The Orb of Xoriat

6 Prayers Answered

Quardov led a procession through the heart of the monastery and across the courtyard to a little-used outbuilding. As they entered, a scruffy tomcat rounded the corner. It arched its back and hissed at Quardov, then stopped, sat, and watched the procession pass before scampering off.

The black-clad monks followed Quardov into the building. Two of them held Praxle’s arms in debilitating joint locks. The gnome dared not struggle. Two more moved over to iron manacles dangling from a massive beam in the ceiling. They opened the cuffs and clamped them around Praxle’s small wrists.

The cuffs were built for a human frame. They hung just low enough so that Praxle’s feet could still touch the floor. His arms, however, extended straight into the air, with his shoulders pressing on his ears.

“Find out everything he knows,” said Quardov. “Leave no marks.”

“My reverence,” said one of the monks, flexing his fingers, “we never leave marks.”

Quardov ignored the comment and turned to leave, Keiftal following after him.

As they crossed the courtyard, Keiftal struggled to keep even with the prelate. “Would you like to speak to Teron, now, my reverence?” he asked, peering at Quardov’s face.

Quardov drew up short, his lip curled in loathing. “Teron? Why is he still here?”

“What would you have us do with him, prelate?” asked Keiftal.

“I don’t know,” said Quardov. He fluttered one hand in vexation, “Send him home.”

“This is his home,” said Keiftal. “He was just a lad when he first arrived. We raised him, taught him, trained him in the ways—”

Quardov raised one hand. “I know,” he said. “Do not presume to remind me.”

“Then why do you wish us to send him away? He is the last of—”

“I know he’s the last, and damn his soul, he lingers so!”

“He is—”

“He is a freak!”

Keiftal backed away. “Wh—what do you mean?”

Quardov stabbed one accusing finger in the direction of the monastery. “Anyone who went through that … that training so easily is not someone who is in full possession of his faculties! He—” Quardov paused. “He shouldn’t exist. I don’t trust him, nor would I trust any of his kind.”

Keiftal nodded. “As you wish, my reverence, but I still suggest you speak with him. He might offer some additional insight into the gnome’s fellow conspirators.”

Quardov clenched his teeth. “You speak too loudly, Keiftal,” he said. “You have ever since the first day you brought that damnable Sphere to me.”

Teron groaned. The light tormented his eyes and gouged its way into his mind. His restless legs kicked weakly, pulling the sheet from his body, and his stomach felt like a single knot of rope.

He felt a cold cloth placed on his forehead, then a second cloth, sodden with water, placed at his lips. He gathered his wits and sucked on the cloth. An unseen hand took it and replaced it again. Teron drank more, then managed to squeeze out the word, “Enough.”

He forced his breathing and heartbeat to become regular. He started clenching and unclenching his fists in a slow cycle, willing his body to cooperate.

A deep breath, and then he stretched, first his arms, then his shoulders, then his torso—

“Hsst!” Two biting pains in his sides brought him fully to consciousness.

“I wouldn’t do that, brother,” said his attendant.

“You could have … told me earlier,” managed Teron.

“I didn’t know you’d forgotten it.”

Teron laughed, a single chuckle more like a cough than a true laugh. “I didn’t know either,” he said. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t there, brother. If you’ll be all right alone for a moment, let me fetch the master and the prelate. They’ve been asking after you.”

Teron nodded weakly, and he heard sandaled footsteps depart the room.

He lay there for a while, trying to recollect his thoughts and memories, and inventory his known wounds. Then he realized that he was in no imminent danger and that his best course of action right now was simply to rest, so he tried … and failed, because after a few moments of calm, his brain started working on the memories again.

Soon he heard footsteps approaching. He opened his eyes just long enough to see Quardov, Keiftal, and one or two others enter the room. Most of the people stopped at Teron’ side. One person—Teron recognized master Keiftal, thanks to his shuffling step—went around his cot to the other side.

The imperious voice of the prelate split the air. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Teron.

“I insist you tell us. Now.”

“My reverence,” said a voice that Teron recognized as the attendant, “he is very weak. He has lost a lot of blood.”

“Tell me what you know,” said Teron. “I’ll see if you’re right.”

The prelate sniffed, clearly annoyed. “One of the … brothers … claims that he saw you give the signal for invasion and then repair into the scriptorium below the cathedral. He went for assistance. While he was gathering others, he chanced to see a glowing, pulsating object shoot from the scriptorium window and arc over the rise.”

Teron raised one hand halfway, then let it drop.

“You wish to add some keen insight?” said Quardov, who, although he’d been annoyed at having to speak, now showed affront at being interrupted.

“I think … it was a bird familiar … with a light spell.”

“That would make sense, my reverence,” boomed Keiftal, his nasal voice swamping the room. “The flapping wings of a bird would seem to make the light flicker, would they not?”

“Enough,” said Quardov. “As the witness and the others exited the building, they saw a pair of thieves exit the scriptorium and flee up the same rise. They gave chase, but the pair chanced upon a quintet of horses and rode away.”

“Brought there … by the familiar,” said Teron.

