The Orb of Xoriat

16 Lady Hathia Stalsun

As Teron, Praxle, and Jeffers turned the final corner on their way back to their lodgings, a squad of a half dozen soldiers stepped out from beneath the eaves of a storefront. The soldiers spread out as they approached, weapons drawn and chain mail chinking.

“You three. Hold,” one of them said.

Teron looked around. Broad daylight, major city street. The odds were fine, and chain mail provided negligible protection against joint locks and blunt impact, but the result of any resistance would be their exposure as “enemies of the peace.” They’d have to abandon Flamekeep immediately, which would make recovering the Thrane notes and the Sphere itself much more difficult.

Teron looked at Praxle and gently shook his head. Praxle nodded.

“What can we do for you on this chilly day?” asked Praxle, sweeping his hat in greeting.

“You’ll come with us.” It was not an answer, but a demand. “Lady Stalsun wishes to speak with you.”

The six guards escorted the wary travelers to a waiting carriage, a large and elegant vehicle that sported the family crest of Stalsun on the door. The three climbed in, followed by a few guards. The other guards climbed on the back as footmen, and the carriage lurched forward as the driver cracked the whip over the horses’ heads.

Praxle stared out the window as they progressed through the city. “These are the widest streets I’ve ever seen in a city,” he said, to no one in particular. He turned to one of the guards. “Why are they built this way?”

The guard looked at her comrades, then decided to answer. “The Voice of the Silver Flame commanded that the city be built this way, with wide avenues so that all feel welcome,” she said. “The city is only five or six hundred years old, and the Voice had seen the choking streets of the other so-called great cities.”

“That’s interesting,” said Praxle. “One would think it would make the city more difficult to defend.”

“Not at all,” said the guard. “Flamekeep was briefly besieged after Shadukar was razed. We found that the wide avenues allowed us to move our forces quickly and easily through the city, to counter attacks or to launch forays of our own. Meanwhile, the Karrns had to march their troops all the way around the city, out of bowshot of our archers. It took them four or five times as long to react. We broke the siege from within with a series of raids, always striking where the Karrns were weakest. Of course, we had to burn the bodies so they wouldn’t raise them again. Nothing’s more annoying than having to kill your enemy twice.”

Praxle pursed his lips as he considered this. “It also makes the city appear cleaner than other large cities I’ve visited,” he said.

“The city is cleaner,” responded the guard.

“Of course.”

The carriage traveled to a smallish estate on the wealthy side of town. Ivy-covered masonry walls surrounded the house, and a guarded gate admitted the carriage. The carriage rolled up a nicely paved path to the front of the house.

A doorman dressed in elegant formal attire gestured Praxle, Teron, and Jeffers from the carriage and led them into the house. He required them to remove their boots and don slippers “to preserve the polish of the floors.”

He then led them into a drawing room and seated them on some comfortable chairs, though not until after he carefully covered the chairs with extra fabric to prevent them from becoming soiled by the companions’ clothing. There was a long silence in which the doorman stared at them dully, and they were forced to remain in their chairs silently.

At long last, the heavy latch to one of the other doors clicked, and as it swung open, the doorman announced, “Lady of the House Hathia Stalsun, Duchess of Shadukar.”

Praxle and Jeffers rose and bowed elegantly. Teron hesitated, then grudgingly rose to match his companions.

In walked a Thrane noblewoman, dressed in an exquisite royal blue gown brocaded in black and gold, finery that had been fashionable five years earlier at best. The hem of the dress hissed across the floor, and the sleeves of the gown covered the backs of her hands. A high stiff neck held her head in a perpetual pose of arrogance, and her half-lidded eyes only added to the appearance. Pale makeup covered her face, obliterating her wrinkles and turning her lipstick a harsh color in comparison; her mouth almost looked like a puckered spear wound. All this was topped by a towering upswept wig adorned with small, dangling jewels.

In spite of the heavy-handed ness of her attire and posture, she still exuded the image of a womanly core. Her arms were graceful and long, her features fine, and even the exaggeration of her corseted middle and the hoopskirt could not totally overshadow the fact that a feminine figure moved beneath the fabric.

She carried a walking stick in one hand, and it tapped the floor regularly as she moved to the largest chair in the room and seated herself quite primly. Once she was seated, twenty guards entered the room. Ten took up positions against the wall behind the lady, while the other ten took up positions uncomfortably close behind the threesome.

The lady delicately raised one hand to cover her mouth as she cleared her throat, then laid it atop the other, which rested upon the head of her walking stick. “My introduction has been made, gentlemen,” she said in a voice that was smooth and full, as if she has been trained for singing. “You will now introduce yourselves to me.”

