The Orb of Xoriat

12 Betrayals

“So you believe us,” said Praxle with some relief. He looked to Jeffers, who had just come back into the room and was eyeing the monk warily. Praxle saw him glance to the blade, which still lay on the floor, and he gave his head a sharp shake.

Teron drew in a sharp breath and let it out. “Not necessarily,” he said, letting go of Praxle’s fingers, “but I cannot locate anything that you have said that does not mesh with what I know.” He scooted back on the berth and leaned his shoulders into the corner.

Praxle pulled his hand back and cracked his knuckles one by one, relieved that he could still flex all his digits without pain. “Then let us play all of our cards on the table,” he said. “You were wronged, for you had the Orb stolen from your monastery. I was wronged, because the University’s rightful property was taken. And everyone stands to be wronged, because the Cyrans now hold the Orb of Xoriat. If they can figure out how to use it, the destruction they could cause would be … unthinkable.”

“What does it do?”

“It does everything you saw at the monastery—and then some,” said Praxle. “We at the University have some theoretical knowledge about why it works but not about how it works. The Thranes seem to have figured out how it works—or at least they did so at one point during the Last War. If the Cyrans can seize those notes, all of Khorvaire could become as blighted as your Crying Fields—or worse.”

“I believe that you and I need to work together, monk,” he continued. “The University will compensate your monastery handsomely for your time and trouble—and for the safe return of the Orb to its proper hands.”

“Why do you want it?” asked Teron.

“I know that look,” said Praxle. “It says, ‘I don’t trust you.’ Well, then, let me tell you, monk, we gnomes first acquired the Orb two, maybe even closer to three thousand years ago. We believe it is a relic of the Daelkyr Wars. It’s had who knows how many names over the years. The druids who first recovered it called it the Ball of Ineffable Madness, or so I am told. If we’d wanted to use it as a weapon, we’d have done so a hundred times over, and done so with far more circumspection than did the blundering Thranes.”

“Meaning you wouldn’t have lost it the first time you used it,” clarified Teron.

“Precisely.”

“Somehow that does not fill me with confidence.”

Praxle shook his head and smiled. “You misunderstand me, monk. We could have used it. We could have used it to great and terrible effect. However, we didn’t, partly because we’re cautious about anything dealing with Xoriat and partly because it’s irreplaceable. No, our desire for the Sphere is just this: it is an amazing relic of transplanar magic, and we wish to study it. It’s that simple. Well, no, transplanar magic is very complex, but I think you understand my point. The University of Korranberg is an institution devoted to knowledge, not war.”

Teron mulled this over, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.

“Do we have a deal, monk?” asked Praxle.

“I will work with you to prevent the Cyrans from gaining the Thranes’ knowledge of the Sphere,” said Teron. “In exchange, you will help me recover the Thrane Sphere. Once that is completed, we will see to its disposition.”

“Excellent. Jeffers, explain my plans to the monk.”

The half-orc rummaged among their gear and pulled out a map, exquisitely rendered but heavily worn on its creases. He spread it out on the berth between Praxle and Teron. No sooner had he done that, than Teron’s cat hopped up onto the berth, sauntered to the center of the map, and flopped on its side. Teron scooped up the tom and dropped him in his lap.

“We are approximately here,” said Jeffers as he brushed some stray cat hair from the parchment. “We shall debark the lightning rail here, at Daskaran Ferry. From there, we shall book passage aboard a vessel that heads through Scions Sound to Flamekeep.”

“There’s no direct lightning rail route?” asked Teron.

“Curiously, no,” said Jeffers. “I surmise plans for such an extension fell with the Kingdom of Galifar.”

“And why Flamekeep?”

“The Thrane college is there, including their research library,” said Praxle. “University agents confirmed the existence of a book containing their compiled notes on the Orb some years ago. We considered stealing it then but thought it best to leave the Thranes in the dark about our knowledge until such time as we discovered the fate of the Orb itself.”

“Why?”

“They’d know we were the ones to steal it,” shrugged Praxle. “No sense in offending them until we had both pieces handy.”

Teron studied the map. “The collapse of the White Arch Bridge made Thaliost a dead end. It offers no access to Scions Sound. So whether the Cyrans are going home to Cyre or they’re after the Thrane book as we are, they’ll debark at Daskaran Ferry.”

“It does seem the most expedient choice,” said Jeffers.

