No.” His head was shaking. “Kaylinn is sure to be here soon, right? Or another cleric? You just have to hang on.”
He still doesn’t understand, she thought. But she would try to make him. “But it is my time,” she said. “Kelemvor is calling me to him.”
Fear made Duvan’s eyes grow wide as shook his head. Poor, dear friend, Slanya thought.
“I achieved greatness,” Slanya whispered. “We achieved it together, and for that I am proud.” A pulse of agony caused her to spasm and arch her back.
Blink.
Aunt Ewesia’s snores resonated through the room, and Slanya knew it was safe now. Drunk and unconscious, Aunt would be out until morning. Hatred rose up inside Slanya, and despair. Why did she end up with this woman who didn’t want her? She couldn’t run away; everyone in the small town knew her and would return her to Aunt.
Little Slanya was practical enough to know that she’d never make it far enough away, and that the punishment for trying to escape would be severe. No, that wouldn’t work. She must destroy her life. She might die trying, but she might escape. She might be reborn.
Verv deliberately, little Slanva scooted the urate ant tram its place in front of the fire. Moving quietly, she leaned the grate up against the wall. Then she dragged the basket of laundry to a spot just in front of the fire, setting it way too close.
It took far longer than it should have, but little Slanya was patient. Crouching in the shadows by the door, she watched with detachment and pragmatic calculation as the fire finally jumped into the laundry. She stayed at her vigil, breathing through laced fingers, until the room had ignited and Aunt was on fire too. She felt nothing inside at the sight.
Blink.
“Slanya?” Duvan said, wiping at his eyes with an angry, hurried motion.
She couldn’t feel her legs how. “My time has come,” she said flatly. “I can never be put back together. I will die here tonight, but how I die is important.”
Through blurred vision, she watched the devastating realization of her seriousness wreak havoc across Duvan’s face. Underneath the rough, prickly surface, he was a sweet, generous man who kept his word and would do anything for his friends. He had been so very badly mistreated for much of his life; he didn’t deserve more pain.
She loved Duvan, she had come to realize, and hated to hurt him. But she needed him to do this one last difficult thing for her.
“I… don’t know if I can,” Duvan’s voice broke. “It may be selfish, but I want you to stay.”
“I want to stay too,” Slanya said. “But that is not among the choices I now have. I can die slowly in a great deal of pain and anguish. Or” She gurgled fluid in her throat, struggling to breathe. She spat up bloody phlegm.
Tears streamed down Duvan’s dark face now, turning red in the dim light as they mingled with his bloody skin.
“Please do this, Duvan,” she said, coughing. “You are a true friend. I know this is hard for you, but I’m imploring you. I have already lived a meaningful life.”
