“You do that,” answered Praxle, climbing into a comfortable chair beneath an everbright chandelier. “I’m going to read.”
“Good night, master,” said Jeffers.
Teron turned to leave. This particular luxury coach had private bedrooms at each end, and Teron chose the one at the front. He reached over to the lamp on the side table and adjusted it brighter, then closed the door behind him.
He stripped off his vest, then reached into the waistband at the rear of his trousers. He pulled out a few pages of folded paper. The last few pages of Thrane notes; the culmination of their research. He read them over, then again. Once he had them committed to memory, he spindled them and slid the roll into the oil lamp.
Within a minute, there was nothing left but ashes.
Sometime during the night, Teron felt a massive weight settle upon him, crushing his brain, plugging his breath.
He saw the dragon. It turned to look at him, eyes afire with the flames of a thousand pyres.
It loomed closer, eclipsing the sun. “Teron,” it said, its voice rolling like distant thunder.
Teron woke up screaming.
Teron awakened slowly on the second morning of their trip. It felt odd to wake up in a large, comfortable bed with finely twilled sheets and a thick, downy comforter; they were a far cry from the cot and blanket that he’d had at the monastery. He was torn between a desire bordering on lust to enjoy this privilege while he could, and fear that such gross indulgence would undo his training and focus.
He rose, stretched, and ran through his morning exercise routine. In the midst of his chin-ups he heard a servant enter the car with their breakfast, but he finished all of his sets, each with an extra tenth tacked on to ensure that he wasn’t going soft.
He exited his bedroom into the common area and saw Praxle reading through the Thrane notes. Black circles hung under his eyes, and a plate of food set on the table next to his chair lay unattended. Jeffers looked up from his letters, gazing at Teron with worried eyes.
Teron sat and broke his fast with the half-orc. As they ate, Praxle occasionally picked at the food next to him. “Has he slept at all?” asked Teron quietly.
“Not at all the first night, Teron,” murmured Jeffers, keeping his head bowed to his plate. “Only a few times last night, and never for very long. Although I suspect he may have fallen asleep a few times with his eyes open. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.” He put down his fork and dabbed his face with his napkin to conceal his lips. “He’s hardly eaten, and only gets up to use the privy. And even then he brings his reading with him.”
“I know,” said Teron.
“If you have any suggestions …” began Jeffers.
“I was about to say the same thing,” replied Teron.
After crossing the border into Breland and passing through Vathirond, the lightning rail shunned the line that ran through the dead lands of Cyre, and instead turned southwest toward Starilaskur. There the line branched: one went across the north side of the Dragon’s Crown toward Breland and Aundair, the other led south along the Seawall Mountains to Zilargo.
Whether this particular caravan was branching south to Korranberg or continuing into Breland, Teron knew that the eventual confrontation with the gnome would come at Starilaskur. He knew Praxle would not let the Sphere pass so close to his home only to head back to Aundair. He debated the wisdom of postponing the confrontation, but at the moment things were peaceful, and he was concerned that an early debate could anger the increasingly unstable gnome. That, and he was curious why the sorcerer thought that learning about the Sphere would make a compromise easier for Teron.
The vast Brelish countryside rolled past throughout the morning and afternoon, occasional farms, rolling plains. Their course took them into a rainstorm that lashed the windows of the speeding caravan, but the trainer in the harness coach obstinately refused to slow down.
Shortly after lunch, Praxle finally stirred. “Right!” he said, negligently slapping the Thrane papers onto the end table beside him. The loose pages sprayed across the floor with the force, but Praxle paid them no heed. He stood and walked over to the bag that contained the Sphere. He gazed at the bag, his haunted eyes bulging above the dark circles that marred his cheeks.
“Now, Teron, allow me to show you what it is we have here,” he said. He used a chair to climb up onto the large table where the leather bag sat, then walked around it, kicking off the candlesticks and other things. Then he undid the latches that closed the bag and pulled out the golden stand. He set it on the table. Then he reached in to pull out the swaddled bundle. He grunted and strained, but made no progress.
“Slow and steady pressure,” said Teron. “That works best.”
“What?” Praxle paused in his efforts and looked at Teron. Unnoticed beneath him, the Sphere slowly rose, responding at last to Praxle’s efforts.
“Think of it as an angry mule,” said Teron. “It goes where it wants to go. Guide it firmly, but with patience. Push too hard, and you’ll just cause yourself more trouble.”
“Oh,” said Praxle. “It’s a wife.”
Jeffers snickered as Praxle ushered the Orb of Xoriat out of the bag and guided it to a more or less gentle landing in its golden cradle. He loosened the knot that held the smothering cloth tight, and began slowly unwrapping the artifact, a joyous smile gracing his face.
“I would have thought you’d be more impatient,” said Teron.
“Some moments need to be savored,” crooned Praxle. “Though the gods only know what awesome feats this creation was capable of before the druids drove Xoriat away from our plane, this is still a great moment.” Then he whipped his head over to face his bondservant. “Avert your eyes, Jeffers,” he snapped, then he returned to slowly undressing the relic. He had to raise the Orb a bit to get the cloth out from between it and the golden stand, but once it was raised, the unusual behavior of the Orb kept it hovering slightly off the stand with no further effort. Soon the last of the smothering cloth fell away, revealing the Orb in its unholy glory.
This was the first time that Teron had seen the Thrane Sphere not encased within a protective spell, and the image was disturbing. It seemed to be moving, either shifting its parts or crawling with thousands of microscopic ants.
Praxle ran his hands down his face, then clapped them together and rubbed them vigorously. He squinched up his eyes, shook his head vigorously, and heaved a deep sigh. “All right,” he said, “this is going to be more difficult than I thought.”
He looked up at Teron, then turned his eyes back to the Orb. “One thing you must decide, Ter, is where your loyalties lie,” he said, as his fingers slowly manipulated the surface of the Black Globe. “See, I can use the Orb by manipulating the pieces on its surface, by organizing them into a pattern. The same concept is true for families, nations, worlds. Someone manipulates, arranges the pieces into a pattern that produces pleasing results. That’s how a simple burglar works, arranging the tumblers of a lock to open a door. A general works by arranging the soldiers of the army, a king by adjusting the hearts of his people. Most of the inhabitants of the world exist to be manipulated for the benefit of others, even if it is to the detriment of those within the pattern. Me, I don’t want to be manipulated. I want to determine my own fate. I want to be the hand that creates the pattern. Like this.”
Teron stood, and saw that Praxle had arranged the shifting scarab-like plates of the Orb in such a manner that it looked like a black rose bloomed on one side.
“This Orb is an ancient relic, a door of sorts between here and the plane of Xoriat. Once, long ago, it allowed those in Xoriat to reach through to our plane and begin to rearrange the fabric of our world to suit their needs. That was the Daelkyr War. The Gatekeepers, they sealed the passages between here and Xoriat, but this doorway remains. While we can no longer reach into Xoriat, within this brilliant piece of work lies an antechamber to an alien place. And although the pittance left of Xoriat within this relic pales compared to its former power, it still has enough with in it to rearrange the pattern of life around your monastery. It has also allowed those here to reach through into the Realm of Madness, where, if they are careless like that Cyran mage we saw in Daskaran Ferry, they find themselves being worked into the inscrutable patterns of insanity.”