Free The Edge of Chaos by Jak Koke Page A

seeming to harmonize with itself. Slanya wanted to listen to it for hours.
    The light filtering in through the high windows did little to allay the darkness in the room. Slanya hesitated while her eyes adjusted. Soon she found herself fascinated by the room itself. The marble floor was inlaid with a mosaic of a dragon, the sinuous likeness crafted from many tiny shards of polished Copper. The stone walls held paintings and alcoves for statues, but there was no order to them. Too many valuable pieces crammed cheek by jowl together.
    Slanya pursed her lips in distaste. The display conveyed not beauty or elegance, but excess and wealth.
    “Mistress Tyrangal,” Slanya said in the direction of the voice. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
    Tyrangal stepped into view from the shadows. “Please just call me Tyrangal—no ‘mistress’ necessary.”
    Slanya was tall for a human, but Tyrangal stood a head taller. She wore a rust-colored silk robe embroidered with runes that Slanya couldn’t read. Tyrangal looked older than Slanya, but how much older Slanya couldn’t say: the other woman’s face had a timeless quality. The most striking thing about Tyrangal, however, was her hair. Hanging straight down to the backs of her knees, it shimmered a strangely metallic auburn in the dim light.
    “Certainly, Tyrangal,” Slanya said, gathering her wits. She had no reason to be intimidated, but the thought did her no good.
    “Can I offer you nourishment?” Tyrangal asked.
    “Thank you; I have eaten already this morning.”
    “Ah, but do you not desire to try new things? Curiosity, Slanya, and new experiences are what keep us alive.”
    “Certainly,” Slanya said. “But my matter is of some urgency to Brother Gregor, and I would do well by him to conduct our business first.”
    A smirk flickered across Tyrangal’s features—amused and predatory all at once. “Very well,” she said. “We shall start with business. What can I acquire for you?”
    “I need a guide into the changelands.”
    “You wish to become spellscar red?”
    Slanya shook her head. “No. Brother Gregor has perfected an elixir that can protect the exposed from getting sick and dying. One of the ingredients can be found in abundance only inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Land.”
    “So this guide would have to travel into the changelands with you and help you find and gather this ingredient?”
    Slanya shrugged. “Does such a person even exist?”
    “Well,” Tyrangal said with a coy smile, “it turns out that I know someone qualified to do just that.”
    “In truth?” Slanya hadn’t believed anyone would be foolish enough to do that, even for the kind of coin Gregor was willing to pay.
    “In truth.” Tyrangal’s tone was playful. “Although, in truth, if I were lying—which I have been known to do from time to time—you would not be able to discern it from truth.”
    Slanya considered. She would have to trust Tyrangal on this. “You have a good reputation.”
    Tyrangal laughed, and it was a melody of the gods to Slanya’s ears. “Yes, dear girl. Trust in society comes from a collection of opinions. I like you.”
    Unsure how to take that, Slanya remained quiet.
    “There are some things that you should know,” Tyrangal continued. “One, the journey will test you. Two, you have a good chance of dying. And three—”
    “Are you trying to scare me into not going?”
    “Not at all. Not at all,” Tyrangal said. “These are just things I can tell. I can also see that you’ve never been inside
    the border of the changelands.”
    Slanya nodded. The statement was true enough, although she suspected shed be tempted to agree with whatever that wonderful voice told her, true or not.
    “If there is an order, purpose, or logical organization to the Spellplague’s destructive force, then I know not what it is,” Tyrangal continued. “The changelands are the one place in Faerun where the rules of law are always changing, where nature follows