Praxle gestured the other two to their seats. “Am I to understand that this is an official inquiry, Lady Stalsun?” he asked.

“I take it you have not crossed the path of the Crown Knights,” she said. “If you had, you would know the answer to your question. The Council of Cardinals demands swift justice for wrongdoing in Thrane, and their methods of interrogation are effective, if zealous. While I have no concern over this in cases of the guilty, I do believe that their enthusiasm is often misapplied to those who may actually be innocent. Therefore I give you this one opportunity to speak with me civilly, unofficially, but also candidly. Another such offer shall not be forthcoming, either from this house or from any other citizen in Flamekeep.”

“But, if I may ask, Lady,” countered Praxle, “if this is not an official inquiry … who are you? What is your interest in us?”

“My interest, gentlemen, is the safety of Thrane. I am a lady with a meaningless title. Shadukar was burned to the ground during the Last War. The battle destroyed my family’s entire estate, all their holdings, and all who had sworn them fealty. Of my family, I alone survived, by virtue of having been elsewhere. Fortunately, my family had a number of investments that have provided a helpful stipend. Thus I was able to relocate to this place and survive. Since then, I keep my fingers in a lot of events. It gives me something to do, and I can serve my nation by watching the comings and goings of interesting people.” She shifted her hands on top of her stick. “You will now introduce yourselves to me,” she said, “or I shall be forced to see you to an official representative.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Praxle, “I am Praxle Arrant d’Sivis, of the University of Korranberg. My domestic Jeffers accompanies me everywhere. My traveling companion is Teron, who hails from Aundair. These you may verify with our papers, if you wish.”

Keeping her hands atop her cane, Lady Stalsun pointed with one finger. A guard stepped forward. He glanced at each of their documents, nodded in confirmation, and handed them back.

“May I ask why you have an interest in us?” asked Praxle.

“Word of several incidents has reached my ears, the most recent of which concerns the death of a young woman riding the lightning rail at Daskaran Ferry. Let us start there, for while I have no prejudice against Cyrans dying, I don’t like it happening in my country with no explanation.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” said Praxle.

Hathia raised her chin imperiously. “You would have me believe that you—”

Praxle interrupted. “And … she wasn’t dead.”

Hathia paused. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re referring to the young Cyran that was paralyzed as she sat, is that correct? Frozen rigid with that unseemly expression on her face?” Praxle waited for confirmation, then continued, “I tell you the truth. She wasn’t dead.”

“But—but my sources told me that she was stiff with the rigor, and her skin blued. What other explanation is there?”

“Her state is the effect of the darkest magic,” said Praxle. He sat down and locked eyes with the lady to press the import of what he was about to say, “Let me tell you what she suffered. What she suffers still. Her heart was still beating, but too slowly to hear. She still breathed, too, though it took her a minute or two just to draw a breath.

“But most important, I could sense what had happened to her soul.” Praxle paused, looked at the ceiling, then looked back and continued. “I am blessed with the dragon’s blood, Lady. I am a practitioner of magic, and of no small skill, if I may be so bold. As such, I can discern certain aspects of magical auras; the more powerful the effect, the easier it is to analyze. And the effect on her was … notable.

“Her soul was elsewhere, lost, and yet still tied to her body. She’ll die soon. In fact she’s probably already dead, perhaps from suffocation for breathing too slowly, or maybe chilled to death if the guards left her outside. Once she dies, her soul will remain trapped wherever it is.”

Lady Hathia leaned forward. “What do you know of where her soul might be?” she asked. The appalling truth of the situation crept through her façade of composure and tainted her expression with horror.

“It’s on another plane of existence. I don’t know exactly where, but it’s somewhere terrible. I could hear the echo of her screams. And not of pain, either. More like … I don’t know if I can find the right word. Fear, maybe. Anguish, revulsion … madness …

“Allow me to confide in you, Lady,” continued Praxle, running his fingers through his hair. “You’ve been very patient and accommodating to speak with us personally instead of turning us over to the Inquirators. The reason we are here is that I believe that this woman is part of a team of Cyrans that stole an artifact that rightly belongs to the University of Korranberg. This is a very powerful artifact and could be utterly devastating in the wrong hands, as this woman’s fate shows.

“I believe that the Cyrans may have fled to this very town. We are hoping to recover this relic before the Cyrans unleash a calamity of legendary proportions upon Thrane. If you could see fit to help us, Lady Stalsun, we would be most grateful, and the whole of Khorvaire would be the safer for it.”