Teron paused for a long moment, petting the cat that purred in his lap. “Done. We’re in this together. We’ll retrieve the Sphere from the Cyrans and the notes from the Thranes. Then we’ll head back to Aundair and you can haggle with Prelate Quardov over who gets what. Does that sound fair?”

“Fair enough, monk, since our other choice is to have you start breaking fingers and such.”

Teron smiled humorlessly, pushed the cat off his lap, and rose. “Then I will see you when we arrive at Daskaran Ferry,” he said, and departed the cabin without further ceremony.

Praxle and Jeffers stared at the closed door for a long time after Teron left. Finally Jeffers broke the silence. “Dare we trust him?” he asked.

“I don’t have much choice,” answered the gnome, “at least not at the moment. But I’ll have to watch my step, especially when we finally get both pieces together. I believe that’s when he’ll make his play, to try to take it all for himself. And I have to make sure I stop him.”

The Shadow Fox walked slowly down the aisle of the lightning rail coach. Her eyes were unfocused, and she ran her hands through her hair, trying to stave off the exhaustion that pulled at her.

Just hold out until dawn, she thought, then we can be aboard ship making for Flamekeep. All we have to do is stay alert for a little while longer, and then we can hole up in our safe house. It would be so much easier if we still had five. Even three would be better than just Oargesha and me.

With a heavy sigh, she flopped onto the bench beside her traveling partner. “Just another hour and we—” Her words stopped abruptly, the rest of her statement vaporized from her mind as she saw her friend and cohort.

Oargesha sat, leaning over the open leather bag at her feet. One hand reached into the open bag, doing something that the Fox could not see. The other white-knuckled hand rested on her knee for balance; the strongly clawed fingers digging deep into her thigh. Her eyes were open very wide, staring into the bag, and her pale face was torn with emotion, displaying a mix of rapture, disgust, and horror.

Not a single muscle on her entire body moved, save a peculiar twitch in her left eyelid.

“Gesha?” whispered the Fox. “Oargesha.” She leaned closer, “What did you do? What did it do to you?”

She reached out with the toe of one foot and tried to usher Oargesha’s hand out of the bag. She met with limited success, however, for the mage’s muscles were all as rigid as iron. The Fox did manage to move her arm enough to slide the bag away from her reaching hand.

The Fox pulled Oargesha’s bag from beneath the bench, opened it, and pulled out a skirt. Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and, averting her eyes, stuffed the skirt across the top of the bag to conceal the unknown relic inside. As she did so, she could feel the device shifting beneath her fingers. It was surrounded by a tangible aura of malevolent thrumming.

Once she was certain that the skirt had been well placed, she closed the bag up. She still avoided looking directly at the opening, relying on her peripheral vision and her sense of touch to find all the clasps and seal them.

She looked at her compatriot. As she feared, there was no change. She slapped Oargesha, tickled her, even poked her naked eyeball with a fingernail. Nothing elicited a response. She pulled off her glove and touched Oargesha’s lips then her teeth. They were dry. Only the rear portion of her tongue still had any moisture.

The Shadow Fox’s heart started racing, fearing that Oargesha’s unnatural death would attract the attention of the other passengers, bringing the Silver Flame down upon her. She looked around quickly to see if Oargesha had garnered any notice. Fortunately, it appeared not. It was well after dark, the coach was sparsely populated, and the other passengers seemed content to stay in their chairs and doze as the rail approached Scions Sound.

Fox leaned Oargesha against the wall and pulled her travel cloak over her like a blanket. Then she sat next to her friend, put her feet up, and draped another cloak over herself in an effort to conceal the fact that the mage’s feet stuck out awkwardly, like those of an upturned crustacean.

The Fox sat and watched as the coaches rolled onward. All exhaustion had left her, replaced by a dread fear.

As the lightning rail pulled into Daskaran Ferry, the Fox turned her haunted eyes on her former traveling companion. Setting her jaw to guard against crying, she rummaged through Oargesha’s belongings for valuables and removed the mage’s coin purse.

She took a deep, trembling breath, leaned over, and kissed Oargesha on the temple.

She pulled Oargesha’s cloak a little higher up in an effort to hide her face better, but it slid back down again, dropping to her shoulder and revealing her frightful rictus to all.

“Farewell,” said the Fox.

She glanced both ways to ensure that no one was looking in her direction then departed the coach. By the time she stepped off the bottom step and onto the platform, her stride was graceful and sure, and she wore a bemused smile. She paused to look up at the night sky, but despite her demeanor, her eyes saw nothing but her friend’s terrified face.

