The Orb of Xoriat

7 Methods of Persuasion

Teron leaned against the windowsill of the infirmary, looking to west, at the golden hues of the sunset. The crescent horns of Eyre, Aryth, and Sypheros sailed above the horizon, reminding Teron of a stack of bowls or hands cupped in meditation.

He turned away from the view as he heard someone enter the room. Keiftal shuffled in, shutting the door behind him. He saw Teron, and a broad, happy smile broke across his aged face. “It is good to see you up and about, my boy,” he said, not quite meeting Teron’s eyes. “Are you feeling well?”

Teron grinned in spite of himself. Keiftal’s wrinkles, his slurred and creaky voice, and his slightly stooped frame all stood in stark contrast to the pure, almost childlike joy that shone from his countenance. “I feel hale, master, thank you for asking,” he said, leaning against the windowsill. He ran one hand down his abdomen, stopping so that his fingers could investigate a fresh pink scar that puckered his skin. “But I must ask: what happened? Was I struck down? Poisoned? Did I have the ague? I remember fragments, then …”

Keiftal shook his head, sadness darkening his features, “No, my boy. You were very badly wounded, and … well, Prelate Quardov prayed over you for the intercession of the Sovereign Host. You were healed by divine providence.”

Teron blinked several times in surprise. “Prelate Quardov? Prayed for me?”

Keiftal nodded.

“Perhaps I have misjudged him,” murmured Teron with an abashed smile.

“No, my boy, I am afraid you have not,” said Keiftal with a heavy sigh.

“No?”

Keiftal shook his head. “His motives were far from altruistic, I am afraid.”

Teron shrugged. “Be that as it may, his prayers worked.”

Keiftal sat down at the foot of Teron’s bed. “Do you know what those people were doing down in the catacombs?”

Teron shook his head.

“They stole something,” explained Keiftal, “an item of great power. It was … a … a weapon … used during the War. We had a visitor, you see, from the University of Korranberg. Perhaps you heard. His name was Praxle d’Sivis. Well, at least that’s what he told us, but I think it is true, because he seemed a very cocksure gnome and the papers that we found in his room seemed legitimate. He had a half-orc companion named Jeffers with him, who acted as his servant. They came here, ostensibly for University research, but it has become apparent that they were actually here to search for this relic.”

“What’s it called?” asked Teron.

“We don’t know if it has a proper name, but we’ve always called it the Thrane Sphere,” said Keiftal. He paused and picked at his nose. “Anyway, while we were entertaining Praxle, Jeffers and some others broke into the catacombs to steal the Sphere. You chanced, somehow, to catch them in the act.”

“I had a little help,” said Teron.

“I wish you could have stopped them, but alas, they got away. We captured Praxle, but they freed him—and stole the prelate’s carriage to make good their escape.”

“It was right after that that Quardov agreed to intercede for me, wasn’t it?” asked Teron.

Keiftal nodded.

Teron folded his arms and crossed his legs as he leaned against the sill. In contrast to his still pose, his eyes darted about studying Keiftal’s face. “And the two of you want me to go after them and recover the Thrane Sphere.” It was not a question.

“That is exactly it. You see, there is no other choice. You are the only one who has the training to deal with the thieves on their terms—eye to eye in the alleys and secret places. And you are the only one who has seen them.”

Teron drew a sharp breath through his nose and sucked on his lips as he considered this. “I can’t,” he said at last.

“You are the only one who can,” said Keiftal. “If they try to escape overland, it will take them enough time that we can notify the military and the Arcane Congress. If, however, they take the lightning rail, they stand an excellent chance of slipping our border before we can set up measures. Our only hope is to send someone to run them to ground.”

Teron narrowed his eyes, casting his expression in a more defensive tone.

Keiftal waited for a moment, then added, “I recall a little while ago, you said that you were a tool of war that had no use in a newfound era of peace. You lamented your very existence.”

