The massive granite doors swung open as it reached the top of the stairs, recognizing the power of the magician’s blood that had been used to create the beast. It stumbled through the door, croaking its triumph. It scrambled toward the brazier, and hopped about clumsily until the fire elemental manifested and gushed forth.
Faced with the tall fiery guardian, the homunculus hooted wordlessly, displaying the thorn, and within a minute, three Thrane mages teleported to the library lobby, looking at the homunculus with curious eyes.
One of the mages squatted down, holding out both hands just off the floor. The homunculus scuttled over and climbed onto his hands, still proudly displaying the thorn. The mage stood, lifting the homunculus. He placed it on his shoulder and took the thorn from the creature.
The other two wizards drew closer as he studied the thorn. “Blood,” he said at last. “Fairly fresh. Probably drawn from the intruder of last night during the flight from the premises.”
He held the thorn forth for the others to inspect. “I do believe this will give us enough to pay our respects, will it not?”
The other two wizards nodded.
“Excellent. Then we are off to the summoning circle.”
The homunculus hooted and clapped its paws in sadistic delight.
“I can’t believe you, monk,” groused Praxle. “You’ve been lying there in bed almost all day long—”
“So were you until past noon,” commented Teron, stroking Flotsam’s outsized head. The cat stared at Teron’s face through half-lidded eyes, and the only noise it made was the heavy breathing that whistled through its nose.
“Sure, but I was asleep,” said Praxle with exasperation. “And so were you. But since then, all you’ve done is lie in bed and pet your ugly cat and do nothing!”
“Don’t judge things you don’t understand,” said Teron quietly.
“Are you planning on doing that all day long?” asked Praxle, pacing and gesticulating wildly, “Why am I even asking? It’s already been all day long! The sun set an hour ago! What about preparations? Are we going to get those papers together, or are you going to sit here and pet your damned cat while I go get the papers myself?”
Flotsam growled deep in his throat.
“We’ll go together,” said Teron. “I’ll get up soon, limber up. We’ll get it done by midnight.”
“You’re a pathetic, stone-faced, lazy-backed thug, you know that?” yelled Praxle.
Flotsam put his ears back and growled again, louder. His slitted eyes dilated as his claws slid out and started clutching Teron’s vest.
“You’d best watch your tongue, Praxle,” Teron said, a stern tone creeping into his soft voice.
“Or what? You’ll set your fearsome attack kitty on me? That mangy mongrel stray is the most detestable part of you!”
Flotsam dropped his ears flat against his skull, and he hissed loudly.
“Hold up there, Praxle,” said Teron, concern edging his voice.
“Oh, right, I’m dreadfully sorry if I wounded your cat’s feelings,” said Praxle. “Why do you lug that stinky beast around, anyway? It’s nothing more than a walking spectacle of spontaneous hairball generation!”
Flotsam leapt off Teron’s chest and ran to the corner of the room, arching its back, puffing out its fur, and spitting. Its tail lashed back and forth violently.
“Praxle! Shut it!” said Teron.
The gnome stopped in mid-rant. “What’s with your cat?” he asked.
“Can’t you feel that?” asked Teron.
“Feel what?” asked Jeffers, rising from his chair at the far side of the room. “Everything appears to be perfectly regular to me, gentlemen. Present dialog excepted, of course.”
Praxle turned a slow circle in the center of the room, hands tentatively extended and eyebrows furrowed. His eyes darted right and left. “He’s right,” he said distractedly, “Something’s happening. A focus is coalescing in this room.”
“Whatever does that mean, master?” asked Jeffers.
Praxle held up one finger to silence his bondservant. “The library?” he asked.
Teron turned out his hands. “But how? How did they know we were staying here?”
“Maybe one of Lady Stalsun’s agents?” offered Praxle. “She seemed to know a fair amount about us.”
The air grew tangibly tense, and a rainbow halo emerged around the two glowlamps in the room. “We can’t stay to figure it out,” said Teron, scooping Flotsam up. “No telling what they’re sending after us. Come!”
Jeffers opened the door for the others as they hurriedly left the room, then he grabbed his sword and followed. The three of them ran down the hall, swept down the stairwell, and quickly crossed the foyer into the street. Once in the comparative darkness of the Flamekeep urban night, they slowed down to a jog, then to a brisk walk once a couple blocks separated them and their lodgings.
“What do you think they’d send?” Teron asked, his voice calm and even despite the sudden exertion.
Praxle panted for several breaths before he answered. “I don’t know,” he gasped. “I hope it was something normal, though, I’d hate to face an archon of the Silver Flame or some equally deific creature.”
Jeffers looked up at the clear night sky, then back down to the everbright lanterns that illumined the street. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but it is a clear night, is it not?”
Praxle looked up at Sypheros and Vult, chasing each other serenely across the starry sky. With the ambient light, the Ring of Siberys was all but invisible. “Yes it is,” he said irritably. “So what?”
“So can anyone explain to me why the street lanterns appear to have halos about them as if it were a foggy eve?”
“So they do,” said Teron. “I can feel it coalescing again. How are they doing this, Praxle?”
“They need something to use. Hair, clothing, blood, something like that. Did you hurt yourself at the library last night? We didn’t; we didn’t even get close.”
“I dodged a ballista,” Teron said. He turned around, looking over his shoulder. “Did it get a scrap of my vest?”
“No, master, your clothing looks to be in perfect order,” said Jeffers.
“But—” started Praxle, confused.
Teron stepped toward one of the everbright lanterns and rearranged his grip on Flotsam. He started ruffling the cat’s fur against the grain, inspecting it beneath the lantern’s glow. Two quick passes and Teron looked at his fellows. “Scab,” he said. “They’re after Flotsam.”
“Great!” said Praxle, looking skyward. “Pitch the cat!”
The air started tangibly trembling, a spell waiting to burst.
“They’ll get one of our hairs sooner or later. I’d rather face whatever it is now and get it over with.”
The air continued to tremble, but nothing manifested. “What is this?” whispered Teron, turning in a wary circle.
“The spell needs some sort of trigger,” said Praxle. “It’s waiting for us to do something.”
“Like what?”
“There’s no way to know,” said the gnome. “And I have to tell you, that vibrating is making my stomach feel funny.”
Teron put Flotsam down. “There’s not much we can do,” he said. “We can stay, or we can move. If we move, we either trigger the spell, or perhaps move out of its range.”
“I say we move, and move away from the library,” said Praxle. “Jeffers, stow the sword.”
The three proceeded down the city streets, tensely watching the other pedestrians and wondering if the spell would explode into being. Those who passed near them recoiled from their presence as they sensed the mysterious effects of the spell. “This is doing wonders for our anonymity,” muttered Praxle.
They took familiar streets, thus their path led them by the Phiarlander Phaire, where, as usual, the business was hopping. A group of older men hung outside the tavern, smoking pipes and flirting with a group of bawdy younger women who fetched them drinks and lavished affection on them in exchange for tips. Inebriated and in good spirits, the group hailed the passers-by, and one of them even lurched toward them, a saucy wench on his arm, and bade them join the company.