“Care for a hansom, lady?” asked a young lad. “Two crowns to ride over the ferry and anywhere in the city, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said with a brightness she didn’t feel.

She followed the lad to a waiting hansom. She paid the driver two coppers, and he tossed one down to the boy.

Despite her veil of tourist pleasantry, she struggled to raise her foot to step into the hansom cab, for doing so was the final step in her abandonment of her team.

The lightning rail pulled into the Starpeaks border crossing under the watchful eyes of a hundred or more Aundairian guards. Before it stopped, even as the last flickers of the conductor stones played across the coaches’ surface, one of the doors opened and Teron stepped out.

“You there—” said one of the guards, but Teron pushed past him and walked swiftly across the boardwalk to one of the officers at hand.

The officer was resplendent in a long blue robe embroidered with a beautiful dragonhawk’s head. Tucked under one arm she held a high helm plumed with dragonhawk feathers and gold-inset engraving. She was surrounded by aides and junior officers.

As Teron made to walk through the circle of military personnel and approach the officer, one of the petty officers barred his way. “The lines form over there, citizen,” he said, grabbing Teron’s peasant shirt with one hand.

Without breaking stride, Teron snapped one hand up to pin the soldier’s fist against Teron’s shoulder. The other struck up under the soldier’s elbow, locked the joint, and forced the hapless warrior forward and down. He fell flat on his face.

The other soldiers jumped in surprise, and their hands flew to the hilts of their swords, but before anyone’s weapon cleared its scabbard, Teron had already stepped over the downed soldier. He bowed respectfully to the officer.

“Captain,” he said, proffering with both hands the prelate’s commission, “Prelate Quardov Donrain, High Archdeacon of the Cathedral of the Heavens in Fairhaven and Keeper of the Divine Wrath, sends his holy regards.”

“Holy?” muttered the junior officer as he started to regain his feet. “Maybe if you mean ‘holy havoc my arm hurts,’ they’re holy. What in the.”

“You are dismissed,” said the captain.

The soldier saluted and departed, still rubbing his arm.

The captain studied Teron for a long moment, then took the commission from his hands and scanned it. “It says here that you act with the authority and support of the prelate,” she said. Her words were a statement, not a question, Teron remained silent, his hands folded placidly at his waist. The captain studied him some more and licked her lips. “For someone acting on behalf of the church, you have less than ecclesiastical manners.”

“I apologize for your aide,” said Teron. “It was pure reflex. He startled me.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “No,” she said, “I think you planned for it. You have had extensive monastic training, and I surmise that if your reaction were truly pure reflex, then at least one bone would have been broken. Am I not correct?”

Teron dropped his gaze for a second, giving the captain all the answer she needed.

“I have great respect for your kind,” she said. “Personally, I would not dare to face a battlefield full of Thranes without a broadsword and a full suit of fine chain. You and your kind are either very brave or very mad.”

Teron nodded. “Most likely both, Captain.”

The captain laughed—a genuine if brief expression of mirth—before her face became the cold countenance of a military officer again, “What business brings you here, citizen?” she asked. “What help can I offer the prelate?”

Teron pulled out the folded drawings of Praxle and Jeffers from the waistband of his trousers. “Yesterday I, upon the orders of the prelate, personally put forth an alert to watch for a gnome named Praxle d’Sivis and a half-orc named Jeffers, who is a retainer. Here are portraits drawn from their papers, which we confiscated. I have been pursuing these people and have located them on this very run. I request that you therefore detain these two and clap them in irons. I also request that you gag them immediately. The gnome is certainly an illusionist, and the half-orc may have an arcane bent as well.”

The captain looked at the two illustrations, one after the other, then folded the papers and slapped them across the chest of one of her junior officers. He immediately took the papers and ran to where the guards were sorting the passengers, gathering a squad of soldiers as he went.

The captain inclined her head slightly toward Teron. “It is always a pleasure to be of service to the Sovereign Host and their ordained mortal servants,” she said.

“I will report your efficiency and accommodation,” said Teron. He bowed again and departed to await the capture of his quarry.

“Well, then, what’s all this to-do?” asked Praxle as they debarked the lightning rail. He stepped to the side, out of the flow of passengers, and surveyed the depot. “Look at them. There must be at least a hundred soldiers or more. I’ve never seen a border guarded like this.”

