A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  “No!” Gildin cried, tears still flowing. “No!”

  The man’s pleading stung Griffith. He felt a conflict growing within him.

  “Not Ahzeald!” Gildin screamed, “Please! Not Ahzeald!”

  Bredan hauled the poor man away, dragging him through the street. He was making a spectacle for others to witness. Bredan was crude in that way. Gildin tried to break free, but Bredan, enhanced with magic, pulled him with ease.

  Griffith trailed after them. Gildin, you poor fool, he thought. You really thought you were helping people. What kind of man would trick someone into breaking the law? No, not a man. A monster.

  People now edged into the street, watching the two Agents of the Order haul Gildin away. The poor man was screaming for his daughter, calling her name, begging to see her one last time. Gildin cursed at Bredan, calling him a filthy Alathian Mage.

  This part always felt gruesome to Griffith. He hated when people spewed insults, attempting to tarnish the Order’s reputation. He was an Agent of the Order, a Grand Mage of Alath. Wasn’t he destined to do greater things than hunt men and women who broke the law? Griffith yearned for the day that he could save people, protect the weak against the forces of evil.

  Candles were wondrous things. They had such a variety to them. Different colors, shapes, and scents. Ercanin loved that about candles. Each one could be tailored to suit a wide range of moods.

  Being a chandler was like being a god. You were the master of the wax or tallow, molding it to your will, crafting it in a manner that pleased you. Chandlery was a metaphor for godhood. And, like a god, a chandler loved each of his creations equally. At least, that’s how Ercanin thought a god would treat his creations. That was how he treated his candles.

  Ercanin’s shop was a meticulous place. Every candle was grouped with others of its kind, like nations or tribes. Shelves were like grand continents, harboring various types of candles, all neatly rowed. It was a quaint place, his own little world—the world of chandlery.

  Many people came from across the world to visit his shop here in the city of Karbenath. Well, perhaps not to see him in particular. Most people who passed through his shop were tourists basking in the leisure of Karbenath.

  Karbenath was known for its white sandy beaches. The city became a resort town after the Great War, nearly sixty years ago. Well, at least that’s when the fighting stopped in this part of Kalda. The war continued for several more decades, but not here. Not in Karbenath. The city was in a peaceful spot on the northeast side of the Isle of Korath, within the landlocked sea sharing the same name. Towering cliffs lined most of this side of the island, and so the city grew up along the edges of the cliffs. Streets wound back and forth from the beaches to the cliff tops.

  People came to Karbenath to see those cliffs—which rose hundreds of phineals high—and to enjoy the crystal clear water. It always seemed odd that the water was so clear since the sea was landlocked. You’d think the water would be dirty, but tourists swore it was the clearest they’d ever seen. Well, everyone except visitors from Mindolarn. Mindolarnians claimed the waters of Laelin Lake, on the shores of the city of Monddar, were the clearest in the world. Supposedly, the lake was made by tevisrals.

  How preposterous! Crafting a lake with tevisrals? Bah! But those Mindolarnians were fellow Devouts, so perhaps they weren’t exaggerating.

  A bell rang through Ercanin’s shop, signaling a customer. Wearing a dirty apron, Ercanin stepped out of the back room, where he made his candles. The apron was stained from dyes he’d used over the years. Some hadn’t come out of the fabric. But that was okay. The apron showed that Ercanin wasn’t just a merchant peddling someone else’s work.

  A portly man stepped through the rows of shelves, eyeing the multitudes of Ercanin’s creations. He seemed mesmerized.

  “Can I help you?” Ercanin asked, untying the apron as he approached the customer.

  “Uh, yes,” the man said, smirking. He picked up a nearby candle, taking in a whiff of the scent. “I hear you make the best candles in town.” Flattered, Ercanin nodded. “I wonder, do you ever craft ones of Aldrery?”

  Aldrery? That stuff was expensive! It would cost him more than the price to craft ten candles in order to make one from Aldrery.

  “Not really,” Ercanin replied. “But maybe on special order. I’d have to charge you seventy chilgins.”

  “Seventy chilgins?!” the customer blurted. “By the Crimson Eye, man, that’s expensive!”

