The Gossamer Plain (24 page)

“Yes, I think we should stay well back,” Zasian commented. “Let it do the dirty work.”

The spiritual weapon continued, cutting a swath through the lattice just wide enough for cambion and priest to fit through. As it plowed deeper into the maze of bizarre protrusions, Vhok and the Banite followed it. After a time, Zasian began to get a feel and a rhythm for the fastest route, snapping only the thinnest branches off the ends of each growth. It wasn’t as fast as walking, but they made steady progress.

Once, Vhok thought he heard the screech of one of the things that had attacked them, and Zasian held the magical weapon still while they searched the sky together. If it had come near, they could not see it, and at last they presumed that it had wandered away. The priest put the morningstar to work once more.

The spell ended before they reached the path Vhok remembered seeing, so Zasian summoned the spell a second time and they continued. Before long, the morningstar broke through to clear ground.

The path Vhok had seen was straight and wide. He saw no evidence of who or what might have made it, but it was clearly unnatural. Whatever had made the trail had done a thorough job, Vhok noted. No remnants of crystal lay scattered on the black and baking ground, no mineral dust indicated that any of the growth had been pulverized or crushed. No tracks remained that Vhok could see. It was impossible for him to discern how well traveled the path might be.

Shrugging, he started forward, with Zasian beside him. As they walked, they kept one eye on the sky, wary of being surprised again by the soaring, wheeling beasts. The bird-things did not return to trouble them again.

The land rose as they left the Islands behind. Flat shoreline became low foothills, which in turn became steeper mountains. Vhok could see the glow of magma trickling down from the higher elevations ahead of them. He hoped they would not face much steep climbing or fording of the molten rock. He suspected his wishes would be in vain.

The path began to wind more and more. It became a series of switchbacks that climbed the steeper slopes. In various places, Vhok and Zasian found narrow bridges crafted of black, igneous stone crossing deep gullies and ravines. Glowing magma coursed down those channels, and Vhok

was thankful that some intelligent beings had constructed the road. He wondered how long it might be before they ran into the bridge builders, and whether they would receive a better reception than the centaur bandits had offered.

The forest of crystal remained all around them, and the individual growths grew higher and higher as they ascended the slopes of the mountains. Soon, the things were towering well over their heads, with trunks as thick as giants’ waists. Vhok noted that the branches did not protrude from the main trunks until well overhead. Like a normal forest on Faerűn, the effect created a cathedral-like openness at ground level with a canopy of shelter overhead. The only difference, the cambion observed, was that fallen branches and decaying leaves were replaced by jagged shards of glassy stone and coarse powder that covered the land like snow. It might have been beautiful, but he dared not tread upon it.

After walking for a long time, Vhok broke the silence. “We need to find shelter soon,” he said. “Nothing looks very inviting out here, though,” he added. He could not hide the bitterness in his voice. He knew their rest would be far less comfortable without the luxury of his magical mansion. He was angry at himself for not planning a backup measure.

Yet another consequence for being too trusting, he lamented.

“That may be a problem,” Zasian said. “Without enough rest, it may be difficult for either of us to rejuvenate our magic.”

They plodded along, vainly seeking some sort of reprieve from the scorching ground and broiling atmosphere. Despite the magical protection of the rings both wore, the cambion felt his energy draining from him. Sweat soaked him through, his mouth was parched, and his nose and eyes stung from the acrid air. Everything smelled burned. He was sick of it.

Vhok realized that there was no day or night within the Plane of Fire. The sky remained that same roiling hue of orange mixed with gray and black, an endless stretch of smoky clouds churning overhead and reflecting the light of a million burning fires. He had no idea how long they had been traveling since extracting themselves from the dimensional mansion. He knew he was tired, though.

“We’ve got to halt,” he announced at last. He stopped and propped himself against an outcropping of rock that jutted from a steep-sided slope running alongside the trail. “No more today,” he added.

“There’s no place to shelter us,” Zasian argued. “Maybe the next bridge would suit us.”