“Yes, quite,” said Quardov. “I’m sure we were all aware of that.” He sighed. “Then the brothers searched the scriptorium and the catacombs. They found you and took you for dead. But… you were not. They also found other bodies. The thieves you killed?”

Teron nodded.

“One had a rather unusual injury—black burns upon his breast. Burnt through to the bone, I am told. Tell me, how did you manage that?”

Teron opened his eyes. Quardov loomed over him. On the opposite side of the bed, Keiftal gazed down on him with a look of grave concern. Teron closed his eyes again and let his head sink back on the pillow. “I don’t remember. One of the thieves probably had a torch, and I used it for a weapon.”

“A torch?” said Quardov. “We found no torch, but instead a bulls-eye lantern. Are you suggesting that the thieves took a torch, but left a lantern? Preposterous!”

“It could have been a wayward spell, my reverence,” said Keiftal.

“You will tell me what happened!” said Quardov.

Teron didn’t react. Instead, he paused for a heartbeat, and then started softly snoring. He twitched one hand for good measure.

“We should let him sleep, my reverence,” said the attendant.

Quardov growled and stomped from the room. As his steps faded, Teron popped his eyes back open and caught Keiftal’s sleeve as the old master shuffled his way around the bed.

“Keiftal,” he whispered. “How many bodies did you find?”

The old monk glanced down the hallway, then raised two fingers.

Teron scowled.

Quardov waited until Keiftal had left the hospice and shut the door behind him. “That was an utter waste of my time.”

“I apologize, my reverence,” said Keiftal. “He has been badly injured.”

Quardov closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “And now we have nothing to do but wait.”

Praxle’s shrill scream echoed through the air.

Quardov snorted and began to walk down the hall. “At least such sounds are no strangers to this place.”

“My reverence,” said Master Keiftal, trotting around to be in front of the prelate, “We should not wait.”

“Don’t stand so close to me,” said Quardov.

Keiftal retreated a step or two.

“We must wait, Keiftal,” Quardov said. “What other choice do we have?”

“We must pursue!”

“With what?” asked Quardov. “The thieves fled on horseback. Magebred horses, no less, and five in number, so even if we did have a nag in the stable, they’d still get away! We could send a runner to alert the military, but what would they find? Nothing! We can give them no more than, ‘Watch for a large spherical object,’ and that is hardly helpful in matters such as this! By the Sovereign Host, we don’t even know what the thieves look like! What more would you have me do, you impudent wretch? This is all your fault anyway! You were to safeguard that Sphere!”

“Send Teron after them.”

Quardov laughed, a hysterical laugh of bitter grief and unbearable stress. “Do you really think that one monk is going to outperform the entire Aundairian military?”

“That’s what he does,” said Keiftal. “You said yourself that you didn’t think the military would find anything. He’s much more … unobtrusive than a battalion.”

“We cannot use him,” said Quardov. “The thieves fought him in the catacombs. They know what he looks like.”

“And he knows what they look like,” said Keiftal. “He’s the only one who does.”

Quardov opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. He saw the logic and found himself running out of energy. He chose to make a small concession and said, “You make some sense, Keiftal. For a change. But despite your reasoning, it will be too late. He will be too slow in recovering from his wounds.”

“You are right, my reverence,” said Keiftal. “It will take too long for him to recover naturally.”

“What are you saying?”

“I suggest that you lay your hands on Teron and petition Dol Arrah to heal his wounds.”

“What?” gasped Quardov. “Heal him? Heal that…that… that travesty? His kind weren’t even supposed to survive the war!”

Keiftal’s eyes widened. “What? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you understand?” The prelate lowered his voice to a hiss. “They are an embarrassment, an affront, a festering blight on the fair face of Dol Arrah! The Quiet Touch never should have been. We never should have allowed them to be!”

Quardov paced back and forth, turning like a wild dog on a short tether. He took a deep breath and continued. “Don’t you see? That’s why we sent them on their final missions. When the Treaty of Thronehold was being negotiated and peace was approaching, we sent them out on suicide missions. Remove key Thrane military personnel to advance our position in the coming peacetime and blot out their foul existence from our history! They should all be dead, gone, vanished from the face of Eberron, and he, he has the gall, the temerity, the cold vindictiveness to live!”

Keiftal stood, his mouth agape. Then he shook off his surprise, swallowed hard, and looked at Quardov with a cool, detached gaze. “Then, my reverence,” he said, “the Thrane Sphere is as good as lost.”

Praxle fought to lose consciousness, strove to dive into blissful blackness, but the broken rafters wouldn’t let him. The rafters dangled him like a fish on the line. They summoned the fingers. The fingers sent searing fire up and down his body, bouncing him back and forth between the abyss and the light. Praxle tried to remember, but he couldn’t. There was only pain and the dread of pain.

Someone asked a question, but it meant nothing to Praxle. He would have answered, but he couldn’t. His head hung to the rear, forcing his mouth open, and now it was gone dry. Or maybe it had been the screaming that did it. He raised his head just enough to try to swallow, to get some fluid back in his parched mouth. He failed at that but chanced to see his arms stretched before him. They were trying to dive, but the rafters pulled them away.

