place he wanted to be.
If he got on the top of the cylinder, he might make it back to the ledge, assuming it was still there. A glance to the cliff face showed him that Beaugrat and Seerah had already started climbing back up to the jungle.
Oh, how he longed for level ground.
Inside the building, the manticore launched itself at the window. Not the smartest move, as it was nigh impossible that it would actually get through. Duvan climbed away from the opening anyway. He’d been wrong about the manticore’s demolition skills once.
After pulling himself to the side of the tower that was most horizontal, Duvan half crawled, half scampered down the structure. The manticore battered itself against the stone behind him, but this time the baron’s construction held together.
Duvan was about halfway to the ledge when several thick wisteria vines snapped and the tower’s weight grew too heavy for the remaining vines. It started to fall from under him: His stomach lurched into his throat with the sudden freefall, while his mind raced. Was this the end? The long fall to oblivion?
Nothing he had in his pack or on his person could help him now. There was his glideskina triangular patchwork of wyvern leather and pegasus feathers that he’d made as an apprentice. He might be able to use the glideskin to slow his fall, but it was buried in the bottom of his pack.
No time to get it out. There must be another way.
The vines holding the tower to the jungle above snapped one by one in front of him. In a flash he realized that if he held on to the right onea vine still connected to the junglehe could make it.
He grabbed one and held on, hoping that the vine he held was attached above and not to the tower. The rock beneath his feet crumbled away as he climbed the knotted vines.
The old citadel fell away below him, and the echoing roar of the creature inside it faded and was gone.
Duvan gripped tightly to the vine as he crashed into the pitted stone wall where the tower had once clung, slamming his shoulder and nearly jarring his grip free. He bounced off but was able to twist around to get his feet in front of him to brace the impact of the second hit.
After he stopped swinging, Duvan found purchase on the cliff face. He took a moment to calm himself and get his bearings.
He was about thirty yards below what was left of the ledge where they’d first landed, where the end of his rope still hung. Most of the ledge was gone now, and what remained looked precarious. The flagstones hung loose, and if they came free they could fall right on top of him.
Duvan climbed carefully up the network of vines to the ledge and found a section that felt solid. He spent a moment taking stock, giving himself a quick once-over. No injuries. He had his haversack and all of the prizes he’d taken. The tome that Tyrangal had sent him to get was still inside it, as was the manticore spike that the book’s heavy cover had managed to stop.
There was a hole in his pack, but that could be patched, and the heavy book had saved, if not his life, then at least a good deal of pain.
Duvan had to smile. All in all, things were looking good.
He decided to keep the manticore spike, which as about the size of his forearm and very sharp, with hundreds of small barbs along its length. He winced at what could have happened to him had the spike impaled him the way one had the sorcerer.
Duvan took his time making the climb back to the top; No need to hurry it. The manticore was gone, and he would emerge from the Underchasm relatively unscathed, all things considered.
When he reached the top, he flopped over the edge and lay on his back, breathing heavily. A wave of exhaustion washed over him as he rested and thanked the gods he’d made it out.
“Thank the gods you survived,” came Beaugrat’s deep voice. “Did you get what you came for?”
Duvan grinned, but there was something in Beaugrat’s tone that raised Duvan’s hackles. “Certainly.”
“Very impressive,” Beaugrat said, running his fingers through his blond hair. “I must say, I thought you were going to die when the manticore landed on the tower.”
Duvan looked over at his two remaining lackeys. The ranger, Seerah, had her crossbow aimed directly at Duvan’s chest, while Beaugrat himself drew a huge two-handed sword. This could be bad; Duvan hated crossbows.
“What do you want?”
“Actually, all the loot you’re carrying will do just fine,” Beaugrat said. “Give it to me.”
“Or what?” Duvan asked, pushing wearily to his feet. “Or we kill you.”
Standing below a reddening sky in the monastery courtyard, Slanya tried to retain her calm while absorbing this new request. Leave the monastery? All right. But travel to the change lands? And go past the border where the changeland was rampant? That was impossible to accept. 1
“I can see that this is a surprise for you,” Gregor said. “Follow me and I will explain.” Putting his arm around her shoulder, he guided her into the chapel. They crossed the mosaic inlaid in the chapel floor, a skeletal hand holding a balanceKelemvor’s scalesand walked into the alchemist’s laboratory.
The laboratory was Gregor’s domain, and Slanya rarely visited it. The smell of sulfurous powder mingled with the aroma of crushed red-bark leaves. One whole wall held racks of crystal vials that contained purified ingredients for Gregor’s concoctions, each labeled with a glyph. Another wall housed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and scrolls, and a door leading to what Slanya assumed was a storage room, although shed never been through it. On the third wall, coal burned in a narrow oven, and an iron ring bolted to an elaborate stand held a ceramic cauldron over the fire.
In the center of the room was the workbench, perfectly organized like everything else. Racks of cleaned vials stood to one end, ready to be filled and distributed to the next wave of pilgrims headed for the changelands.
“Our need is simple,” Gregor said, closing the door behind them. “We must make more elixir to protect the pilgrims who will participate in the Festival of Blue Fire. I originally planned for a few hundred, but Vraith claims that we may need enough for thousands.”
Slanya nodded. The influx of pilgrims had increased over the past few tendays, and many of them seemed to be waiting until the festival to visit the Plaguewrought Land.
“We only have a few days to make a great deal more, and our supply of plaguegrass is depleted.”
Plaguegrasstall, brown grass that grew inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Landwas the key component to the elixirs that Gregor concocted to help the pilgrims survive exposure to the spellplague.
“You are the only one I can trust to get this done,” Gregor said. “You have proven that you can accomplish difficult tasks.”
Yes, Slanya thought. I am the one who gets chosen for such tasks. She had been in charge of the team sent to scout this location for the monastery. She had been the one sent to negotiate with the Order of Blue Fire for access to this land. When Gregor or Kaylinn needed someone for a special purpose, Slanya was their first choice.
And truth be told, she liked it. Because, while performing funeral rites and advanced meditation formed the bedrock of her existence, sometimes the routine grew monotonous and tiring. Still, routine was better than a suicide mission.
“We need more plaguegrass.” Gregor said. “The small quantity that I originally obtained from Tyrangal is depleted. I have completed the preventative for the spell-sickness, and now I need to make a lot more so we can save all these people.”
Slanya looked at Gregor. The passion in his face showed strong and clear. He truly wanted to help these pilgrims. “The formula works?” she asked. “You’re positive?”
His ability to create new concoctions was uncanny, coming partly from his comprehensive knowledge of the effects of herbs and animal parts. But he claimed that his genius came primarily from his spellscar, that his exposure to the spellplague had granted him a lens through which he could see the effects that potions would have on people.
A smile broadened on his face. “Yes,” he said, nodding happily. “All the testing was worth it, don’t you see?” He rubbed his hands together. “And now all I need to do is make enough to protect all pilgrims going to the changelands. But for that I need more plaguegrasslots more plaguegrass.”
“Why can’t you get more from Tyrangal?” Slanya asked. “Why do you want me to risk my life to go into the
