The Orb of Xoriat

22 Escape

“WHAT?” bellowed Rezam. His brow furrowed.

“I said the driver took them Uptown, and then back down to Old Central. That’s where he dropped them. Then I saw them turn at Vintner’s Avenue, and I came right back here to tell you.”

Rezam’s mouth twisted with anger, as if trying to chew the words that fought for freedom. “They’re heading for the Sphere!” he said.

“That’s impossible!” said one of the other Cyrans.

“No!” yelled Rezam. “They know! They followed the Fox here, and somehow they know! Damn it!” He swept his robe about himself dramatically. “Follow me,” he said quietly, his eyes wide with intensity. “First we go to kill those who evaded us. Then we kill the one who led them here!”

A rapid knock sounded at the door, followed impatiently by another. “Wake up!” called Dyen as he knocked. “Wake up!”

There was no response from inside the darkened room. There was a scratching sound of metal on metal, and then the door’s tumbler slid to the side. The door swung open, and Dyen burst into the room, “Fox!” he whispered insistently. “We have troubles! Are you awake?”

He went over to the lantern that sat on the nightstand, the wick trimmed so low that it barely stayed ignited. “Fox,” he whispered again, turning up the wick, “are you all—”

The lantern shed its slanting light on a vacant bed.

“Fox?”

“We need to get out of here,” said Praxle, “Someone will come looking soon.”

“Agreed,” said Jeffers, panting. “But we have to be careful.”

With a groan, Teron pushed himself up to his hands and feet. He staggered, dizzy from the whirlwind. “Under the table,” he said weakly, “there are some things that might help.”

Praxle reached under the table and pulled the gear out. “This leather bag looks large enough to hold it,” he said. “And look, it’s lined with chain. That’s smart; helps ground out arcane effects. And what’s this?” he asked, holding the stained wrapping aloft. “It’s a smothering cloth!” He swept his arms, flipping the cloth out. “That’s sizeable, too,” he added. He glanced sidelong at the Orb of Xoriat, sitting on the tabletop. “Wrap that in this, and place them in the chain-lined bag? That would certainly stifle its aura. No wonder we couldn’t find it. Here, Teron, give a hand. Jeffers, you avert your eyes until we have it all wrapped up, understand?”

Teron took one end of the cloth, holding the corners out to keep it spread wide. Praxle wrangled the other two corners as best as he could with his smaller span. He clambered up onto the table and gently enveloped the Sphere with the end of the cloth. He held it in place as Teron walked around the table. He stepped over the cloth as Teron passed behind him, then the two of them ensured that the disturbing relic was wrapped thoroughly.

Finally the last of the cloth was set in place. Praxle took the two corners and tied them off against each other. “Good job, Ter,” he said, “You don’t mind if I call you Ter, do you? Hand me that bag. There’s a good man.”

Teron picked up the bag and opened it, then swept it across and scooped the Sphere and its gold stand into it. But when he pulled the bag toward him, it didn’t budge. “Hey,” he said. He tugged again. And again, and the Sphere finally started moving slowly across the table. “This is … that’s strange, very strange.”

“You expect some thing with ties to Xoriat to act normally?” asked Praxle. He shook his head. “I have a lot to teach you, Teron.” He paused to take a wand that lay on the floor. “Well, then, Jeffers,” he snapped, “one would think that averting one’s eyes would not preclude plundering the place. But no time now; let’s go.”

They left, Teron wrestling with the package all the way down the twisting passage to the outside.

Blood draining down her leg, the Shadow Fox leaned against the wall. Ahead, she saw a group of her people, led by the elf Rezam, speaking vehemently with a trio of Thrane guards.

“Go!” she called. “Get out of there! They’ve got guards all over the place!”

But even as some of her people heard her and turned their heads, she saw Rezam pull a wand and unleash a flaming inferno. The wave engulfed the Thrane guards, as well as several Cyrans who happened to be in the way.

“Run!” she bellowed, but she turned and staggered off, forced to abandon her people before she fainted.

