The Orb of Xoriat

4 The Noose Tightens

Dressed only in a pair of simple pants and drenched with sweat, Teron pressed his body closer to perfection. His toes rested on the windowsill of his lonely cell as he did pushups on his clenched fists. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, dropping from his nose and forehead to the floor. He tried to focus on the little rippling rings each droplet made in the growing puddle to turn his mind away from the trembling weakness that grew in his exhausted muscles.

He could feel his concentration starting to slip as it usually did when he neared one thousand repetitions. Awareness of his continued effort forced its way into his mind. He paused from the rhythmic up and down motion, bent his hips to rest his back, and took several deep breaths.

Only then did he become aware of the cat.

Flotsam sat on the sill, and its lashing tail repeatedly struck Teron across the ankles. A low growl emanated from its throat.

Teron glanced over his shoulder, but the angle was all wrong. He pushed off with his feet, dropped his shoulders into an easy somersault, rolled to a standing position, and stepped over to the tom.

“What is it?” he asked. “I’m late for the midday meal.”

He reached out and stroked the cat’s fur. It took no notice of the gesture, and Teron could feel the tension in its muscles. He looked out onto the Crying Fields, following the cat’s gaze. His eye scanned the area, but he saw no sign of birds or rodents.

“You see something,” he said quietly. “I guess eating can wait.”

“Keiftal?” Prelate Quardov reached out and tapped the elder monk on the shoulder.

The monk started, surprised by his superior’s appearance in his cell.

“We need to talk, my friend,” said Quardov.

Keiftal put down his pens, set aside the parchment that he was illuminating, then stood from his small desk to face the prelate. He dropped his eyes for a moment and licked his lips as he shifted from foot to foot. “I’m sorry, my reverence,” he said, fear and sorrow filling his eyes.

Quardov winced at Keiftal’s excess volume and patiently held up one hand, gesturing him to lower his tone.

“I didn’t intend to tell the gnome so much about the Thrane Sphere,” Keiftal said. “You may remember that the whole incident was … well, a very difficult time for me, I often get too wrapped up in my memories. If you said something to restrain my tongue, I didn’t hear it, and for that I apologize.”

Quardov smiled, his gentle gaze itself a benediction. “It is all right, my friend. I understand.”

“You do?” asked Keiftal, hope in his eyes.

“Of course I do,” he said. “It was a very traumatic time for everyone. But Keiftal, my good servant, there is a more important issue we face, and I require your assistance in the matter.”

Keiftal wrung his hands and leaned forward. “Of course. How may I be of service?”

Quardov paused to consider his words. “The gnome wishes to meet with me in private, ostensibly to speak with me about his University’s business here. However, he will no doubt press me with further questions about the … Thrane Sphere and the incident that you began to describe. Much has happened over the last twenty-odd years, and I have … so many duties and responsibilities. Well, to be frank, much of the details have slipped from my mind. Before I speak with him, I must ensure that I have the facts accurately summarized in my own mind, if you would be so kind as to check my memory.”

“As you wish, my reverence,” said Keiftal in a stage whisper so loud it sounded more like he was gravelly hoarse.

“Well, then,” said Quardov. “Let us start with the Thrane Sphere. What exactly happened to it after the battle?”

“I recovered it, my reverence. I sent you that private missive, inquiring after its disposition.”

“I know that,” said Quardov. “I can’t remember precisely what we finally chose to do with it. The general plan, yes, but…”

Keiftal looked at his superior with no small concern. “We hid it in the catacombs,” he said, “under the flagstone in the corner of the false tomb.”

“Ah, the false tomb,” said Quardov.

“Yes, my reverence.”

“Probably smart to keep it away from the dead bodies. Wouldn’t want them rising up, would we?” Quardov winked.

“Uh, yes, my reverence,” said Keiftal. “I mean, no.”

“Thank you for your time, my child,” said Quardov. “I must go to meet with our good professor d’Sivis.”

He strode from Keiftal’s small chamber but paused and turned just outside the door.

“Master Keiftal,” he asked, “do you think that the gnome believed what I said about the Quiet Touch?”

“I rather doubt it, my reverence,” said the old monk, “But that was a clever answer in any event. I doubt he’ll be rude enough to question your veracity.”

Quardov nodded, then departed. As he walked the shadowed corridors of the main hall to the room where Praxle had asked to meet, magical motes peeled away from his skin, leaving a slight trail of shifting colors in his wake. It looked almost like he was dissolving in the darkness. By the time he reached the door to the meeting room, the last vestiges of the spell had completely unraveled.

