The Edge of Chaos by Jak Koke Page A

the city to Tyrangal.
    “And Beaugrat?” Duvan asked, retrieving his dagger from the dead mage. “Was he your friend? Was he part of the Order?”
    “Order, yes,” she said. “But… not my friend.” Her breath came in shallow gasps. “He left me here to die alone.”
    Duvan nodded. “He is a coward,” he said. “And you are not alone. I am here to bear witness to your passing. May you find something better on the other side.”
    Her eyes showed deep gratitude as he cut her throat to relieve the pain. Or maybe he imagined it. He didn’t know what awaited her on the other side. But Duvan knew for certain that prolonging her pain was cruel, and contrary to what some people believed, he was never cruel.
    He built a fire and burned the ranger’s body, first sifting through her belongings for things of value that might make his life a little more comfortable. She wouldn’t need them where she was going.
    Duvan did not rush, but he wasted no time, for he didn’t want to be here if Beaugrat came back with friends. Somewhere on the periphery of his awareness, he was starting to realize that letting Beaugrat live had been a mistake. A big mistake.
    The Order of Blue Fire was a powerful organization in Ormpetarr, and Duvan was now quite squarely on their hit list.

CHAPTER THREE
    The night swirled around Gregor, spellplague traces flickering like blue and white ghosts. He couldn’t look directly at the remnants of spellplague—at the hell of chaos that was the core essence of that energy—without losing exacting control over his body.
    The blue fire was pure and random violence, destruction in its most wild and primal form. For Gregor, whose entire life had been about achieving and maintaining control, such force in close proximity caused an uncontrollable nausea to flow through,him. Vertigo teased the edges of his mind.
    In the presence of Vraith and her entourage from the Order of Blue Fire, however, Gregor was determined not to show any outward signs of discomfort
    or fear. His invitation to be here, he realized, was more than a courtesy. He supplied a critical component to make this ritual possible, or so they hoped. But it was certainly clear that Vraith wanted him to agree to what they were doing, to support it, and perhaps even to devote his resources and those of the monastery to it.
    Gregor was flattered by the attention, and if this ritual worked, the possibilities for containing spellplague across all of Faerun would make it all worth it. But his informal arrangement with Tyrangal would make working with Vraith risky. He didn’t understand exactly why, but the two women—probably the two most powerful figures in Ormpetarr—did not get along.
    Squinting to avoid swirling dust particles in the air, Gregor stood at a safe distance and watched Vraith perform the trial ritual. Even three hours after the sun had set, the wind was warm and fickle. It switched direction seemingly at random, kicking up sand and dirt in the process.
    Gregor stood with a small group of observers, about thirty yards from the sharp drop-off that marked the border to the changelands. The sky above was dappled with high, gray clouds and darker spots where motes floated silently. The sky seemed positively serene compared to the ground, which Gregor felt could buckle and shake at any moment, and it was only the knowledge that the border had been stable for nearly a hundred years that allowed him to remain calm-There was a veil of sorts at the cliff—an almost imperceptible translucent curtain that held the storm of spellplague in check. Vraith had told him that she’d been studying how the border worked, and how that magic might be manipulated—controlled even.
    Vraith took the pilgrim volunteers and spaced them out evenly in a semicircle facing the border. Gregor counted nine of them, and each held a vial. His elixir would hopefully be
    able to help the pilgrims maintain the integrity of their bodies against the wild nature of the