“I am completely confounded, master,” replied Jeffers, “I would surmise either that there are diplomatic tensions between the lands or else that the crown is throwing a dragnet for certain people. Might they be searching for us, master?”

“Yes, they might well be looking for me,” said Praxle, gauging the odds and reaching a result that did not please him in the slightest. “One can only assume that the prelate, thinking I stole the Orb, sent out an alert.”

“Would they then be searching the travelers for us personally, or searching our packages for the Orb? If the one, master, then we are safe, but if the other, we may have some difficulties.”

Praxle waved a hand dismissively. “Not a worry,” he said. “I have that monk working for me. I’m sure he can get me through this with no problem.”

Jeffers looked all around. “Where is our monastic companion, then?”

The steady stream of passengers parted up ahead, and a squad of a dozen soldiers cut through the line. Several had long bows, several had drawn swords, and one held two sheets of paper, one in each hand. The squad leader looked around, then he pointed directly at the pair and the squad started walking toward them purposefully.

“Maybe we can ask these soldiers where he is, master,” observed Jeffers dryly. He reached for his sword, strapped to his waist. “Shall I—”

“Don’t bother,” said Praxle resignedly, “I can’t afford the time to look for another bodyguard right now.” He rubbed his head slowly. “He betrayed me. That monk is more intelligent than I gave him credit for.”

The guards surrounded them, and Praxle and Jeffers dispassionately held out their wrists.

Praxle noted that the manacles were, like Teron’s betrayal, cold.

“And what would you wish to be done with these two?” asked the captain. “Shall we send a detachment to take them back to Fairhaven for you?”

Teron looked over at Praxle and Jeffers, who stood amid a quartet of guards with their hands locked securely behind their backs. Jeffers looked stoic as ever, although Teron noticed him flex his arms to test the stiffness of his bonds. Praxle’s eyes burned with deliberate hatred, standing out sharply above the large ragged gag that filled his mouth.

Teron rubbed his fingers along the corners of his mouth, trying to wipe out the smug smile that lurked there, ready to splash across his face. “No, captain, that will not be necessary,” he said, “These two are smugglers, wanted by the Thrane authorities. We’ve been pursuing them in Aundair for some time, and thanks to you we have caught them.

“I will be bringing them to Daskaran and handing them over to the authorities there. The Thranes will doubtless take them to Fairhaven for trial.”

The captain tilted her head. “Why go to all that fuss just to make the Thranes happy?”

“Two reasons, captain. First, anything that can help ease tensions between Thrane and Aundair will be good for everyone. Second, and more importantly,” he added, “we could try them here, but the Church of the Silver Flame has … more creative solutions in the realm of justice.”

The captain raised her eyebrows and wagged her head, although Teron could not tell if her gesture was one of assent or merely acceptance of a tale she did not believe.

“I thank you again, captain,” Teron said, bowing, “Your assistance will not go unnoticed, I assure you.”

He walked back toward the lightning rail, and as he passed Praxle and Jeffers, he gestured to the soldiers. “Bring them this way, if you please,” he said.

The soldiers each took an arm of one of the prisoners and impelled them toward the waiting coaches. They hauled them back aboard, pushed them into the second-class sleeper cabin that Teron indicated, and turned to leave.

“You’ll be all right, then?” asked one of the guards. “That orcblood looks pretty tough, and that gnome, well, he looks downright vicious. We’d be happy to lend the church one of our swords, if you like.”

“I’ll be fine, soldier,” said Teron.

The soldiers nodded and departed, and Teron closed the door to the cabin. He pulled a key from his belt and waved it.

“Back in Ghalt I alerted the military to arrest you if you appeared at any border crossing,” he said. He offered up two pieces of parchment. “They had excellent descriptions, based on these pictures of you, drawn from your papers by one of the brothers at the monastery. The search edict was given in the name of the Prelate Quardov, and would have been obeyed. You would have been detained and sent back, and I doubt he’d believe your version of events. The only way I could think of to get you two across the border without raising suspicion was to have the military actually arrest you.”

“Why did you not inform us of your scheme?” asked Jeffers.

“It was a gamble,” said Teron, “I thought it best to keep your reactions honest and to proof your minds against telepaths.”

“I knew that,” said Praxle. “You didn’t have me fooled, monk.”

Teron glanced at Jeffers. The half-orc rolled his eyes.