“May I ask why you have an interest in us?” asked Praxle.
“Word of several incidents has reached my ears, the most recent of which concerns the death of a young woman riding the lightning rail at Daskaran Ferry. Let us start there, for while I have no prejudice against Cyrans dying, I don’t like it happening in my country with no explanation.”
“We had nothing to do with that,” said Praxle.
Hathia raised her chin imperiously. “You would have me believe that you—”
Praxle interrupted. “And … she wasn’t dead.”
Hathia paused. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re referring to the young Cyran that was paralyzed as she sat, is that correct? Frozen rigid with that unseemly expression on her face?” Praxle waited for confirmation, then continued, “I tell you the truth. She wasn’t dead.”
“But—but my sources told me that she was stiff with the rigor, and her skin blued. What other explanation is there?”
“Her state is the effect of the darkest magic,” said Praxle. He sat down and locked eyes with the lady to press the import of what he was about to say, “Let me tell you what she suffered. What she suffers still. Her heart was still beating, but too slowly to hear. She still breathed, too, though it took her a minute or two just to draw a breath.
“But most important, I could sense what had happened to her soul.” Praxle paused, looked at the ceiling, then looked back and continued. “I am blessed with the dragon’s blood, Lady. I am a practitioner of magic, and of no small skill, if I may be so bold. As such, I can discern certain aspects of magical auras; the more powerful the effect, the easier it is to analyze. And the effect on her was … notable.
“Her soul was elsewhere, lost, and yet still tied to her body. She’ll die soon. In fact she’s probably already dead, perhaps from suffocation for breathing too slowly, or maybe chilled to death if the guards left her outside. Once she dies, her soul will remain trapped wherever it is.”
Lady Hathia leaned forward. “What do you know of where her soul might be?” she asked. The appalling truth of the situation crept through her façade of composure and tainted her expression with horror.
“It’s on another plane of existence. I don’t know exactly where, but it’s somewhere terrible. I could hear the echo of her screams. And not of pain, either. More like … I don’t know if I can find the right word. Fear, maybe. Anguish, revulsion … madness …
“Allow me to confide in you, Lady,” continued Praxle, running his fingers through his hair. “You’ve been very patient and accommodating to speak with us personally instead of turning us over to the Inquirators. The reason we are here is that I believe that this woman is part of a team of Cyrans that stole an artifact that rightly belongs to the University of Korranberg. This is a very powerful artifact and could be utterly devastating in the wrong hands, as this woman’s fate shows.
“I believe that the Cyrans may have fled to this very town. We are hoping to recover this relic before the Cyrans unleash a calamity of legendary proportions upon Thrane. If you could see fit to help us, Lady Stalsun, we would be most grateful, and the whole of Khorvaire would be the safer for it.”
The Thrane woman sat unmoving for several long minutes before finally shifting her position. She glanced down at the armrest of her chair and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust away, then looked back at Praxle. “That does not explain why you visited the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics.”
Praxle responded without hesitation. “Well, it should,” he said, then chuckled, “I went there hoping that I could find some assistance in locating the thieves. A scroll, a diviner for hire, a magewrought seeker I could rent.”
“Why not hire a finder from House Tharashk?” asked Hathia. “Surely those with the Mark of Finding could be of some service.”
“If they realized the true potential of the relic, they’d be tempted to steal it for their own use,” said Praxle. “The University of Korranberg held this artifact safely for a few hundred years, and then within twenty years of us losing control if it, someone started using it as a weapon of war. I hired someone, and he died, yielding his discovery to the Cyrans. I trust no one else in this matter, not any more.”
“I see,” said Lady Stalsun. “Then you’re telling me that I should trust you and abet you, when you freely admit that you lost control of an ancient artifact to a rabble of displaced Cyrans?”
“They were no rabble,” said Teron. “They were skilled and disciplined. Not excellent fighters, but they were quick thinkers and stealthy spies.”
“Their leader was amazing,” added Praxle. “Fast, clever, and deadly, and probably the best planner I’ve seen, outside of myself. But for some good luck on my part, the Cyrans might have effected the theft perfectly.”
“I would not expect to hear anyone speak of the Cyrans so highly,” said Hathia. “For myself, I find them wearying and contemptible, like those who pine away over a lover whose memory death has turned into a fairy tale.”
“Then you understand why we must find them and this relic before they try to unravel its secrets,” said Praxle.
Hathia raised one hand to silence him. “What I understand, my persistent guest, is that this interview is now at a close. Rest assured that our eyes will be upon you whilst we reflect upon your tale.”
Dark had fallen over Flamekeep. Teron pulled back the window curtain and peered out. The Siberys ring hung in the heavens, its elegant light contending with the unsubtle glow of the everbright lanterns in the streets of Thrane. Dravago, one of the larger and hence brighter moons, shone like an amethyst, but was not yet near zenith. Eyre, also large, was moving toward the horizon, and its slanting light no longer penetrated the city streets. Only distant Vult hung overhead, and its wan light was of little concern.
Teron let the curtain fall shut again. “It’s time,” he said.
“Right,” said Praxle. “Let’s go.”
“No.”
“No?” asked the gnome, puzzled. “Then what’s it time for? I thought you wanted to scout out the Camat Library.”
“I’m going alone,” said Teron. “Not you.”
“Look, monk,” said Praxle, “that place is probably crawling with magical wards and alarms, to say nothing of traps.”
“Of course it is,” said Teron, pulling on his soft-soled boots. “And many of them are likely keyed to guard against the use of magic. You, gnome, can’t sneak around there without using magical enhancements. I can.”
“You can?” scoffed Praxle.
Teron turned and headed for the corner of the room. With a leap, he jumped up the wall, planted a foot and a hand on it, and pushed himself to the other wall. He braked his momentum with his other foot and hand, stopping himself three feet above the ground, held in place by his hands and feet. He bowed his head to avoid knocking it against the ceiling. “Yes, I can,” he said. “You’ve honed your spirit to work magic. I’ve honed my body to do the same thing.”
Jeffers looked at Teron with an appraising scowl. “That outdoes any theatrics of mine,” he said.
Soft as a cat, Teron dropped back to the floor. “As for the rest of the wards, I can take care of those. I have training.”
“You’ll need help,” persisted Praxle, “We’re in the middle of the capital of Thrane, for the Host’s sake!”
“No. I need solitude,” said Teron. “I’m trained to work alone, even in the middle of the enemy camp. Allies can only fail you.”
Praxle narrowed his eyes. “What was it you trained to do, monk?”
“I trained in the Way of the Quiet Touch,” he replied. “I break things noiselessly.”
“Things? You mean like magic staves and the like?”
“Or bridge supports, necks of enemy generals, whatever I was told. Whatever Aundair needed broken I broke.”