A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  Iltar raised an eyebrow, looking toward the ceiling. What was he supposed to do? He wasn’t going to trust his questions to anyone else here at the Order of Histories. Was he to drop everything and go seek the answers himself? Iltar couldn’t do that, not with Pagus’s behavior. Then there was the council. How would he explain his absence to them? They’d surely question his motives. He could attempt to do research here at the Order of Histories, but that would require him staying in the city. Perhaps he could rent a place temporarily…

  “You must fulfill your destiny, Unspoken One,” the voice said, this time fainter than the first. “Seek my faithful. They will enlighten you.”

  You ask the impossible, Iltar groaned inwardly.

  “Is everything all right, Iltar?” Midal asked. The question shook Iltar from the unnatural communion with that unknown being.

  “Yes,” Iltar said, nodding. “I’ll take my leave of you.” He gathered up his things and headed for the door.

  “Shall we resume this in six months?” Kilan asked.

  Iltar stopped at the door, reaching for the handle. He glanced back to Kilan. “Hopefully by then I’ll have this entire thing figured out.”

  As he and Pagus wound their way toward the center of the enormous building, Iltar thought over his dilemma.

  They were near the junction to the central lobby when Pagus grabbed Iltar’s arm, urging him to stop. “Master Iltar, I have an idea.”

  “About?” Iltar asked, not amused. His dilemma irked him.

  “Finding the answers to your questions,” Pagus said. “I can tell you’re impatient to discover the truth.” Impatience was the wrong word. Iltar could be patient. He had been. Plotting Rovin’s death took patience. No, this was something else. It was frustration, a frustration that burned his very soul.

  “We can go ourselves to Mindolarn. That’s where you’d want to go, right?”

  Go to Mindolarn? Iltar hadn’t jumped to that conclusion. He’d need to conduct research, but that could be done here, until he exhausted the tomes.

  “I’m sure they’d have bigger libraries, more texts,” Pagus added. “And maybe those other symbols will be there too.”

  “We can’t go to Mindolarn.” Iltar sighed. “And I don’t want—”

  Footsteps echoed into the corridor from the central lobby. Iltar paused, watching two scholars approach, engrossed in conversation with each other. They paid little attention to Iltar and Pagus, passing them and disappearing down an adjoining hall.

  “I don’t want the council to find out what I’m doing.”

  “Trying to protect us?” Pagus asked with a smile.

  It was not just that. Iltar didn’t know how Alacor and the others would react to his visions. Damnation, he didn’t know how to react to the blasted things.

  “Well, that’s okay, because I have a plan,” Pagus said cheerily. “My father owns a ship, and we can take it. It won’t be on any charter. Your name won’t be tied to it in the slightest. Alacor won’t even know you’re gone.”

  Iltar raised his brow, confused but intrigued. “Are you planning to impersonate me?”

  Pagus laughed. “No! I’m going with you. You’re going to teach me some new spells in exchange for my services.”

  Well, there it was… Pagus was being his same old self. The offer was tempting, but Iltar could get a ship, no problem. Money wasn’t an issue. And he could do it discreetly. He just didn’t have a good enough reason to slip away.

  “Come here,” Pagus said, gesturing to a nearby door. He opened it, stepped inside, then poked his head back out. “It’s empty.”

  Iltar reluctantly followed his apprentice and closed the door. The room was a small study available to the public. If one were studying or conducting research here at the Order of Histories, one could simply occupy one of these rooms.

  “You need an excuse to get out of Soroth,” Pagus said. “I can be that excuse.”

  “How?” Iltar asked flatly.

  “Well, you see, while I was home during the sabbatical, there was a distressing incident at my family’s home. I had to stay, but I couldn’t drop my training as a necromancer. So, I’m going to request that my teacher be sent to Sarn for private study.”

  Iltar raised his brow thoughtfully. That was a cunning ploy. But it would be verified by the Order. Could it work?

  “It’d be several months before I could return to Soroth. Enough time for us to sail to Mindolarn, find what we need, and return to Soroth.”