Three simultaneous sighs of relief resounded through the opulent carriage when the lightning rail shuddered and started lumbering forward. The bag carrying the Orb sat in the center of the large, heavy dining table, and as the caravan started to accelerate, it stayed in place, slowly sliding toward one edge of the table and leaving long scratch marks in the polished wood. Jeffers moved to the end of the table to hold the bag in place while the caravan reached speed.

Slowly at first, then with increasing velocity, the rising spires of Flamekeep passed by the elegant windows, the flickering luminescence of the conductor stones reflecting off the building facades. Overhead, Dravago cast its cool lavender light upon their departure.

“We did it, Ter,” said Praxle. “We recovered it. After all this time, I have the Orb of Xoriat back in my hands. It’s finally back where it belongs.”

“We haven’t determined precisely where it’s going, Praxle,” Teron reminded him.

“I know,” said Praxle. “But it’s what, almost two days to Starilaskur? Until then, there’s only one route for the lightning rail, unless you have a whim to head east from Vathirond.”

“No,” said Teron, “I have no desire to go to the Mournland.”

“Well, then, then we have two relaxing days to talk things over and work out a solution. And once I understand this thing a little better, and I can explain it to you, I think we’ll find a very good solution indeed.”

Teron looked carefully at Praxle. He gauged his expression, then looked at the countryside passing by, then inspected the colorful map that was mounted in a frame on the wall. He decided he was fairly safe; the next major stop wasn’t until noon. “I’m going to get some sleep,” said Teron.

“You do that,” answered Praxle, climbing into a comfortable chair beneath an everbright chandelier. “I’m going to read.”

“Good night, master,” said Jeffers.

Teron turned to leave. This particular luxury coach had private bedrooms at each end, and Teron chose the one at the front. He reached over to the lamp on the side table and adjusted it brighter, then closed the door behind him.

He stripped off his vest, then reached into the waistband at the rear of his trousers. He pulled out a few pages of folded paper. The last few pages of Thrane notes; the culmination of their research. He read them over, then again. Once he had them committed to memory, he spindled them and slid the roll into the oil lamp.

Within a minute, there was nothing left but ashes.

Sometime during the night, Teron felt a massive weight settle upon him, crushing his brain, plugging his breath.

He saw the dragon. It turned to look at him, eyes afire with the flames of a thousand pyres.

It loomed closer, eclipsing the sun. “Teron,” it said, its voice rolling like distant thunder.

Teron woke up screaming.

Teron awakened slowly on the second morning of their trip. It felt odd to wake up in a large, comfortable bed with finely twilled sheets and a thick, downy comforter; they were a far cry from the cot and blanket that he’d had at the monastery. He was torn between a desire bordering on lust to enjoy this privilege while he could, and fear that such gross indulgence would undo his training and focus.

He rose, stretched, and ran through his morning exercise routine. In the midst of his chin-ups he heard a servant enter the car with their breakfast, but he finished all of his sets, each with an extra tenth tacked on to ensure that he wasn’t going soft.

He exited his bedroom into the common area and saw Praxle reading through the Thrane notes. Black circles hung under his eyes, and a plate of food set on the table next to his chair lay unattended. Jeffers looked up from his letters, gazing at Teron with worried eyes.

Teron sat and broke his fast with the half-orc. As they ate, Praxle occasionally picked at the food next to him. “Has he slept at all?” asked Teron quietly.

“Not at all the first night, Teron,” murmured Jeffers, keeping his head bowed to his plate. “Only a few times last night, and never for very long. Although I suspect he may have fallen asleep a few times with his eyes open. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.” He put down his fork and dabbed his face with his napkin to conceal his lips. “He’s hardly eaten, and only gets up to use the privy. And even then he brings his reading with him.”

“I know,” said Teron.

“If you have any suggestions …” began Jeffers.

“I was about to say the same thing,” replied Teron.

After crossing the border into Breland and passing through Vathirond, the lightning rail shunned the line that ran through the dead lands of Cyre, and instead turned southwest toward Starilaskur. There the line branched: one went across the north side of the Dragon’s Crown toward Breland and Aundair, the other led south along the Seawall Mountains to Zilargo.