“I do,” said Teron. “I should have died with the others.”

“I have only met one other person with the same foolish opinion of your life,” said Keiftal, “and that is Prelate Quardov.”

Teron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand.

Keiftal leaned forward, raising his blurry voice. “You are a uniquely talented individual, Teron, even for a member of the Quiet Touch. You are a national treasure”—he paused, drawing a breath—“even if we dare not let anyone know you exist.

“The Last War may be over, but the struggle is not, the fight against evil is not. The peace is a fragile one, and there is at least as much a need for killing as there ever was. You did amazing things during the war. I know. You killed key people, destroyed critical targets, but in truth you accomplished nothing that could not have been done with a large enough supply of soldiers. Today, however, there is peace. We cannot send any soldiers at all. We can only send you. You can accomplish things that can no longer be done any other way. The crown needs you. Our people need you. Everyone on Khorvaire needs you, lest the Thrane Sphere be unveiled again. We need the last member of the Quiet Touch!”

Teron slowly slumped, then fell to his knees on the bare floor. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring blankly at some random point on the ceiling. “You misunderstood me, master Keiftal,” he said. “I didn’t say I would not do this, I said I can not do it. I realized something down there in the catacombs … among the dead.” He drew a shuddering breath. “The Last War made me who I am. I … I chose my course, and the war shaped me, honed me, preserved me. But the war’s been over for two years now, and I find that who I am is fading away. Evaporating, rusting like a fine blade left out in the weather. There is no way those … thieves—there’s no way they should have gotten the better of me. Despite everything, I’ve gone soft.”

Keiftal remained motionless, sitting on the bed, watching Teron grapple with his emotions.

Teron’s larynx bobbed several times as he swallowed hard. Finally he spoke, his voice thick with grief, his gaze still roving the ceiling. “I can’t even do what I was trained for,” he said. “The forms, the routines, they … they were supposed to train me to fight. But for the last two years I’ve just sat here, and the forms became the fight.”

“But what of your time spent in the Crying Fields?” asked Keiftal. “You’ve come back with bruises and other marks….”

Teron sighed. “The challenge is not the same. Most of the time, the specters are ethereal, insubstantial. I do my best to convince myself that they are not, and I force myself to battle them, but my fists hit nothing but cold, dead air.”

“But what of the rest of the time?” asked Keiftal.

“When the moon of the month is full,” Teron said, his voice a hollow monotone, “they become more substantial. I can feel my fists striking something, like an echo of a body. I can see my fists leaving marks upon them, like a stone rippling a pond. Some I daresay I’ve even killed with my … talents.” He looked down as he clenched one hand into a fist. “They can tear my skin, bruise my flesh, but they still cannot truly harm me. It’s still not the same. That’s why I watch the moons, master.” He looked Keiftal in the eye. “My time is coming to see whether or not I am fit to live.”

For a long while they sat there, Keiftal’s piercing, fiery gaze trying to penetrate Teron’s blank, dead stare.

“I would say that Dol Arrah, Mistress of Honor, Sacrifice, and Light, has deemed you fit to live, Teron,” said the old monk.

The unquestioned conviction within Keiftal’s words cast a slim ray of hope into the darkness of Teron’s soul. Despite himself, he found his interest piqued. “Why do you say?”

“It’s rare to claim to know the mind of a goddess,” answered Keiftal, “unless you’re full of conceit and vainglory like Quardov. But of this I am confident.”

“Please don’t bandy words.” Teron sighed, feeling his despair dim the scant light. “Just speak.”

“Dol Arrah answered Quardov’s prayers. If she did not deem you worthy of her service, she would not have made you whole again.”

Teron laughed, a derisive, voiceless hissing expression of disagreement and disgust. “I am far from whole, master,” he said.

Keiftal leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers laced. “What do you mean?”

“I was far from whole when the monastery first found me. My home was … my … my family …” Teron struggled to find the right words, wanting to speak, but fearing the effect when the hidden, hated words at last flew free.

