A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  That’s it! Jeridi’s eyes widened with enlightenment. I don’t have to stop them…

  Renewed with stoic resolve, Jeridi dashed through the gardens. He came to the path leading to the palace. Guests had already arrived and were walking up the grand stairs. They hailed him as he passed, but Jeridi ignored them.

  Petty small talk could wait—it had to wait. There was no time to waste if he was going to find Iltar and convince him not to attend the ball.

  * * * * *

  Pagus was exhausted.

  The last few days had been grueling. He couldn’t recall when he had slept last. But his insomniac scramble for knowledge had been worthwhile. He sighed, closing The Fall of the Cheserithean Empire—a tome chronicling the history of a tumultuous war. But not just any war. It was the Dragon Wars, the war everyone thought to be myth, the war that had a thousand iterations.

  Pagus had probably found the only definitive volume on the subject. And the damned Mindolarnians were keeping it all to themselves.

  What selfish bastards, Pagus thought, gathering the books he had borrowed from the Royal Archive. But what else would you expect from a bunch of half-breed beasts?

  Pagus had stumbled across some unnerving discoveries during his furtive studies. Things he wished he had never read, or seen. Those discoveries turned his world upside down. Shaking off those thoughts, Pagus returned to the Royal Archive cloaked in invisibility. He couldn’t let the Praetorians see him—or anyone else for that matter.

  Pagus returned to each of the illusionary books he had made and replaced the corresponding tome. He then went to the alcoves here in the archive, but to his surprise both alcoves were empty. His notes—along with those made by Aunty Elsia, the high duchess, and Master Iltar—were gone.

  What on Kalda? Pagus shook his head, confused. He had heard Master Iltar’s voice yesterday, speaking through one of the illusionary books.

  They wouldn’t have left, would they? he wondered. For a moment, Pagus feared he was stranded. But Aunty Elsia wouldn’t have left him behind. Maybe they’re done, he thought, making his way to the entrance to this secret section.

  Pagus hadn’t been out of the Hilinard in a few days. After making the decision to conduct his own research, he had sneaked out and returned with enough food to last a week. He found a secluded spot and made camp, so to speak.

  Once he was away from the Royal Archive—and of course completely alone—Pagus shed his invisibility. The attendants let him pass without question, and Pagus made his way back to Alanya’s mansion.

  The sun was already setting when Pagus reached the gates of Alanya’s home. Petral—the gate guard who had joined the quest to unravel the mysteries of Vabenack—gasped upon seeing Pagus. The man blinked with disbelief.

  What’s his problem? Pagus raised an eyebrow at the guard. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Petral,” Pagus said, smirking. “Say, did the chef make dinner yet? I’m starving.”

  “H-h-how did you es-escape?” Petral stammered.

  Now things are getting weird, Pagus thought. “Uh, what do you mean, Petral?”

  “From the princes,” Petral spoke, as if Pagus should know what he meant. “They took you two days ago.”

  “Huh?” Pagus furrowed his brow. Petral glanced uneasily to his fellow guardsman. The other guard looked just as confused.

  Pagus was about to speak but heard heavy footfalls and labored breathing drawing near. He turned to see a plump man in grossly formal clothing running toward him and the guards. By the way the plump man was dressed, Pagus assumed him to be someone of importance. The man, however, looked a little too fat to be running.

  As the man drew near, Petral and his fellow guard snapped to attention then addressed him in unison, “Your Imperial Grace!”

  Taken aback, Pagus studied the plump man. Was this one of the princes? That thought made Pagus’s blood boil. What he had learned beneath the Hilinard had made him biased against the Mindolarnian Royalty.

  Abruptly stopping, the plump man bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Aren’t you a little too fat to be running?” Pagus asked. The guards gasped, sounding appalled.

  “I mean, you can run all you want…” Pagus shrugged, “I just wouldn’t do it wearing such fancy clothing.”

  The plump man chuckled between breaths. “Good… wit…” he said, and then straightened. He continued breathing heavily as he turned to the guards. “Is this the residence of High Duchess Alanya Tasivir?”

