A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  From what Iltar could tell, this Ku’tharn and her offspring fit Raedina’s cryptic description.

  Though the text did not expressly say it, Iltar supposed the Mindolarnians must be part of this race, whatever they were.

  After putting Legacy of Ku’tharn aside, Iltar picked up the primer of the Keadal tongue. He flipped through several pages explaining the purpose of the book and how to most efficiently use it. The text was straightforward. Iltar then came to a table spanning several pages, filled with the Keadal alphabet and its Common equivalents.

  Iltar felt a sense of victory. He would unravel the secrets of this language, and then the Translucent Fields of Vabenack would finally obey him.

  * * * * *

  The sun was setting as Lirathay’lu finished planting the last bush in the upper gardens around the Mindolarn Palace. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed heavily.

  “Tired, Sakal?” Gersu asked. He was a middle-aged gardener who had worked in the palace most of his life, a decent man. But the poor fool actually believed all the Mindolarnian religious rhetoric. Lirathay’lu had gazed into Gersu’s mind as soon as they met—of course, Gersu had no clue it had happened. Lirathay’lu made him just as oblivious as Constable Hashar and the other watchmen.

  Lirathay’lu gave the man a hard look. “That’s a stupid question,” he said sardonically, sighing once again.

  Gersu laughed, wiping the dirt from his hands. He was careful not to get it on the path. The Royals were picky about getting dirt on their precious stone.

  “Why don’t you head back, I can take care of the rest of this,” Gersu said.

  Lirathay’lu nodded. He sauntered back through the gardens and came to the path leading to the palace. He was about to descend the steps when a Crimson Praetorian approached with his hand extended.

  “Stay where you are,” the Praetorian said.

  Great… Lirathay’lu drew his lips to a line. He had been careful to blend in with the other servants. He loathed saying that pitiful vow. Had someone picked up on that?

  “Just wait until the procession passes,” the Praetorian said.

  Procession? Lirathay’lu peered around the trees. Soldiers were marching, surrounding servants carrying a covered palanquin of intricate design. The palanquin exuded everything Mindolarnian.

  Must be a member of the Royal Family, he mused.

  The Praetorian turned from Lirathay’lu, taking up a sentinel position where the paths to the garden and the palace met.

  Others were gathered along the palace’s grand stairs. They lined the path from the courtyard to the palace.

  Soon, a proclamation reached Lirathay’lu’s ears. “… to commemorate this monumental event. Tomorrow will be a day recorded in the annals of history, as Our Imperial Grace will unveil the advancements of the Hilinard…”

  Our Imperial Grace? Lirathay’lu wondered, and then he heard it.

  “Citizens of Mindolarn, all make way before our beloved emperor, His Imperial Majesty Marden Midivar, son of Madars, descendant of Cheserith through the loins of Ku’tharn. His Imperial Majesty has returned to the seat of the empire to honor the great men and women who have labored without rest to advance our empire. He graces us with his presence to commemorate this monumental event…”

  Lirathay’lu tuned out the crier, gazing sternly at the palanquin now crossing the path through the Middle Gardens.

  A few royal attendants gathered behind Lirathay’lu, muttering about the Praetorian barring their path, and then they heard the crier announcing the emperor’s presence.

  “Oh my, Meralda, can you believe this?” an attendant asked with a gasp, her voice high pitched.

  “Perhaps we can glimpse him,” Meralda said, and giggled giddily.

  They pushed past Lirathay’lu, peering around the Praetorian. Both women were beaming with excitement.

  Lirathay’lu fought the urge to roll his eyes. He focused on the approaching procession, eyeing the palanquin. I wonder if he’s really in there? Lirathay’lu wondered. Of all Mindolarn’s brothers, Marden was the most reclusive.

  Soon, the emperor’s forward guard passed. There were at least thirty soldiers ahead of the palanquin. Mages were interspersed among the soldiers, carrying channeling staffs. And then the palanquin passed.

  The women sighed with disappointment, as the windows of the palanquin were closed. Lirathay’lu had expected that.

  Another thirty or so soldiers passed with a second attachment of mages. The emperor’s rear guard forced the followers trailing behind the procession to keep back a good twenty phineals.

