The Orb of Xoriat

18 Matters of Heart and Soul

Having extinguished the flames that were consuming his cloches, Jeffers stumbled to his feet. The half-orc ripped the still-smoking jacket from his back, panting out a series of grunts in what appeared to be impending panic. Unseen behind him, the fire elemental turned, writhing its way in for the kill. Teron dived for Jeffers, tackling him shoulder to midriff, and the two of them crashed to the hard, cobbled street as the flaming snake shot past, singeing their ankles.

Teron rolled off Jeffers and saw the thing coming around again. With a cry he pushed his energy, willing it down from his center. He knew he could not restrain the power any longer once it started to seek escape, so he timed his effort to coincide with an arcing swing of his foot. His stamping blow hit the leading edge of the fire elemental as it drew near, releasing his spiritual power and spattering shards of ice across the cobbles. The burning beast recoiled momentarily, then gathered itself for another attack.

Teron knew he was spent; he had drawn so much from within himself that most of his remaining energy now went to keeping his dinner from making an appearance. Jeffers—burned, stunned, and not at all equipped to deal with a supernatural foe like this—was all but useless. Kelcie, well, her bucket was empty.

He had to draw the fire elemental away from him somehow. And then an idea struck him. He crawled away from the fire elemental and called, “Flotsam! C’mere!”

The cat bounded over, then flailed to a halt and hissed as the fire elemental noticed its proximity. Teron looked commandingly at the cat and pointed down the road. “Go. Run! Now!”

The cat bounded down the street, and the fire elemental turned and pursued it, a flaming rectilinear string of fire rapidly cutting its way between the cobbles.

The last thing Teron saw was the cat zigzagging as it ran. Then he felt himself lose the contents of his stomach, and with them, his consciousness.

The bright, full morning sun spilled in through the colored windows of the Phiarlander. The smell of cloved ham slowly roasting in the oven pervaded the dining room, competing with the lingering smells of spilled beer and stale sweat. Kelcie moved about the room, shifting tables to their proper position and righting chairs that had been toppled during the panic in the wake of last night’s incident in the street.

She hadn’t thrown any of the windows open, for the odor of burnt hair and charred flesh still lingered outside the door. Although the old man’s body had been removed just before dawn, the stench lingered near the black scorch marks that marred the paving stones.

Kelcie picked up a chair and set it upright. As she released it, she noticed that it wobbled, so she tested it again with both hands. She curled her lip in displeasure. Turning the chair over, she saw that two of the struts that held the legs secure were broken, and the chair leg they supported had cracked near the top, threatening to split entirely. She adjusted her grip on the chair and started taking it to the back when the main door opened and a severe but well-dressed woman walked in.

“I’m sorry, lady,” said Kelcie. “We don’t start serving for another hour yet.”

The woman strode briskly across the floor, leaving the door open. Kelcie noticed that someone outside pulled it shut again. She also saw the shapes of two others silhouetted against the windows.

“I am not here to dine, girl,” she said perfunctorily. “I am Lady Hathia Stalsun of Shadukar. I’ve come to enquire after a monastic gentleman from Aundair, I must see him at once. Where is he?”

“I’m sure I don’t know who—”

“I’m sure you do,” retorted the lady. She stepped threateningly close. “I have already visited with his traveling companion, a University gnome from Zilargo. He told me that the Aundairian and he dined here the second evening prior. I’m certain you can recall them. He said that you and the Aundairian fair hit it off. Then yesternight, it appears that there was some manner of grave affair outside this very establishment. Although the gnome espouses otherwise with his tale of events, I surmise that he fled the scene. He also claims, and this I do believe, that he has not seen his Aundairian companion or his half-orc butler since that time.

“I assume that the Aundairian remained here afterward. Thus I come here, young woman, to speak with him. The matter is pressing.” She nodded slightly, as if giving Kelcie permission to respond.

“I didn’t work last night,” said Kelcie, “so I didn’t see anything of the fire and such.”

“I never said fire was involved,” said Hathia.

“I, uh, heard it from the cook,” explained Kelcie.

“Mm hmm,” said Hathia dubiously. “And what did you do with him afterward?”

