by Michael Karr
Drawing out his dagger, Skylar quietly stepped through the portal. Inside, he quickly scanned the chamber for signs of occupancy. He listened, too, in case there was someone in an adjoining chamber. No signs of life. Only an empty chamber. He took a few cautious steps deeper into the chamber.
It was a bedchamber. Spacious, by any standard. A four-poster bed, hung with lace curtains, sat near the middle of the room against the wall. Various articles of furniture—an armoire, chest, wardrobe, and bedside table—were arranged neatly on the far end of the room. On the opposite side of the wall from the bed, was a fireplace, in front of which sat two high-backed armchairs. No fire burned on the hearth. Only a single torch burning in a socket on the wall to his left provided any light within the chamber.
Skylar took the torch from the wall and lit two other torches. The added light dispelled some of the heavier shadows draped about the room, easing Skylar’s anxiety slightly. He walked over to a painting on the wall and held up his torch to it. The orange glow illuminated the stoic face of a woman, with iron-black hair, and a proud figure clothed in a graceful white gown with flared sleeves and billowing skirt. The fine gown could not disguise the one who wore it. Though younger, she was the empress. The portrait stunned Skylar. How could such an exacting ruler dress in anything so delicate? A bespiked dress with a steel-plated skirt would suit her better. Yet despite the apparent contradiction, Skylar admitted that she possessed an undeniable beauty.
He moved on. To admire unsettling portraits of the Empress of Gorgoroth was not what he came for. If nothing else, this portrait gave him confidence that this bedchamber must belong to the empress herself. On the bedside table, he found a silver looking glass with handle, a brush, and a sheathed stiletto. In the wardrobe, he found nothing but garments. The armoire, likewise, contained nothing of interest but a few personal-care items, blankets, and various other oddments.
Standing, Skylar turned and surveyed the room. It was then that he took notice of a door at the back corner of the room. Believing he would find nothing of interest in the bedchamber, he decided to investigate. Behind the door, he found a room in complete darkness, except for the torch he held in his hand. Shambling into the darkness, he found and lit two other torched in their sconces. The light revealed a smaller chamber whose back wall featured a bookcase extending from the floor to ceiling. In front of the bookcase sat a wide desk and chair. A study. The empress’ personal study?
The thought gave Skylar a thrill. Surely something for which he sought lurked within these walls.
He went over to the desk. A small oil lamp rested on the corner. He lit and then deposited his torch in an empty sconce. Numerous parchments and letters lay scattered across the top of the desk, like the first dusting of autumn leaves on Ahlderon. These he quickly perused. Almost immediately, his eyes fell on an unfolded letter, which from its proximity to the chair, might have been the last thing the Empress read at the desk. He picked it up and read.
Your Most Exaltedness,
All is prepared according to thy desires. Ten legions of infantry await thy command to deploy. Another ten legions shall arrive over the coming weeks. The construction of thy new fleet has completed its first phase. Five high-capacity spaceliners, as well as twelve cruisers, stand ready at thy disposal. We await your command to commence the invasion.
Thy humble servant,
General Rekkin Karíknof
Ten legions. Invasion. Skylar repeated the words in his mind without fully comprehending. Who did they plan to invade? Even as he thought this, he knew the answer. Who else would the Tors invade with such an army? Frantic for more information, Skylar riffled through the other parchments and letters on the desk. Everything else seemed irrelevant. He shifted through the desk drawers.
In one drawer he found several parchments with drawings. At first, he disregarded them, but one of them caught his attention. On further inspection, he realized that these were not mere drawing. They were schematics. He couldn’t be sure what the schematics were for, but they looked oddly familiar. Was it plans for some kind of shuttle? The wings looked too…
Skylar’s mind reeled. It couldn’t be. What was the scale of this thing? The units in the schematics were completely foreign to him. Perplexed, he set the schematics down and turned absently to look at the bookcase, while he thought through the problem. Mostly the bookcase contained books. Skylar had neither time nor interest in inspecting the empress’ collection, even if some secret lay buried in their pages. Two of the shelves just behind the desk were dedicated for the display of trinkets and trophies. A short sword, encased in glass; a figurine of a hawk, carved in gold; an old chronometer, with a thick brass bezel.
Then his gaze fell on something no larger than his thumb. The light from the torches and lamp glinted off its silver casing. Skylar leaned in for a closer inspection. His blood ran cold. His fears confirmed. Though he’d only seen its likeness only once before, a long time before on Haladras, he knew what it was without equivocation. The tiny metallic body. The paper-thin, silver wings. The beady eyes. This is what the schematics were for: to build one of these creatures. The same often haunted his dreams. But how could this be? Only one man in the universe possessed the knowledge to produce a Tracker. Had the Tors formed an unlikely alliance with Morvath?
Skylar checked his back involuntarily. Was it just his fear, or had the darkness grown thicker in the room, crept closer to him?
He’d stayed too long.
Leaving the bookshelf, he grabbed the letter and schematics from the desk, folded them and stuffed them into his tunic, then briskly strode out of the room. Halfway across the bedchamber, Endrick poked his head through the door.
