“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.