Whether this particular caravan was branching south to Korranberg or continuing into Breland, Teron knew that the eventual confrontation with the gnome would come at Starilaskur. He knew Praxle would not let the Sphere pass so close to his home only to head back to Aundair. He debated the wisdom of postponing the confrontation, but at the moment things were peaceful, and he was concerned that an early debate could anger the increasingly unstable gnome. That, and he was curious why the sorcerer thought that learning about the Sphere would make a compromise easier for Teron.

The vast Brelish countryside rolled past throughout the morning and afternoon, occasional farms, rolling plains. Their course took them into a rainstorm that lashed the windows of the speeding caravan, but the trainer in the harness coach obstinately refused to slow down.

Shortly after lunch, Praxle finally stirred. “Right!” he said, negligently slapping the Thrane papers onto the end table beside him. The loose pages sprayed across the floor with the force, but Praxle paid them no heed. He stood and walked over to the bag that contained the Sphere. He gazed at the bag, his haunted eyes bulging above the dark circles that marred his cheeks.

“Now, Teron, allow me to show you what it is we have here,” he said. He used a chair to climb up onto the large table where the leather bag sat, then walked around it, kicking off the candlesticks and other things. Then he undid the latches that closed the bag and pulled out the golden stand. He set it on the table. Then he reached in to pull out the swaddled bundle. He grunted and strained, but made no progress.

“Slow and steady pressure,” said Teron. “That works best.”

“What?” Praxle paused in his efforts and looked at Teron. Unnoticed beneath him, the Sphere slowly rose, responding at last to Praxle’s efforts.

“Think of it as an angry mule,” said Teron. “It goes where it wants to go. Guide it firmly, but with patience. Push too hard, and you’ll just cause yourself more trouble.”

“Oh,” said Praxle. “It’s a wife.”

Jeffers snickered as Praxle ushered the Orb of Xoriat out of the bag and guided it to a more or less gentle landing in its golden cradle. He loosened the knot that held the smothering cloth tight, and began slowly unwrapping the artifact, a joyous smile gracing his face.

“I would have thought you’d be more impatient,” said Teron.

“Some moments need to be savored,” crooned Praxle. “Though the gods only know what awesome feats this creation was capable of before the druids drove Xoriat away from our plane, this is still a great moment.” Then he whipped his head over to face his bondservant. “Avert your eyes, Jeffers,” he snapped, then he returned to slowly undressing the relic. He had to raise the Orb a bit to get the cloth out from between it and the golden stand, but once it was raised, the unusual behavior of the Orb kept it hovering slightly off the stand with no further effort. Soon the last of the smothering cloth fell away, revealing the Orb in its unholy glory.

This was the first time that Teron had seen the Thrane Sphere not encased within a protective spell, and the image was disturbing. It seemed to be moving, either shifting its parts or crawling with thousands of microscopic ants.

Praxle ran his hands down his face, then clapped them together and rubbed them vigorously. He squinched up his eyes, shook his head vigorously, and heaved a deep sigh. “All right,” he said, “this is going to be more difficult than I thought.”

He looked up at Teron, then turned his eyes back to the Orb. “One thing you must decide, Ter, is where your loyalties lie,” he said, as his fingers slowly manipulated the surface of the Black Globe. “See, I can use the Orb by manipulating the pieces on its surface, by organizing them into a pattern. The same concept is true for families, nations, worlds. Someone manipulates, arranges the pieces into a pattern that produces pleasing results. That’s how a simple burglar works, arranging the tumblers of a lock to open a door. A general works by arranging the soldiers of the army, a king by adjusting the hearts of his people. Most of the inhabitants of the world exist to be manipulated for the benefit of others, even if it is to the detriment of those within the pattern. Me, I don’t want to be manipulated. I want to determine my own fate. I want to be the hand that creates the pattern. Like this.”

Teron stood, and saw that Praxle had arranged the shifting scarab-like plates of the Orb in such a manner that it looked like a black rose bloomed on one side.