  A tempting offer, but Iltar couldn’t abandon the other acolytes.

  “What about my other students?” Iltar asked. “Is the council supposed to divide them up among themselves to teach?”

  “Nah,” Pagus waved his hand. “They’ll come too. My family can supply rooms for them. Well, you know what I mean. You could probably use them to help with the research. That’s a lot of little footmen to run errands for you.”

  “That sounds too complicated, Pagus.”

  “It’s not like they’re going back and forth to their homes between lessons,” Pagus said. “Most of them live at the Necrotic Order. And their parents have resigned them to the Order’s care.”

  “Except for Bilda and Agen,” Iltar said. “They live at home.” Pagus shrugged. Iltar continued, “If their parents decided to make a trip to Sarn to visit them, we’d be found out. Or if their parents wanted them to come home.”

  “I find that unlikely,” Pagus folded his arms. “Trust me, this is going to work.”

  “I don’t know…” Iltar sighed.

  “Look,” Pagus said sternly, “you failed to ‘properly’ discipline us not once, but twice. If the council found that out, then you’d have some problems. Big problems.” He grunted. “I bet Alacor would turn on you so fast!”

  “So you have a knife to your throat and mine?” Iltar asked, shaking his head. “What kind of blackmail is that?”

  Pagus grinned. “The best kind. Shows that I’m as invested as you in not getting caught.” That was strange teenage logic.

  “Or we could just go about our lives,” Iltar said. But then there was that behest…

  “Iltar,” Pagus said frankly, “I know you don’t want to wait.”

  Did the boy just call me by my first name? Iltar blinked. What audacity!

  “Just trust me,” Pagus insisted.

  Iltar narrowed his eyes at the youth. Pagus was determined to follow this through. But Pagus had concealed his activities from Alacor and the others. Perhaps this could work. And if the boys were with him, Iltar could protect them.

  Silence passed between them for several minutes, as Iltar mulled Pagus’s proposal. The more he thought about it the more he warmed to the idea.

  “Well?” Pagus broke the silence.

  “Let’s do it,” Iltar agreed reluctantly.

  “Yes!” Pagus cheered, triumphantly punching his hand skyward. “I’ll sneak off to Sarn at once. Be ready for my letter. Well, my father’s letter.”

  “After a decade, the Keepers had spread across the world. They were my eyes and my ears. We vowed to protect the inhabitants of Kalda. Each Keeper was stalwart in their charge.”

  - From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface

  The Executor’s Breath neared the naval yards of Keliur, nearly a week and a half after parting ways with the Promised Maiden. Kaescis Midivar had grown uneasy during that time. He stood in the observation room atop the highest deck, hands clasped behind his back. The top buttons of his uniform were undone.

  What am I to do? Kaescis thought, staring at the port across the horizon. Laeyit thought they should kill Cornar Dol’shir before it was too late. But was that the answer? He had sought the Will, but hadn’t received an answer.

  That bothered him. Had he done something to provoke the displeasure of Cheserith?

  Kaescis remembered the stories of the ancients claiming their God had forsaken them, abandoning them in times of need. They had sought the Will, but received no answer. Kaescis feared the sam
e was happening to him.

  “What have I done, Lord Cheserith?” Kaescis whispered in despair. “What must I do to regain your favor?”

  A faint breeze rustled past him. But he was indoors! How was that—

  “Kaescis, you are not forsaken,” a voice whispered along the breeze. Kaescis started at the words, looking about frantically. He heard words! But only the Chosen and the Grand Oracle were said to be able to hear the Voice of God. Kaescis had only experienced flashes of visions and distinct impressions, but never words.

  “Fear not the man,” the voice whispered again. “He does not know you.”

  “Aunok’sha!” Kaescis implored, using the ancient word for Divine Father. “What must I do?”

  There was no answer. All was silent.

  Kaescis relaxed, taking in a deep breath. He wasn’t forsaken after all. Perhaps he was not ready for the answer. That thought gave him courage. Kaescis buttoned up his uniform and resumed watching the Executor’s Breath near the Keliur naval yards.

