A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  Iltar shook his head.

  “He’s going to miss this,” she said with a sigh, referring to her nephew. “I can’t believe it. What could be more important than going to the palace?”

  Iltar looked at Elsia with disbelief. Was she not worried that something might have happened to Pagus?

  He better not have gone and done something stupid, Iltar thought.

  Soon, the mansion’s doors opened, and Alanya led the boys outside, beneath her lavish portico. The high duchess was dressed in a black gown with a trailing skirt that she had to hold up when walking. Its blue accents looked like swirling streams of magic. Her hair was pinned up in a braid that wrapped around the back of her head. She looked stunning.

  “Don’t drool on your jacket,” Elsia said, chuckling. Iltar rolled his eyes at her.

  Alanya approached the carriage, pleasantly smiling. “Right on schedule,” she beamed. Still smiling, Alanya reached up and stroked Iltar’s cheek. “Mmm, much better.”

  “You did well, Alanya,” Elsia said, gesturing to the boys. “I hardly recognize them.”

  Each of the acolytes was wearing formal clothing like Iltar. They marched straight-backed with their chins held up slightly. Alanya had undoubtedly instructed the boys on “proper walking etiquette” while in the palace.

  “Did your nephew ever show?” Alanya asked.

  “No…” Elsia sighed.

  “What a pity,” Alanya said with a frown, then moved to the carriage door.

  Before long they were all in their respective vehicles and moving toward the gates of Alanya’s home.

  The ride toward the palace was as interesting as the ride from the docks. The roads followed the terrain. That aspect of the city confused Iltar. On the one hand, the Mindolarnians built such massive structures, but left something as simple as a road to the course of nature. He shook his head at that notion.

  The women chatted the entire way, Alanya sharing her experiences in the palace and Elsia asking questions after what seemed to be every sentence. Iltar ignored them, gazing out the window.

  After half an hour, the street they were on curved to the east. Iltar could now see one of the towers that surrounded the palace. The tower rose dozens of stories. Twenty or thirty? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps twenty-one, since Mindolarnians were obsessed with the number seven and all its multiples. The tower’s top was a glistening oval, with stone framework running along its sides to its peak. Iltar thought the tower’s top looked like a claw clutching an egg—though it didn’t expressly look like a claw.

  Why a claw? Iltar wondered, gazing at the structure. He couldn’t help but think of his encounter with Cheserith. But what did that have to do with the tower?

  A wall partially obscured the tower. It ran along the road and was made of red-brown stone. The whole wall was without seams and appeared to be one solid mass. That’s impossible, Iltar grunted, studying the wall. Surely, there had to be a seam somewhere. But there wasn’t. The wall curved with the street. It must be a transmutation.

  As the carriage continued eastward, Iltar could see the palace rising beyond the wall. It was much closer now, about half a grand phineal away. The carriage traveled along the road that wrapped around the palace, and Iltar was treated to a partial view of the southern parts of the bastion of Mindolarn Royalty.

  As the road turned north, the wall diverged from the road. A manicured field spread between the road and the wall for quite a distance, hemmed in by a waist-high wrought-iron fence. The field was dotted with occasional trees. There were some stone benches beneath the trees, as well as stone paths that wound toward the north—where the carriage was headed.

  Eventually, a short tower came into view across the field. It was joined to the wall that had lined the street and was one of two towers along the palace’s outer gate. To Iltar’s surprise, the gate looked like a solid stone door within a seven-sided arch. It reminded him of the towering doors at the Hilinard.

  The carriage turned soon after, moving down a glistening red stone road leading to the gate. The carriage stopped, and Iltar heard the clanking of armor. He stuck his head out the window, seeing two soldiers approaching—both dressed in ceremonial red armor. The soldiers spoke briefly to the driver, then waved to the gate.

  Iltar expected to see the gate swing open, but it slid apart. “By all that’s magical…” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Elsia asked.

  Still stunned, Iltar glanced to the women. Alanya just smiled at him. “The doors… they’re sliding open, as if they’re going into the wall.”