“We all lost family in the Last War, Teron,” said Keiftal.

Thus given a reprieve, Teron’s words flowed more easily. “Once I got here, it was easy for me to learn to kill. Every time I killed someone, it was to make the pain go away. I justified what I did by how it helped Aundair. Yet, as I assassinated more people, the pain never went away. Instead, I had to make myself numb just to cope, because I was killing for hate—and the killing only made the hate worse.” Teron squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again to look at his mentor.

Keiftal gazed back at him. His eyes, beneath his long, scraggly brows showed sadness, pain, and most of all understanding. Benediction seemed to radiate from every wrinkle of his compassionate features. “Teron,” he said, “every soldier on Khorvaire—at least every one with a conscience—has struggled with the same thing. It’s only natural to hate your opponent in a war. In many ways, we trained you to it—not to help you lose emotional control, but to make it easier for you to kill them without remorse.”

Teron laughed again, a single black chuckle. “You did well, honored one, you and the other instructors. The things I’ve done …” Then his face turned gravely serious, even accusatory. “But I never did any of it because I hated the Thranes.”

Within the darkest parts of his soul, Teron walked to the precipice. “I did it all because I hate myself.”

Keiftal cocked his head to one side.

Teron steepled his hands over his nose and leaned forward until his hands rested on the ground. He took several deep breaths, then at last took the final step, the last desperate attempt to prove to his mentor that he was unworthy. “Master Keiftal,” he said, “I killed my own family.”

He heard only the nasal sound of Keiftal breathing. The rhythm did not change, indicating that Keiftal was not the least bit surprised at Teron’s revelation.

Teron’s disquiet grew, and he sat back up. “That’s the truth of the matter,” he said. He dared to raise his eyes to meet those of his mentor, but instead of cold reproach, he saw only absolution in Keiftal’s gaze.

“Let it go,” said Keiftal. “Leave it behind, Dol Arrah has counted you worthy of her intervention, as I have counted you worthy of everything I have to offer. If I do not hate you, if she does not hate you, do not hate yourself.”

Teron pondered this, such all-embracing forgiveness in the face of his total self-recrimination. If his deity and his master held him in such high esteem, how could he add to his self-loathing by disappointing them? He wiped the corners of his eyes with his fingertips, trying to squeeze out the tension that had filled them.

He rose. “As you wish, honored one. I shall take this assignment.”

“No,” said Keiftal, “you shall complete it. Keep that in mind.” He, too, rose. “We’ve prepared everything for you. Our best condensed rations, several letters of credit that have been carefully endorsed by the prelate, some gold and small gems for when you wish to use other methods of payment, maps, and the prelate’s seal to prove that you are about official church business. And here are the portraits of Praxle and Jeffers. Some of the brothers copied them from the papers we found in their luggage. They’re far from perfect, but they should help. That should be everything you need.”

Teron smiled half-heartedly. “That seems to cover everything I might lack, since it seems I still carry Dol Arrah’s favor, blessings be on her for her beneficence.”

“That I am glad for,” said Keiftal, “for you shall need it.”

“Yes, honored one.”

“Quit calling me ‘honored one.’”

“Lathleer!” Oargesha gasped as she looked at the settlement atop the next hill. “At last.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the Fox. She spotted a farmer working a nearby field and hailed him. “Heyo!” she called. “Which town is this?”

The farmer cupped his hand, propping his hoe in the crook of one arm. “Bluevine,” he answered.

“Bluevine?” asked Oargesha. “Where in the night is that?”

The Shadow Fox shrugged.

Oargesha called back to the farmer, asking, “How far to Lathleer?”

The farmer scratched his head, “A hundred, maybe a hundred fifty.”

“Sovereign bitch!” spat Oargesha.