“Teron? Nothing,” blustered Kelcie. “I said I didn’t work last night.”

“I never mentioned Teron’s name, either,” said Lady Hathia. “Enough of your dissimulation, girl. Bring me to Teron right now.”

Kelcie quailed for a moment beneath Lady Stalsun’s icy glare, fearful of her wrath, horrified to betray the reserved young Aundairian. She started to nod and lead the way …

But then she remembered the fearless calm in his eyes when he touched her, how his resolve gave her courage and how his grip stilled the trembling in her heart and made her actions seem perfectly normal. And she remembered that on the first night they met, however he tried, he failed to avert his eyes from her every time she passed …

“No,” she said firmly, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes in defiance.

“Listen, girl,” said Hathia sternly, “I do not brook disobedience from my lessers. You will take me to see Teron, and you will take me now.”

“Squints!” called Kelcie. “We got a high-and-mighty lady here who thinks she has the run of our boardinghouse. Do you want to escort her on her tour of the building?”

From the kitchen came the cook bearing a cleaver and wearing a blood-spattered apron. He looked at Lady Hathia with his single untrusting eye. “I’d be happy to, Kelcie. You,” he said, gesturing with the dirty cutlery, “The first part I’ll show you is the exit.”

“You do not intimidate me,” said Lady Stalsun.

The cook walked right up to her, showing no deference for her station at all. “Woman, I’m a Cyran. Nothing you say can frighten me. But everything I say should scare you to death. Because I’ll poison a whole tavernful of Thranes just to kill the one that bothers little Kelcie.”

Hathia studied the look in his eye, then the horrid scar that marred the other side of his face. At last she made up her mind. She turned to Kelcie and said, “Tell Teron that Lady Hathia Stalsun was here to see him on an urgent matter, and requests he pay a call immediately.” With that, she snapped her fingers in Kelcie’s face and small keepsake locket appeared in her hand as if by magic.

Kelcie held her ground and took the jewelry. “May I tell him what this regards?” she asked.

Lady Hathia dropped her eyelids halfway. “It’s personal,” she said. “He’ll know.” And with a knowing smile, she turned and left the building.

After the door closed, the cook spat on the floor. “Damned highbrow Thranes,” he growled. “I hate ’em all.”

Kelcie looked at him with concern. “Um, Squints,” she said, hesitantly, “I’m a Thrane, you know.”

He tossed her a gruff smile and slapped her roughly on the shoulder. “Aw, Kelcie,” he said. “You’re one of the good ones.”

Her look of concern didn’t fade. “But Squints …” she started.

He dropped his gaze. “Don’t you pay me no mind. Kelcie. I was just trying to run her out. It was just talk.”

He hefted his cleaver and returned to the kitchen.

Teron woke up to find the afternoon sun slanting through the window onto his bed. He rolled onto his back and stretched, vague memories of Kelcie’s presence replaying themselves in his mind. He remembered her earthy beer-hall scent as she and another carried him upstairs, and he remembered drifting back into a light doze as she gently cleaned the sword wound on his cheek and applied salve to his hands and ankles to counter the minor burns he’d incurred during the fight.

He remembered waking up at some point in the morning to find her pulling the covers back over his shoulders, tucking him in nicely, and just for a moment he thought it was his mother, and he reached out and held her hand. Then unwanted thoughts of reality rolled back into his mind, and he withdrew back into himself, but somehow she seemed to understand, and as she rose to leave, she gently traced her finger down his nose and lightly touched his lips.

But with that last thought reality returned, along with its requisite tension. He sat up and looked around. Flotsam lay stretched out at the foot of Teron’s bed, splayed oat decadently in the sunlight. Teron stroked him gently, impressed with the warmth of his sun-drenched fur. The exhausted cat didn’t even stir at Teron’s touch.

The other bed in the room was empty, the blankets neatly folded at the foot. Teron remembered hearing Jeffers’ voice several times through the night and morning; seeing his bed so neat, he realized that the dedicated half-orc must be in good health. The thought brought a small smile to his lips.

Teron saw his pants and vest, cleaned and arranged nicely on a chair beside the bed. A momentary flash of shame washed over him. He checked; he was still wearing his undergarments, though that fact did little to ease his self-consciousness. He wondered who, exactly, has taken off his pants.

