Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  As the doors open, Rinden casts another dispel that enshrouds the landing and the staircase.

  “This way, Iltar,” Rinden beckons, and both mages enter the archives. Once they are inside, the guards shut the doors behind them.

  The archives room is fairly large and wraps around the stairs. It is lit by round fixtures in the ceiling, each housing several light stones. The room rises eight phineals in height. Rows of bookshelves line the room, filled with scrolls, old tomes, and artifacts of non-magical nature.

  Rinden silently guides Iltar through the rows until they come to a bookshelf along the northern wall.

  “The secret entrance is here,” Rinden says and pulls on several books, releasing a locking mechanism. He removes two old tomes from the shelf near his waist, revealing a small circular indentation.

  Rinden grabs a scroll case to his left and places one end in the indentation, then rotates it to his left, saying, “Ith Namak Sithuey.” He sighs, then says, “Stand back.”

  As Iltar complies, Rinden swings the bookshelf open, revealing a pitch black corridor; not even the light in the archives pierces the abysmal veil.

  “That corridor leads to the Inner Depths of the Estate where we keep every unsanctioned magical device, and the activating scroll.”

  “This didn’t seem too hard to find,” Iltar comments with a tone of speculation.

  “Unless you speak the right words, the doorway isn’t there,” Rinden replies then utters the words, “Ith Namak Sithuey.”

  The doorway instantly closes up, becoming a solid wall.

  “Touch it,” Rinden urges with a smile.

  Looking at Rinden with a raised brow, Iltar stretches out his hand but is abruptly stopped by the hard stony surface.

  “That’s impressive,” Iltar mutters then asks with a genuine sense of intrigue, “Are there more doorways like this in the Estate?”

  “No, at least not that I know of.”

  Iltar silently nods, and Rinden swings the bookshelf back into place. All the while, the infiltrating necromancer watches and mentally rehearses the actions, and the words needed to open the secret doorway.

  “The hallway is said to be trapped, so even if Alacor could get here he won’t get far. Only the grandmaster knows how to disarm them. Dorith has not let me see him disarm it on the various occasions I have helped him tend to the Inner Depths.”

  “I still don’t know, Rinden…” Iltar trails off and stares at the shelf, carefully memorizing it among the many in the room.

  Rinden raises his brow and sighs. After a moment, he speaks up, “I’ve said too much, but I will say a little more. It would take Alacor days to search the Inner Depths, it’s a literal maze down there. The vault is carefully hidden on the far north side on a floor three stories below us. Its entrance can’t even be seen by the naked eye.”

  “But, you said he would know to come to Alath,” Iltar interjects frantically. “What if that clue leads him directly to the vault?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Rinden shrugs. “But the guards at the archives doors are constantly here. They’ll sound an alarm at the first sign of trouble, resounding through the entire Estate.”

  “I see…” Iltar sighs and stares at the ground.

  “Do you feel better now?” Rinden asks frankly, tilting his head to look Iltar directly in the eyes.

  “Yes… I suppose so.”

  * * * * *

  An hour and a half later, Iltar arrives at Hethway’s Tavern; he enters a small waiting room adjoining the first floor dining hall and bar. Taking a deep breath, Iltar moves to the right, toward an L-shaped bar, where the notorious master thief tends to his patron’s needs.

  Iltar casually sits on a stool at the bar beside a burly man guzzling a large flagon of ale.

  “Barkeep,” Iltar calls. “I’d like some brandleberry wine.”

  With a towel in hand, Tilthan turns around and genuinely flinches in surprise at Iltar’s appearance.

  “A mage! We don’t get many of your kind here, if ever,” Tilthan chuckles then looks to the burly man. “More ale?”

  The burly patron slams the flagon on the countertop and loudly belches, “Yes!”

  “Coming right up, and your wine, too, mage.” Tilthan grabs the flagon and fills it from a spigot in the wall, then shouts, “We need some brandleberry wine out here!”

  Within a moment, Nath appears with a tall glass of dark red liquor and almost spills it at the sight of Iltar.

  “What’s wrong?” the burly man hiccups. “Never seen a mage before? They’re all over the city!”