“Yes, an excellent idea,” Vhok said, and he laughed, but he felt no mirth. “We can hide beneath it like trolls.”

“You would prefer to just plop down here?” the priest demanded, his tone haughty. “Exposed? Visible? At the mercy of the endless, thrice-damned heat?” he shouted, visibly angry. He flung his pack down upon the ground, and when it began to smolder, he snatched it up again. “See?” he yelled, frantically patting the flames out on the scorched bundle. “There’s no way we can set up a camp here! Everything will turn to ash in a matter of moments!”

Vhok sighed. He was too worn out to resent the priest’s words. He knew Zasian was right, and he had only himself to blame. “I find it odd,” he said at last, “that you do not point at me and shout blame, like so many of your kind. A follower of Bane who doesn’t seize any opportunity to demean and accuse? How is it that you are so even-tempered?”

Zasian looked at Vhok with surprise. “What would be the point of that?”lie asked. “I serve the Black Lord because I want to succeed. I’ve got better things to do than belittle quaking wretches afraid of their own shadows. Bane will

judge me on my own merits, not on how much poorer I made another out to be.”

“That sounds almost noble,” Vhok said, a sly smile flashing across his face. “Are you sure that is what Bane requires of you?”

“It’s true that many Banites seek every opportunity to tear down those around them in order to make themselves appear more powerful. I find that to be folly. They spend all their time circling the mountain, looking for others to push off, rather than making their way to the top of it.”

The cambion grunted in appreciation of his counterpart’s wisdom.

“That does not mean that I will not put an upstart underling in his place, if need be. I have little tolerance for those who merit punishment, but I see no sense in squashing genius. There is a difference between exerting one’s authority and jealously trying to punish ambition.”

“And so there’s no sense of recrimination toward me?” Vhok asked. “No accusation of misdeeds on my part?”

“Why?” the priest asked in response. “Because you trusted that maggot of a half-dragon and his clan? I was there at the Everfire, too. Did I raise an objection? No. If I had thought your decision was folly, I would have told you.”

“Would you now?” Vhok held some doubt that Zasian was being truthful with him.

“Just as I am telling you now that your growing frustration with our current predicament is folly,” the priest said. “It does us no good to grow irate about it. We cannot stay here—we both know that. Our choices are simple. We either push on, or we give up and find a means to return to Sundabar.”

Vhok sighed again. “I know,” he said. “I’m just so damned tired. I—”

The cambion froze in the midst of his speech. He heard

a noise, from just beyond the bend in the trail. He reached for Burnblood and took a halting step forward, unsure if his weary mind had played tricks on him.

At almost the same instant, Zasian’s eyes grew wide as he stared at something over Vhok’s shoulder. He jerked upright and fumbled for something within his tunic.

The cambion spun around. He saw nothing. “What is it?” he asked, pulling his sword free. “What do you see?”

“There,” the priest said, pointing with one hand while extracting a scroll with the other. As Vhok turned to look again at what seemed to be an empty trail, Zasian blurted out an unintelligible phrase in rapid, clipped tones. As he finished, a horde of dwarves, their hair and beards flickering flame, materialized out of nothingness.

Dappled sunlight shone through the high boughs of the forest canopy overhead. Aliisza watched as a gray-haired woman tried to chop a log in half. Her arms quavered, and she had no real skill at the work. Her blows against the hardwood fell awkwardly or missed altogether. Once, she nearly took off her own toes.

Yet she persevered, righting the fallen log and hefting the axe again. Sweat beaded on her wrinkled brow and her breathing came in labored gasps. Finally, she succeeded in splitting the log, and sighed as the two halves fell away from her chopping block. The woman knelt down, clutching at her back, and collected the two pieces of wood. She hobbled to the front porch of her little cottage, a thatched-roof affair of coarse logs and mud chinking, and stacked the freshly split wood on the tiny pile she had started.

Aliisza watched her work for some time. It seemed to the

alu that the woman intended to chop all day, even though she made very little headway. Her diligence was made all the more pitiful because of the other figure standing there, also watching.