  “Yes, Your Imperial Grace,” Petral answered shakily.

  Cowardly much, Petral? Pagus glanced to the guard. Something had Petral spooked. The other guard looked just as nervous.

  “Has Master Iltar left for the ball yet?” the plump man asked, dropping back to brace his hands on his knees.

  Oh yeah, I forgot about that, Pagus thought. Perhaps that’s why they packed up their things.

  “Yes, he has,” Petral answered, uneasily hovering his hand at his waist, above the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  “Great…” the plump man groaned between heaves; he didn’t seem to notice Petral’s gesture. “Who are you?” he asked Pagus.

  “I could ask the same thing.” Pagus folded his arms.

  “I like you, kid,” the plump man said, chuckling. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jeridi Midivar, eldest son of Mindolarn the First.”

  Pagus drew his lips to a line.

  “And you are?” Prince Jeridi asked.

  “The name’s Pagus.”

  “Oh, Master Iltar’s missing apprentice.” Jeridi nodded, taking in a deep breath. “Well, I have some grave news,” he huffed. “My brothers and my cousins… plan on murdering your master tonight.”

  The guards didn’t seem surprised at the atrocious accusation.

  “Why…?” Pagus asked, looking about nervously.

  “They think he’s a grand mage from Alath… the one who slew my uncle, Monddar.”

  Pagus laughed, albeit nervously.

  “They’re blinded by vengeance,” Jeridi continued, “and deceived by your grandmaster. I don’t know what is going on between Alacor and Iltar, but I’ve thought about it on my way here, and I believe Alacor wants to be rid of your master. That’s why he lied to us about all of you.”

  “Grandmaster Alacor?” Pagus asked with derision.

  “There’s contempt in your voice,” Jeridi said. “Just like your master’s. I know Iltar is not my uncle’s murderer, though he does look like him.” The prince turned to leave. “I’m the only one that believes otherwise. And by your demeanor, I can tell you’re no Alathian. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find your master and stop him from attending the ball.” Jeridi took in a deep breath then jogged away.

  “Wait!” Pagus shouted. Jeridi stopped, glancing back to Pagus.

  “Why are you doing this?” Pagus demanded of the prince.

  “Because I am tired of death,” Jeridi said. “I’ve seen too much blood spilt in my lifetime.” The plump prince continued down the road.

  After the prince was out of earshot, Petral began muttering. “He didn’t know who you were…” Petral looked to Pagus.

  “Of course not,” Pagus contorted his face with confusion, “I’ve never met the man. Now, where’s Master Iltar?”

  “On his way to the palace to rescue you,” Petral said.

  “Rescue me?” Pagus laughed. “Why, whatever for? I’ve never been to the palace.” Petral stared at Pagus with disbelief.

  “Well?” Pagus demanded.

  “You came to him last night, in Vabenack. You said the princes captured you, claiming you all are Alathian spies, as His Imperial Grace said,” Petral answered. “Master Iltar already sent the acolytes to your ship. They should be leaving port by now.” Pagus’s eyes went wide.

  “You got to get to the palace,” the other guard interjected, “else you’re going to be stranded here.”

  “What do you mean?” Pagus asked warily—this whole situation grew stranger every passing moment. And i
t wasn’t making sense.

  “They plan to teleport out of the palace,” Petral said.

  Pagus bolted from the mansion’s gates. He was not going to be trapped in Mindolarn—not with those monsters lurking about. Soon, Pagus caught up with the plump prince who was struggling to maintain his flighty pace.

  “You look like you could use some help,” Pagus said, then uttered an incantation. White enhancing particles gathered in his hands, then shot to the prince. The magic surged across Jeridi’s body, enhancing his legs. Jeridi’s jog turned into a steady sprint.

  “Thank you,” the prince said. “Now where are you going?”

  “To the palace, of course,” Pagus answered. “But I doubt I can just stroll through the gates, not with your kin wanting my master dead. They probably want to kill me, too!”

  Jeridi looked grave. “Let’s hope we can get to him first,” the prince said. “I doubt they’ll strike until the ceremony. Malvonican loves a captive audience.”

