The Orb of Xoriat

2 The Paths We Walk

Keiftal whistled tunelessly to himself, the feel of the breath between his lips somehow giving him comfort. He had aged many years since the destruction of the monastery, since the nascence of the Crying Fields. The wrinkles in his face were only marginally blurred by his stubbly beard, and the whole tired affair was framed by short-cut, unkempt gray hair.

He turned his head back and forth, scanning the crimson-tinged grasslands. Occasionally he broke his slow, shuffling stride to tug on the reins of the mule that followed dolefully along behind him.

He could feel the grass creaking beneath his sandaled feet. It felt maddeningly wrong. A hint of the smell of mortification insinuated itself into the air, both sweet and nauseating like the lingering perfume of a shameful tryst. The scent never failed to bring back memories of the aftermath of the destruction of the monastery, those horrible summer days as the bodies of the dead had bloated in the sun, attracting vultures and maggots until the corpses’ bellies had opened up at last to vent their foul gases.

The few remaining monks—there’d been six—had done what they could to bury the dead respectfully, until, with the passing weeks, the task had proved too great to bear.

He remembered how the youngest of them had committed suicide, unable to face another day of the grotesque undertaking. That afternoon, the rains had come. Keiftal wept with relief at the sight, hoping that the blood would be washed away. And for a while it was.

For a while.

He looked up and saw vultures circling him in the sky and wondered if he had, at last, gone mad with the weight on his soul. “Why won’t the memories leave me in peace?” he cried into the empty air, “Sovereign Host, why can I not sleep one night without hearing the screams of the dead?”

He stood there, weeping bitterly, wheezing between clenched teeth. Tears squeezed out from his tightly shut eyes. One fist beat his breast while the other, seemingly forgotten, firmly held the mule’s tether. He cursed the events of that day and prayed for deliverance.

Then a sensation wormed its way past his grief, a persistent but distant interruption like someone far away calling for his attention. He mastered his emotions and realized that the mule was tugging insistently on its tether. He opened his eyes and looked around, but saw no threats.

He looked at the mule. It was acting a little skittish, but of course most animals avoided the Crying Fields. Keiftal looked up.

“Well, will you look at that?” he mumbled. “The vultures are still there. They’re not visions after all. Come, now,” he said to the mule in a voice suddenly more brassy and cheerful, “let’s go see what they’ve found, shall we? Maybe it will be some good news.”

The mule snorted and shied away.

“Oh, now, don’t give me that. Even this place can hold good news. Sometimes.”

He led the mule over the gentle slopes toward the center of the vultures’ lazy circles. As he crested the last rise, he saw what he hoped to see: a body lying curled almost into a fetal position on the corrupted turf, half-naked, unmoving. Two vultures closed in, walking slowly. Their bright red heads leaned forward, peering hopefully at a potential meal.

Keiftal shuffled toward the body in a geriatric jog, pulling the recalcitrant mule forward. The vultures skipped away, spreading their funereal wings like cloaks and croaking at the intruder.

Keiftal staked the mule’s tether to the ground, then kneeled by the body. “Oh, Teron,” he said, rolling the young monk onto his back, “why do you do this to yourself?”

Teron was pale, his skin covered with the salty residue of dried sweat. A trail of dried blood ran from his nose and down one cheek. Pale bruises covered his arms and torso. As shallow as Teron’s breathing was, Keiftal clearly smelled that he’d thrown up at some point. Teron’s tight muscles held their position as Keiftal rolled him over, and the elderly monk gently stretched Teron’s limbs out into a more relaxed posture. First he unbunched the arms, then he stretched the legs. Once Teron looked comfortably supine, Keiftal tried to unclench the young man’s fists. After a few moments, he gave up. He massaged the young man’s chest and sunken belly until Teron’s breathing became more regular. He tried unsuccessfully to pry Teron’s jaw open, so instead he settled for pouring a trickle of water from his wineskin onto the young man’s bared teeth. He watched the small trickle run down the teeth and behind his cheek, then he saw Teron’s neck move as he reflexively swallowed. He poured a little more water into Teron’s mouth in this fashion, then sat back and surveyed the little vale in which Teron lay.

The grass was beaten down for yards and yards in every direction. In some places, the turf had been worn down right to the dirt. Further up the slope, patches of grass were pockmarked and ashen. Near the top of the rise, one section of turf had been ripped from the ground like the scalp from a skull.

“I’d understand, Teron,” muttered the old monk, “if you had a prayer of changing anything out here. But this isn’t self-purification. This is self-destruction.”

