A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  “So predictable,” Xalutir smiled. Iltar glared at the creature as his magic regenerated his flesh.

  “I am nigh unstoppable in here,” Xalutir gloated. “Whatever you attempt is ultimately futile. You will die here.” Xalutir waved his hand again, speaking that same guttural tongue.

  The translucent ground shifted, growing walls that spread to a ceiling. Soon, Iltar and the monster were in a large room made of polished stone. It was filled with furniture. Paintings hung on the wall. A table was to the left. Torture tools lay atop the table, along with a variety of other things—some Iltar didn’t recognize but supposed to be tevisrals.

  “Welcome to my favorite place,” Xalutir grinned, walking to the table. Iltar’s eyes widened. Impossible! The back of the monster’s white robe bore the upside-down First Emblem with that crescent atop it.

  That man… Iltar furrowed his brow. Was this Xalutir the same white-robed man he had passed within the bowels of the palace? The one the voice forbade him to enthrall. But Xalutir wasn’t a man…

  I hate you, Reflection, Iltar growled, feeling a swelling surge building within him. If this Xalutir was that man, then Iltar could have avoided this predicament. Iltar would have enthralled the beast and slain him as he had the patrol.

  Renewed flesh sealed Iltar’s wound as Xalutir reached the table.

  “So many people try to escape,” Xalutir said, picking up a serrated knife. He gleefully tested its sharpness against his thumb. “But they can’t. There’s nowhere for them to go. They could wander the Translucent Fields but never find their way back to Kalda. Only a Dreamwalker could accomplish that.”

  Dreamwalker…

  That’s it! Iltar thought. He slammed his fist to the floor, uttering the words, “Alza Cho’k sa’maz nira.”

  The portal to his subconscious opened beneath him, and Iltar fell into a brilliant void.

  Iltar started, finding himself upon the floor of the throne room with blood pooling around him. Eruptions of magic resounded. Barsion shattered with that unmistakable crash. A feminine voice groaned.

  “He’s alive!” Elsia shouted. The countess was holding his hand.

  Why—?

  Golden light caught Iltar’s eye, coming from Pagus kneeling beside him. The boy was uttering an incantation—a teleportation spell.

  “Oh no!” Bilda cried.

  Iltar glanced over his shoulder, watching a wall of acidic barsion shatter. Pieces of the acidic barsion fell as Negaris hurled an array of deadly orbs, aimed at the acolytes.

  The golden light grew brighter as the magic approached.

  And then, in a crystallized moment, Iltar noticed a figure wearing a white robe along the fifth story railing. His pale-painted face and white hair were unmistakable. He was that same man Iltar had encountered on his way to the dungeon. He looked directly at Iltar with vibrant yellow eyes. Those eyes stared at Iltar with the hatred of a hunter whose prey had escaped his clutches.

  Xalutir…

  That moment faded as golden light erupted from Pagus’s hands. Amid the blinding flash, Negaris’s magic struck little Bilda.

  “No!” Iltar screamed as a brilliant light engulfed his vision.

  “The Channelers called their island refuge, Dalgilur. They locked themselves away, sealing off their island by their powerful tevisrals. There, they built a utopian civilization that lasted for several centuries, until their descendants could no longer watch the world suffer.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 56

  The eruption of golden light faded as Lirathay’lu drew his blade of annihilation magic from Laedar’s torso.

  The prince groaned, dropping to the rubble littered floor of the throne room.

  “Good riddance,” Lirathay’lu spat, twirling his magically composed blade. He watched as Laedar’s form shifted, reverting to his true nature—it was like the dismissal of a transmutation.

  Though his clothing remained, Laedar’s skin rippled from flesh to crimson scales. His hair—both on his face and atop his head—faded as his features stretched, elongating into a snout.

  The emperor, however, remained human. His death had not returned him to his qui’sha form.

  Impossible, Lirathay’lu muttered, edging toward Marden’s corpse. Does he possess a ring of longevity? he wondered, studying the emperor’s lifeless fingers. It would make sense. A ring of longevity would prevent a qui’sha from returning to their natural form, as it would preserve their life. Qui’sha would only revert when they were dead.

  An orange band on Marden’s middle finger caught Lirathay’lu’s eye. Curious, Lirathay’lu knelt to inspect it. This is not a ring of longevity… he thought.