“This Orb is an ancient relic, a door of sorts between here and the plane of Xoriat. Once, long ago, it allowed those in Xoriat to reach through to our plane and begin to rearrange the fabric of our world to suit their needs. That was the Daelkyr War. The Gatekeepers, they sealed the passages between here and Xoriat, but this doorway remains. While we can no longer reach into Xoriat, within this brilliant piece of work lies an antechamber to an alien place. And although the pittance left of Xoriat within this relic pales compared to its former power, it still has enough with in it to rearrange the pattern of life around your monastery. It has also allowed those here to reach through into the Realm of Madness, where, if they are careless like that Cyran mage we saw in Daskaran Ferry, they find themselves being worked into the inscrutable patterns of insanity.”

Praxle leaned forward to the Orb, and Teron noticed that the rose that bloomed on its surface was now shifting of its own accord. “But doors open both ways, if you know how to work them. There are few indeed who could do what we’re about to do,” said Praxle. He leaned forward, drawing his face close to the growing bloom. It almost looked like the Orb was puckering to give Praxle a tainted kiss.

“What are we about to do, Praxle?” asked Teron suspiciously.

An orange vapor curled away from the Orb’s lips, like the smoke from a smoldering log. Praxle leaned close and inhaled deeply, using his hands to waft even more up to his face. The writhing orange mist seemed to struggle against him but got drawn into his nose and mouth. He inhaled, swallowed, and smacked his lips. “Make patterns for ourselves,” he said, “and not at the behest of the weavers.”

The rose closed, and Praxle sat back on his heels. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded, and his eyes were bright and alert. “You see, those who used the Orb at your monastery, they did so at the behest of others. They allowed themselves to become part of the pattern. That is why they suffered as they did and ended up devoured by madness. Their masters back at the Congress, they pulled the strings, manipulated events. Fortunately for us, they did not reap the benefits.”

Teron shook his head. “I don’t understand, Praxle,” he said.

Praxle’s hands flew over the surface of the Orb, and the rose started to bloom again. “It’s all about patterns, Ter,” he said. “That’s how you learn martial arts, isn’t it? You perform moves in patterns. Your patterns start out simple, and as you get more experienced, those patterns grow. Your body learns those patterns, and adapts itself to them.” He inhaled deeply again, drawing another lungful of orange mist. Again he swallowed, smacked his lips. “Ah, the taste of success,” he said to himself. He looked at Teron again, and the black bags beneath his eyes were utterly gone. “But what happens when the pattern becomes too complex?”

“I don’t know.”

“It drives you mad.”

“You’re not making sense,” said Teron.

Praxle cackled. “Of course not! That is the point! Those who understand greater patterns seem mad to those beneath them, because they can unravel concepts that appear nonsensical to the uneducated mind!”

Even as he spoke, his hands flew about the surface of the Black Globe and opened the rose a third time. He breathed deeply, and this time the orange mist was sucked away without resistance. He moaned pleasurably as the rose closed itself.

“Teron,” he said solemnly, “I have much to teach you now.” He extended one hand. “You have shown yourself to be disciplined, focused, and clever. You have the blood of the dragon in your veins. You are worthy to be my protégé, and I can help you. You will walk with me as we ascend to power you haven’t dreamed of!”

Teron stepped forward, completely unsure of where this was going but positive that either a confrontation or a very strange consensus was approaching.

“It all makes perfect sense now,” said Praxle. “The Last War was not chaos. It was a pattern. Losing the Orb of Xoriat was not a tragedy. It was a necessary step in a convoluted sequence of events. Everything has unfolded according to a pattern that I am only now beginning to grasp. It has been a puzzle laid before us, Teron, a conundrum that we managed to unravel, a maze that we were able to solve from within. This, this beautiful blossom, it’s like a puzzle box, and now that we have deduced our way out of the puzzle box that holds us prisoner, only now can we unlock this small puzzle box in front of us and escape.”

