Praxle leaned forward to the Orb, and Teron noticed that the rose that bloomed on its surface was now shifting of its own accord. “But doors open both ways, if you know how to work them. There are few indeed who could do what we’re about to do,” said Praxle. He leaned forward, drawing his face close to the growing bloom. It almost looked like the Orb was puckering to give Praxle a tainted kiss.
“What are we about to do, Praxle?” asked Teron suspiciously.
An orange vapor curled away from the Orb’s lips, like the smoke from a smoldering log. Praxle leaned close and inhaled deeply, using his hands to waft even more up to his face. The writhing orange mist seemed to struggle against him but got drawn into his nose and mouth. He inhaled, swallowed, and smacked his lips. “Make patterns for ourselves,” he said, “and not at the behest of the weavers.”
The rose closed, and Praxle sat back on his heels. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded, and his eyes were bright and alert. “You see, those who used the Orb at your monastery, they did so at the behest of others. They allowed themselves to become part of the pattern. That is why they suffered as they did and ended up devoured by madness. Their masters back at the Congress, they pulled the strings, manipulated events. Fortunately for us, they did not reap the benefits.”
Teron shook his head. “I don’t understand, Praxle,” he said.
Praxle’s hands flew over the surface of the Orb, and the rose started to bloom again. “It’s all about patterns, Ter,” he said. “That’s how you learn martial arts, isn’t it? You perform moves in patterns. Your patterns start out simple, and as you get more experienced, those patterns grow. Your body learns those patterns, and adapts itself to them.” He inhaled deeply again, drawing another lungful of orange mist. Again he swallowed, smacked his lips. “Ah, the taste of success,” he said to himself. He looked at Teron again, and the black bags beneath his eyes were utterly gone. “But what happens when the pattern becomes too complex?”
“I don’t know.”
“It drives you mad.”
“You’re not making sense,” said Teron.
Praxle cackled. “Of course not! That is the point! Those who understand greater patterns seem mad to those beneath them, because they can unravel concepts that appear nonsensical to the uneducated mind!”
Even as he spoke, his hands flew about the surface of the Black Globe and opened the rose a third time. He breathed deeply, and this time the orange mist was sucked away without resistance. He moaned pleasurably as the rose closed itself.
“Teron,” he said solemnly, “I have much to teach you now.” He extended one hand. “You have shown yourself to be disciplined, focused, and clever. You have the blood of the dragon in your veins. You are worthy to be my protégé, and I can help you. You will walk with me as we ascend to power you haven’t dreamed of!”
Teron stepped forward, completely unsure of where this was going but positive that either a confrontation or a very strange consensus was approaching.
“It all makes perfect sense now,” said Praxle. “The Last War was not chaos. It was a pattern. Losing the Orb of Xoriat was not a tragedy. It was a necessary step in a convoluted sequence of events. Everything has unfolded according to a pattern that I am only now beginning to grasp. It has been a puzzle laid before us, Teron, a conundrum that we managed to unravel, a maze that we were able to solve from within. This, this beautiful blossom, it’s like a puzzle box, and now that we have deduced our way out of the puzzle box that holds us prisoner, only now can we unlock this small puzzle box in front of us and escape.”
His hands worked quickly on the side of the Sphere facing Teron. He didn’t even look as he worked, but stared straight at the monk. Teron watched as the gnome’s darting fingers pushed and slid, herding the beetled pieces and corralling them to bring forth the blooming rose again.
“Breathe, Teron,” said Praxle. “Breathe and eat.”
Teron looked down at the orange mist that crawled across the surface of the Sphere like an unearthed worm. “What will it do?” he asked.
Praxle held his palms up. Without warning, fire sprang forth from his right palm, while a fragile castle of frost formed in his left. “It will magnify you,” he said. “It will feed the dragon’s blood. Breathe, and we shall explore the Orb of Xoriat together.”
“But …”
“But what? Will you crawl back to the monastery and let Prelate Quardov order your days while he lets your monastery rot? Will you adhere to the strictures given you by those long dead, remain what they made you while the world around you changes?”
The Quiet Touch, thought Teron. None are left, save me, and they don’t know what to do with me any more. Curiosity nibbled at his brain, and he looked with renewed admiration at the display of Praxle’s increased magical abilities. It’s my job to recover the Sphere, he thought. Shouldn’t I know what it can do?
He leaned forward, pursing his lips to suck in the orange mist that hugged the surface of the Sphere. It resisted being drawn in, but with a few deep breaths, he managed to inhale it. He felt it move within him, and he swallowed reflexively. He felt something slide down his throat, and a gritty sensation filled his mouth. He had a distinct sensation that a great vaporous snake was searching his innards for a way to freedom. He held his breath and salivated, trying to rinse his mouth clean with spit. Gingerly he started letting his breath out, but then again strange sensations moved within him. He coughed, then sniffed sharply to fight against a painful feeling that was growing at the rear of his sinuses.
Then everything changed. The awkward, unnatural feelings faded, as did the movements within. There was a feeling within his bones, a warm feeling that grew. For some reason he thought of watching tea infuse a bowl of hot water. He heard an indistinct screech, a wail ringing in his ears, but at the same time he felt his blood quicken within him, permeating his soul and enhancing his life force. His fists clenched instinctively as a wave of euphoria washed over him. His injured eyebrow tingled. He raised a hand to it, and found that the swelling had all but vanished. Then he looked at his hand, and saw that the red burn marks had faded considerably.
He looked at Praxle, his joints trembling slightly. Praxle swallowed and smacked his lips, a look of enjoyment and camaraderie on his face. “Doesn’t that feel … good?” he asked, his hands opening the Orb again. He drew in another lungful of the orange mist, eyes closed. “I can feel my power growing. I can feel my blood pumping within me, I can feel the flow of the world, feel it moving into its pattern.” He laughed quietly. “This must be what the dragons mean when they speak of the Prophecy.” His eyes still closed, he proffered the Sphere, bloom opening, to Teron.
Teron drew in the orange mist, and he felt the supernatural effects once more, the shrieking noise, the crawling within, the infusion of power. He drew upon his training in meditation to look within himself, and found that he could better sense the energy that he used to fuel his magical strikes. He looked down at his hands and shaped them into claws. Flexing his muscles, he saw his palms turn bright white for just a moment as the energy within pressed to the surface and then retreated back within him. Only a slight nausea accompanied the evocation.
He looked up at Praxle, “What’s happening?” he asked.