Keiftal gathered his strength. Once steeled to the task, he pulled Teron into a sitting position and then tried to maneuver his own body into a position where he could lift the young man. Eventually he settled for sitting beside Teron and rolling over, pulling Teron over on top of him. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. With more grunting and fussing, he eventually got Teron situated properly across his shoulders. He crawled slowly over to where the mule was staked. Gripping the mule’s leg with one hand to help pull himself up, Keiftal rose first to his knees, then to his feet. He leaned across the back of the mule with his burden, then awkwardly pushed Teron up over his head, getting his monastic robes caught between the unconscious monk and the mule’s saddle blanket. With much tugging and grumbling, he extricated both his robe and the blanket from between Teron and the mule. With a look of exasperation he flipped the blanket carelessly over Teron’s body.

He kicked the stake out of the ground and staggered back toward the monastery, the mule in tow. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said.

He paused, turned, and cuffed Teron across the back of the head. “You should be, too. Do you hear me?”

Teron lay unmoving.

“Bah,” groused Keiftal. “You never listen.”

Praxle watched as the lightning rail pulled into the station at Wroat. It was a huge construction, aesthetically unpleasing and brutal of form, yet beautiful in inspiration and power. The harness coach came first, a large armored carriage with bulges and pipes that made it look like the nose of a boil-infested horse. At the very front of the harness coach was the catch-and-kill, a reinforced bladed spike. Its strength and magically augmented sharpness ensured that no matter what beast might be standing astride the conductor stones when the lightning rail came, the harness coach would be able to plow right through its pieces.

Electric discharges encircled the harness coach, shooting from vents and connecting with each other as well as the conductor stones beneath. The pattern often looked like a harness and only added to the appalling equine image.

Passenger coaches followed behind the harness coach, hooked together into a caravan by linkages and a rather dubious-looking catwalk. They were also constructed of metal, armored against natural disasters or the possibility of raiders. Each coach had conductor stones beneath it, and lightning arced between them and the mated conductor stones laid out in the ground beneath. Despite the haphazard actions of the lightning, the coaches hovered in place, and the ride was as smooth as that offered by a horse-drawn carriage.

Praxle half-turned to the half-orc that towered over him. “Come, Jeffers,” he said. “Let’s find my cabin and get away from these crowds.”

Jeffers picked up Praxle’s copious luggage and followed his master onto the lightning rail. The two moved through the caravan of coaches until they found the luxurious private suite that Praxle had rented. Once inside, Jeffers poured Praxle a snifter of brandy and then proceeded to unpack those things that Praxle might require on the two-day journey to Aundair.

Praxle sat by the window and put his feet up, occasionally taking small sips of his drink. Soon the coach got under way, accelerating slowly but smoothly. They left Wroat and soon were speeding along the vast Brelish countryside.

Jeffers finished arranging the room, then left and fetched some food.

Praxle stared out the window as the lightning rail sped along. He didn’t hear the constant actinic crackling of the magical fields propelling the caravan along the plinths. His eyes did not see the Howling Peaks slowly sailing past his window like great stone galleons of a bygone age. Nor did he smell the savor of the Brelish stew that Jeffers had procured.

“You look pensive, master,” said Jeffers as he refreshed Praxle’s drink. “May I ask what troubles you?”

“The Orb of Xoriat, of course,” he said. “After so many years, I’m on its track at last. Unfortunately, I am not the only one. Caeheras let his lips slip, and somehow the Shadow Fox found out.”

“Who is this Shadow Fox, master?” asked Jeffers.

“We don’t know,” said Praxle. “We—the University gnomes! — we don’t know. He’s some sort of Cyran bandit, and that’s the extent that we’ve been able to find out. Everyone knows about him but no one seems to know anything of him, other than he operates out of Thrane, primarily in Flamekeep.”

“Are you of the opinion that the Cyrans may be able to reach the Orb first?” asked Jeffers.

“I don’t know, because I don’t know who sent them. Who would be desperate enough to hire the Cyrans, anyway? Working with Cyrans is like asking a viper to suck the venom from a scorpion’s sting.” Then Praxle found the thread and started to pull, and the veil obscuring the truth started to unravel. “Of course no one hired the Cyrans. That means they’re acting on their own. So the Cyrans know about the Orb. Wait, Jeffers, do you remember that hireling you pinched after the ambush?”

“Yes, I do, fairly well, master. A bit of a rake, two short swords, as I recall.”

“His accent was that of a Cyran, was it not? And he acted so calm during the whole fiasco, he escaped the Shadow Fox’s ambush unscathed.”

“Indeed master, and if I understand your implication, I would indeed hazard that he was acting at the behest of the Shadow Fox, and that he himself brought extra information to Caeheras, hoping to purloin the Orb directly from him.”