He inspected his injuries, little more than shallow abrasions and some light reddening from minor burns, then dressed himself. He stretched out his stiff muscles extensively until he felt fully alive again. And as he stretched the last of the stiffness and nausea out of existence, he realized that he was ravenously hungry.

The door to his room opened. “I thought I heard the upstairs floor creaking,” said Jeffers. “It is delightful to see you up and about, young man. I must also offer my most heartfelt thanks that you were able to intervene between me and the fiery creature,” he added, bowing. “I do believe that you saved my life.”

Teron snorted. “Well, that’s a switch,” he muttered.

“May I enquire as to why you remained, master?” asked Jeffers. “You could have withdrawn easily at the same time as my master.”

Teron paused. “I should ask you why you stayed,” he replied.

“I stayed because I am paid to preserve my master’s life,” said Jeffers. “Once he had made his escape from the threat, I could not extricate myself from the combat.”

“I could,” said Teron. “Extricate you, that is. I don’t know whether I saved you so much as helped me. If it had killed you, I would likely have been next.”

Jeffers smiled. “Whether you doubt your motives or not,” he said, “I appreciate the end results.” He bowed again and let himself out. “I’ll see you in the common room once you’re dressed,” he said as he closed the door.

Teron pulled on his pants and vest, then lurched downstairs, his muscles still achy from the previous night’s events. He found Praxle and Jeffers waiting in the large common room. Praxle sipped a glass of wine, while Jeffers drank a mug of tea.

“Teron!” bellowed Praxle in his tenor gnomish voice. The volume of his greeting filled the room despite his small size. He hopped from his chair and strode briskly over. “Good to see you’ve returned to the land of the living!” he said, pumping Teron’s hand.

“I’ll feel a lot more alive once I’ve had something to eat,” murmured Teron quietly.

“Of course, of course,” said Praxle. He led Teron over to the table, where Jeffers politely pulled out a chair for him. “Your young filly has kept a whole plateful of various foods ready for whenever you should make an appearance.”

“She’s not my filly,” said Teron.

“Well, you’re sure her stallion, I tell you that,” said Praxle. He climbed into his human-sized chair as Teron sat down at the table. “See?” added Praxle. “Here comes the wench now.”

Sure enough, Kelcie made an appearance, coming out the kitchen doors with two plates laden with food. Teron waited just long enough for her to get within earshot, then turned to Praxle and said, “She’s not a wench, Praxle.” The gnome let out a gasp of exasperation.

Kelcie set the plates down, two large platters filled with rolls, ham, potatoes, oatmeal, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, smoked fish, and salad, as well as a tall mug filled with weak beer. “I didn’t know what you might like to eat, so I saved you a little bit of everything,” she said.

Teron thanked her, looking up just in time to see her give Praxle a withering look of vindication. Praxle turned his head and rolled his eyes.

Praxle waited until Kelcie had gone back into the kitchen. “You need to watch your timing when you open your mouth, Teron,” he said, “Impolitic comments can cause all sorts of trouble when given at the wrong time.”

“I know,” said Teron. He found it easy to suppress a smile with a mouth full of food.

“She is a wench, and you know it,” said Praxle disparagingly. “She’s just an average human, low class at that, and certainly no mage. But I’m sure she’d be a good ride.” He leaned forward on his elbows eagerly. “So why didn’t you tell me you were a magic user?” he asked. “That’s great! How could you hold out on me like that?”

Teron shrugged, holding up one finger. He chewed the large pack of food that filled his mouth, then swallowed and said, “I don’t talk about it. I don’t much like to use it.”

Praxle rested his cheek on his fist, his eyes narrowed with rapt attention. “Fascinating, I didn’t think they taught arcane techniques in the monastery. I thought it was all chanting and such.”

“They don’t,” said Teron as he crammed another forkful of ham in his face.

“You might consider eating with greater moderation and forethought if you wish to be ready for another such fracas,” observed Jeffers gently. Teron nodded in acknowledgment.

“So if they don’t teach that in the monastery, where did you learn it?” asked Praxle.

