Quardov pressed his lips together in annoyance, “As you wish. I shall have one of the monks see to your needs, although I fear our board may be somewhat less sumptuous than what you are used to in Korranberg.”
Praxle let the curtain drop. He faced Quardov and gave a gentlemanly bow. “I thank you, your reverence. We shall speak later.”
High above the ground, the Shadow Fox hung on the side of the monastery, her feet braced on opposite sides of one of the tall, thin windows.
She pulled her ear away from the small tin cone she had pressed to the windowpane and glanced down. She saw the curtain swaying near the ground, and thanked whatever gods might be listening that she’d decided to climb high rather than hunker low.
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.