“What were you doing in there, taking a nap on the bed?”
“No, let’s get away from here,” replied Skylar, feeling a supreme urgency to get away from the castle. Alderon was in peril. He must warn Krom. And if indeed Morvath loomed anywhere near or within the castle, he wanted to get away as far as possible. How he ought to have executed the justice Morvath desired when he had the chance!
“Did you learn anything of your sister?” asked Endrick, as they shut the wooden door to the empress’ chamber.
“No, but I have intelligence which must be conveyed to Krom. Come, we’ll speak of it once we’re away from this place.”
Together, they nearly sprinted down the length of the corridor. Before they could reach the staircase, however, Endrick held his hand in front of Skylar, listened intently a moment, then pushed him through the nearest door.
“Hide!” said Endrick in a low voice, as he closed the door gently behind them.
Without questioning, Skylar scrambled behind a bed, while Endrick crammed his bulk into a wardrobe in the corner. Skylar’s spot was a poor place to hide. But he saw no other option. Whoever Endrick heard coming, he hoped he did no more than glance into this bedchamber, if at all. In all probability the footsteps belonged to a sentry making his rounds.
Skylar waited, listening. After some moments, there was a slight rustling sound just outside the door, followed by the unmistakable clink of a door latch. Skylar caught his breath. Someone was coming inside.
With a futile effort, Skylar attempted to press his body more firmly against the side of the bed, as if to make himself appear as part of the furniture.
The sounds of someone moving about the room increased. Who was it? Did the room belong to the princess? The prospect of meeting her under such circumstances gave him only slightly less fear than meeting Morvath. A girl who could kill a servant so senselessly…he didn’t want anything to do with.
He listened as the sounds of movement drew closer. It sounded as if someone was on the bed, or arranging the bedclothes. Skylar held his breath. In his mind, he cursed the maker of the bed for not making space under it for someone to hide. Perhaps this was done intentionally, to protect the sleeper from a nighttime intruder.
Then a figure emerged from the front of the bed into his
view. Skylar recognized her instantly as the servant who inadvertently helped him escape the castle. Seeing Skylar, she immediately drew back in alarm, looking as though she might scream or faint.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he whispered, hastily. “I won’t hurt you.”
The girl backed away, her dark eyes wide with terror.
Endrick emerged from the wardrobe and blocked the door. She shot a panicked glance from Endrick back to Skylar.
“What do you want?” she let out in a trembling cry.
The poor creature looked like a trapped mouse, who might die from heart failure any moment.
“I’m just trying to find out what happened to my sister,” Skylar said, calmly. He didn’t need to lie to this girl, and the truth might earn them her sympathy. “I think she may have been taken by the empress years ago. She would have been just a child when she came. Maybe you know something about her?”
* * *
The princess felt she could endure the General’s wretched party not a moment longer. The sheer amount of venom in the room was sickening. It was all masked, of course. Hidden beneath layers of trite pleasantries or subtle jabs meant to be humorous. And then there was the outright deception, which came in the form of confessions of undying loyalty. The political wheedlers sickened her the most. Would these cowards not say anything, contrive any lie, to increase their power?
She hated playing the game, pretending to be pleased by a war captain’s compliments on her thus-far success in the Trials. She doubted if more than a handful of men could be found in the whole room who didn’t wish for her to fail or who wouldn’t hesitate, given the opportunity, to slit her throat. Her betrothed was among that handful. But he only wanted her to succeed so that he might get access to the throne through her.
Her mother, the empress, played her part remarkably well. With measured precision, she dealt out thickly veiled threats to those she felt lacked sufficient respect for her power. Likewise, she cleverly reminded allies of the benefits they enjoyed from her magnanimity.
The entire charade bored the princess to tears. The only thing of interest which had transpired the whole evening regarded the food. The General’s prized entrée—an Ahlderion man—had vanished. From the rumors, she divined that the Ahlderion had been stolen from the General’s own kitchen while still alive. The General, of course, was aflame with fury over the matter. The princess felt some relief. She had no desire to glut herself on the flesh of an Ahlderion. An abhorrent practice—much like the ludicrous disposal of a perfectly good servant.
Inside, she still smarted over the killing of the servant. To what end? What did it prove? She felt no more loyal to her power-hungry betrothed and she knew he felt toward her. It was all a show, a farce, a meaningless tradition. It didn’t prove anything.
She wondered about the Ahlderion. Not many of their kind ventured into the nation of Tor. Who had stolen him? Surely anyone of power and influence within five hundred kilometers was in attendance at the General’s party. And none of them would base themselves to such a petty crime. Did the Ahlderion have friends—other Ahlderions perhaps? She remembered the news that Morvath reported about the prince leaving on a quest to find his missing sister. Could it be?
A smile touched her lips. If nothing else, the idea was amusing.
She stood near a vacant wall in one of the side lounges stuffed with sofas and armchairs. She ran her hands along the silky fabric about her waist, feeling the tight corset beneath.
I hate these ridiculous gowns! The seamstress must have gone out of her way to make the skirt as cumbersome as possible.
