“All right,” said Praxle. “Let me put everything into a context you might understand.”
“Might?”
“Will,” said Praxle. “You’re pretty smart.” He cleared his throat and organized his thoughts. “The world was created by three great dragons: Siberys, Eberron, and Khyber. Siberys is the dragon above, who is the stars and the great ring that encircles us. Khyber is the Underdark, and the dragon below. Eberron is the dragon between, whose body is the land we live on, whose blood is the rivers, and whose breath is the wind that we breathe.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” said Teron.
“Be quiet and listen,” chided Praxle. “Being made of the stuff of dragons, the world is infused with magic, but the various systems of magic use very different methodologies. Wizards are the most common form of mage, but not the most well known. They learn to manipulate magic through extensive schooling, rote memorization, and strict practicum. It takes them years to master their craft. Let me say that again. It takes them years of practice to manipulate that which pervades the world all around us. Clearly, then, they make up for a lack of talent with an excess of application. Do you understand?”
Teron nodded slowly.
“Artificers are the best-known of the magic-using disciplines, at least in the Five Kingdoms. Everyone knows artificers. They make the lightning rail, the everbright lanterns, all that rot. Basically, though, they need material items as a kind of magical crutch. They can make magic items do interesting things, and they’re very good a creating them, but you won’t see them slinging fireballs.”
Teron looked askance at Praxle. “What about divine casters?” he asked.
“Bah! A bunch of mewling pawns,” Praxle said, “hardly even worthy of the title of magic user. They are nothing more than a conduit. They don’t cast spells. Their god casts spells for them. They just channel a higher power through their body by bowing and scraping and fawning all over a being that, frankly, wouldn’t give a Karrnathi carcass whether they live or die. And I include druids in that. Especially druids. All that circle of life and death tripe they spew out, and they think that their deity cares a mite for them? They’re just as useful sprouting mushrooms out their back.”
Praxle drained the rest of the wine in his glass and handed it to Jeffers, who rose from the table to procure a refill.
“So let me get this straight,” said Teron, shoving the food to one side of his mouth. “Wizards have no talent. Artificers need crutches. And clerics are lapdogs.”
Praxle nodded, a half-sneer of exasperation on his face. “Can you believe it? Pathetic, the lot of them.”
“Psions?”
“Their major flaw is they don’t see the big picture. They focus on evolving themselves, whatever that means. Perfecting their craft. They remain fundamentally mortal. They don’t see that ascension is the issue. Sorcerers, however, at least some of them, understand.” Praxle paused in mid-thought, finger to thumb as he prepared to make a point. Instead, he asked, “Do you know where a sorcerer’s power comes from?”
Teron shook his head, and then pulled a draught of weak beer to wash down his bread.
“A sorcerer,” said Praxle, leaning forward and whispering, “has dragon’s blood. Now the catch is that most people think that this means blood from a dragon. But they’re wrong. It means blood from the dragon.”
“The dragon,” echoed Teron.
Praxle shrugged, “One of them, yes—although there’s no telling which one. Or perhaps all three.”
Teron narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking about …Siberys. Or Eberron.”
“Or Khyber. Yes, I am. I am talking about the fact that sorcerers don’t need crutches. They don’t need books. They don’t need to wheedle the gods out of a favor. They can work magic because the blood of the dragons flows in them, and the dragons are the very essence of magic itself. It’s the challenge the dragons give to the best of us, to see if we have the mettle to pull ourselves up by the scruff of the neck to stand above the mere mortals of the world!”
Jeffers returned and set a full glass of wine by Praxle, and then sat back down.
“What about dragonmarks?” asked Teron. “That seems a more definite gift of the dragons than this magical blood.”
Praxle laughed, a disparaging, long-suffering laugh, “Dragonmarks are a decoy. In fact, they’re a curse. They’re no challenge! They’re something that the dragons hand out just to make people shut up. They’re even worse of a crutch than an artificer’s … crutch. A person gets a dragonmark, and that’s a sure sign they’ll never go anywhere. Sure, they may be important in this world, but all their ability, all their potential, all their attention remains focused on scratching out a better hovel in the dirt.
“Look at it this way: If you have a dragonmark, you get to do one magical thing. One. That’s it. It’s like … having a crossbow that can only shoot at targets twenty-three yards away, no more and no less. For my part, I’ll take the challenge. I’ll take the hard path, and I’ll take the dragon’s blood! It just irks me that all those other schools of magic get the same respect, if not more, as sorcerers. They’re pathetic!”
Teron leaned back and pushed his plates away. “I think I’d better not eat any more of this,” he said.
“I’ll get the girl,” offered Jeffers, but as soon as he started to rise, Kelcie exited the kitchen and came to the table. With a dazzling smile she gathered the plates and retreated back into the kitchen.
Praxle chuckled.
“What?” asked Teron.
“That’s why you have that stupid mangy cat, you know,” said Praxle with a laugh. “That’s your familiar!”
Teron looked confused. “What do you mean? He’s a pet. He just showed up one day and started following me everywhere. He … he understands me….” His words trailed off as he considered the implications.
Praxle laughed again. “Well, then, aren’t you the worldly one?” he said with a huge grin.
Kelcie reappeared, bearing another mug of weak beer for Teron. She sat down beside him and gazed at him warmly. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked. “You liked the food, right?”
“It was wonderful, Kelcie,” said Teron, nervously trying to keep her rapt gaze, but the intensity and beauty of her gaze was too difficult and open for him to bear. “Urn, thank you.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Kelcie, reaching into a pocket in her apron, “Someone came by to see you, but I didn’t let her. She seemed like kind of a shrew, and I wanted you to get your sleep.” She reached into the pocket of her apron, pulled out the locket, and handed it to Teron.
“What’s this, Teron?” asked Praxle. “Does the Silver Flame want your godlike body now?”
Teron turned to show the gnome the crest on the locket. “Hathia Stalsun. Kelcie, why didn’t you tell me?” He rounded on the serving girl. “What were you thinking?”
“Well, I—”
“I have to go see her. She’s important.”
“But—”
“Let’s go,” said Teron, standing up and heading for the door. “We can’t keep her waiting.”
“But Teron, I—”
“Don’t try to interfere, Kelcie,” said Teron. He turned and paused at the door. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Praxle and Jeffers followed him out. Jeffers paused at the door and said, “Allow me to apologize for the ill manners of my companions, young lady.”
But Kelcie’s head was turned, and Jeffers could not see the pain in her eyes.
A hired carriage rolled up to the front of the Stalsun manor. The door opened, and Jeffers, Praxle, and Teron stepped out. They entered the manor and found themselves escorted once more to the drawing room to await Lady Stalsun, although this time the furniture was left without protection.