An elderly man, similar in age to the woman, waited motionless in the trees nearby. Tears ran down his face as he studied her efforts. He wore a Sundabarian military tunic, but beneath it, he was clothed in a simple woodsman’s outfit, and the bow and quiver on his back marked him as a hunter.

He had died that night in the canyon, too.

Aliisza couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene. The man, a ghost, could only stare mutely and cry as his wife labored to survive. They had shared the cottage for many years, the alu knew, on the fringe of civilization. The man had kept them both safe, hunting food in the forest while the woman baked and cleaned. They were happy together. When the man had been called into service by the Stone Shields, he had stoically fulfilled his duty, even though he was well past the age of obligation. He had promised his quaking wife that he would be back soon, that she should go to live with her sister nearer to the city until he could return.

Of course, she had refused.

It was her home, she had insisted, and it was where she would wait for him to come back to her, when his obligation was completed.

She was still waiting.

No word had ever come back to her, no message that her husband had disappeared one night while on patrol. Though he was long overdue, she suspected nothing, only worried that the military had need of his services for longer than expected.

It wasn’t too bad, she thought, except for the chores. She wasn’t as strong as she once had been, and keeping up the property was more difficult. But she trusted that her man,

her true love since both had been barely more than children, would come back to her.

Aliisza did not want to care. People die, she insisted. They grow old, or they are injured, or they are killed in battle. It is the way the world works. It is not my affair. Not my problem!

The alu turned away, weary from watching the ghost grieve for his forgotten wife. She didn’t want to be there when he witnessed the old woman’s death at the hands of a marauding band of tanarukks later that night. Aliisza knew the script by heart, even though she had not witnessed it. Somehow, it had embedded itself in her mind.

Enough! she silently screamed, and the vision faded. No more! she thought, thankful that the garden and fountains reappeared. Every time, she feared that they would not, that she would find herself stuck in a vision for eternity.

It was nighttime again, the moon high in the sky. Somehow, whenever she returned, it was night. She liked the night, the darkness. It pleased her, let her feel safe within its shadows. So no one can see me, she thought. So no one can examine these foolish thoughts I can’t get rid of.

The wind chimes tinkled softly in the darkness and the leaves of the great tree glowed silver in the moonlight as Aliisza strolled toward one of the benches. She was halfway there before she realized another figure sat upon it.

“Tauran,” she said, secretly thankful that he had come, but unwilling to admit it out loud. “Why are you here?”

“To see how you fare,” the angel replied, rising. “Because I know you wanted it.”

“Do you do everything I want?” she asked coyly, afraid to ask aloud the question truly in her mind. How much do you know? Can you see what your horrid visions are doing to me?

“Not quite,” the deva replied. “As much as is necessary, for both our sakes.”

Aliisza tossed her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the angel said, moving toward the pool, “that it’s time for me to show you this.” He dipped his fingers in the water and swirled them for a moment.

Before the half-fiend reached the edge of the fountain, he removed them. There, just as she expected, was an image, rather than a reflection of the night sky. She saw herself, her body, like before. It had grown bulkier, fat. Bloated.

Aliisza gasped. “W-why?” she stammered. “Why am I like that?”

“You are due to deliver soon,” the angel said softly.

“No!” Aliisza cried. “That cannot be! I have not been here more than a tenday, perhaps two at most! No child could grow that fast! What is happening?”

Tauran smiled, one of those sad smiles that Aliisza had come to dread. It was a smile that meant, “I am about to tell you that your world will come crashing down once more.”

“Time moves differently there, and here,” he explained. “Where your body lies, time flows much faster. It has been the full term of your pregnancy there. Soon, your child will be born.”

“And here?” she asked, fearful of the answer.

“Here,” he answered, “time moves much more slowly. Though it seems as though you have been here a tenday or more, beyond this place, only a single day has passed. You have completed but one day of your year-long sentence, Aliisza.”

“No!” Aliisza sobbed. “You bastard!”