The Thrane woman sat unmoving for several long minutes before finally shifting her position. She glanced down at the armrest of her chair and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust away, then looked back at Praxle. “That does not explain why you visited the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics.”

Praxle responded without hesitation. “Well, it should,” he said, then chuckled, “I went there hoping that I could find some assistance in locating the thieves. A scroll, a diviner for hire, a magewrought seeker I could rent.”

“Why not hire a finder from House Tharashk?” asked Hathia. “Surely those with the Mark of Finding could be of some service.”

“If they realized the true potential of the relic, they’d be tempted to steal it for their own use,” said Praxle. “The University of Korranberg held this artifact safely for a few hundred years, and then within twenty years of us losing control if it, someone started using it as a weapon of war. I hired someone, and he died, yielding his discovery to the Cyrans. I trust no one else in this matter, not any more.”

“I see,” said Lady Stalsun. “Then you’re telling me that I should trust you and abet you, when you freely admit that you lost control of an ancient artifact to a rabble of displaced Cyrans?”

“They were no rabble,” said Teron. “They were skilled and disciplined. Not excellent fighters, but they were quick thinkers and stealthy spies.”

“Their leader was amazing,” added Praxle. “Fast, clever, and deadly, and probably the best planner I’ve seen, outside of myself. But for some good luck on my part, the Cyrans might have effected the theft perfectly.”

“I would not expect to hear anyone speak of the Cyrans so highly,” said Hathia. “For myself, I find them wearying and contemptible, like those who pine away over a lover whose memory death has turned into a fairy tale.”

“Then you understand why we must find them and this relic before they try to unravel its secrets,” said Praxle.

Hathia raised one hand to silence him. “What I understand, my persistent guest, is that this interview is now at a close. Rest assured that our eyes will be upon you whilst we reflect upon your tale.”

Dark had fallen over Flamekeep. Teron pulled back the window curtain and peered out. The Siberys ring hung in the heavens, its elegant light contending with the unsubtle glow of the everbright lanterns in the streets of Thrane. Dravago, one of the larger and hence brighter moons, shone like an amethyst, but was not yet near zenith. Eyre, also large, was moving toward the horizon, and its slanting light no longer penetrated the city streets. Only distant Vult hung overhead, and its wan light was of little concern.

Teron let the curtain fall shut again. “It’s time,” he said.

“Right,” said Praxle. “Let’s go.”

“No.”

“No?” asked the gnome, puzzled. “Then what’s it time for? I thought you wanted to scout out the Camat Library.”

“I’m going alone,” said Teron. “Not you.”

“Look, monk,” said Praxle, “that place is probably crawling with magical wards and alarms, to say nothing of traps.”

“Of course it is,” said Teron, pulling on his soft-soled boots. “And many of them are likely keyed to guard against the use of magic. You, gnome, can’t sneak around there without using magical enhancements. I can.”

“You can?” scoffed Praxle.

Teron turned and headed for the corner of the room. With a leap, he jumped up the wall, planted a foot and a hand on it, and pushed himself to the other wall. He braked his momentum with his other foot and hand, stopping himself three feet above the ground, held in place by his hands and feet. He bowed his head to avoid knocking it against the ceiling. “Yes, I can,” he said. “You’ve honed your spirit to work magic. I’ve honed my body to do the same thing.”

Jeffers looked at Teron with an appraising scowl. “That outdoes any theatrics of mine,” he said.

Soft as a cat, Teron dropped back to the floor. “As for the rest of the wards, I can take care of those. I have training.”

“You’ll need help,” persisted Praxle, “We’re in the middle of the capital of Thrane, for the Host’s sake!”

“No. I need solitude,” said Teron. “I’m trained to work alone, even in the middle of the enemy camp. Allies can only fail you.”

Praxle narrowed his eyes. “What was it you trained to do, monk?”

“I trained in the Way of the Quiet Touch,” he replied. “I break things noiselessly.”

“Things? You mean like magic staves and the like?”

“Or bridge supports, necks of enemy generals, whatever I was told. Whatever Aundair needed broken I broke.”

“So you’re an assassin,” said Praxle.

“I’m someone who took a vow,” answered Teron. “And I always keep my word.” The two stared at each other for a long time, testing each other’s will. At last Teron broke the silence. “I’m going to scout the library,” he said. “And I’ll do it alone.”

He turned to leave the room, then patted his shoulder and tsked with his tongue. Flotsam stirred from where he slept in the corner, rose, stretched, then leapt up Teron’s vest and clawed its way the last little bit to perch on his shoulder.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” he said.