  After a quarter of an hour they moored at the edge of a large pier not far from the construction yards. Several ships were under repair. Others were under construction, looking like the ribcages of enormous beasts.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” Practil said behind him. “A messenger at the docks delivered this for you.” Kaescis turned. Practil held out a scroll with a wax seal bearing the emblem of the empire, a seven-headed hydra.

  “The messenger didn’t say any more,” Practil continued, “even though I probed.”

  Kaescis took the scroll, carefully broke the seal, and cocked his head as he unfurled the scroll. It was a summons to the command fortress at the heart of the naval yards. He was to report to the admiral in charge of Keliur.

  “What is it, Your Imperial Highness?” Practil asked.

  “A summons,” Kaescis said flatly, rerolling the scroll. He handed it back to Practil, gazing once more out the windows of the observation room. The crewmen were busily securing the vessel. Kaescis looked past them to the island, staring at a structure that rose into the sky.

  “Is it about your requisition?”

  “That I don’t know,” Kaescis said. Before reaching Soroth, Kaescis had sent the request for additional forces by a unique tevisral created by his cousin, Raedina. She had given it to him not long after the Feast of Sorrows, knowing that he might need to stay in contact. The tevisral, however, was damaged and had stopped working the day before mooring in Soroth.

  “Come with me, Practil,” Kaescis said. Practil straightened, and they strode together from the observation room.

  * * * * *

  Kaescis and Practil soon arrived at the command fortress of Keliur, accompanied by Admiral Kaetet, who was interested in knowing why Kaescis had been summoned.

  The command fortress was an elevated castle with towers reaching what seemed unfathomable heights—at least for the average man of Kalda. This type of construction was not foreign to those of the Mindolarn Empire. Kaescis’s father and uncles were privy to the secrets of the past. They had access to ancient tevisrals that made such construction possible. But they were cautious with that knowledge, creating structures like the command fortress of Keliur only where they would remain unseen by commoners’ eyes.

  Kaescis presented the summons to the soldiers stationed outside, and they allowed the three to enter. They made their way through the wards to the central building of the fortress—its main keep, so to speak. The towering doors opened to reveal Admiral Vedigar, the fortress commander, and a small company of soldiers and officers. A battle-hardened man, Vedigar’s rugged face bore many scars, and he wore a patch over one of his violet eyes. On the left side of his head, a white streak ran through his light-brown hair.

  “Prince Kaescis,” Vedigar said with a salute, touching his left fist to his right breast, and bowed. “Welcome to Keliur.”

  Kaescis returned the salute and simply nodded.

  “The emperor and the Supreme Council wish to speak with you,” Vedigar said, gesturing inside. “There is also a contingent of the Crimson Praetorian Guard waiting to accompany you on your voyage.”

  Kaescis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Vedigar turned to one of the soldiers and whispered a command. The soldier hurried off, disappearing into the depths of the main keep.

  “Please, follow me,” Vedigar said, turning to the doors. The company of soldiers parted in unison, their boots echoing through the castle’s entrance. Kaescis and his companions followed Vedigar into a towering five-story foyer. Elaborate stonework ornamented the walls and ceilings, crafted by tevisrals that could make the most precise and minuscule cuts. Massive columns lined the room, bearing exquisite designs. Kaescis longed for the day when architecture like this would be common. Would that it be soon.

  “Admiral Kaetet, I heard of your tragedy,” Vedigar said softly. “I offer my condolences for your losses.”

  “Much appreciated,” Kaetet said. “We wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for the prince.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Vedigar said. “That’s what I heard. Who knew the Sapphire Guard could be so skilled.”

  “This is the first time we’ve ever clashed with them,” Kaescis said. “I don’t think anyone knew the extent of their abilities. They were undaunted by the Ko’delish. Most foes would flee at its presence.”

  “That is disturbing,” Vedigar said, leading Kaescis and his companions down a corridor at the end of the grand foyer. “And here I thought they were just a ragtag bunch of mercenaries and treasure hunters.”

