Praxle whistled appreciatively, and the room resonated with the sound. “This room, the … choral chamber, you say? Now this is beautiful. Simply beautiful. You’ve done a masterful job of repairing it.”
“We have not repaired anything, if you please,” said Keiftal, glancing nervously at the prelate.
“Careful, easy now. You don’t have to talk so loudly, especially not in this room,” said Praxle. “Well, then, what did you do to protect it? How did you manage to keep this place from getting wre—well, damaged like the rest of the buildings around here?”
“The choral chamber never suffered any of the harm that fell upon our monastery,” explained Keiftal, his voice still too loud in the well-designed room. “It was divine providence, I am certain.”
“And likely the last miracle the Sovereign Host will ever grant this place,” added Quardov.
Praxle walked over to one of the windows and pulled the curtain back. Light flooded into the room, seeming to bleach the wood of its color. “Gack. Nothing but blood-red grass,” he said, and let the curtain fall closed again, “I can see why you leave the curtains closed. You have a choice between dim and somber or well lit and disturbing.” He turned back to the men. “My apologies, but I did not have time to research this area thoroughly before coming. What happened here?” he asked, gesturing about.
Prelate Quardov took a long, deep breath and let it back out. “Everything happened here, my good gnome,” he said, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “During the Last War, Thrane and Aundair fought over this ground two score times or more. It was all warfare, naught but death and destruction, and of very little interest to a spiritual person.”
Praxle sat on the carpet and folded his legs. “In truth, I’m not a particularly spiritual person, your reverence,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Take no offense, but I have a deep and abiding interest in history and in things that have definitively happened, far more than in philosophical debates over subjects that can neither be proved nor disproved. I’d love to hear the history of this place, particularly during the Last War.”
Quardov hung his head and considered what to say, but just as he started to speak, Keiftal’s rough and untrained voice rolled over his words.
“It happens, good gnome, that I’ve lived here through a majority of the Last War. I’ll be happy to tell you all of what happened here.”
“Keiftal …” warned Quardov quietly.
“Please do,” said Praxle with a smile. He glanced at Quardov, his pleasure obvious. “My ears are piqued.”
“Well, I can’t give you all of it. I only began my learning here in, hmm, 939, I think, after my mother was killed on the Brelish frontier. I know there had been some fighting over this ground prior to that, but I don’t know the details. I passed my final student test in … let’s see, that would have been 943. The Thranes attacked that summer, and my master, he … he sped up our training to ensure we would be on the battlefield. You see, the problem was that we—the Aundairians as a whole, not this monastic order, of course—we had Tower Vigilant to the north and Tower Valiant to the south. No, wait, reverse that, Valiant north and Vigilant south, I think. Oh, but that doesn’t matter. The point is that we had nothing between them, nothing guarding the Galtaise Gap except this monastery.”
Praxle raised a hand politely, stopping Keiftal in his dissertation. “Forgive me, my good man, but I am not overly familiar with the geography up here. What’s the Galtaise Gap?”
“Ah,” said Keiftal, and he began gesturing dramatically on a large imaginary map in the air, “There are two ranges of hills sitting on our side of the Thrane border. The Thranes say otherwise, of course, but that is immaterial. These hills run north-south, and create a bit of a natural boundary. Towers Vigilant and Valiant stand in the lowlands just on our side of these hills. Now for Thrane to attack either of these towers would involve either marching straight across the hills, or else marching through the gap and then around the hills. Do you see?”
Praxle nodded.
“Of course, the towers are fortified, and the Thranes would need to bring siege engines to attack them effectively. Large, heavy things, difficult to get through rolling hills and annoying to drag the long way around. Instead, the Thranes decided it was easier to strike straight through the Galtaise Gap and make for Ghalt.”
“Why didn’t Aundair build another tower in the Gap?” asked Praxle.
“The crown attempted to do so a few times, but each time the Thranes would attack and destroy whatever progress had been made in construction. But even if a tower had been completed, I doubt it would have changed the Thrane strategy much, other than to make them bring siege equipment and sappers along. I do believe their long-term goal was to seize Ghalt, threaten the lightning rail line, cut the Orien trade road that connects southern Aundair to the rest of the nation, and then perhaps launch an attack up the rail line from the south to take Marketplace and the southern portion of the kingdom.” He paused and nodded, glad to share his interest in history with someone.
Praxle leaned forward, cupping his chin in one hand. “Keiftal, my good friend, with all due respect, you’re thinking too small. Thranes think bigger than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I remember right, the lightning rail passes Ghalt, then goes to Passage, then continues northeast to Fairhaven, right?”
Keiftal nodded.
Praxle smiled. “I’ll bet you anything they intended to raze Ghalt to the ground and push through to Lake Galifar. They get there, they cut the lightning rail north and south and isolate Passage against the coast. A quick siege, take Passage, and the southern half of Aundair falls. Issue terms of surrender to Fairhaven, then turn the army south into Breland. That is how a Thrane thinks.”
Keiftal stared at Praxle for a moment, his mouth flapping as he grasped the concept. “I … I thought you didn’t know much about our geography,” he said, for lack of any better commentary.
“Not the details, no,” said Praxle. “But I’ve spent a lot of time studying the history of the Last War, especially the campaigns of Thrane.”
“Really?” said Keiftal. “Why Thrane in particular?”
“Thrane Military Studies was the only empty chair in the University faculty,” said Praxle.
Keiftal laughed, while Quardov, having been completely ushered out of control of the conversation, forced his face into a reasonable imitation of a mirthful grin.
“Seriously, though, I believe strongly in studying one’s enemies. After our people allied themselves with Breland thirty or forty years ago, Thrane truly became our enemy. And,” Praxle added, rising to his feet, “thanks to the good relations between Breland and Aundair, the Aundairians—you—became our friends.” He beamed as he looked at the two clerics, but Quardov took the opportunity to commandeer the conversation.
“This has all been very interesting, brother Keiftal, but I am sure that such a learned gentlegnome did not travel across Khorvaire so that you could prevail upon him to listen to you practice your history lecture. Let us—”
“Oh, not at all,” interrupted Praxle. “This is fascinating.”
“You’re just saying that to be polite to brother Keiftal,” said Quardov. “But he is a good monk, humble and obedient if headstrong, and his ego needs no fawning praise. Pay him no further mind.”
Praxle set his mouth in disappointment. “As you wish,” he said. He sauntered over to the curtains again, and pulled one aside. He placed one foot on the windowsill and let the curtain fall behind him, partially concealing him from the two priests. “That is one of the strangest views I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Don’t you think, your reverence?” He maneuvered his hands through the gestures of a spell, hoping that Quardov’s answer would help conceal the small arcane noises of his action.