  “Mages just don’t come out here for their midday meal,” Nath says. “It’s too far away from the Estate…”

  “Yes, it is,” Tilthan smiles, motioning over his shoulder. “What do you say, mage, care to play a game of chance in the back?”

  Iltar narrows his eyes, then briefly scans the bar and the tables in the dining area; many of the patrons busily enjoy their meals and drinks while conversing with each other.

  “Sure,” Iltar rises from his stool and moves behind the bar.

  “There’s a room in the back,” Nath says and guides Iltar through a kitchen where Nemral busily prepares meals with another man and woman.

  “Nem!” Nath shouts. “Take a break and come over here.”

  Nemral looks over his shoulder and removes his apron, then approaches Iltar and Nath, while Tilthan enters the kitchen.

  Once together, the quartet exits the kitchen through a corridor leading to the establishment’s side entrance, then ascends the stairs to the apartment.

  After entering the apartment, Iltar says cheerily, “I’ve found it!”

  “Good,” Tilthan spits and stomps toward the nearest chair. “I can’t stand one more day working!”

  “Imagine how I feel,” an alluring feminine voice echoes from the hallway on the room’s far left.

  Iltar abruptly throws an open palm toward the hall, immediately forming a globe of darkness.

  “Whoa, wait!” Nemral cries and quickly maneuvers in front of Iltar.

  The necromancer narrows his eyes as a youthful woman emerges from the darkened doorway. She is of average height with long black hair and light skin dotted with freckles. Her deep-set blue eyes contrast the white towel wrapped around her torso.

  “T-this is my cousin,” Nemral stammers. “Dendra.”

  She sits on the chair’s armrest behind Nemral, then slowly says, “You must be Iltar.”

  “How does she know my name?” Iltar growls, swinging his globe of darkness toward Nemral’s face.

  “She caught us one night,” Nemral blurts. “When we returned she was awake, and she wanted to know what we were doing. Tilthan lied, and she could tell. So, we told her. In exchange for her silence, I promised to share my portion of the loot from Merda.”

  “It sounds like all of you have had a lot of fun. I miss that kind of action,” Dendra comments.

  Iltar lowers his hand then asks, “So, you want to join us?”

  “Yes!” Dendra exclaims. “I hate this kind of life and joining all of you seems like a great opportunity to escape it. From what Tilthan said, each of you are rich beyond measure.”

  Iltar darts a glance to the aforementioned thief, and Tilthan simply shrugs with a smile. The necromancer furrows his brow, then studies Dendra; her arms and legs are firmly toned.

  After a moment, Iltar asks in a condescending manner, “What are your skills?”

  “I was trained as a Frontier Guard. I can use a fanisar as if it were my own limb although I prefer daggers or short blades.”

  “We lost a lot of Cornar’s men,” Nath comments then asks, “This isn’t the last piece of the amulet, is it?”

  “No,” Iltar answers. “But how is she going to sneak into the Estate? You don’t have an extra cloak.”

  “The guards to the Estate don’t cast dispelling magic on friends,” Dendra remarks. “From what my cousin and his associates have told me, you are welcome in the Estate
. So, they won’t search you. Simply place an invisibility spell on me, and I’ll walk through the gate.”

  “That should work,” Nath shrugs and nods.

  “It will,” Dendra reaffirms.

  “Can you be stealthy?” Iltar demands, folding his arms. “I don’t want you alerting the guards to your presence.”

  “Of course,” Dendra smiles. “I just won’t wear any armor.”

  “Don’t wear anything at all…” Tilthan mutters.

  Dendra immediately raises her brow and a scowl forms upon her face. She swiftly kicks the arm of Tilthan’s chair, knocking him to the floor.

  “Oh, you wish!” Dendra grunts then stands. “Let me get dressed while you talk amongst yourselves.”

  “I told you she’s feisty,” Tilthan sighs as he pushes himself up from the ground.

  Ignoring Tilthan, Nath asks with intrigue, “You were saying you found the vault. Where is it?”

  “The archives. But it’s well guarded, and we’ll have to move swiftly, like how we dealt with the werewolves at the arch in Merda.”