Praxle twisted his mouth into a crooked, angry sneer. He pulled a chair over to the window, climbed up, and peeked out between the curtains. He watched Teron leave the building, walk down the street, then turn a corner.

He hopped off the chair and grabbed his coat. “I don’t care, monk,” he growled. “I don’t trust you. Jeffers? Come.”

Teron glided silently in the shadows of an alley across from the Camat Library. The building loomed over his head, illuminated a ghastly shade of yellow at the base by the ubiquitous everbright lanterns that shone in the street, and fading to a dark shadow against the starlit night sky. Vult did its best to bring a healthy shine to Flamekeep, but its light was no match for mortal invention.

He turned his head slightly and nuzzled Flotsam, perched on his shoulder. “Time for me to go,” he whispered, and gave the cat a little push with his head. The cat hopped down, landing rather more heavily than a cat perhaps ought. It rubbed up against Teron’s leg for a moment, purring, then sauntered off into the night.

Teron looked at the library again. Various shrubs ringed its base, lovely vegetation grown with magical assistance to be large, dense, and beautiful. It also served as a first line of defense against someone trying to approach the building, but at the same time it provided cover to those who managed to get past. Teron got his bearings, then walked down the side of the library, angling his path to draw close to the spot he had chosen for his infiltration. He stretched as he walked, using the motion to camouflage a quick check to the rear to ensure no one else was near enough to see him. At his chosen spot, equidistant between the nearest glowing street lanterns, he dropped into a shoulder roll and ended up on his belly almost under the shrubbery.

He lay beneath a robust evergreen shrub with prickly branches and a pervasive odor of compost. He oriented himself toward the wall, and then scooted under the shrub using the “snake walk,” a technique that involved propelling oneself forward using hands, feet, elbows, knees, hips, chest, and head. It was awkward and slow, but required minimal overhead clearance (when the head was turned to the side) and left no telltale drag-mark trail.

There was a good two-foot clearance between the shrubbery and the masonry of the library wall, but Teron did not enter that gap. He shifted his position, then gently extended one hand. Slowly it moved forward, almost too slow for the eye to see. He began to feel a bit of static pressure on his palm, a tingling sensation of warning: a ward of some sort, a magical barrier to deter intruders, either by raising an alarm or direct application of power. Teron pulled his hand back.

As part of his training in the Quiet Touch, Teron had had to learn to bypass security measures both magical and technical. “All traps have triggers,” Keiftal had taught him. “The body triggers tangible traps. Magical traps are more dangerous; many wards are triggered by the soul. You can bypass a physical trap by avoiding the trigger: do not do the action that the trap awaits. Bypassing the magical triggers is much the same; you must ensure that you use nothing that might set off the spell. You must have an empty soul.”

Achieving that had been always the hardest part of training for Teron. Most of his peers in the Quiet Touch emptied their soul by becoming as placid as a morning lake. Teron had always emptied his soul through sheer force of discipline: he willed himself void. Of course, once empty, he no longer had the will to force his soul to quiescence, so his window of opportunity was always small.

The evergreen shrub afforded him enough room to rise to his knees without entering the zone of the magical alarm. He did so, forcing his head into the resistant, prickly branches of the magegrown shrub. He placed his hands in front of him until he felt the pulse of the magical ward again, then he crushed his thoughts beneath ritual discipline. They fought, as always, stray concepts and ideas that demanded he remain focused and alert, but he forced them out, hooking them aggressively with every available tool, in much the way that he might force a pack of hungry dogs back out the door of a building.

For a brief moment, all was at peace. He relaxed utterly.

The shrub pushed him forward, seeking to extend its branches once more. Teron felt himself fall. He tried to will the doors of his mind to remain closed, but the dogs charged back in, baying their alarm. His hands flew up to the wall, deflecting his fall so that he landed beside the building instead of cracking his forehead on the stone. He yanked his feet to him, out of the zone of the magical ward, hoping that the instinctive reflex of the motion did not hold enough intent to activate the spell. He lay on the ground and waited, unmoving, one bare arm pressed up against the cool stone of the library. Vult slowly crawled across the sky directly over his head, and he remained motionless until its glow had been utterly hidden by the Camat Library’s roof.

Satisfied that no alarm had been raised, Teron stood. Even standing, he was well concealed by the high bushes that landscaped the perimeter, so for the moment, he felt secure.