  Crimson Eye? Ercanin’s eyes widened. How dare he swear by that vile thing? They were in public!

  “That’s something you shouldn’t swear by,” Ercanin whispered. “Why I—”

  The shop’s bell rang again.

  “Really?” the portly man asked, raising his brow. “May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time.”

  Ercanin flushed with rage. How dare he speak the vow in public?! Who did this man think he was?

  Enraged, Ercanin bolted forward, grabbing the man by his tunic. “You shouldn’t say such things in public!” Ercanin whispered threateningly.

  The portly man rolled his eyes. “You know, nearly half the world ascribes to Cherisium. It’s not like it’s a secret—”

  “Excuse me,” another voice interrupted.

  Ercanin didn’t look at the newcomer. He was too frustrated with the irreverent customer.

  The portly man, however, turned around. “What do you—” The man froze. He was completely motionless.

  Confused, Ercanin turned toward his second customer. He was a tall man with a chiseled build. He was the kind of man you’d see parading himself on the beach, drawing the lustful eyes of women and queer men. The tall man stood still, gazing into the eyes of the portly customer.

  Suddenly, the tall fellow uttered a sharp phrase. It sounded like the forbidden tongue! Green magic erupted from his hand, instantly forming a sword-like shaft.

  Oh no! It couldn’t be! Not one of them! Not here, not in Karbenath! This was no man. It was… a beast!

  In a flash of movement, the green shaft pierced through the portly man’s chest. He fell lifeless to the shop floor without as much as a groan. Ercanin gasped, but shielded his eyes. Not the eyes. Do not look at his eyes!

  Ercanin slammed into the nearby shelf, knocking it over. His candles spilled across the floor, rolling around the customer-turned-beast. Ercanin hit several other shelves as he bolted for the door. Ercanin could hear the beast kicking the candles.

  He had to run!

  Now in the street, Ercanin bolted southward, up the rising road. He heard a sharp word coming from his shop, but couldn’t tell what it was. Ercanin didn’t dare look back for fear of being caught by the beast’s unholy eyes.

  Ercanin neared a merchant cart, its owner calling for people to try his wares. Bolting straight for the cart, Ercanin grabbed its handle and pulled it to the ground. The wares spilled across the street, tumbling down.

  “Thief!” the cart owner shouted. “Thief!”

  I hope that slows him, Ercanin thought, quickening his stride. Ercanin neared another cart full of fruit and toppled it like the first. This cart’s owner yelled after Ercanin, shouting incessant curses. Maybe the commotion will scare him off? he thought, continuing up the switch-back road.

  Ercanin didn’t pass any more carts, but there were barrels along the street. He tipped a few over, hoping they’d roll down the street and hit that monster. But what good could a barrel do against a beast?

  Soon, Ercanin reached the top of the cliffs. Had he really outrun the beast? That surprised him. But what could he do? Ercanin couldn’t defend himself against the likes of such a monster.

  His family came to his mind; his beloved wife, his darling daughter. Ercanin would never see them again. If he did, it would only spell their doom.

  There was only one answer.

  Ercanin bolted straight for the cliffs. He darted across lush grass to the edge of the precipice. For a moment, he saw a beautiful contrast between the grass, the s
andy beach and the crystal clear ocean.

  Oh, it was a beautiful sight! A fitting last sight…

  Ercanin leapt through the air, fearless of the fatal fall. It was a fairer fate than what would have awaited him in his shop, his beloved shop! His candles… He would never see them again. That pained him. But Ercanin had lived a good life.

  As Ercanin felt himself falling, he flailed his arms instinctively. Something slithered around his waist, and Ercanin stopped falling.

  Oh no….

  He was rising backward through the air. Dark green light caught his eye, and he looked to his right, seeing a vine composed of magic. An ensnaring spell.

  No!

  The grass of the cliff top came into sight as his limbs stiffened. He struggled to break free, but neither his arms nor his legs could move. He screamed in terror. “I couldn’t save them! My beloved wife, my darling daughter! They’re doomed…”

  “Your family will remain unharmed,” said a voice from behind him. It was the same Ercanin had heard within his shop. The beast. “As long as they are not defiled by your evil ways.”