  “Are we going to kill them?” Nath asks.

  “Yes,” Iltar replies seriously. “I will use my magic to create illusions of them while we search the vault. I just don’t know if there are patrols that pass by, or how often they rotate shifts.”

  “There are,” Tilthan replies while tipping his chair right-side-up. “I followed their patrol route one night. They make a complete round in the Main Hall every hour.”

  “Good, then we will just time our intrusion.”

  “What about the bodies?” Tilthan retorts while sitting. “The patrols will spot them.”

  “Bring them inside with us,” Nemral suggests frankly.

  “Alright… but, let me guess,” Tilthan swings his feet over one of the chair’s arms, leaning his head against the other side. “There are traps…”

  “Yes,” Iltar grumbles. “I was getting to that. There’s a secret door leading to a dark corridor. So, bring some light stones; I couldn’t see into the corridor and the archives were fully lit.

  “The vault we are looking for is deep within a maze beyond the corridor, three stories below the archives. It sounds like the doorway will be much like the one where we encountered that crazy illusion in Merda.”

  “I just hope there aren’t any moving statues…” Tilthan grumbles under his breath and Nath looks at his thieving companion with wide eyes.

  “Huh?” Dendra asks while reentering the room; she’s fully dressed in a casual garb. A brown bag hangs over her shoulder while two daggers dangle around her waist.

  “I’ll explain later,” Tilthan responds.

  Nodding, she asks, “When do we leave?”

  “Soon,” Iltar agitatedly answers. “We’ll meet in my room after curfew. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  “Finally,” Tilthan breathes a sigh of relief. “I can enjoy my coin!”

  “You still have to tend the bar for the rest of the evening,” Dendra smirks while moving beside Iltar.

  “I’m going out the side door,” Iltar says, looking to Dendra. “Don’t make any noise or try to alert the mages to our plan, else I will kill you.”

  “You weren’t exaggerating,” Dendra glances back to Nemral with a smile. “But, it’s better than running this place for the rest of my life.”

  “Don’t forget the crystal,” Iltar barks. He utters his invisibility spell, and Dendra disappears. They exit the apartment and quickly descends the stairs, leaving the three thieves alone.

  “Let’s get back to work,” Nath says and steps toward the door.

  Nemral follows close behind while Tilthan takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh.

  “Finally, freedom!”

  16

  Heist

  Later that evening, a chime sounds beyond the windows of Iltar’s suite. The necromancer paces back and forth while Dendra lies on the soft in his living room, her right arm hanging over the sofa’s back.

  “That’s curfew,” Dendra remarks while her bare-feet dance in harmony with the evening chimes.

  “They better not be late,” Iltar grumbles while pacing back and forth.

  “You’re so tense, Iltar,” Dendra observes. “You need to relax.”

  The necromancer glares at the woman, but, in the same instant, the door to Iltar’s suite slowly opens.

  “Just in time,” Dendra remarks and sits upright.

  Still tense, Iltar looks over his shoulder to the doorway; the absence of his party’s signaling whistle worries him, and he motions for Dendra to stay still.

  “Who’s there?” the necromancer demands.

  “Idina,” the girl whispers from the doorway. She enters the suite timidly but stops abruptly as she notices Dendra. Her face contorts in a strained expression of surprise and jealousy. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company…”

  Sensing the girl's emotions, Dendra smiles while grabbing her boots and says, “It’s not what you’re thinking… But, I think he’s a little old for you.”

  Idina turns toward Dendra, staring at her with a slightly opened mouth while placing both hands behind her back.

  Iltar’s eyes narrow as he notices the skin beneath Idina’s chin moving, and he asks, “What are you doing here, Idina? You should be in bed.”

  “Why did you leave today?” Idina asks innocently while watching Dendra fastens her boots.

  “I had to speak with Headmaster Rinden,” Iltar raises his brow and gently commands, “Answer my question.”

  “What did you have to talk about?” Idina looks to Iltar. “You looked so upset. After my classes I spoke with Headmaster Rinden. He said you were resting, but when I came here, you were gone. Where did you go?”

