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?”