  “They do go into the wall,” Alanya said. “It’s harder to breech a gate that has no hinges.”

  “How do they slide?” Elsia asked. It was her only intelligent question of the ride.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Alanya waved her hand. “There’s some kind of magic involved.”

  The women continued talking about the gate, but Iltar ignored them. He looked back out the window as the carriage lurched forward.

  A bridge lay beyond the gate, spanning a ravine. The bridge looked to be about forty phineals wide by a hundred and fifty phineals long. It had short walls on either side with posts waving the Mindolarnian banner—the seven-headed hydra—spaced every twenty phineals apart.

  Iltar’s eyes were drawn to the ravine that acted as the palace’s dry moat. Though the ravine appeared like a natural formation—hewn by erosion—there was a man-made quality to it. The wall they had traveled along marked the edge of the ravine’s sheer cliff.

  Another sheer cliff stood on the opposite side of the ravine; it too was hemmed in by a similar red-brown stone wall. This wall, however, surrounded the actual palace.

  The carriage passed two more towers at the other end of the bridge. The towers were full of armed men wielding bows and channeling staffs—the latter were most likely mages, though they didn’t look like mages.

  Not long after passing the towers, the carriage came to a halt. The driver dismounted and opened the door closest to the women. Both Elsia and Alanya stepped out, primly walking ahead of the carriage.

  Iltar followed them, but was drawn by his acolytes’ excited comments.

  “Isn’t this amazing!” one of the boys cried, leaping from the wagon. Others were following him and jumping out. A few, however, were just gazing beyond the carriage and the wagon, their mouths hanging open in astonishment.

  Oh to be young again, Iltar mused, sauntering to the bridge’s rail. It was carved with exquisite designs that reminded him of that place where he had helplessly watched Cornar fight for his life. Iltar peered over the rail, looking down into the ravine. Sharp stalagmites rose from the ravine bed a hundred phineals away. They were unnaturally sharp and arrayed in too fine a pattern to have been formed by nature, if indeed there was any way that they could have been formed.

  “What a moat…” Iltar whispered, then hurried off to join Alanya and Elsia.

  The women were walking toward buildings arranged in a V-shape around another gate within a two-story wall. The buildings weren’t anything spectacular, and Iltar supposed they were for servants and soldiers.

  The drivers of the carriage and the wagon drove their vehicles to the left. A couple of grooms dressed in Mindolarnian red rushed to the horses, unhitched them, and escorted them into a stable. Then, several men came out and pulled the horse-drawn vehicles out of sight.

  A few of the boys hurriedly passed Iltar and caught up to the women. Alanya scolded the boys, firmly retelling them to behave properly. Little Bilda was among the mischievous bunch and looked back at Iltar with a sheepish grin.

  Silly boy. Iltar shook his head, coming beside Alanya. Elsia had gone ahead, speaking with the guards who manned the gate. It too was like the doors of the Hilinard.

  After Elsia finished speaking with the guard, the man shouted to those manning the gate. The symbols on the gate lit up, glowing a vibrant red, and then the gate split and slid open, retreating into the towers.

  “How is that
possible?” Iltar muttered with disbelief. The walls beyond the towers were angled toward the palace, and the towers themselves were half the width of the gate’s doors. It should have been impossible for the gates to go anywhere. The stone would have had to curve or… compress.

  Could that really work? Iltar wondered, raising an eyebrow. He had read once that transmutative magic was capable of compressing matter, but he had never seen nor performed that effect. This had to be the work of a tevisral.

  Soon, they were all beyond the gate, inside an elongated pentagonal courtyard. White galstra covered the ground, with red veins and flecks throughout its surface. Like the walls, the courtyard’s floor was seamless, as if it were one giant slab.

  Iltar watched as the gate slid back into place. It looked no different than it had before, totally unaffected by what had happened to it.

  A tevisral that can compress matter, Iltar thought, feeling awestruck. These Mindolarnians really are advanced. He spun, hurrying after Alanya and Elsia, who strode toward a fountain at the courtyard’s center.