  “What do you want, girl?” Dendra demands and grabs her belt with her daggers hoisted to it. She cautiously eyes the young illusionist-in-training while wrapping the belt around her waist.

  Idina glances to Dendra, then replies solemnly, “Answers.”

  Furrowing his brow in thought, Iltar realizes Idina’s behavior is strange, and out of character. After a moment he declares, “I’m the necromancer.”

  Idina quickly darts a glance to Iltar and stammers, “What?” She flinches, but regains her composure.

  The dark necromancer smiles and slowly chuckles. He takes one step forward while concealing his right hand behind his back, quickly mustering his black dissolving magic.

  “That’s right,” Iltar whispers. “And you’re not Idina.”

  A serious expression forms across the young girl’s face, and she swiftly swings her arms toward Iltar; red-pink arcane orbs fly from her palms and race toward the necromancer.

  Iltar abruptly steps backward, bring his right hand to his chest; the black magic immediately spreads across his body, narrowly consuming the orbs before they strike.

  In that same instant, the door slams shut, and Dendra leaps across the room, swiftly weaving around the chairs toward Idina while drawing her weapons.

  Idina leaps sideways, darting a glance toward the door, but sees nothing. She utters the words to a spell and gray magic bursts from her left hand, striking Dendra and knocking her against the couch.

  “Who sent you?!” Iltar demands as his magic devours Idina’s arcane orbs. He stretches out his other hand, forming a globe of darkness.

  Ignoring the necromancer, Idina casts another spell. Purple magic clusters at her fingertips, but before finishing the incantation she jerks uncontrollably, and blood drips from her chest. She falls forward, her legs swept out from under her by an invisible force.

  As she hits the floor, Nemral snarls from behind her, “One incantation mage and I cut your head off.”

  “Enough, Nemral,” Iltar snarls while lowering his hand. “I need to question her.” He sees the imprint of Nemral’s knee wrinkling the back of Idina’s robe. Iltar utters an enthralling spell, and gray magic wisps from his hands into the young girl.

  “Get off her,” Iltar commands.

 
The wrinkle shift as Nemral obeys, still invisible. Iltar steps close, wedges his foot under Idina’s chest, rolling her onto her back.

  “Who sent you?” Iltar demands.

  “The council…” Idina mutters, her voice garbled.

  “Cough,” Iltar barks and the young girl obeys, spitting blood.

  “You’re obviously not a student. Who are you? Perhaps an Agent of the Order?”

  “I am Tilana… a…” the words trail off as the young girl falls limp against the floor. Her body shifts in shape, her illusionary guise fading. Her hair turns a dark brown while her face ages and vaguely resembles her youthful visage.

  “A what?!” Iltar barks. “A what?! Answer me!”

  Tilthan unveils his cloak, appearing near the doorway, then quips, “I guess you can’t force a person to answer you when they’re dead.”

  “Now what?” Nemral asks, appearing in front of Iltar. “Do you suppose the council set this entire thing up?”

  “It doesn’t matter, I’ll kill them all to get the activating scroll.”

  “So that’s what we’re after…” Tilthan rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Ugh,” Dendra moans from the couch.

  Tilthan rushes from the entry to her side, reaching out to help her up, but Dendra swats his hand away.

  “Are you all right, Dendra?” Nemral asks.

  “I’m fine,” the woman grunts, then growls at Tilthan, “Don’t help me.”

  “I’m just trying to be a gentleman,” Tilthan backs up and waves his hands in front of his face.

  “No, you’re not…” Dendra grumbles and rises to her feet.

  Tilthan sighs while Nemral chuckles and shakes his head at him.

  Dendra hobbles toward Iltar and asks, “What are you going to do with the body?”

  “Leave it,” Iltar snarls and steps over the corpse. He looks to Nemral and asks, “The crystal?”

  “Here,” the thief replies, pulling the dark blue rogulin crystal from a small pouch tied around his waist. Iltar grabs it, placing the magical stone within his tunic.

  “Nath is waiting atop the west wing,” Tilthan says and latches his cloak, disappearing from sight.