  Soon, the forward guard entered the palace, followed by the palanquin.

  Once the last of the procession was inside the palace, the Praetorian moved from the gardens, allowing Lirathay’lu entrance onto the palace’s main path. The women followed the crowd into the palace while Lirathay’lu headed down the stairs.

  Odd that they would announce his arrival, Lirathay’lu thought. I would have expected Medis to do something like that, but not Marden.

  Lirathay’lu passed other servants, all chattering about the unexpected arrival of their monarch. They too found it out of character. As Lirathay’lu made his way to the servants’ quarters, a conflict began swelling within him. He had vowed to watch and observe—like the other usa’zin’sha—but a deep yearning compelled him to commit an act so treacherous that it might brand him vik’sha. No, it’s too perfect an opportunity, he thought. Yes, the emperor would be vulnerable. But Lirathay’lu wasn’t an assassin—he was no Zanxsthy’ll.

  Struggling with the growing conflict, Lirathay’lu turned back to the palace. There will be too many guards, he argued with himself. But he could bypass that. The thought of feeling the winds beneath him flooded his mind, and for a moment that distracted him from the conflict.

  But right now he had to concentrate. He’s the last of Mindolarn’s brothers, Lirathay’lu thought. If he were to die, the empire would never be the same. In fact, it might be better off… The fat prince was next in line to inherit the throne. Jeridi, isn’t it? Lirathay’lu squinted thoughtfully. If he were in charge, the Mindolarn Empire would change. Kalda could benefit from that. Jeridi wanted peace. But how long before one of his brothers slayed him and claimed the throne for himself? That would create a power struggle, ignite a civil war.

  Lirathay’lu liked that notion, but then the unified voice of the Ril’Sha came to his mind. You are to watch and observe—nothing more. Do not dare to meddle in the affairs of men.

  The conflict inside him was raging now, like a great storm. Ideas attacked each other like bolts of lightning; their thunder pierced his heart.

  He looked to Kistern, which hung in the twilight of the western horizon; the white moon was nearly at full phase. I have to make a choice, Lirathay’lu thought. But this was not a choice to be made lightly. If he stayed aloof, the world would keep going as it was, but if he acted he could create turmoil. And that turmoil might benefit mankind.

  Do you think you can take on an entire garrison? Lirathay’lu asked himself. There was a faint “yes” lingering in the back of his mind.

  Lirathay’lu contemplated attacking the palace, striking during the ball. A sense of serenity came over him, and he knew that was what he must do.

  Instead of continuing to the servants’ quarters, Lirathay’lu strode toward the bridge leading to the palace gates. Tomorrow he would slay an emperor, but more importantly he would once again feel the winds rushing beneath him. He basked in that realization, relishing his future embrace with his greatest loves.

  * * * * *

  Darkness had long since veiled Mindolarn when Iltar returned to Alanya’s mansion. A note was left for him at the gates, informing him that the acolytes were going to enter Vabenack once more to search for Pagus.

  “He still hasn’t shown?” Iltar asked one of the guards. The man shook his head. Grumbling, Iltar stomped across the mansion’s grounds. He entered the house through the main foyer and noticed Elsi
a sitting in the parlor.

  The countess looked worried. “You didn’t find him?” she asked.

  “No,” Iltar said, quickly crossing the foyer.

  “Iltar, please…” Elsia pleaded, her voice trembling.

  Elsia hurried to him. She looked desperate. “Please find my nephew.”

  Her pleading gave him pause. Did he dare tell her what he assumed? Iltar had found another tome after finishing the primer and the Legacy of Ku’tharn. His hypothesis was that Pagus had pilfered tomes, replacing them with illusionary ones, and was hiding somewhere—or so he hoped.

  “I should have been more concerned three days ago.” Elsia shook her head, her lips quivering. “I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

  “I don’t think Pagus is in any danger of being harmed,” Iltar said, then added the next with reluctance. “He’s probably hiding somewhere, reading some old tome.” For as much a pain as Pagus could be, the boy had a definite thirst for knowledge. If he were only more disciplined, Iltar thought.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Elsia said, then somberly walked to the door.