  Near the fountain stood a man dressed in a white coat, matching pants, and a golden shirt. He wasn’t very tall and was quite average looking. The man held a ledger and coldly studied the approaching party.

  “My ladies,” the white-clothed man said, and bowed, “I am Chamberlain Caedaric. Her Imperial Highness is awaiting you.” The chamberlain turned crisply, walking in a proper manner around the fountain.

  The women followed him, as did the acolytes. Iltar, however, took up the rear. He drank in his surroundings, but thoughts of Pagus lingered in the back of his mind. Where are you, boy? Iltar fought back a growl.

  Caedaric was speaking, but Iltar paid him no attention. Everyone followed the chamberlain across the courtyard, toward a grand staircase that led to the imposing palace. The stairs were divided into three tiers. Fourteen deep steps—as deep as a man was tall—connected the tiers.

  “… and to your left are the gardens leading to the dignitary suite,” the chamberlain said. “This area, called the Lower Gardens, is exactly ten phineals above the street level outside the palace. The walls that housed the gate you just came through line this entire lower tier. That’s why the wall is so high,” he said, not sounding amused. “And the diameter of the Lower Gardens is roughly one grand phineal.”

  Caedaric continued giving bits of information about the palace as they walked. They soon came to another flight of stairs and arrived on what the chamberlain called the Middle Gardens.

  “… and beyond those trees there is the Temple of Ku’tharn the Eternal, Goddess of Mindolarn. And to your right is the Chamber of the Father, another place of worship. Both buildings look similar, but are quite different on the inside.”

  To Iltar’s right stood a domed building with a vibrant red roof. It was nestled within trees of various colors. Despite the lack of cold weather, it was fall in Mindolarn and the trees had changed colors.

  A few other domed buildings were set back away from the Chamber of the Father and looked like they were in the Lower Gardens. They looked similar to the structures at the Hilinard—gaudy and ostentatious.

  After walking for a short while they came to another set of stairs, exactly like the other two.

  “Now we arrive at the Palace Tier,” the chamberlain said as they climbed the steps.

  Statues lined this last staircase, spaced one step apart. Those on the same step looked identical, their poses mirrored. In fact, each of the statues looked similar, as if depicting brothers. These must be the emperors, Iltar thought. There are seven of them.

  Chamberlain Caedaric continued with his informative tour while Iltar eyed the Mindolarn Palace. The palace looked like a mushroom with a very wide base. The dome—which had been visible from the docks and Alanya’s mansion—hung over part of the walls of what looked to be the first four floors. Magnificently carved pillars held up the overhanging roof. Between them were floor-to-ceiling windows framed with blood-red metal. All in all, the palace looked to be seven stories high.

  A few other buildings were connected to the palace—two which Iltar could see, five others which were noted by Chamberlain Caedaric. These buildings were much smaller. Each was connected to the palace by long corridors with large windows. One of the adjoining buildings was round, and the other was oval. Their roofs were a metallic red, reminding Iltar of fresh bronze, but with a more vibrant coloring.

  “… roughly three hundred phineals from one end to the other. That doesn’t include the entrance,” Caedaric said. He must have been talking about the palace.

  They passed several Crimson Praetorians standing resolutely with their fanisars resting upright. The Praetorians guarded paths that branched off, leading to the lush gardens surrounding the palace. The paths meandered, twisting around trees and stone planters.

  “Now this is an interesting tidbit,” Caedaric said. “That is the window that our late emperor’s assassin broke while fleeing.”

  Iltar followed Caedaric’s pointing gesture to a window about two-thirds of the way up the palace, to the right of the palace’s grand portico.

  “That’s high up there…” said one of the acolytes.

  Caedaric nodded. “Some of the soldiers fighting here said the assassin leapt so far from the palace that it looked like he was flying.”

  Iltar found that unbelievable.

  The chamberlain continued his lecture as they walked beneath the palace’s portico. It extended from the building and rose as tall as the overhang. Four columns lined its front face, each as intricate as the others upholding the palace’s overhanging roof. Windows allowed a view to the palace’s foyer, as well as the open doorway, which was three stories tall.

