Praxle pulled his hand back and cracked his knuckles one by one, relieved that he could still flex all his digits without pain. “Then let us play all of our cards on the table,” he said. “You were wronged, for you had the Orb stolen from your monastery. I was wronged, because the University’s rightful property was taken. And everyone stands to be wronged, because the Cyrans now hold the Orb of Xoriat. If they can figure out how to use it, the destruction they could cause would be … unthinkable.”
“What does it do?”
“It does everything you saw at the monastery—and then some,” said Praxle. “We at the University have some theoretical knowledge about why it works but not about how it works. The Thranes seem to have figured out how it works—or at least they did so at one point during the Last War. If the Cyrans can seize those notes, all of Khorvaire could become as blighted as your Crying Fields—or worse.”
“I believe that you and I need to work together, monk,” he continued. “The University will compensate your monastery handsomely for your time and trouble—and for the safe return of the Orb to its proper hands.”
“Why do you want it?” asked Teron.
“I know that look,” said Praxle. “It says, ‘I don’t trust you.’ Well, then, let me tell you, monk, we gnomes first acquired the Orb two, maybe even closer to three thousand years ago. We believe it is a relic of the Daelkyr Wars. It’s had who knows how many names over the years. The druids who first recovered it called it the Ball of Ineffable Madness, or so I am told. If we’d wanted to use it as a weapon, we’d have done so a hundred times over, and done so with far more circumspection than did the blundering Thranes.”
“Meaning you wouldn’t have lost it the first time you used it,” clarified Teron.
“Precisely.”
“Somehow that does not fill me with confidence.”
Praxle shook his head and smiled. “You misunderstand me, monk. We could have used it. We could have used it to great and terrible effect. However, we didn’t, partly because we’re cautious about anything dealing with Xoriat and partly because it’s irreplaceable. No, our desire for the Sphere is just this: it is an amazing relic of transplanar magic, and we wish to study it. It’s that simple. Well, no, transplanar magic is very complex, but I think you understand my point. The University of Korranberg is an institution devoted to knowledge, not war.”
Teron mulled this over, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.
“Do we have a deal, monk?” asked Praxle.
“I will work with you to prevent the Cyrans from gaining the Thranes’ knowledge of the Sphere,” said Teron. “In exchange, you will help me recover the Thrane Sphere. Once that is completed, we will see to its disposition.”
“Excellent. Jeffers, explain my plans to the monk.”
The half-orc rummaged among their gear and pulled out a map, exquisitely rendered but heavily worn on its creases. He spread it out on the berth between Praxle and Teron. No sooner had he done that, than Teron’s cat hopped up onto the berth, sauntered to the center of the map, and flopped on its side. Teron scooped up the tom and dropped him in his lap.
“We are approximately here,” said Jeffers as he brushed some stray cat hair from the parchment. “We shall debark the lightning rail here, at Daskaran Ferry. From there, we shall book passage aboard a vessel that heads through Scions Sound to Flamekeep.”
“There’s no direct lightning rail route?” asked Teron.
“Curiously, no,” said Jeffers. “I surmise plans for such an extension fell with the Kingdom of Galifar.”
“And why Flamekeep?”
“The Thrane college is there, including their research library,” said Praxle. “University agents confirmed the existence of a book containing their compiled notes on the Orb some years ago. We considered stealing it then but thought it best to leave the Thranes in the dark about our knowledge until such time as we discovered the fate of the Orb itself.”
“Why?”
“They’d know we were the ones to steal it,” shrugged Praxle. “No sense in offending them until we had both pieces handy.”
Teron studied the map. “The collapse of the White Arch Bridge made Thaliost a dead end. It offers no access to Scions Sound. So whether the Cyrans are going home to Cyre or they’re after the Thrane book as we are, they’ll debark at Daskaran Ferry.”
“It does seem the most expedient choice,” said Jeffers.
Teron paused for a long moment, petting the cat that purred in his lap. “Done. We’re in this together. We’ll retrieve the Sphere from the Cyrans and the notes from the Thranes. Then we’ll head back to Aundair and you can haggle with Prelate Quardov over who gets what. Does that sound fair?”
“Fair enough, monk, since our other choice is to have you start breaking fingers and such.”
Teron smiled humorlessly, pushed the cat off his lap, and rose. “Then I will see you when we arrive at Daskaran Ferry,” he said, and departed the cabin without further ceremony.
Praxle and Jeffers stared at the closed door for a long time after Teron left. Finally Jeffers broke the silence. “Dare we trust him?” he asked.
“I don’t have much choice,” answered the gnome, “at least not at the moment. But I’ll have to watch my step, especially when we finally get both pieces together. I believe that’s when he’ll make his play, to try to take it all for himself. And I have to make sure I stop him.”
The Shadow Fox walked slowly down the aisle of the lightning rail coach. Her eyes were unfocused, and she ran her hands through her hair, trying to stave off the exhaustion that pulled at her.
Just hold out until dawn, she thought, then we can be aboard ship making for Flamekeep. All we have to do is stay alert for a little while longer, and then we can hole up in our safe house. It would be so much easier if we still had five. Even three would be better than just Oargesha and me.
With a heavy sigh, she flopped onto the bench beside her traveling partner. “Just another hour and we—” Her words stopped abruptly, the rest of her statement vaporized from her mind as she saw her friend and cohort.
Oargesha sat, leaning over the open leather bag at her feet. One hand reached into the open bag, doing something that the Fox could not see. The other white-knuckled hand rested on her knee for balance; the strongly clawed fingers digging deep into her thigh. Her eyes were open very wide, staring into the bag, and her pale face was torn with emotion, displaying a mix of rapture, disgust, and horror.
Not a single muscle on her entire body moved, save a peculiar twitch in her left eyelid.
“Gesha?” whispered the Fox. “Oargesha.” She leaned closer, “What did you do? What did it do to you?”
She reached out with the toe of one foot and tried to usher Oargesha’s hand out of the bag. She met with limited success, however, for the mage’s muscles were all as rigid as iron. The Fox did manage to move her arm enough to slide the bag away from her reaching hand.
The Fox pulled Oargesha’s bag from beneath the bench, opened it, and pulled out a skirt. Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and, averting her eyes, stuffed the skirt across the top of the bag to conceal the unknown relic inside. As she did so, she could feel the device shifting beneath her fingers. It was surrounded by a tangible aura of malevolent thrumming.
Once she was certain that the skirt had been well placed, she closed the bag up. She still avoided looking directly at the opening, relying on her peripheral vision and her sense of touch to find all the clasps and seal them.
She looked at her compatriot. As she feared, there was no change. She slapped Oargesha, tickled her, even poked her naked eyeball with a fingernail. Nothing elicited a response. She pulled off her glove and touched Oargesha’s lips then her teeth. They were dry. Only the rear portion of her tongue still had any moisture.