“Perhaps I have misjudged him,” murmured Teron with an abashed smile.
“No, my boy, I am afraid you have not,” said Keiftal with a heavy sigh.
“No?”
Keiftal shook his head. “His motives were far from altruistic, I am afraid.”
Teron shrugged. “Be that as it may, his prayers worked.”
Keiftal sat down at the foot of Teron’s bed. “Do you know what those people were doing down in the catacombs?”
Teron shook his head.
“They stole something,” explained Keiftal, “an item of great power. It was … a … a weapon … used during the War. We had a visitor, you see, from the University of Korranberg. Perhaps you heard. His name was Praxle d’Sivis. Well, at least that’s what he told us, but I think it is true, because he seemed a very cocksure gnome and the papers that we found in his room seemed legitimate. He had a half-orc companion named Jeffers with him, who acted as his servant. They came here, ostensibly for University research, but it has become apparent that they were actually here to search for this relic.”
“What’s it called?” asked Teron.
“We don’t know if it has a proper name, but we’ve always called it the Thrane Sphere,” said Keiftal. He paused and picked at his nose. “Anyway, while we were entertaining Praxle, Jeffers and some others broke into the catacombs to steal the Sphere. You chanced, somehow, to catch them in the act.”
“I had a little help,” said Teron.
“I wish you could have stopped them, but alas, they got away. We captured Praxle, but they freed him—and stole the prelate’s carriage to make good their escape.”
“It was right after that that Quardov agreed to intercede for me, wasn’t it?” asked Teron.
Keiftal nodded.
Teron folded his arms and crossed his legs as he leaned against the sill. In contrast to his still pose, his eyes darted about studying Keiftal’s face. “And the two of you want me to go after them and recover the Thrane Sphere.” It was not a question.
“That is exactly it. You see, there is no other choice. You are the only one who has the training to deal with the thieves on their terms—eye to eye in the alleys and secret places. And you are the only one who has seen them.”
Teron drew a sharp breath through his nose and sucked on his lips as he considered this. “I can’t,” he said at last.
“You are the only one who can,” said Keiftal. “If they try to escape overland, it will take them enough time that we can notify the military and the Arcane Congress. If, however, they take the lightning rail, they stand an excellent chance of slipping our border before we can set up measures. Our only hope is to send someone to run them to ground.”
Teron narrowed his eyes, casting his expression in a more defensive tone.
Keiftal waited for a moment, then added, “I recall a little while ago, you said that you were a tool of war that had no use in a newfound era of peace. You lamented your very existence.”
“I do,” said Teron. “I should have died with the others.”
“I have only met one other person with the same foolish opinion of your life,” said Keiftal, “and that is Prelate Quardov.”
Teron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand.
Keiftal leaned forward, raising his blurry voice. “You are a uniquely talented individual, Teron, even for a member of the Quiet Touch. You are a national treasure”—he paused, drawing a breath—“even if we dare not let anyone know you exist.
“The Last War may be over, but the struggle is not, the fight against evil is not. The peace is a fragile one, and there is at least as much a need for killing as there ever was. You did amazing things during the war. I know. You killed key people, destroyed critical targets, but in truth you accomplished nothing that could not have been done with a large enough supply of soldiers. Today, however, there is peace. We cannot send any soldiers at all. We can only send you. You can accomplish things that can no longer be done any other way. The crown needs you. Our people need you. Everyone on Khorvaire needs you, lest the Thrane Sphere be unveiled again. We need the last member of the Quiet Touch!”
Teron slowly slumped, then fell to his knees on the bare floor. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring blankly at some random point on the ceiling. “You misunderstood me, master Keiftal,” he said. “I didn’t say I would not do this, I said I can not do it. I realized something down there in the catacombs … among the dead.” He drew a shuddering breath. “The Last War made me who I am. I … I chose my course, and the war shaped me, honed me, preserved me. But the war’s been over for two years now, and I find that who I am is fading away. Evaporating, rusting like a fine blade left out in the weather. There is no way those … thieves—there’s no way they should have gotten the better of me. Despite everything, I’ve gone soft.”
Keiftal remained motionless, sitting on the bed, watching Teron grapple with his emotions.
Teron’s larynx bobbed several times as he swallowed hard. Finally he spoke, his voice thick with grief, his gaze still roving the ceiling. “I can’t even do what I was trained for,” he said. “The forms, the routines, they … they were supposed to train me to fight. But for the last two years I’ve just sat here, and the forms became the fight.”
“But what of your time spent in the Crying Fields?” asked Keiftal. “You’ve come back with bruises and other marks….”
Teron sighed. “The challenge is not the same. Most of the time, the specters are ethereal, insubstantial. I do my best to convince myself that they are not, and I force myself to battle them, but my fists hit nothing but cold, dead air.”
“But what of the rest of the time?” asked Keiftal.
“When the moon of the month is full,” Teron said, his voice a hollow monotone, “they become more substantial. I can feel my fists striking something, like an echo of a body. I can see my fists leaving marks upon them, like a stone rippling a pond. Some I daresay I’ve even killed with my … talents.” He looked down as he clenched one hand into a fist. “They can tear my skin, bruise my flesh, but they still cannot truly harm me. It’s still not the same. That’s why I watch the moons, master.” He looked Keiftal in the eye. “My time is coming to see whether or not I am fit to live.”
For a long while they sat there, Keiftal’s piercing, fiery gaze trying to penetrate Teron’s blank, dead stare.
“I would say that Dol Arrah, Mistress of Honor, Sacrifice, and Light, has deemed you fit to live, Teron,” said the old monk.
The unquestioned conviction within Keiftal’s words cast a slim ray of hope into the darkness of Teron’s soul. Despite himself, he found his interest piqued. “Why do you say?”
“It’s rare to claim to know the mind of a goddess,” answered Keiftal, “unless you’re full of conceit and vainglory like Quardov. But of this I am confident.”
“Please don’t bandy words.” Teron sighed, feeling his despair dim the scant light. “Just speak.”
“Dol Arrah answered Quardov’s prayers. If she did not deem you worthy of her service, she would not have made you whole again.”
Teron laughed, a derisive, voiceless hissing expression of disagreement and disgust. “I am far from whole, master,” he said.
Keiftal leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers laced. “What do you mean?”
“I was far from whole when the monastery first found me. My home was … my … my family …” Teron struggled to find the right words, wanting to speak, but fearing the effect when the hidden, hated words at last flew free.
“We all lost family in the Last War, Teron,” said Keiftal.
Thus given a reprieve, Teron’s words flowed more easily. “Once I got here, it was easy for me to learn to kill. Every time I killed someone, it was to make the pain go away. I justified what I did by how it helped Aundair. Yet, as I assassinated more people, the pain never went away. Instead, I had to make myself numb just to cope, because I was killing for hate—and the killing only made the hate worse.” Teron squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again to look at his mentor.