  No, the beast was lying. He’d massacre them if given the chance!

  Ercanin turned in the air, though not of his own volition. He glimpsed the vile monster standing with a hand outstretched. The beast looked like a man, but he was no man. The other hand clutched that shimmering shaft of deadly magic.

  If that fool had only kept his mouth shut, Ercanin thought angrily.

  “Just spare my daughter!” Ercanin clenched his teeth. “She’s only six years old!” The beast said nothing, and simply lowered Ercanin, bringing him eye level. Ercanin, however, closed his eyes. Not the eyes…

  “Your feeble attempts only postpone the inevitable,” the beast said with a sigh, then uttered a sharp phrase in the forbidden tongue.

  A surging force penetrated Ercanin, and he lost control of himself. Ercanin felt his eyes open. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. Ercanin was at the mercy of this monstrous horror. While Ercanin’s eyes were forced open, the beast’s blue irises shifted in shape, swirling in a pattern around his pupils. Flecks of red and black appeared within the curving lines.

  Then it happened.

  Ercanin’s life flashed before him, from his earliest memories to his most recent experience in his shop speaking with the portly customer. He relived things he had forgotten, locked away deep within his mind. Ercanin re-experienced the first time he met his wife, reliving their first kiss. It tantalized him as it had back then. Images flashed of his daughter’s birth, and he felt the pride of parenthood flood through him. It was as if he relived his entire life in just moments. How bittersweet! Ercanin felt all the joy and all the pain. A blessing and a curse!

  “You are not an evil man, Ercanin,” the beast said. “It is a pity, but I must fulfill my mandate.”

  The surging force left him, and Ercanin regained control over himself, although he was still bound by the monster’s magic.

  “I will not harm your daughter,” the beast said. “As long as she is not defiled by the time I reach her. Your wife, however, will not be as fortunate.” A tear trickled down Ercanin’s cheek. “I will ensure that your daughter does not see her mother’s execution,” the beast said. “A child doesn’t need to be scarred in such a manner.”

  That did not console Ercanin. “What will you do to her?” Ercanin sobbed. “To my daughter.”

  “She will be looked after,” the beast said calmly.

  Ercanin struggled to break free, but the magic binding him didn’t give way. It never would.

  “Don’t struggle, Ercanin. Death will be swift for you. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “I don’t want to die!” Ercanin cried and more tears streamed down his face. Then he felt the magic turning him around.

  “A man deserves to gaze upon beauty as he dies,” the beast said. Ercanin couldn’t see him anymore.

  “My shop,” Ercanin sobbed. “My family.”

  “I will see that your world of chandlery lives on,” the beast said. “Your posterity will flourish, untainted by your evil ways, cherishing your love for candles. That’s the least I can do for you.”

  Ercanin’s sobbing grew more intense as the beast continued. “And as for you, Ercanin, though you will die, you will live on in my memory. Now quell your heartache. A man should not go out of this world without dignity.”

  Time flowed forever as the raging ocean of emotions inside Ercanin calmed. The beautiful vista before him soothed his soul, and he felt a growing resolve welling inside him.

  “Oh, Lord Cheserith, receive my soul!”

  And then, it all went black.

  Krigi grunted as he dragged the large sloglien down the slope of the High Peaks. Why did slogliens have to be so big? It was bad enough that they were hard to catch and irksome to slay. Such wild beasts! Why couldn’t the tribe use other animals for the festivities? The tenets of the Celebration of the Desolates were so strict it made him nauseous. Yuck!

  The dead sloglien caught on a rock, its claw wedged inside a crevasse.

  “Stupid beast!” Krigi shouted, tugging on the ropes. The beast wouldn’t budge. Grumbling, Krigi tried to pull the claw free, but it was stuck. “Au Mala!” he cursed, and stepped away.