His hands worked quickly on the side of the Sphere facing Teron. He didn’t even look as he worked, but stared straight at the monk. Teron watched as the gnome’s darting fingers pushed and slid, herding the beetled pieces and corralling them to bring forth the blooming rose again.

“Breathe, Teron,” said Praxle. “Breathe and eat.”

Teron looked down at the orange mist that crawled across the surface of the Sphere like an unearthed worm. “What will it do?” he asked.

Praxle held his palms up. Without warning, fire sprang forth from his right palm, while a fragile castle of frost formed in his left. “It will magnify you,” he said. “It will feed the dragon’s blood. Breathe, and we shall explore the Orb of Xoriat together.”

“But …”

“But what? Will you crawl back to the monastery and let Prelate Quardov order your days while he lets your monastery rot? Will you adhere to the strictures given you by those long dead, remain what they made you while the world around you changes?”

The Quiet Touch, thought Teron. None are left, save me, and they don’t know what to do with me any more. Curiosity nibbled at his brain, and he looked with renewed admiration at the display of Praxle’s increased magical abilities. It’s my job to recover the Sphere, he thought. Shouldn’t I know what it can do?

He leaned forward, pursing his lips to suck in the orange mist that hugged the surface of the Sphere. It resisted being drawn in, but with a few deep breaths, he managed to inhale it. He felt it move within him, and he swallowed reflexively. He felt something slide down his throat, and a gritty sensation filled his mouth. He had a distinct sensation that a great vaporous snake was searching his innards for a way to freedom. He held his breath and salivated, trying to rinse his mouth clean with spit. Gingerly he started letting his breath out, but then again strange sensations moved within him. He coughed, then sniffed sharply to fight against a painful feeling that was growing at the rear of his sinuses.

Then everything changed. The awkward, unnatural feelings faded, as did the movements within. There was a feeling within his bones, a warm feeling that grew. For some reason he thought of watching tea infuse a bowl of hot water. He heard an indistinct screech, a wail ringing in his ears, but at the same time he felt his blood quicken within him, permeating his soul and enhancing his life force. His fists clenched instinctively as a wave of euphoria washed over him. His injured eyebrow tingled. He raised a hand to it, and found that the swelling had all but vanished. Then he looked at his hand, and saw that the red burn marks had faded considerably.

He looked at Praxle, his joints trembling slightly. Praxle swallowed and smacked his lips, a look of enjoyment and camaraderie on his face. “Doesn’t that feel … good?” he asked, his hands opening the Orb again. He drew in another lungful of the orange mist, eyes closed. “I can feel my power growing. I can feel my blood pumping within me, I can feel the flow of the world, feel it moving into its pattern.” He laughed quietly. “This must be what the dragons mean when they speak of the Prophecy.” His eyes still closed, he proffered the Sphere, bloom opening, to Teron.

Teron drew in the orange mist, and he felt the supernatural effects once more, the shrieking noise, the crawling within, the infusion of power. He drew upon his training in meditation to look within himself, and found that he could better sense the energy that he used to fuel his magical strikes. He looked down at his hands and shaped them into claws. Flexing his muscles, he saw his palms turn bright white for just a moment as the energy within pressed to the surface and then retreated back within him. Only a slight nausea accompanied the evocation.

He looked up at Praxle, “What’s happening?” he asked.

“I’ve opened the door in the other direction,” said Praxle. He opened his eyes again, and Teron saw that his pupils had become somewhat elliptical, his eyes glassier. “I’m using the Orb of Xoriat to awaken the latent power of our dragon’s blood. A while back, Ter, you said that pain is the mortar of our lives. That’s true; I assume you learned that at the monastery. But your teachers fell just short of the mark. Pain is indeed the mortar of your life, but—here’s the trick—it doesn’t have to be your pain!

“That’s the beauty of this device; it understands. The door is very small now; the Thranes apparently did not figure out how to completely open the Sphere. If only they had, I could already have drained every last one from within the Sphere.”

“Every last one … of what?” asked Teron, fearing the answer.

Praxle gave him an incredulous look. “Why, souls, of course.”