Teron looked at Praxle blackly. “It’s just a skill, understand? I don’t want to say any more about it.”

“Just a skill? You mean you’ve always been able to do this?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about that!” snapped Teron.

Praxle held up his hands. “I understand,” he said. “I’m not trying to probe. I’m just trying to understand what it is you have here. Is that all right? I’m just trying to clarify what you mean.” He paused, and for a long moment the only noise that broke the uncomfortable silence was that of Teron chewing some nuts. “So … it’s not something you learned from a scholar or anything,” said Praxle.

Teron wagged his head side to side noncommittally. “It’s … internal. I focus my spirit’s essence. Master Keiftal worked with me on it. He helped me to concentrate enough to alter the energy when it came out. Made me practice timing and control. He said he’d never seen anything like it.”

“I’ll bet he hadn’t!” said Praxle’s. “That’s sorcery! You’re a sorcerer!”

“No, I’m not,” said Teron. He shoot his head. “It’s not even really magic, Praxle. Master Keiftal said I was discharging spiritual energy.”

Praxle snorted in disbelief. “What in Khyber do you think sorcery is, then? Riddle me that!”

Teron thought about it for a moment during a more sedate mouthful of food. “I don’t know,” he said. “I only studied magic because some of my targets might be mages. I studied what it did, not how it got there.”

“What kind of stupid approach is that?”

Teron slapped the table hard, right in front of Praxle’s nose. The gnome jumped back, startled.

“It is not stupid,” said Teron, “You’re being the fool, here. Do you have to know about prospecting, mining, smelting, or even blacksmithing to understand how to fight someone armed with a sword? No. I have been extensively trained in sensing magic, resisting magic, and counter-fighting mages of all types. Wizardry, sorcery, divine magic, even dragonmarks, they’re all the same as far as I’m concerned.”

Praxle chuckled. “Now you’re being stupid, Teron. They are all very different. You need to know the differences, because—I don’t believe it—you don’t understand the gift you have here! You! Are! A! Sorcerer!”

Teron tossed up his hands in a gesture of pointlessness. “Fine,” he said. “I’m a sorcerer. I’m also hungry. Hunger I can solve. So let me eat.”

“All right,” said Praxle. “Let me put everything into a context you might understand.”

“Might?”

“Will,” said Praxle. “You’re pretty smart.” He cleared his throat and organized his thoughts. “The world was created by three great dragons: Siberys, Eberron, and Khyber. Siberys is the dragon above, who is the stars and the great ring that encircles us. Khyber is the Underdark, and the dragon below. Eberron is the dragon between, whose body is the land we live on, whose blood is the rivers, and whose breath is the wind that we breathe.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” said Teron.

“Be quiet and listen,” chided Praxle. “Being made of the stuff of dragons, the world is infused with magic, but the various systems of magic use very different methodologies. Wizards are the most common form of mage, but not the most well known. They learn to manipulate magic through extensive schooling, rote memorization, and strict practicum. It takes them years to master their craft. Let me say that again. It takes them years of practice to manipulate that which pervades the world all around us. Clearly, then, they make up for a lack of talent with an excess of application. Do you understand?”

Teron nodded slowly.

“Artificers are the best-known of the magic-using disciplines, at least in the Five Kingdoms. Everyone knows artificers. They make the lightning rail, the everbright lanterns, all that rot. Basically, though, they need material items as a kind of magical crutch. They can make magic items do interesting things, and they’re very good a creating them, but you won’t see them slinging fireballs.”

Teron looked askance at Praxle. “What about divine casters?” he asked.

“Bah! A bunch of mewling pawns,” Praxle said, “hardly even worthy of the title of magic user. They are nothing more than a conduit. They don’t cast spells. Their god casts spells for them. They just channel a higher power through their body by bowing and scraping and fawning all over a being that, frankly, wouldn’t give a Karrnathi carcass whether they live or die. And I include druids in that. Especially druids. All that circle of life and death tripe they spew out, and they think that their deity cares a mite for them? They’re just as useful sprouting mushrooms out their back.”

Praxle drained the rest of the wine in his glass and handed it to Jeffers, who rose from the table to procure a refill.