Praxle nodded. “So he brought extra information to Caeheras, and the Shadow Fox hoped to snatch the Orb from him. But when Caeheras went to me instead—albeit with the intent of gouging a higher price—he brought the plan to the Shadow Fox.” Praxle grinned slyly. It all made sense. “Well, then, the Cyrans think they’ve pulled a perfect escapade, don’t they? But they don’t know that Caeheras whispered his dying secret to me.” Praxle paused and looked over at the half-orc. “Do you remember what the Cyran looked like?”

“I was not as close to him as you were, master, so I claim no particular credit to the accuracy of my memory.”

“Sit here in front of me,” Praxle said.

The half-orc obeyed.

Praxle closed one eye and spun his hands in tiny, intricate circles, creating wisps of magical energy. With the ease of endless practice, he split his attention between his eyes. The open eye guided his hands as they layered the magical energies onto Jeffers’ face; the closed eye looked into the past, probing Praxle’s memories for the required image. As he worked, the wisps took shape and then began filling in with details as Praxle’s fingers flew through their elaborate gestures. Hair. Eyes. A nose. The sardonic smile the Cyran had given in parting. The stubble on his chin, outlining a small scar. Praxle plumbed the depths of his mind and brought it all back, weaving it into an illusion of startling clarity.

At last Praxle finished. He looked proudly on his handiwork. “Take a good look at this man, Jeffers,” he said as he handed his retainer a small mirror.

“Remarkable, master, as always. This is indeed his face.”

Praxle shrugged. “I make a habit to study faces,” he said. “Well, then, this Cyran may be on this very run—probably in one of the lower-class carriages. I want you to find out if he’s here.”

“And if he is, master?” asked the half-orc.

“He will have a tragic accident.”

“It will be a pleasure, master.”

“Thank you. Here, let me make this easier for you ….” Praxle made a few more mystic passes, and the illusion faded from Jeffers’s face. “Keep the mirror with you. Look into it if you need a refresher. You’ll see the Cyran’s face looking back at you.”

“Thank you, master,” said Jeffers as he rose. “I believe we have several hours before the next stop, I’ll report back shortly.”

The latch clicked as he closed the door.

My, thought Praxle, seeing the landscape outside the window for the first time, the countryside looks peaceful. I shall have to invest myself in some Aundairian wine. It would be an excellent accompaniment to success.

Teron walked into the meditation garden, paused, and spied a familiar figure sitting on a bench and watching the flowers sway in the scant breeze. He smiled at the thought of the aged master using such a simple meditation. It had been one of the first practices Teron had learned, and it remained an excellent way to calm the mind and find simple peace—watch the flowers until you sway with them.

“Keiftal,” he called, but the elder monk did not reply.

He walked down the stone path that circled Keiftal’s bench, his footsteps barely disturbing the pebbles. As he walked, he fluffed his thick tunic. His gray canvas uniform was drenched with the sweat of his workout, and it clung to his skin. Unfortunately, all that the fluffing did was make the wet tunic colder as it pressed to his back once more.

He walked around and squatted in front of his mentor, arms resting easily on his knees.

“Teron!” exclaimed the aged monk with a warm smile.

Teron rocked back just a little. “It’s me. No need to shout.”

Keiftal laughed heartily, but with a bit of a hollow sinus sound. “Especially not here, I suppose,” he said. Then he went silent, staring at the face of his student, love and regret mixing in his wrinkled gaze.

“You wished to see me, honored one?” asked Teron. He noted that Keiftal dropped Teron’s gaze as soon as he spoke, and he regretted breaking the moment.

“I did, my boy,” he said. “But,” he added, his slurred S sounds coming from behind his teeth, “don’t call me honored one. That’s a title for nobles, not a simple old man like me.”

Teron bobbed his head, then let it droop as he fiddled with a stone on the path. “You always say that. But you’re my teacher, and—”

“Back flip!” barked Keiftal.

Teron sprang. His hands whipped up. He pinwheeled his arms for angular momentum as he arched his back. In a flash he landed, feet shoulder-width apart, left arm raised defensively, right fist cocked at his floating rib for a powerful counterpunch.

“Good,” said Keiftal. He reached over and took his staff, planting one end on the rocky path a mere hand’s span away from Teron’s front foot. “How many times do I have to tell you to look at your elders when you speak?”

Teron smiled abashedly. “Too often, honored one.”

“Four basilisks!”