“Watch your tongue, my friend,” said the Fox, waving to the farmer and urging her horse forward. “It’s hard enough to get the gods’ attention. You might want to ensure that when you do get it, it’s the kind of attention you want.”

“Give me some leeway here, will you?” said Oargesha. “It’s dinner time, the horses are run out, my butt feels like it’s on fire, we lost three people for Host’s sake, and here we are at some provincial little Aundairian hamlet a hundred or more miles from nowhere! We can’t keep this pace up, Fox. It’ll take us another three days to get to Fairhaven, minimum, and that’s if none of the horses die on us. By that time, you know everyone will be looking for us.”

“You’re right. This route was probably a mistake.”

“Probably? What do you mean probably?” said Oargesha. She growled in irritation. “Maybe we could press eastward from here. I know we don’t have any camping equipment, but the Thrane border can’t be that far, and—”

The Shadow Fox reined in her horse. “Hold up, Gesha. What’s that over there?” She stood in the saddle and squinted her eyes. “Is that an airship on the other side of town?”

Oargesha raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun, hovering just above the horizon. “I can’t tell from this distance,” she said.

The Fox leaned over her saddle horn for a moment, tempting herself to relax, perhaps even slide off the horse, then she straightened up again. “Just a two miles’ hard gallop,” she said.

“No,” murmured Oargesha. “I can’t.”

The Shadow Fox summoned up what energy she had left and slapped the haunch of Oargesha’s horse. “Heiya!” she yelled and kicked her horse to a reluctant gallop.

A hulking shaggy shape sank into the bushes, beady eyes squinting against the waning light. “Hey! Snouts up!” the creature hissed. “Here comes one!”

Two other gnolls, bestial canine-headed parodies of humans, crept up and joined the speaker, hiding behind a sprawling thornberry bush.

“I told you we should start early tonight,” said the first.

“He’s running very fast,” said the second. “Do you think he’s running from something?”

“I hope so,” said the first. “That way he’s already scared.”

“He doesn’t even have any weapons,” said the third. “This will be easy.”

“Let’s get ready.”

Two gnolls moved over by the road while the other stayed at the lookout’s post. In this particular location, the cart track crested a hill between two thickets of thornberries, making an excellent choke point for highway robbery. It was far enough from Ghalt to avoid town militia, and the hilltop location made it easy to spot marks or law enforcement a good distance away.

The lookout watched as the lone figure drew closer. He was lightly clothed, holding a small pack under one arm, but the speed at which he ran indicated that he was in fear of losing his life or of losing whatever valuables were in the pack. The gnoll smiled. Both would be lost very soon—or from the gnoll’s point of view, gained.

As the lone human passed him, the lookout broke from cover and ran around behind him, penning him in the ambush site. The other two gnolls broke cover ahead of the human and blocked his path.

The human slowed then stopped. He didn’t stumble to a stop as one afraid, just controlled his deceleration. Breathing heavily, the human put his hands on his hips. He looked at the two gnolls ahead of him, then turned halfway around to lock eyes with the lookout and check that his escape was, indeed, blocked.

The lookout smiled cruelly.

The human leaned forward and set his pack down, then placed his hands on his knees, his chest heaving as his tired lungs burned through huge gulps of air. The lookout noticed that large patches of the human’s tunic and pants were drenched with sweat. This is good, he thought. He’ll be tired.

The three gnolls closed and displayed their weapons, carefully chosen for their barbaric appearance. One hefted a halberd, one swung a spiked chain, and the lookout spun a war pick in his great pawlike hands.

The gnoll’s leader stepped forward and raised himself up to his full seven-plus feet. A patchwork of leather, stitched together from bloodstained articles recovered from previous victims, covered his shaggy hide. “Give us your pack, flatface,” he said, grating his voice to sound more animalistic.

The human straightened up and stretched, still panting heavily. “I only … have time … to kill… one of you.” He waved one finger back and forth, pointing side to side. “Who’ll it be?”