  The ring looked akin to an elven creation crafted long ago, before the Thousand Years War. Such rings altered the shape of its bearer—elven children often used them as toys.

  Curious, Lirathay’lu twirled his blade, guiding its tip to the knuckle behind the ring. With excellent precision he stabbed the knuckle, severing the finger.

  Marden’s pale hand rippled, turning from flesh to crimson scales. The change was more like a dismissing illusion than a fading transmutation.

  There you are, Lirathay’lu mused, watching Marden’s lifeless human form vanish, revealing a dead qui’sha. But was this even the emperor? Why would Marden want to mask his true form?

  Those questions gave him pause.

  Perhaps I acted too hastily, Lirathay’lu thought, taking the ring from the severed finger. He felt foolish. Had he been duped into exposing himself?

  Shouted commands resounded from his right, and Lirathay’lu turned to see the survivors of Iltar’s onslaught readying to attack. Prince Negaris was busily enhancing each of the surviving soldiers.

  Suddenly, everything changed. Lirathay’lu was no longer in the throne room at Mindolarn. Instead, he stood within a cavernous room that lacked any windows or doors.

  “I expected you to be bigger,” a wry voice said disappointedly.

  Lirathay’lu turned, seeing a qui’sha wearing a white robe. The crimson scales along the qui’sha’s snout twisted into a sinister grin.

  “You must really believe you are human,” the qui’sha said, sounding amused with his observation. “We masquerade as men, but we retain our true identity. Here in Vabenack, one is revealed as one’s true self.”

  Vabenack?

  Lirathay’lu glanced down, examining his hands.

  How had he come to this place… this realm of a mad god? His clothes were different. Instead of his black garb he wore a brown smock stained with traces of herbs. How had that happened? And where was his Annihilation Blade?

  “You look so confused,” the qui’sha said, snickering. “And here I thought your kind was the most intelligent of the sha’kalda breeds.”

  Lirathay’lu shot a glance into the qui’sha’s yellow eyes, but nothing happened.

  “Are you trying to probe me?” the qui’sha stepped forward. “Oh, let me get closer. Do you think that will help?” he said mockingly. Lirathay’lu continued staring into the qui’sha’s yellow eyes, but nothing happened.

  The qui’sha grinned. “Cast a spell, I dare you…” A sudden pang of fear struck Lirathay’lu. He uttered an incantation in the true magical tongue, but nothing happened. What was wrong with this accursed placed? Couldn’t magic be manifest here?

  “It’s because you see yourself as human!” the qui’sha exclaimed with triumphant laughter tinged with condescension. Still laughing, the qui’sha clasped Lirathay’lu’s shoulders. “Your mind here is human,” he cackled. “Now, you are nothing! Nothing! And you’re going to die…”

  The qui’sha continued laughing like a madman. Defiantly, Lirathay’lu punched the qui’sha’s stomach, knocking him backward. Even if he couldn’t use magic, he could still beat his foe to a pulp.

  “Oh my,” the qui’sha grinned. “You’ll be fun. I’ve never had one of your kind in my clutches. I almost didn’t think I could do it—bring you here to Vabenack, I mean.” Su
ddenly, excruciating pain surged through Lirathay’lu, but abruptly stopped. The room seemed to tip and spin. He was falling though it didn’t feel that way. In fact, he felt nothing.

  And then, everything went black.

  * * * * *

  Jeridi was still exhausted. He leaned against a pillar between the throne room and the third floor’s southern hallway. He had taken shelter there amidst the tumultuous battle.

  The violence had finally ceased. Ashes and rubble, as well as mangled bodies, were scattered across the throne room. The wounded were mingled with the dead, especially among the ranks of the Praetorians. Jeridi was numb after gazing at the destruction.

  The devastation was worse than the Feast of Sorrows… But this rampage wasn’t a continuation of that massacre.

  “I knew you weren’t the Alathian,” Jeridi whispered to himself. He sucked in his breath and averted his gaze. His family had been foolish. Not only had they attacked the wrong man, they had attacked the Unspoken One. There was irony in that. Their hastiness had been punished by divine retribution.