  “Since the Channelers’ numbers were few, they had to turn to an alternative method to achieve victory—tevisrals that caused destruction on a colossal scale.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 50

  The carriage was cramped. Iltar and Elsia had to stand—invisible of course. The carriage slowed, and Iltar knew they were pulling up to the palace. His eyes, however, were on Alanya. She sat pensively. The high duchess had been like that the entire ride. Iltar didn’t know what to say to her. He was never good at talking to women. Elsia had stayed silent as well. Iltar couldn’t see her face, but he supposed Elsia was just as apprehensive as Alanya.

  The carriage rolled forward and Iltar heard the coachman speaking with the guards. They quickly permitted them entrance.

  “I’ll exit the carriage first,” Alanya said, staring blankly across the cabin.

  “Alanya,” Iltar said, reaching his invisible hand toward her.

  The high duchess flinched at his touch, but then searched for him, patting his arm until she found his face. Alanya touched his invisible cheek, smiling. Tears welled in her eyes. “Save that boy, Iltar.”

  The carriage came to a halt. Alanya searched the area by her hand, trying to find Iltar’s eyes. “Kiss me…” she murmured. “I need you to kiss me.”

  Iltar hesitated, and the door opened. Did he dare kiss her?

  Yes.

  Still invisible, Iltar leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers. Alanya embraced him passionately. It was a kiss unlike any they had shared. Alanya gazed directly into his invisible eyes as she pulled away. “I love you,” she whispered. “When this is over, find me in Vabenack.”

  The high duchess then hurried out of the carriage.

  Iltar felt Elsia move next, then he commanded the illusionary-transmutation of the countess to follow. He was right behind the magical re-creation of himself and stepped out onto the bridge. Luckily, no one else was around—his and Alanya’s embrace had gone unnoticed.

  A hand brushed against Iltar’s arm and he looked down, seeing nothing. That was undoubtedly Elsia.

  “Let’s go,” the countess whispered.

  * * * * *

  Elsia felt anxious as they hurried through the palace gardens. She would never forgive herself for letting this happen to Pagus. She should have kept better track of him. Elsia had thought Iltar’s stories of the boy’s rebellious nature were just exaggeration. This predicament proved otherwise.

  They climbed the palace’s tiers with a rope Elsia couldn’t see. Iltar had claimed it was composed of magic and could adhere to anything. For being a scholar and a respectable mage, Iltar seemed to know a great deal about sneaking into places that shouldn’t be sneaked into. It made her realize that she didn’t truly know this man. Sure, she knew his character. But Elsia didn’t know Iltar’s past, nor what motivated him. That was something Iltar kept secret.

  Soon, they were in the Palace Tier of the gardens. Though it was past sunset, the gardens were lit as brightly as noonday. The gardeners had done an exquisite job of transforming the grounds.

  A patrol approached, and Iltar grabbed Elsia’s arm, pulling her close to one of the stone benches. Elsia held her breath as the guards passed. She started to move, but Iltar held her back.

  “Wait…” he whispered.

  They stood there against the bench—still invisible. Another set of footsteps sounded not long after the first patrol disappeared. It was another patrol. It seemed that not even a minute had passed between them.

  Once the second patrol was gone, Iltar pulled her close. “All right, now that I have it timed, we need to get to our entry point.”

  Elsia had been privy to many details about the state of the palace, due to her involvement in preparing for the ball. This turned out to be a great advantage. The northern side of the palace would be mostly unoccupied, as all the guests were to be ushered to the south stairwell.

  So, Iltar chose the northern end as his point of entry. He wanted to break in through one of the windows, but Elsia thought that absurd. Someone would hear them. But Iltar reassured her that he could get in without a sound.

  It wasn’t long before they reached the part of the gardens where Iltar intended to enter the palace. The spot was beside one of the buildings connected to the palace by a glassy corridor. A domed pavilion sat beside the building, forcing the garden’s path to wind away.

  “Here,” Iltar whispered. “We’ll use the pavilion for cover as we climb.” Elsia thought that funny. They were invisible…

  Iltar waited for another patrol to pass, then he threw his rope. “It’s attached,” Iltar whispered, grabbing her arm. “Take it slow and stop moving if you hear anyone.”