Teron flew into the ritual form. Eyes closed, he relied on his kinesthetic sense to maintain balance and position. He erupted in a whirlwind explosion of kicks and punches, the canvas of his tunic and pants popping with each extreme acceleration. Twelve punches, twenty blocks and eight kicks later, he entered the second half of the form, structured as the exact reverse of the first half. He came to rest at last, facing Keiftal with his feet shoulder width apart and his right fist cocked again. His eyes were still closed, though the crease in his brow clearly illustrated the fiery gaze that burned behind the lids. Keiftal looked down at his staff. Teron’s foot stood but a span away.

Keiftal looked around and found they were indeed alone in the garden. “Your mastery of the art has been improving, Teron,” he said, his voice somewhere between a murmur and a stage whisper. “There is still some room for improvement, I’m sure, but it is getting harder and harder for me to find it.”

Teron relaxed his stance. “Thank you, honored one.”

“You are perhaps the best student I have seen come through here.”

“I was one of the best, master.”

“You are. This monastery was founded well before Galifar united the Five Nations, my boy, and your petulance will not break the foundation laid by generations of masters. By the standards we’ve held for almost two millennia, you exhibit what is perhaps the finest mastery of technique I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, honored one,” said Teron, hardening his heart so the compliment rolled off, unfelt.

“I should clarify. You exhibit excellent martial technique. Here we teach that mastery of the outer motion must be balanced with mastery of inner stillness. You are very weak in that regard.”

“I have passed my meditation requirements, Master Keiftal,” said Teron.

“You have. And you have not thereafter made any effort to improve yourself in that arena. You’ve thrown all of your energy into bettering your combat abilities. Now while your, um,”—he glanced around again—“your situation excuses that to a degree, the fact remains that you have all but abandoned meditation and the pursuit of inner peace.”

“As you wish,” said Teron, hoping that his noncommittal answer might end this unwanted scrutiny of his inner workings.

“You do not let go of the world and embrace peace, Teron. Instead, you fight the world, hoping to crush your way to peace. But it cannot be done.”

Keiftal looked into Teron’s eyes and saw the steely disagreement therein. He sighed. “Do you know why we have not rebuilt the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, my boy?”

“I’ve always assumed it was because Prelate Quardov hates us.”

Keiftal cocked an eyebrow. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I suppose in a way, we merit his distaste,” said Keiftal with a half-smile. “We’ve never rebuilt it as a reminder to ourselves both of the results of violence, for violence made a ruin of this beautiful monastery; and the costs of failure, for our failure to protect this place brought it to what it is now. But of course, this monastery is part of Prelate Quardov’s purview. Its welfare is his responsibility. Has been since before it was destroyed. So I imagine that leaving this place as it is has become rather a sore reminder to him of how he failed to protect his charges.”

“That’s not the whole of it,” said Teron.

“Now the training for your class was rather different from what we normally teach,” said Keiftal. “I know we told you that the monastery ruins were to serve as a reminder to your—to you and your comrades, that is—a reminder of what you were fighting for. But if you look at it, my boy, you’ll see that even that approach ties back to the cost of violence and the price of failure.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Teron.

“Then what do you mean, my boy?”

“I mean that if his reverence wanted to repair the monastery, he would. But he doesn’t want to. He has a reason of some sort.”

Keiftal sucked on his teeth. “Well, my boy—”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” asked Teron, resignation in his voice. He watched emotions rage across Keiftal’s face—shame and anger, bitter sadness and righteous indignation.

At last the elder monk mastered his face and looked about. “Do you know why we have rebuilt this garden?” he asked.

“No, honored one. Why?”

“To show that even here, even in our derelict home set smack in the middens of this ruined land, even here there is hope for renewal and rebirth. Even here there we can coax forth peace and beauty.” He looked into Teron’s eyes again and saw his words dash themselves against his quiet defiance like a toasting glass against a brick wail. He shook his head sadly, “Why do you do it, Teron?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Go into the Crying Fields? The Last War is over, my boy. Can you not accept that?”

“I can, honored one. But peace cannot accept me.”

Keiftal started to reply but paused, trying to get a mental grip on Teron’s words.

“It keeps me sharp,” said Teron, hoping to steer the conversation away from his unexpected admission. “I don’t want to rust like a neglected blade.”

“Your skills are … well, there must be better ways.”

“I don’t know of any. Who’s left who’s had the training I’ve had? No one. How can I hone my skills sparring against people I know are no threat? It’s the closest I can get to the war.”

Keiftal started to answer, thought better of it, then took a deep breath and forced it out. “You are right, my boy. Now I know your training has been harder since … well, since. But the shadows of the Crying Fields, they may look threatening and all, my boy, but they’re just … they’re just shadows!”

Teron looked into his mentor’s eyes. “Not always,” he said.