At least they got the color right. Gray. Even if it was a shimmery gray. Better than one of those garish colors the other ladies wore.
She pretended to observe a large painting on the opposite wall. It depicted a battle scene in which a general was leading his troops to victory. Which battle of which war in Gorgoroth’s long bloody history it portrayed, she couldn’t say. There were too many battles. She doubted if the General himself knew. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to be free of this wearisome party and rid herself of her insufferable gown.
“Your face looks as sour as the General’s grapes.”
Rizain Du Kava appeared next to her as unannounced as if he’d materialized from the floor.
“What would you expect?” she replied, not moving her eyes from the painting. “Haven’t I paid my dues?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rizain offer a slight nod of assent.
“I could make an excuse for you—if you desired,” he said.
“What, that the princess would rather face the flaming tongues again than stay and listen to one more sycophant?”
“Or…that you are still recovering, and need rest and meditation in preparation for your next Trial. You have not yet completed the Trials, I needn’t remind you. And until you have, I have the right to dictate your schedule.”
He turned and faced her.
“Go, take a pair of bodyguards and return to the castle. I shall make excuse for you to your mother and the General. And your beloved, as well—of course.”
The princess shot him a glare that would have withered an ordinary man. Rizain met her gaze with pure indifference. She broke off the gaze and stormed away. It was a jab she could have endured from Rizain alone. Tonight especially. She considered it just payment for the favor he now offered her. To free herself from the party early and return to the castle.
Twenty-eight
“Please,” said Skylar, looking at the frightened serving maid with beseeching eyes. “I must find her. I think Du Kava is somehow involved.”
At the mention of Du Kava’s name, the girl’s already pale face turned ashen. Her body began to tremble.
“What is it?” Skylar encouraged. “It’s alright, you can tell us. No one will know you said anything.”
His voice was soothing when he spoke. He doubted if the girl ever received a kind word from anyone. Still, it didn’t help free the girl’s tongue.
She shook her head frantically.
Skylar drew a cautious step forward.
She shied away, as if feared being struck.
He held his hands up in defeat.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said sympathetically. “We don’t want to bring trouble upon you. Can you, at least, tell us where to find Du Kava’s quarters?”
The girl sniffed.
“Downstairs,” she let out in a near whisper. “The portal nearest to the stairs.”
“Thank you,” replied Skylar. “You don’t have to tell anyone you saw us.”
Without another word, he and Endrick slipped out of the chamber and into the hallway.
“I thought you wanted to get away from here,” said Endrick as they strode back toward the stairs.
“I do—desperately. But if I don’t learn what happened to my sister now…”
“We might make it out alive?”
Skylar formed his hands into fists. They had to make it out alive.
With little difficulty, he and Endrick found a chamber which either belonged to a weapon’s master or executioner. For an entire wall was covered with nothing but weapons. Weapons for which Skylar had no name. Bladed, clubbed, spiked, dripping with chains—as diverse as they were forbidding.
“Cheery décor,” said Endrick, running a finger along a weapon with five blades splayed out from the end of a mace-like handle. “We should definitely stick around. If this fellow finds us snooping about his chamber, maybe he’ll demonstrate how to use one of these…on us.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Skylar. “They’re all at the party. He won’t return for hours.”
This he said in hopes of convincing himself. But it did nothing to allay his own anxiety.
“If you help me, we’ll be done sooner.”
“If we leave off now, we’ll be done much sooner,” was Endrick’s retort.
Despite Endrick’s objections, th
ey both went to work searching for some clue as to his sister’s fate. After only a few minutes of rifling through drawers, Skylar wondered what he truly hoped to find. A scrap of parchment detailing the exact whereabouts of his sister? The idea seemed ludicrous when he thought about it that way. What other hope did he have, though? This man might keep a record of his doings, a journal. On Ahlderon, castle scribes chronicled all events pertaining to the Empire.
That was the answer! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner?
A record of the empress’ deeds—her decrees, judgments, daily actions—must surely be kept. Without a record, a ruler has no history, no legacy. But it would not be here, in a bedchamber. Nor would they likely find it in the Empress’ personal study. Such a mundane task would be delegated to an archivist or scribe. They needed to find the castle archives.
The servant girl. She must know where to find a scribe, or where the archives are kept. He only hoped the girl hadn’t run already away.
“This is futile,” he said to Endrick. “Follow me, I know a better way.” He strode toward the portal.
“If that way involves the castle gates, I’m all for it.”
Before Skylar reached the portal, a figure stepped inside the threshold, barring the way.
Skylar started.
The figure in the doorway glared at him. It was the princess. That same unsettling look she bore instantly set Skylar’s heart apace. He took a few steps back, as the princess entered the chamber.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Handlers,” said Endrick, without a hint of guilt in his voice. “We got orders to move a chest. Only, I think there’s been a mix-up. This is not the right room.”
The princess let out a mirthless laugh.
“Movers!” she scoffed. “An Ahlderion, working in the Castle Gorgoroth? We kill Ahlderions around here.”
“Ahlderion!” cried Endrick, sounding outraged at the very thought. “I’m no Ahlderion.”