  A fresh breeze blew past him. It was the only good thing that had happened on his hunt. First, his bow string snapped. Then an arrowhead fell off. And then a bird scared the sloglien just as he let loose his arrow. That made the hunt even longer. Krigi almost lost the beast, but luckily it ran into a snow patch. The sloglien rightly stood out against that backdrop. One couldn’t miss its brown fur. So perhaps it could have been worse…

  Krigi threw off his percala—foreigners wore something similar that they called coats, but percalas were better. A percala covered everything! It was good for the cold months, but it wasn’t that cold yet. Fall was barely upon the High Peaks, but one wore a percala anyway especially when out hunting.

  The breeze rustled through the rest of his clothing; they were thin layers. It was common attire for those of his tribe. One didn’t need to wear a percala when at home in the High Valley. It was warm there.

  The cold began to sting, but not before Krigi felt invigorated. “Praise Vau Kalen!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the mountainside. Now refreshed, Krigi donned his percala once again. He worked at the sloglien’s claw and managed to free it.

  I should have brought more rope, he thought. I could have tied its limbs back. Au Mala curse me!

  Krigi wished he could flip the sloglien over, but the beast was too heavy. One had to drag the things from their nests in the High Peaks and hope they came down the way you wanted them.

  Soon, Krigi reached a small valley cradled between the mountaintops, his beloved home, the High Valley. Most everything was ‘High’ here. But it was a fitting preface. They were on top of the world after all. One could stand at the edge of the High Valley and see everything! It was splendid!

  Sometimes foreigners came to the High Valley, eager to see the view. His people, the Yelinail, permitted such things, as long as strangers stayed within certain bounds. If foreigners ventured too far down the canyon known as the Path to Sorrow they would have to be killed.

  It was the law.

  Krigi looked at the Path to Sorrow, shaking his head. Why did people want to poke their noses into places they shouldn’t? Didn’t they see the crosses and the dead hanging upon them? Maybe they didn’t have warnings like that elsewhere in the world. That was the only explanation that came to him.

  Movement caught his eye, and Takali hurried up the mountainside, huffing and puffing. He must be getting old if a climb from the village was wearing him such. Krigi hoped that wouldn’t be him in several years. But Takali wasn’t much older than Krigi.

  “Krigi!” Takali shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “They are here!”

  Krigi grunted. “As expected.” The sloglien caught again, this time on a branch. Krigi sighed and turned around to fr
ee the felled beast, and Takali hurried up beside him.

  “Good hunt today?” Takali asked, helping pull the branch away.

  “Terrible,” Krigi said, grunting.

  “But you have it,” Takali chimed. “And so you retain your right as Gatekeeper.”

  The sloglien came free, and they pulled it together. It was always better to hunt with two people. Everyone knew that! But going into the High Peaks alone to hunt a sloglien? What stupidity! Why did they have that foolish tradition for the Gatekeeper? Krigi wished he could find the fool who decreed it and throw him off the High Peaks. Au Mala curse him…

  The air warmed as Krigi and Takali dragged the beast into the High Valley. Krigi had to remove his percala and sling it over his shoulder. No one knew where the warmth came from. It never got cold in the High Valley, even in the winter. Snow would cover the peaks but never the valley. When winter storms came, snow would fall on the mountainside, but rain would shower the valley. Foreigners thought it unnatural, but this was normal.

  They now were out of the foothills and into the valley. Both Krigi and Takali were careful not to drag the beast through the fields lining the path. Their people grew their crops up to the foothills, and sometimes the crops encroached on the various paths to the peaks.

  Grunting, Krigi and Takali pulled the beast toward Yelinailmaki. Yelinailmaki was the only home either of them had known. It was a peaceful village. No one ever made a fuss. Life was perfect here in the center of the High Valley.

  The sun was setting when they finally made it home. They dropped the beast off at the center of the village, where their tribal leaders awaited: Tebal, Leina, and Chorksiv. The festival’s dancers were also present.

  “You have done it once again,” Tebal said, smiling. “You are Gatekeeper for the twenty-fourth time.”

  Every year Krigi had to do this stupid ritual. Go to the peaks, slay a sloglien and drag it back home. He didn’t have any say in the matter. Well, he could renounce it, but no Gatekeeper ever gave up the responsibility. Perhaps it was because the title enabled them to walk anywhere, see anything. A Gatekeeper could go as far as they wanted into the Path to Sorrow.