“So let me get this straight,” said Teron, shoving the food to one side of his mouth. “Wizards have no talent. Artificers need crutches. And clerics are lapdogs.”

Praxle nodded, a half-sneer of exasperation on his face. “Can you believe it? Pathetic, the lot of them.”

“Psions?”

“Their major flaw is they don’t see the big picture. They focus on evolving themselves, whatever that means. Perfecting their craft. They remain fundamentally mortal. They don’t see that ascension is the issue. Sorcerers, however, at least some of them, understand.” Praxle paused in mid-thought, finger to thumb as he prepared to make a point. Instead, he asked, “Do you know where a sorcerer’s power comes from?”

Teron shook his head, and then pulled a draught of weak beer to wash down his bread.

“A sorcerer,” said Praxle, leaning forward and whispering, “has dragon’s blood. Now the catch is that most people think that this means blood from a dragon. But they’re wrong. It means blood from the dragon.”

“The dragon,” echoed Teron.

Praxle shrugged, “One of them, yes—although there’s no telling which one. Or perhaps all three.”

Teron narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking about …Siberys. Or Eberron.”

“Or Khyber. Yes, I am. I am talking about the fact that sorcerers don’t need crutches. They don’t need books. They don’t need to wheedle the gods out of a favor. They can work magic because the blood of the dragons flows in them, and the dragons are the very essence of magic itself. It’s the challenge the dragons give to the best of us, to see if we have the mettle to pull ourselves up by the scruff of the neck to stand above the mere mortals of the world!”

Jeffers returned and set a full glass of wine by Praxle, and then sat back down.

“What about dragonmarks?” asked Teron. “That seems a more definite gift of the dragons than this magical blood.”

Praxle laughed, a disparaging, long-suffering laugh, “Dragonmarks are a decoy. In fact, they’re a curse. They’re no challenge! They’re something that the dragons hand out just to make people shut up. They’re even worse of a crutch than an artificer’s … crutch. A person gets a dragonmark, and that’s a sure sign they’ll never go anywhere. Sure, they may be important in this world, but all their ability, all their potential, all their attention remains focused on scratching out a better hovel in the dirt.

“Look at it this way: If you have a dragonmark, you get to do one magical thing. One. That’s it. It’s like … having a crossbow that can only shoot at targets twenty-three yards away, no more and no less. For my part, I’ll take the challenge. I’ll take the hard path, and I’ll take the dragon’s blood! It just irks me that all those other schools of magic get the same respect, if not more, as sorcerers. They’re pathetic!”

Teron leaned back and pushed his plates away. “I think I’d better not eat any more of this,” he said.

“I’ll get the girl,” offered Jeffers, but as soon as he started to rise, Kelcie exited the kitchen and came to the table. With a dazzling smile she gathered the plates and retreated back into the kitchen.

Praxle chuckled.

“What?” asked Teron.

“That’s why you have that stupid mangy cat, you know,” said Praxle with a laugh. “That’s your familiar!”

Teron looked confused. “What do you mean? He’s a pet. He just showed up one day and started following me everywhere. He … he understands me….” His words trailed off as he considered the implications.

Praxle laughed again. “Well, then, aren’t you the worldly one?” he said with a huge grin.

Kelcie reappeared, bearing another mug of weak beer for Teron. She sat down beside him and gazed at him warmly. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked. “You liked the food, right?”

“It was wonderful, Kelcie,” said Teron, nervously trying to keep her rapt gaze, but the intensity and beauty of her gaze was too difficult and open for him to bear. “Urn, thank you.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Kelcie, reaching into a pocket in her apron, “Someone came by to see you, but I didn’t let her. She seemed like kind of a shrew, and I wanted you to get your sleep.” She reached into the pocket of her apron, pulled out the locket, and handed it to Teron.

“What’s this, Teron?” asked Praxle. “Does the Silver Flame want your godlike body now?”

Teron turned to show the gnome the crest on the locket. “Hathia Stalsun. Kelcie, why didn’t you tell me?” He rounded on the serving girl. “What were you thinking?”

“Well, I—”

“I have to go see her. She’s important.”