He opened the door.

Inside, prelate Quardov ceased his pacing, “There you are, professor d’Sivis. I was becoming concerned that you had lost your way.”

“Pray forgive my tardiness, prelate,” said Praxle, smiling as he closed the door behind him.

Teron stalked across the blighted grass, bare feet making a rustling noise as they crushed the stiff blades. His face was a blank mask as he scanned the ground. After leaving his cell, he’d found a large area of depressed grass just on the other side of a rise, indicating that several creatures of some sort had lain there, observing the monastery. Multiple tracks left the area. He’d chosen to pursue the one that headed for the monastery.

Are they beasts? he wondered. Surely spies wouldn’t risk having so many people skulking about in broad daylight? Unless they were shape changers.

He followed a trail of disturbed vegetation, turned stones, and other faint marks, pausing every five to ten paces to kneel and inspect the ground more closely. The tomcat Flotsam moved nearby, scenting the air. Were he not so exhausted from his workout, he’d follow the trail at a crouching trot, head low to the ground, but his legs would not withstand such additional abuse, and he doubted he could spare the time to rest up. If only he could find a decent footprint in the hardened ground, he’d better know what his quarry might be … and whether the whole monastery might be in danger.

The trail turned to one of the windows in the choral chamber, then emerged again. Teron paused and inspected the window and casement. The pane was only as wide as his forearm was long, and the stone frames extended outward a good span or more from the glass. The surfaces were wide and close enough for even an inexperienced climber to scale with little difficulty. He ran his fingers carefully up and down the stonework outside the windows. He found a piece of moss clinging to the casement and noted that the top edge of the patch had been partially turned down. Teron stood, letting his fingers trace the casement, and found a few lighter slashes on the stone, where some grit had scratched the dirty surface of the building. Matching marks marred the other side of the window, as well as a small piece of dark fuzz snagged on a ragged piece of mortar.

He exhaled with deep concern. He’d hoped the trail had been made by a rat or a lingering squad of Karrnathi zombies still fighting the Last War. Such intrusions were not unheard-of in this section of Aundair. Those that prowled the Crying Fields were dangerous but manageable. But this proved that he was facing a real threat—a sentient creature with stealth and forethought. And it answered, at least in part, why people would risk a daylight intrusion. More activity meant more to spy on.

He looked up the height of the window. Two and a half floors over his head, the casement came to a point. It looked like it would be a difficult climb from there to the roof. Perhaps, he surmised, the infiltrator had chosen to find another way, or perhaps the infiltrator had successfully scouted a route and left to gather comrades. Either way …

Concentration once more wiped all expression from his face, and he continued tracking the intruder’s footsteps. As he passed near the ruins of the Great Gallery, he stopped, got down on his hands and knees, and inspected the ground. Flotsam stepped up next to him, sniffing the dirt.

Two paths crossed the one he was following. One of those paths indicated that more than one person had used it, or that someone had used it multiple times. He studied the area, looking for hints on which path was the newer. He was able to dismiss one of the crossing paths—the one probably left by a single person—as older. The other he was not so clear about.

He sat back on his heels, lacing his fingers and pressing them to his lips. Should he follow the one or the many? The larger group was clearly more powerful, but their size meant they might not be as great a threat. They could be neither as small nor as stealthy as a lone operative. The Quiet Touch had proved that lone people could be very dangerous indeed. But he had no way of knowing whether the single person was a scout, an assassin, a diversion, or a rearguard.

He chose to follow the single track, for no other reason than that he had already been following it and was getting used to the person’s style of movement. He tightened the drawstring of his tunic, hoping to stem off the annoying feeling of hunger.

The trail led into a denser section of rubble toppled from the ruined building. He followed the trail by hopping from stone to stone; his bare feet made almost no noise as he moved, and he was able to keep the suspect trail pristine.

The trail wound expertly among the rubble, always following the path that offered the most concealment and created the least noise. This infiltrator moved like he did, he realized. He gained respect for his opponent—and also relaxed somewhat, for this realization made it easier to forecast the track.