The lookout felt an unnerving sensation in his gut. The human neither smiled in jest nor shouted in bravado. The gnoll felt as if his presence was almost an annoyance to this tired man. He felt the first trembling of fear. Sensing this, and not wanting to lose his privileged status in the tribe, he buried his fear beneath a feral snarl and advanced. The human nodded, a gesture of acceptance.

The lookout heaved his war pick high then slung it hard at the human. Propelled by his great strength and the angular momentum, the pick’s head whistled through the air.

Even as the pick descended to split the human’s torso wide open, the gnoll saw the little man move. He kicked out with one foot, displaying a startling limberness, and struck the gnoll’s left elbow, locking it. The lookout felt his joint give between the impact and the downward force of his blow. The war pick kept moving, however, and the handle pried itself against the gnoll’s thumbs, loosening his grip. Time slowed as the lookout realized that the human’s bravado had nothing to do with bragging. He also realized that there would be no time for pain.

The human’s hands darted out, one grabbing the butt of the handle, the other grabbing the haft. With a sharp pull, he levered the pick out of the gnoll’s hand and spun it upward. The lookout felt his own weapon strike him right in the jugular. His taloned hand tried to rip at the human’s throat, but the world spun away before it reached its target.

The Shadow Fox and Oargesha rode up to the Lyrandar airship, which hung thirty feet in the air near the outskirts of town. She was an elegant ship, with smooth curving lines and a wide hull for stability. Even the struts that held the elemental ring in place amidships had been built to accentuate her grace.

The Cyrans reined in their horses. Oargesha slumped forward, wrapping her arms around her horse’s neck and falling into a numb doze. The Shadow Fox dismounted stiffly, stumbling and falling to her knees. She rose and lurched over to the crewmen beneath the airship, wobbling on her sore and unstable legs.

She pushed her hair out of her face. “Is there an officer here?” she asked.

“I’m the second mate,” said one. “Jendro of House Lyrandar at your service. The captain’s in town, bargaining for water, and the first mates up on the ship supervising. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I hadn’t expected to find an airship here,” said the Fox, smiling.

“Oh, yes, well, I suppose it’s a bit of a novelty out in these provincial locations, isn’t it? We hadn’t expected to be here ourselves. Rather thought we’d be approaching Fairhaven by now.”

“What happened?” asked the Fox, making an effort to keep her eyes bright and perky despite her exhaustion.

“Well, we’re running from Sharn to Wroat to Fairhaven, but it seems we put in a load of tainted water back in Cragwar. Half the crew are down with dyse—um, that is, they’re indisposed, if you please, young miss. We’d hoped to be able to resupply with water here, but the farmers aren’t much for letting us have any.”

The Shadow Fox reached out and brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the petty officer’s jacket. “Well, Jendro,” she said, dropping her eyes, “I was hoping I might be able to purchase a passage to Fairhaven, for myself and my friend. Would that be possible?” She looked up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes.

“Well, um, miss,” said Jendro, “we’re not precisely a passenger vessel.”

“But it would be an excellent chance to add five fine horses to your manifest. And I’m a very good cook.” She raised her eyebrow suggestively. “I’d be happy to show you. If the horses aren’t enough, I can pay extra for our passage.” She turned her body not quite halfway around, reached into her blouse and pulled out a small stone, very pretty but ultimately worthless. She handed it to the second mate with a self-conscious smile.

“Um, it seems like a very … very logical proposition,” said Jendro. “I’ll, um, make arrangements for everything.”

“Thank you,” said the Fox. “And if you could arrange for a hot bath, too, I’d be very … grateful.”

The second mate flushed slightly. He touched his brow with one finger, turned, and began to climb the rope ladder that dangled from the airship’s gunwale.

The Shadow Fox turned and walked back over to Oargesha. “Up,” she said. “We need to get moving.”

“What?” grumbled Oargesha, “Why?”