  Regaining his composure, Jeridi gazed across the throne room, his eyes settling on his brother’s corpse. Laedar, you fool, he thought, bemused. If only you had listened to me, we could have avoided this—

  Footsteps drew Jeridi’s attention, and he turned to see his brother approaching—Xalutir, second in line to the throne. As usual, Xalutir wore a white robe bearing the twisted depiction of the First Emblem of Cherisium. His face was painted pale to look like one of the Chosen, his blond hair dyed to match. Xalutir’s delusions of grandeur had driven him mad. His pride came from his accomplishments in unlocking the forbidden secrets of Vabenack—knowledge prohibited to all but the Chosen.

  Over the last few decades, Xalutir had become a near recluse, communicating only by messengers until a few years ago. The Losians’ attack at the Feast of Sorrows had drawn him out, and Xalutir returned to Mindolarn for a time, but soon left. Of all the sons of Mindolarn, Xalutir was the strangest. Jeridi didn’t really know his brother.

  The estrangement suited Jeridi just fine. Xalutir was disturbing.

  A sneer crossed Xalutir’s pale face as he looked to Jeridi. “Someone decapitated my prey,” the pale-painted prince complained. “Did you see who, Jeridi?” Jeridi didn’t answer. He turned back to the throne room, watching as Negaris removed that giant sword—Deathcleaver—from the stone floor. A small decapitated body lay before him, clothed in black.

  “Figures he would do it,” Xalutir spat, stomping into the throne room.

  Sighing, Jeridi closed his eyes. You poor fools… Raedina had fallen, as had Malvonican—who had worn the illusion of Uncle Marden. Jeridi mourned their deaths. Their efforts were akin to a roaring tidal wave crashing against a towering cliff. They had attacked Iltar, but shared the fate of the dissipating waves.

  Jeridi swallowed hard, sorrow welling within him. He embraced his grief, but was drawn by his arguing brothers.

  “Will you wear it, Xalutir?” Negaris asked.

  “I will not do such a thing,” Xalutir murmured, his tone wry. “Find someone else!”

  Negaris looked disappointed. He was holding out the ring Raedina had crafted.

  Xalutir turned, looking at the opening where the western wall once stood. “Twice my prey has been taken from me this day,” he groaned. “One I can no longer hunt, but the other…” His words trailed off, and his pale face twisted with enlightenment.

  “The plan was for you to draw them into the Translucent Fields so we could kill them,” Negaris said sternly. “I wasn’t about to risk this one escaping,” He gestured to the small headless body.

  “You confuse the details of our arrangement,” Xalutir murmured. “But that doesn’t matter now. I can still hunt the other.” With a last disgusted glare, Xalutir turned and stormed away. He seemed determined to slay Iltar.

  Negaris watched as Xalutir left, but his eyes were drawn to Jeridi. “And what were you doing this entire time?” Negaris shouted. Jeridi took courage and moved away from the pillar. “I was trying to avert this madness,” He gestured to the destruction in the throne room. Jeridi didn’t dare say exactly what he had intended, lest Negaris retaliate.

  Negaris shook his head, still holding the ring that had granted Uncle Marden’s likeness. “I don’t see how…” he muttered, then took one last glance across the throne room. After a moment, Negaris gave a command for the survivors to secure the palace.

  “I will not let that man go unpunished,” Negaris said as he neared Jeridi. “One way or another, I will find him and kill him.”

  “Do you still believe he is the Alathian?” Jeridi asked warily, hoping to probe his brother’s grasp of the situation.

  Negaris paused. “He is not… but his identity doesn’t change the fact that I will exact vengeance upon him. He stormed the palace, butchered our soldiers, murdered our family, and desecrated the Royal Archive. This Iltar is an enemy to the empire, and I will see to it that he is punished as such.”

  Jeridi watched his brother leave. The rest of the soldiers followed Negaris, and soon only Jeridi remained. He lingered in the throne room, gazing at the starlit sky.

  Even with the truth staring his family in the face, they refused to accept it. Negaris had battled with Iltar and experienced his glorious power. Yet he refused to acknowledge Iltar’s divine mantle. Negaris would stubbornly face Iltar and die. Eventually, the rest of his family would suffer that same fate. And then, Jeridi would be alone.