  “I’ll look for him tomorrow,” Iltar said, “even if I have to miss the ball. I’m sure Alanya will understand.” At least, he hoped she would understand. Iltar liked the idea of not dressing up again.

  “Thank you,” Elsia said, pulling the large door open.

  After Elsia left, Iltar hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a goblet of the dream elixir. They had since brought Pagus’s batch to rest with the original brew—it too was separated into bottles to more easily track consumption.

  Six bottles had been taken: Agen, Bilda, Tigan, Kaelar, Petral, and Alanya. Iltar took one for himself and drank a bit of it once inside Alanya’s bedchamber.

  The high duchess lay on her bed, wrapped up in the blankets. She didn’t leave any blankets for me, Iltar pouted. He undressed and put on a pair of light pajamas. Though it was fall in the northern hemisphere, Mindolarn rarely got cold at night.

  Iltar swallowed the last of the elixir and began to feel its effects. Potent… does it get stronger with age?

  * * * * *

  Iltar found himself in a twisted version of the Mindolarn Palace. The First Emblem—the symbol needed to bring one to Vabenack—was everywhere. The emblem’s jagged sword, its accompanying spikes, and its eight-sided stars marred every surface, wherever he looked.

  How strange. Iltar narrowed his eyes.

  People appeared from out of nowhere. Their clothes were covered in the emblem, as were their faces—some had the emblem tattooed while others were branded with it.

  “Just bizarre.” Iltar shook his head. He needed to find something flat that could accommodate a door.

  He came to a section of the palace wall and constructed the doorway, speaking the Keadal phrase, “Alza Cho’k sa’maz nira.” The keystones glowed their yellow light, and the doorway erupted in a brilliant flash. Iltar had come to understand what that phrase meant in Common, loosely translated: “In the name of the Immortal Triumvirate, I command thee open.”

  Soon, Iltar was back in Vabenack.

  The three acolytes were bouncing around, playing the game they had invented—Last Barsion Standing.

  “Hey!” Iltar shouted, and the boys froze. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for Pagus?”

  “We looked, Master,” Bilda answered. “He’s not around.” Iltar frowned, but started as an eruption of light burst beside him. Another portal open, the scene beyond opening resembled a lavish dining hall.

  And then, Alanya entered Vabenack. The high duchess looked stunned. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open. “Am I…” she muttered, glancing to Iltar, “really here?”

  “Yup,” Iltar answered succinctly. He was still frustrated about not finding Pagus here in Vabenack.

  Alanya’s surprised expression turned to jubilation. She fell upon the ground, shouting praises. “It’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed, running her hands across the translucent ground. The shifting landscape beneath tantalized her.

  Iltar let Alanya relish the experience and stepped toward the boys. They had since resumed their game, wildly flinging destructive magics at each other. The acolytes were actually quite skilled. Bilda had the best coordination by far.

  That boy will be an astounding mage. Iltar smiled. He had grown fond of Bilda these last few months. In some ways, Bilda reminded Iltar of himself at that age. Those were good times, before the pain…

  And then, Iltar was overcome. His mother’s screams echoed in his mind. No!

  Smoke filled his nostrils.

  Not here!

  Eruptions of magic filled the air—both from Iltar’s memory and from the boys playing their game.

  Stop! Iltar clutched his ears, dropping to his knees. It didn’t help. The noises plagued his mind. They seemed amplified somehow. Stop! Stop it now!

  He hadn’t had one of his fits since leaving Soroth. Iltar hadn’t told Alanya of his fits, either—how could he? She would probably think him mad, deranged even.

  This is not real, Iltar told himself. Your screams are not real. This smoke is not—

  Cool fingers on his arms drew him from his dreadful reverie. Iltar opened his eyes, as Alanya’s elegant hands slid around his shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. Her sweet scent calmed him. “You were having one of your fits, weren’t you?”

  Iltar’s eyes widened. He pulled away, spinning to face her.

  Alanya clasped her hands gently, still kneeling. “Don’t be upset,” she said. “Bilda told me.”

  Bilda? Iltar raised an eyebrow, glancing at the boy. The youth was bouncing like a ball on the ground—his reckless movements were growing graceful.