He heard words: “You’ve pushed him too far. He’s incoherent.” He was uncertain what the words meant, but someone was banished away. Praxle hoped that didn’t mean that he’d failed the rafters somehow and that more pain was coming. He felt a hand grab his hair and pull his head erect, then someone dumped a small pail of water over his head. Praxle gasped, and then his tongue licked up all the water that was within reach. Another half pail of water quickly followed, and Praxle was aware enough to capture a mouthful or two. With that, he was able to rouse himself and clear his mind.

His wrists were chafed where the manacles were clamped, and his shoulders and elbows ached from supporting the weight of his body. His knees quivered from weakness, but he forced himself to stand nonetheless—partially to relieve the pain in his wrists but more so to make it easier to breathe. His head weaved back and forth as if it were too heavy for his neck, which, truth be told, it was.

The room was empty, save for one black-clad monk. The interrogator stood in front of Praxle, appraising him with a critical eye and a passionless face. He caught Praxle’s gaze, and seeing that the spark of sanity had returned, he bowed his head slightly. “I apologize if this interrogation is being done in an unprofessional manner,” he said. “Uses such as this are not our primary reason for learning pressure points. Thus we are not taught how to employ them in these situations. I fear we have taken more of your time than is necessary, yet there is much time still to be spent here. For that I am sorry, but I have more I must learn from you.”

“I’ve told you all I know,” said Praxle.

The monk smiled. “It would take a lifetime for you to tell me all you know,” he said. “But in this case, I will spare you the punishment for lying to me.”

“There’s nothing else you can learn from me … about … whatever happened here.”

“So you say. But I have been directed to find out for myself if that is true. Shall we continue?”

“I’d rather not,” said Praxle.

“Acquiescence would have been easier for both of us,” said the monk, “It would have given you the illusion of influence, and me the illusion of cooperation. Now we have neither.” He reached out and took Praxle by the elbows, pressing his thumbs onto the vulnerable nerves.

As Praxle stopped writhing, he felt a light triple tap on the top of his head. He looked up, but saw nothing but the rafters.

The monk grabbed Praxle’s hair and pulled his head forward again. “Stay with me,” he said, “and we will finish more quickly. We would both like that, wouldn’t we?”

Praxle nodded. “Yes, we would,” he said, and started scuffing his feet back and forth across the floor. “Ask me anything. I swear I’ll answer.”

“That’s better,” said the monk—then he made a small noise like a hiccup. He looked down at the serrated steel point protruding from his ribs. He looked up at Praxle for a moment, a questioning look in his eyes, then his eyes dilated and focused on the hereafter.

Jeffers, now visible standing behind the monk, let the tip of his sword drop, and the corpse sagged to the floor.

The half-orc wiped his blade on the monk’s pants and sheathed it. Then he pulled a thin steel pick from his belt and started working on the locks of Praxle’s manacles.

“It’s about time you got here,” said Praxle.

“I took the first opportunity,” replied Jeffers.

“There was no chance yesterday?”

“It’s only been two hours, master,” said Jeffers. The lock of the first manacle clicked, and Jeffers freed Praxle’s right wrist. “This was the first time since you’ve been captured that there was only one monk to overcome.”

“I bought a bodyguard who’s afraid of two unarmed monks?”

Jeffers shrugged. “They are very skilled in weaponless combat. I have little experience facing such techniques. While I would be certain to kill one, I could not be positive of my defeating the other in a fair fight.”

Praxle threw Jeffers a weary and angry look. “I hire you to keep me safe. If you die, I can always buy another half-orc.”

“You hire me to keep you alive, master,” responded Jeffers. “Were I to die, I could not free you. And where, then, would you buy yourself another chance to escape?”

Praxle considered this, then collapsed to the floor when Jeffers opened the second manacle.

“Time to go, master,” said Jeffers. “I’ve made some preparations.” He slung Praxle over one shoulder, stepped to the doorway, looked out, then sprinted out the door and around to the back side of the outbuilding. He adjusted Praxle’s position to one that Praxle found even more painful, then sprinted again.

The gnome bounced along on the half-orc’s shoulder, too exhausted to resist or protest. The sun-washed red grass and ruins swooped by beneath the gnome’s exhausted gaze, then Jeffers hauled him into a building. The stable, by the earthy smell of it.

Praxle heard Jeffers open a latch, then found himself unceremoniously dumped onto a wooden floor. He banged his head as he landed, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had recently experienced, and he took no particular notice.

For a blissful moment, he was motionless. Then he heard Jeffers whip some horses into motion, and the carriage lurched forward, rolling Praxle under the bench. He tried to rise but banged his head. He managed to stabilize his position as the carriage accelerated, but soon the horses were sprinting down a little-used cart track at full speed, and Praxle found himself unable to climb out from his spot.

In the wake of his torture, he wanted nothing else but to relax, yet he couldn’t. The carriage rattled and jolted, and the door swung open and shut, banging loudly and bathing Praxle in either bright sunlight or near-total darkness. Praxle could not even rest his head on the bucking floorboards, nor raise it too high lest he knock it against the bench seat above his head, over and over.

His head lolled in resignation. “Jeffers,” he said, his weak voice buried by the din, “I am docking your pay.”