  The climb up to the third story didn’t take long, but a patrol arrived just as Iltar reached the window. Not long after the guards passed, Elsia heard the faint creaking of a hinge.

  “Hurry,” Iltar whispered, his voice coming from inside the building.

  Elsia climbed through the window, reaching toward the floor to brace herself. Her hand slipped on some dust or powder, and Iltar pulled her through.

  “Careful…” He gritted his teeth.

  “Sorry…” she said and stood upright. Elsia looked at her invisible hand. Gray dust coated her fingers. She had to wipe that off.

  The window closed—by the force of Iltar’s invisible hand, no doubt—and then a high-backed chair slid in front of the window.

  “How did you do that?” she asked, “open the window I mean. Wasn’t it locked?”

  “It was,” Iltar replied. “I just got rid of the lock.”

  “How?”

  “Magic…” he trailed off. “Now let’s hurry.”

  Elsia felt puzzled. He hadn’t used an incantation, had he?

  * * * * *

  The palace was crowded. Though Alanya knew how many people were invited, she hadn’t expected to see this many attendees. There were so many guests that a line formed from the palace’s entrance down to the Middle Gardens. Alanya consciously controlled her breathing, suppressing the anxiety stirring within her. The reality of the situation had struck her once she exited the carriage.

  Light flickered near the ceiling. A lightstone-powered lantern—suspended in the air by a tevisral—blinked several times and then winked out. Alanya had never seen a lightstone lose its illumination. The sight of the dun stone struck her with sudden fear. In that moment, that lightless stone was a foreboding omen of their task to rescue poor Pagus. Alanya closed her eyes, tightly gripping the illusory arm that belonged to Iltar’s transmuted manifestation. She felt the cold touch of the transmutation stroking her hand.

  That drew Alanya from her reverie. Alanya looked to the image of the man beside her. For a moment, she thought it truly was Iltar. Her fear fled like a sunrise vanquishing the night.

  The illusion smiled at her, and the cold hand patted her once again. Though it was made from dirt, the hand felt like flesh. “Don’t worry, everything will turn out just fine,” the Iltar illusion said
. “This event was planned perfectly.”

  Those words were so vague, anyone overhearing them would think they were in relation to the ball—but Alanya knew their true meaning. Alanya breathed a sigh of relief and rested her head against Iltar’s shoulder.

  Soon, they were inside the palace. The transmuted illusions of Elsia and Hazais came beside Alanya as she crossed the foyer. Alanya wondered why Iltar chose Hazais to accompany Elsia. They were an odd pair.

  The throng of guests shuffled their way to the south. They passed the dining hall where Alanya and the others had shared that meal with the royalty. The southern stairs leading to the upper levels of the palace were not too far from the dining chamber.

  Crimson Praetorians guarded the stairs, eyeing each of the guests as they ascended to the upper floors. The Praetorians’ gazes lingered on her and the illusions.

  Her heart began to race, but the Praetorians didn’t do anything. Once Alanya passed the Praetorians they didn’t turn. If she hadn’t been paying attention, she probably wouldn’t have noticed their lingering eyes.

  The stairs were quite wide, roomy enough for ten people to walk abreast. They rose to a landing, where more Praetorians stood guard. The Praetorians watched the crowd file past, and like the others, their eyes lingered on Alanya and the illusions.

  This really is a trap, she thought. Alanya averted her gaze as she rounded the landing, coming to another flight of stairs that rose to the second floor. The second floor of the palace was roped off, and the crowd continued to the third floor, passing more Praetorians. Alanya shouldn’t have been surprised at the number of Crimson Praetorians present. After all, the emperor would be in attendance.

  On the third floor, a line of soldiers stood by the stairs, barring access to the eastern parts of the third floor. The soldiers seemed to watch everyone with equal wariness. They didn’t linger on Alanya as the Crimson Praetorians had. Alanya and her illusory escorts followed the crowd, winding to the western end of the palace, toward the throne room where the ball was being held.