  They continued through the castle, discussing the details of their experience in Soroth. Vedigar was politely interested, but didn’t seem to care about what happened with the Necrotic Order or that Krindal had conscripted a band of adventurers. After all, Soroth was a backwater chain of islands. An insignificant place… but, he was there.

  Soon, they reached a war room often used for councils. It was quite large, with a long table that spanned most of the room’s length. Fifty people could sit around it. A black sphere the size of a man’s head—an Ul’thirl—sat at the center of the table. The room was empty except for Kaescis, his servant, and the admirals. Was the Ul’thirl active?

  Kaescis edged around the table, nearing its center.

  “The messenger I sent ahead informed the man on the other side,” Vedigar said.

  Kaescis nodded. So, it is active.

  Soon, several members of the empire’s Supreme Council entered the war room, taking their seats at the opposite end of the table from Kaescis and the others. Well, they were not actually in the same room, of course. These men were thousands of grand phineals away from Keliur, communicating with him via the Ul’thirl.

  Ul’thirls were quite remarkable. Whoever had thought of crafting such tevisrals was brilliant. They used various forms of magic to capture the area around them and project that area elsewhere in the world.

  Raedina had spent years studying them. She hoped to be able to replicate such wonders, but it was nigh impossible. Her labors, however, were not fruitless. Raedina and her associates had devised a means to send audible messages, and it was that kind of tevisral Kaescis had used to relay his request.

  Kaescis marveled at the sight projected by the Ul’thirl, but his eyes were drawn to the stone along the walls of those who had taken their seats. He could see the slight difference in color from the war room here in Keliur.

  The war room and the room where the Supreme Council was seated were just two of many identical chambers scattered throughout the empire. It was more pleasant to have conversations via Ul’thirl if the places looked the same, otherwise you would have a mismatched amalgamation of a room. Identical rooms also made it easier to conceal the true nature of the Ul’thirls from anyone who might accidently stumble across a meeting, although Praetorians or other soldiers often guarded both places. Kaescis’s uncles had also used them to ward off would-be assassins attempting to strike during an audience with the emperor.

  Such an assassination
had been attempted once. Kaescis remembered the man charging through the room, ready to strike but being surprised upon discovering that the emperor was a cluster of magic. The assassin was perplexed until his beheading. The whole thing was actually quite humorous.

  Footsteps echoed from behind Kaescis, and he turned to see another man entering the war room. “Bratan!” Kaescis exclaimed with a smile. He hurried back across the room to meet the burly man.

  A smirk spread across Bratan’s broad face. He stood taller than Kaescis, with a larger build. Bratan wore a fanciful garb. Though he wasn’t a noble, Bratan often dressed like one—at least when he wasn’t wearing his crimson armor as a Crimson Praetorian.

  “Kaescis, my friend!” Bratan stretched out his arms, gripping Kaescis in a tight hug. His yellow-green eyes beamed with excitement, then narrowed as he studied Kaescis.

  Could Bratan sense the conflict within him?

  “What’s wrong?” Bratan asked calmly.

  Kaescis averted his gaze, remembering his confusion while traveling from Soroth. As he opened his mouth to speak, he heard a declaration from behind him.

  “Presenting the Emperor of Mindolarn,” exclaimed a servant in a crimson coat, “Marden, son of Madars and descendant of the Almighty Karath’nos, the ruler of our sublunary dominion beneath the watchful gaze of our God and Father, Cheserith.” Kaescis sucked in his breath as everyone in the war room snapped to attention.

  A moment later, the emperor entered the room. Uncle Marden wasn’t wearing his royal robes, which surprised Kaescis. Instead, the emperor wore a simple black garb with a black cape and cowl over his shoulders. His hands were shrouded in leather gloves. Marden didn’t carry himself like the past emperors. He was a casual man who often slouched. The emperor eyed Kaescis with a probing gaze before taking his seat at the head of the table.

  “What is this meeting about?” Kaescis asked, stepping away from the others. He moved to the right side of the table, stopping near the Ul’thirl. He didn’t like crossing through the magic; doing so tingled his senses.