  Despair came over Jeridi. It formed an unsettling knot in his stomach, and he knew his family would only bring folly to the empire. He alone would be the voice of reason, but would undoubtedly be ignored.

  Resigning himself to that fate, Jeridi left the throne room.

  * * * * *

  The brilliant light subsided, revealing a starry sky. Gasps and startled cries rippled through the night air.

  Iltar leapt over Alanya, bounding across gray galstra tiles. He ran toward the falling Bilda, uttering an arpran incantation. Of all his acolytes, why was this boy struck? Agony and wrath vexed Iltar’s heart as he caught the boy. His emotions escalated as green magic appeared in his hands, lighting the surrounding area.

  Bilda’s eyes darted erratically, and he convulsed. The boy’s robe showed signs of acidic erosion, and his chest was burned and bubbling. Droplets of acid dribbled from the wound. The acid, however, soon vanished, since its caster was thousands of grand phineals away, unable to maintain the spell from such a distance.

  Iltar’s eyes welled with tears as he finished the incantation. Healing light seeped into the boy, and Iltar held Bilda tight.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Agen asked.

  “Bilda!” Tigan shouted.

  A clatter of footfalls washed around Iltar, but he didn’t pay attention. He had to focus on saving Bilda. “Oh, Bilda,” Iltar whispered, his voice shaky. He focused his mind on spreading the arpran particles across the boy’s entire body. Bilda was near death; the acid had reached the boy’s veins and spread through him like a wildfire. Though the acid had dissipated, its destructive rampage remained.

  Bilda continued convulsing. He gasped horridly, heaved violently, then abruptly stilled. No! Iltar gritted his teeth. He would not let this boy die. Iltar stared wide-eyed at Bilda as the boy glowed with vibrant arpran light.

  The arpran aura brightened, then faded. After a moment, Bilda jolted, gasping for air as if he had been underwater. He coughed several times and then slumped against Iltar.

  “You did it!” one of the boys cheered.

  “He’s alive!” Tigan shouted.

  Several of the acolytes whooped, celebrating Iltar’s intervention.

  Bilda turned, looking at Iltar with a weakened grin. “Thank you, Master Iltar.” Iltar pursed his lips to a line, fighting back the whirlwind of emotions raging within him. He was both angry at the acolytes but thankful none of them had perished. Yet, there was still one missing. Kaelar was absent.

  “Kaelar
,” Iltar started, relinquishing his grip on Bilda.

  “He’s fine,” Agen said. “Kaelar is on Pagus’s ship.”

  “Where are we?” an acolyte asked quickly, glancing at a darkened parapet.

  “Atop my tower,” Iltar answered, “in Soroth.” He looked to Agen with confusion and was about to press him further when Elsia screamed.

  “Iltar, she’s bleeding badly!” the countess shouted.

  Iltar spun. He could barely see the darkened outline of the women—Elsia was kneeling and holding Alanya. Heart thumping, Iltar cast the arpran incantation once again. He dropped to his knees beside Alanya as the magic formed. Green light illuminated the surrounding area, revealing Elsia’s tearstained face. Alanya was gasping for breath; her face was strained and partially covered in blood. A large gash marred her forehead—she must have hit her head when Raedina’s arcane orbs erupted. The high duchess’s eyes fell upon Iltar, and she smiled at him amid her anguish.

  “Why didn’t I see this sooner?” Elsia demanded shakily. Iltar ignored the countess, extending one hand toward Alanya’s face and the other toward her chest.

  Alanya’s eyes—still fixated on Iltar—widened, and her expression froze.

  Arpran light blasted from Iltar’s hands, enveloping Alanya in a green hue. The healing magic surged across her body, regenerating her forehead. Fresh skin covered the wound. Iltar could feel the magic flowing through her, repairing the damage inflicted on her body… but something was wrong.

  Alanya’s heart wasn’t beating. The green arpran hue faded, but the high duchess remained still. Her wounds had healed, but it was too late.

  Alanya had died.

  The realization hit Iltar like a stunning blow. It debilitated him, shackling him with grief.

  “Alanya?” Elsia demanded. Though it was dark, Iltar could see the countess’s face twisting in disbelief. “Why is she so heavy?” Iltar sank, weighed down by that incapacitating sorrow.

  “Why isn’t she moving?!” Elsia cried. Iltar didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.