  “Bilda came to me one night last month,” Alanya said. “He said, ‘If you plan to be with Master Iltar, you have to know how to take care of him.’ The boy really likes you,” she said with a chuckle. “He insisted that if I was going to be with you that I should be prepared.”

  Alanya paused for a moment, smiling. “Bilda told me that one day you were going to start panicking, and instead of panicking myself, I should go touch you, because that draws you out of whatever you’re experiencing.”

  Iltar’s expression softened.

  “He didn’t say more, but I understood what the boy was telling me.”

  Alanya’s words surprised Iltar. Not even Anela—with her near obsession with Iltar—was this understanding of his fits.

  “Aren’t you curious about what I see?” Iltar asked.

  The high duchess shook her head. “We all have our secrets, Iltar. I figured if you wanted to tell me you would, when you were ready.”

  Surprised, Iltar moved toward her, but was drawn by the shrilling cry of, “Master!” echoing from behind him.

  Both Iltar and Alanya looked to the noise, seeing a darkened figure across the horizon.

  “Is that Pagus?” Alanya asked.

  Iltar didn’t answer. He burst toward the figure, sprinting across the translucent ground. The acolytes noticed Iltar and stopped their game, dashing behind their master.

  “Master!” the word wailed.

  That sounds like Pagus, Iltar thought.

  The word was repeated again and again, and Iltar knew that it was Pagus.

  Iltar could see Pagus stagger, then fall to the Translucent Fields. What happened? Iltar gritted his teeth.

  Soon, Iltar and the others were upon Pagus. The boy looked ragged, though his clothes were intact. It didn’t matter what you were wearing when falling asleep, one would appear in Vabenack wearing whatever clothing one thought one should wear. For Iltar, it was his black tunic and pants, along with his matching boots. For Pagus, it was a robe.

  Pagus’s hair was disheveled and cuts marred his face. The wounds looked fresh.

  “Pagus!” Iltar shouted, kneeling beside the youth. A groan left Pagus’s lips as Iltar sat him upright, taking the boy in his arms.

  “Mast
er…” Pagus groaned. “I… I found you.”

  “Pagus, what happened?” Iltar demanded. The boy’s robe was wet. Iltar shot a glance to his hand, which was damp and reddened. Blood? His eyes widened.

  “I’m sorry… Master,” Pagus groaned, sounding delirious.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Agen asked.

  “He’s bleeding!” Bilda blurted, pointing at Iltar’s hand.

  “Master Iltar, do something!” Tigan shouted.

  Iltar shot a hand to the boys, gesturing for them to be quiet.

  “Pagus,” Iltar said sternly, “tell me what happened.”

  His apprentice looked ashamed. “Th-they caught me… yesterday. That old codger of a librarian, he saw me putting back one of the tomes. I… I guess he stumbled across my illusions.”

  “So that was you!” Iltar shouted, but then bit his tongue. This was no time to scold Pagus.

  “They have me in the dungeon,” Pagus muttered, his eyes struggling to focus. “In the palace. Please, Master… free me.” A tear trickled down Pagus’s cheek. “I hurt…” the boy wept, moaning softly.

  Iltar sucked in a deep breath. He hoped Pagus had learned his lesson. The boy’s imprisonment was probably the most severe punishment he had ever experienced.

  “I will talk with Prince Jeridi,” Iltar said. “We met him at the palace a few days ago. He seemed the most merciful of all the princes.”

  “And I’ll speak with Raedina,” Alanya knelt beside Iltar, stroking Pagus’s hair. “I’m sure we can rectify the situation.”

  “No…” Pagus cried. “You can’t talk to them…”

  Alanya looked confused.

  “What do you mean, Pagus?” Iltar demanded. Pagus coughed, and his eyes struggled to focus once again.

  “Enough of this,” Iltar grumbled, then uttered an incantation. Green light formed in Iltar’s hand and wisped to Pagus’s unseen wounds. The boy’s robe glowed a vibrant emerald hue.

  “I didn’t know necromancers could use arpran magic,” Alanya said.

  “My prowess in the magical arts exceeds the typical necromancer or illusionist,” Iltar said, watching the magic repair Pagus’s body.