The trail led to a portion of the monastery that was a near-total wreck, the former cathedral of Dol Arrah. The cathedral had stood five stories tall before the war, with towers rising far above that; a stirring sight when one realized how very old the cathedral was. One of the first large projects undertaken by House Cannith after they revolutionized construction with their dragonmarks and magewrights, it had once sported a lofty sanctuary, balconies across the ceiling and down several of the walls, huge stained-glass windows, soaring pillars made from the trunks of mammoth Karrnathi pine trees, and well over a hundred hand-carved benches. The foundation of the cathedral was a complete level of its own, all stonework, and filled with room after room of illuminated manuscripts, catechisms, studies in exegesis and theology, and histories of the lives of the faithful. Below that lay the tombs of past leaders, martyrs, and teachers. It was said that the faithful in the cathedral had been therefore supported by the scriptures and the bones of the holy.

Naturally, the Thranes, being beholden to the Silver Flame and not the Sovereign Host, had bombarded the cathedral in 918, destroying its priceless history, unique architecture, and timeless beauty in a matter of days. Perhaps they had hoped that so doing would break the will of the resident monks. From his talks with Keiftal, Teron knew that the travesty had only incensed the monks to further greatness, although the cathedral had never been used for any purpose since. At least not until the resurrection of the Quiet Touch.

Teron glided up to the ruined side of the cathedral. The foundation with its empty galleries of scribes’ cells was imbedded into the ground, with only small windows here and there to let in natural light. The sanctuary floor started roughly at the height of Teron’s hip, but the walls rose higher, and the ruined stained-glass window over which he needed to climb was almost as high as he could reach.

Did you go up to the sanctuary floor or down to the scriptorium? he wondered. I could answer that if only I knew what drew you here in the first place.

“How did your interviews go, master?”

“Flawlessly, Jeffers,” answered Praxle, shutting the simple wooden door behind him as he entered their guest quarters. “Flawlessly. There’s nothing like a little illusion to find the truth, as they say.”

“What did you find out, if I may be so bold, master?” asked the half-orc. He opened a hard leather case and pulled out a cut-crystal bottle and a gnome-sized brandy snifter. He filled the glass and handed it to his master.

“The Orb of Xoriat is concealed in the catacombs, Jeffers. Where is that, you wonder? So did I. So I had a very nice chat with our friend Prelate Quardov. First I enquired after his position in the church and all the important tasks that he performs. Well, then, once he was well-buttered, I pressed him for the history of the monastery, especially all the famous heroes and saints that might be buried here, and among whose number I was certain he would eventually take his rightful place.”

Jeffers sniggered.

“And, after all that plying, he told me that he would not be buried with the local saints, but in Fairhaven.”

“Why would that be, master?”

“Because the catacombs are in yon cathedral, that utterly ruined scrap heap. No one goes in, so the tombs lie unattended. In truth, it makes a twisted kind of sense to bury something like the Orb in there. No one wants to enter such an unsafe area, and if the Aundairian religious elite do nothing to clean it up, then, it’s clear to all that there is nothing of value there.”

“Except for the saints,” said Jeffers.

“I know,” said Praxle, a confused lilt in his voice. “That’s a dichotomy of Quardov that I haven’t yet unraveled. He’s snubbing everyone buried there, in a way, yet he’s managed to twist it around to where everyone seems to believe that he’s being respectful by letting it all rot. Kind of like this whole monastery.”

“My word, master, it appears that Quardov’s tongue was far more effusive than I had surmised.”

Praxle snorted, a jaded and longsuffering note. “Not as such,” he said. “I persuaded him that I had a research grant from the University, and that if he could spare me the trouble of trudging all the way to Fairhaven and digging through their huge library of musty old tomes, I’d be happy to apportion my expense account with him.”

“You bribed him.”

“Jeffers, a cleric is above such menial temptations,” said Praxle. They shared a laugh.

“Well, then, somewhere beneath the cathedral are the catacombs,” said Praxle. “Tonight, you and I will see what we can find.”

The half-orc pulled out a large traveling case and undid the latches. He opened it and pulled out a small lantern with a colored lens, a set of lock picks, a crowbar, and a wide broadsword with a serrated blade. He fished around in his kit bag and grabbed a whetstone, then sat on a chair and started honing his blade. “Why did you not demand the Orb out right, master?” he asked, “It does rightfully belong to the University, does it not?”

“Yes it does, but as they say, possession finds ways and means to keep itself.” Praxle stepped over to the window and gazed out, surveying the ruins of the cathedral. “The prelate is very defensive about the Orb, make no mistake. I know I frustrated him by pressing about military matters earlier, which is why I took such pains to fawn all over him just now. No, he’d never admit they had the Orb, and he certainly would never turn it over. I’ll have to resort to other means.”

“Won’t that cause trouble when they discover the Orb’s missing?”

“It won’t matter, Jeffers. Because then I’ll be the one who has possession.”