“But—”

“Let’s go,” said Teron, standing up and heading for the door. “We can’t keep her waiting.”

“But Teron, I—”

“Don’t try to interfere, Kelcie,” said Teron. He turned and paused at the door. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Praxle and Jeffers followed him out. Jeffers paused at the door and said, “Allow me to apologize for the ill manners of my companions, young lady.”

But Kelcie’s head was turned, and Jeffers could not see the pain in her eyes.

A hired carriage rolled up to the front of the Stalsun manor. The door opened, and Jeffers, Praxle, and Teron stepped out. They entered the manor and found themselves escorted once more to the drawing room to await Lady Stalsun, although this time the furniture was left without protection.

Lady Stalsun entered, her long dress hissing across the polished wooden floor, with a squad of guards as escort. She sat, and gazed upon her guests imperiously. “Do you know why I have summoned you here today?” she asked.

The three shook their heads.

“I have a suspicion that you returned to the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magical Academics,” she said.

“Only a suspicion?” asked Praxle, “That’s a weak statement. I don’t think your informants are earning their pay.” He paused and scratched his cheek. “We went there the once,” he added, shrugging, “you know that. We decided it would be too much trouble for not enough help.”

Hathia traded long stares with Teron and Praxle alike.

Teron broke the stalemate. “Why do you believe we’d waste our time returning?” he asked.

She smacked her lips once. “Last night, there was a fire at the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magical Academics,” she said. “It appears that somehow the entirety of the landscaping surrounding the building was set afire. Our mages were compelled to intervene, casting spells to extinguish the flames and dismiss the outsider that had been summoned to ignite them.” She paused and traced the contours of the carving in her armrest before continuing. “I find it curious that one day after you visit the Great Library, there is a magical fire there. Ill fortune seems to hound your heels.” Her look dared a response.

“Lady Stalsun, I understand your implication,” said Praxle, “but I am an illusionist, not an evoker or a conjurer. I have no talent in creating energy from nothing.”

“I had supposed that you would avow neither knowledge of nor complicity in the arson,” she said.

“How did you know that an outsider was involved?” asked Teron.

“I have sources within the Congress,” said Hathia. “The fires only subsided after a powerful dispelling.”

“If you were to do some more research,” said Teron, “you will find that it was not an outsider, but an elemental. Two originally manifested in the Guild Quarter. Apparently one ran amok and made it as far as the library before being destroyed.”

“And the other?”

“We took care of it,” said Teron.

“So you were nearby?”

“You might say that.”

Hathia tilted her head. “You think you were the targets.”

“I think you were the instigator,” said Teron. “You or your subordinates in the Congress.”

Hathia smiled and dropped her head slightly. “My dear monk,” she said, “my associates are prone neither to carelessness nor failure. I must wonder whether the Cyrans themselves might have unleashed this upon you. Certainly it displays the sort of recklessness I have come to expect from Cyran mages of late.”

Praxle and Teron looked at each other. “But how would they know where to find us?”

Hathia clenched her lips, as strong an expression as the visitors had ever seen her display. “The Cyrans have eyes, as well, feeding their information to a man known as the Shadow Fox.”

Praxle leaned forward. “What do you know of him?” he asked.

“Very little. Rumor has it that he gave up his name after the Day of Mourning, saying that if he had no country, then he had no name. Reports also indicate that he has made inroads among the Cyran expatriates as well as elements of the criminal underworld, and has established independent nests of Cyran agents throughout Thrane.

“Some of those agents are known to mine. We are piecing together the information we have in an effort to discern where this Shadow Fox might have sequestered the artifact in question.” She looked at them. “When we do, and I assure you we shall, I will send for you.”

“You’d hand that information to us rather than to your own government?”

“This artifact has lain in the hands of Zilargo for unknown centuries, as well as within Aundair for decades. In neither of those spans have those who controlled the relic endeavored to use it. The same could not be said of the limited time in which my government held it. Based on what you told me about the Cyran woman at Daskaran, this is something that I would rather never see used again.”

“So you trust us?” asked Praxle.

Hathia stood and moved to the door. She turned and appraised the trio one last time. “Trust is not the issue,” she said. “I simply have no other choice.”