  “Where’s the door?” Bilda asked as they entered the palace’s foyer.

  “Compressed inside the frame,” Caedaric said. “Now you will please follow me. We’ll be going straight to the southern dining hall.” The chamberlain led them through the foyer to a hallway on their right.

  Iltar, however, took in the vastness of the space before leaving. It was three stories tall and square in shape. At first glance, Iltar assumed it to be seventy phineals along each wall. Balconies along the sides allowed a view to the grand foyer. The foyer was devoid of pillars, which seemed odd to Iltar. A space of this magnitude required supports.

  Inconceivable, Iltar muttered, gazing at the ceiling.

  A magnificent mural was painted on the foyer’s ceiling, depicting iconic elements from the Cherisium religion. It looked like some titanic clash. Various characters wielded magic. Mindolarn and his brothers were represented. There were three white figures near the top, each glowing with brilliant luster. Those three stood above the outline of a winged creature spanning the sky. Iltar’s eye, however, was drawn to the center of the mural. A man in a crimson robe stood with his arms outstretched within a yellow oval that looked akin to a portal.

  Reflection, Iltar squinted. And the doorway to Vabenack.

  “Master Iltar?” Agen asked hesitantly. Iltar spun, seeing the boy standing in the hall where Caedaric had led the others. “I’ll be right there,” he said, then took one last glance at the mural. Who are you, Reflection?

  “To his most devout followers he granted unimaginable powers. He rigorously tried them in mortal combat against horrific foes. Those who survived were called his Chosen. They were exalted above mortal men, receiving a portion of their master’s immortality. But in reality, they were cursed, twisted by Cheserith’s vile magic. They would become the vilest of evils to walk the face of Kalda—the Ma’lisha.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 35

  The palace’s dining hall was similar to the foyer in many ways, but was not as large. Iltar still found it impressive. The hall’s ceiling rose only two stories, and was rectangular shaped, roughly seventy phineals deep and thirty wide. Three lavish lightstone-lit chandeliers hung from the ceiling with clusters of tiny lightstones arrayed in groups of seven. Gaudy stonework adorned the
walls, colored in reds and golds.

  At the heart of the dining hall was a sprawling table with seventy seats around it—each crafted with extraordinary detail that exuded excessive affluence.

  Three sets of floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a view to the gardens surrounding the palace. Iltar could see the city’s skyline as well as the docks in the distance. The view was quite stunning, but then again, this was a view meant for royalty.

  Princess Raedina stood in front of the windows, her arms folded. She wore a plain crimson dress that nevertheless looked oddly elegant. Her back was turned to the doors, and she didn’t seem to notice that Iltar and his companions had arrived.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” Caedaric said while crossing the room, “your guests have arrived.”

  Raedina turned from the windows, looking exhausted. “Welcome,” she said with a drowsy tone. “You may take your seats wherever you wish. The others will be joining us shortly.”

  Alanya and Elsia moved toward the head of the table, sitting on opposite sides. The acolytes filled the seats around the women, and Alanya whispered to one of the boys who tried sitting next to her. The acolyte moved to the next chair, making everyone else slide down a seat.

  Iltar, however, took his time walking through the room, carefully eying the space for anything that might resemble his research. He found nothing. Besides the gaudy décor, there was nothing informational—no paintings, nor symbols, nor effigies. It was all rather disappointing.

  “Iltar,” Alanya said, gesturing toward the empty seat beside her. He meandered his way through the room, walking past Raedina.

  The princess smiled at him, but Iltar could sense her restrained hostility. It was that glint in her eyes. Raedina looked as if she were gazing upon a man she truly hated.

  Iltar simply nodded. “It’s good to see you, Your Imperial Highness,” he said, passing between the princess and the table.

  “Likewise, Master Iltar,” Raedina replied. “I hope your research is proving fruitful.”

  “It is, ma’am,” Elsia interjected. “We truly appreciate your granting us access to the Royal Archive.”