“I’ve got us an easy ride to Fairhaven,” replied the Fox. She heaved a bemused sigh, “Men. When they’re young, they’re just so easy to manipulate.”

With the sound of a click and a creak, a shaft of red light struck Praxle across his unconscious face.

“Master? You need to wake up, master.”

“Mwha?” asked Praxle. He raised his head from the polished floor of the carriage. There was a small ripping sound as his cheek peeled way from the smooth varnish. He wiped the drool from his lips with his sleeve and tried to sit up, striking his shoulders on the bottom of the bench seat. “Damnation,” he cursed. With a grunt, he pushed himself out from under the seat, sat up, draped one arm across the padded bench and let his head fall sideways upon his shoulder. He looked at Jeffers, bleary eyes topped by an unkempt mass of tousled hair. “Where in the dark dragon’s dungeon are we?”

“Five miles east of Ghalt by the best of my estimation, master.”

“Why are we stopped?”

“It was necessary to the furtherance of our current disposition, master,” said the half-orc, scanning the horizon for any activity.

“Right,” mumbled Praxle. He tried to stand, but failed, “I feel terrible.”

“You had a most difficult afternoon, master,” said Jeffers, and a hint of compassion crept into his voice. “If you don’t mind my speaking out of place, master, I doubt I could have resisted any better, despite my stock.”

Praxle managed to stand, and stepped over to lean against the doorframe. “That’s because magicians have an advantage in that regard, Jeffers,” he said, exhaustion sagging his voice. “We are trained to concentrate, and to endure many distractions, both expected and unexpected, while preparing our spells. I was able to focus my mind on reciting cantrips in my head, and that blunted the worst of their efforts.” He hung his head, blew out, and drew a deep breath, then he descended the carriage’s stair very carefully. “It’s one of the many inherent advantages of being a mage.”

He lurched around, finding his legs, and looked about at the rolling, empty landscape. “With the Sovereigns as my witness, Jeffers, I do not know whether I hurt or just think that I hurt. Which will help? Should I try to stretch or relax?”

“I am afraid we have not much opportunity for either course, master,” said Jeffers. “We must be about our business if we are to elude pursuit. They believe we have stolen something from them, which, in fact, we now have, as I purloined the prelate’s carriage to effect our departure. I sincerely doubt that they will refrain from using every means at their disposition to prevent us from crossing the frontier. Among those methods would be the employment of the speaking stone at Ghalt to alert the guards at all border crossings, and using airships and shifter scouts to patrol the empty areas. I thought first of pressing eastward, but it is a wide and empty place, and one scout with a dragonhawk could locate us. I considered westward into the Eldeen Reaches, but we are ill prepared for such an expedition, having had most of our supplies seized at the monastery. I opted instead to purchase passage aboard the lightning rail here at Ghalt, hoping to reach the border before word of our escape. Therefore speed is of the utmost import.”

“Right,” said Praxle, a hint of daze still in his voice. He turned and grasped the handrail to pull himself back into the carriage.

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“I have considerable doubts that the prelate’s personal carriage would be a particularly inconspicuous conveyance for our departure.”

“Right.”

“I thought to set it ablaze here. My hopes were that the sun would set before the smoke became dense enough to notice from Ghalt. Obviously it is to our best interest that none notice the conflagration until the coach is well ablaze, lest it be identified. In the meantime, we shall press into town using the horses we rode to the monastery.”

“Where are they?” asked Praxle.

“I tethered them to the rear of the carriage just prior to our escape, master, I preferred not to leave the opposition with any advantageous equipment. Our tack, harness, and saddles are in the back of the coach. I shall have the horses ready to ride shortly.”

Praxle sat heavily on the step that folded out from the carriage door. “That sounds fine,” he said. Then, more to himself he mumbled, “Maybe I won’t dock your pay after all.”

“Pardon me, master?” asked Jeffers.

“Nothing, Jeffers,” answered Praxle. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”