The exterior of the building was ornate, as one might expect for the centerpiece of all magical scholarship in Thrane. Aside from Flamic ornamentation, periodic narrow ridges adorned the walls, each long vertical strip engraved with symbols of fire. Teron approached one of these ornamental crests. The ridge did not even extend so much as a full span from the wall, but for Teron, that was enough. He grasped the ridge with his hands, gave a slight jump, and gripped the ridge with the flats of his feet.

He scaled the narrow ridge, hand over hand, scooting his feet up as a pair. He reached the top, pulled himself over, and took a moment to flex his tired muscles and look around. A selection of statues graced the perimeter of the rooftop, neither as grotesque as the gargoyles of Karrnath nor as beautiful as the half-attired deities of Aundair. They were idealized martial sentinels that watched over the streets below, tirelessly bearing their greatswords aloft.

The roof had an orchard of jagged iron spears pointed skyward to protect the library from being assaulted by sky brigands. At the very center of the roof, a small fortified tower stood guard.

At the four corners of the roof, stairwells, rotating about their bases with a slow grinding, extended up and out to small towers. Judging by their small size, the towers were likely not used for research or storage. Teron thought it most likely that they were just for show, an exhibit of expertise.

Teron crept up to the tower, keeping low to avoid silhouetting himself against the night sky. The tower was clearly built for defense, short and squat, with arrow slits for windows. Looking up as he circled the base, Teron saw the tips of three ballistae jutting forth, illuminated by a weak light from inside the tower. He presumed some other defensive weapon fired directly up, an alchemical bomb thrower or a battery of magical wands.

There was one door into the guard tower, small, solidly built, and shielded by an enclosure of heavy stone. The door lacked any external mechanism to open it. Teron gently placed his hands on the door and opened his awareness. He felt no tingling sensation to mark a magical aura, so he surmised that the lack of an external latch was a simple mechanical security measure, not an indication that the door was opened by a special password or arcane trinket.

He placed his ear to the door to listen, hoping to be able to discover the number of guards inside. He heard a few murmurs, then he heard a bell start to jangle insistently. Teron pulled back from the door and hid on the far side of its protective enclosure. Within a few breaths, bells rang throughout the building and the guards within the tower began moving with speed and purpose.

Teron gritted his teeth and ran for the edge of the roof. Behind him, he heard a shout and the distinctive snap of a crossbow. He veered to the side, and the quarrel whistled by. Next he heard the gears of a ballista rattling as someone cranked it to full cock. Not relishing the idea of an inch-thick piece of hardwood impaling his torso, he mixed his zigzag run with occasional tumble. The ballista didn’t fire, perhaps due to his skillful evasion or possibly for fear of sending a pike flying through a student’s window in the Dormitorion.

Teron reached the edge of the roof and had to pause to find one of the building’s decorative spines. Crouching low to spot one, he heard the loud crack of the ballista. In the dark, he had no hope of seeing the projectile in time, so he used his crouch to jump up into a back flip, twisting to the side to present the minimal silhouette. He heard the low whoosh of the pilum zipping past, felt its breeze as it narrowly missed him. He landed on his feet, and a second later he heard the wooden shaft splinter itself on the Dormitorion wall.

Teron scuttled a few feet across the roof’s edge to one of the ridges that climbed the building’s side. He heard the tread of numerous feet on the rooftop; without hesitation he dropped off the edge of the roof and grabbed the ornamental spine with his hands and feet.

He let his feet slide along the carved sides as he lowered himself hand-under-hand as quickly as he could. This was where he was the most vulnerable; there was no room to maneuver when one hung from one thin projection. He heard voices above him, but thankfully none seemed to have any missile weapons.

About twenty feet from the ground, he halted his descent and pushed himself forcibly from the wall, diving to leap all the way over the wide greenery below. He twisted in the air, then pinwheeled his arms to get his feet beneath him. He hit the street and tumbled into a roll. His arms slapped against the cobbles to devour his momentum. He finished by handspringing to his feet, then took off running to the alley. Crossbow quarrels spattered in the street about his heels.

He glanced back toward the library from the concealing shadows. Lights were springing on all through the building, and he heard the chorus of many alarmed voices. One voice from the rooftop boomed out insistently: “The alley by the Dormitorion!” As if to provide punctuation to the cry, a small, bright bead appeared at the roof’s edge, arcing right for the darkened alley. Teron waited, tensed to spring, and as the speeding mote got close, he leapt into the street and dodged to the side.

A massive flash of fire erupted from the alley as the glowing ember struck the ground, but as soon as the flames spat past his shoulder, Teron ducked back into the alley and sprinted past the burning debris.