A Prince's Errand Read online

  Important people.

  Kaescis and the other princes of the empire looked very much alike—they were brothers and cousins after all. He and his brothers each had wavy golden-blond hair, except for Negaris. The brothers shared the same sharp nose and long forehead, a trait common to their grandfather, who Kaescis had never met. There were variations in their features, though. Of all his brothers, Kaescis’s eyes were the palest violet, while his brothers’ were darker. Kaescis also had the thinnest lips, the most chiseled face, and the roundest ears.

  Besides their similarity in features, Kaescis was dressed like the other members of the Royal Family. He wore a fanciful crimson coat with tails hanging partway down the backs of his thighs. The coat was adorned with gold-and-white tassels and embroidered with patterns all paired in groups of seven. Seven was an important number in Mindolarn. He wore a ruffled beige shirt and charcoal-colored pants with matching boots. Kaescis couldn’t change what he looked like, so the tardiness was needed if he were to stand out against the backdrop of Mindolarn aristocracy.

  The harmonious sounds of music reached Kaescis’s ears. The royal orchestra was playing its third movement, heralding the next part of the momentous feast. He had missed little. The first course was already served, but he didn’t care for much of what it offered.

  As he rounded a corner, Practil approached. The brown-haired man wore a lavender coat with silver tassels. Beneath it, he wore a white formal tunic and matching pants. His black boots echoed as he hastened along the stone pathway.

  “Your Imperial Highness!” Practil called, stopping a few paces from Kaescis and bowing. “I was worried. When you didn’t show, I—”

  “Calm yourself, Practil. You’ve been my servant for how many years, and you still don’t understand my methods?”

  “Thirty, Your Imperial Highness,” Practil bowed once again. “Forgive me, but there is someone here in the palace who wishes to speak with you.”

  Kaescis raised his brow, confused. The Feast of Sorrows was not a time to hold conversation. Partakers were to observe reverence and solemnity. If one needed to speak, it was to be in a whisper. Nothing more.

  “Who is this person?” Kaescis asked, continuing through the garden path. Practil followed beside him.

  “He wouldn’t say,” the servant said, ashamed he didn’t have the answers his master desired. “The man was shrouded, in a black cowl. But… he spoke the Words. And uttered the vow.”

  Disturbing, Kaescis thought. Anyone who knew such things wouldn’t dare hold conversation during the Feast of Sorrows.

  Troubled, Kaescis wound his way through the gardens with Practil in tow. The music grew louder as they arrived at the banquet yard where the feast was held. The grassy space behind the palace was vast, with a view of the grand city of Mindolarn. Dozens of tables filled the palace green, occupied by hundreds of men and women dressed in formal garb.

  Kaescis, however, ignored the banquet yard, searching for the stranger mentioned by Practil.

  A hulking man lurked behind a pillar, not far from the palace. He was shrouded in black robes, his head buried inside a cowl. The stranger’s hands, however, were covered in thick plate gauntlets. Curious, Kaescis thought. Who would wear robes and plate? Especially to the Feast of Sorrows.

  The orchestra’s third movement quieted as Kaescis and Practil approached the stranger.

  Standing resolute beside the pillar, the hulking man said in a rasping whisper, “Cho’k, su’zak, Cho’k.”

  So he does know the token, Kaescis thought. Of course, Practil was not one to lie, but hearing the sacred Words spoken by this stranger caught Kaescis off guard. It was bizarre. If the fellow knew those words, he would be a Devout and therefore required to adhere to the rules of the feast.

  “Cho’k, su’zak, Cho’k,” Kaescis whispered. “May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time.”

  “Yes.” The deep voice oozed from inside the cowl, and the word sounded muffled somehow, as if spoken from behind a helmet. Or a mask. “You are, Kaescis Midivar, heir to the Mindolarn throne?” he asked.

  “I am,” Kaescis said, cautious. “And who are you?” He peered into the cowl, but only saw blackness.

  “A benefactor,” the hulking man said. “I wish to see your empire reformed. You are a blessed people, highly favored of Cheserith and his Chosen.”

  “You dare speak that sacred name, on this day?” Kaescis asked, anger boiling. It was sacrilege for anyone other than the Presider to speak that divine name during the Feast of Sorrows. No, this stranger couldn’t be a Devout.

  The stranger chuckled, folding his arms. “A pious one, huh? That will do well. Well indeed. Perhaps your piety will serve you for the tasks that lay ahead.”

  Kaescis cocked his head, growing tired of this stranger. He glanced to Practil, who simply shrugged.

  “Are you perturbed?” the stranger asked, amused. “Then I’ll be succinct. I’m calling on you to restore your people’s greatness.”

  Kaescis grunted, shaking his head. He was already doing that. That’s why he wanted to stand out tonight. Stronger ties needed to be forged with those outside the empire. It was the only way to rebuild Mindolarn to its former greatness. Kaescis put his hands on his hips, listening skeptically as the stranger continued.

  “Mindolarn cannot be rebuilt by diplomacy. Only by force. You must take back what your father and his brothers lost.”

  “You want us to start a war, then?” Kaescis scowled, displeased. “War is what fractured our empire.”

  “You didn’t have the right tools,” the stranger said. Kaescis could have sworn the stranger was smiling. “There is a place where I believe you can find such things. Men have called it the Isle of the Ancient Ones.”

  Kaescis fought back laughter, but he couldn’t contain it. He brought a hand to his lips, muffling his mirth. This man was speaking ridiculousness. He obviously was referring to tevisrals. Didn’t he know that such objects were rare? Tevisrals were even outlawed in many kingdoms and nations across Kalda.

  Kaescis quelled his laughter and eyed the stranger. “So you want me to find a hidden cache, a treasure trove of tevisrals? I suppose you’ve never heard of the Edicts of the Mage-King?” Kaescis asked, snorting. This whole conversation was turning preposterous.

  The stranger was not amused. He folded his arms and straightened up in a distant posture. “I’ve come to you, Kaescis Midivar, because of all the princes of Mindolarn you have the strongest desire to expand your borders.” He paused, looking back to the palace. “Seek Dalgilur’s Isle. I’m sure you’ll find what you need there. It’s the only place that those rebellious citizens of Karthar could have hidden them…”

  Still chuckling, Kaescis asked, “Why can’t you do this?”

  The stranger began to walk away, but stopped, looking directly at Kaescis. “Oh, I’ve tried. Something prevents me from entering the island.”

  The warm scent of lavish foods danced through the air. Kaescis glanced from the stranger to the palace, drawn by the savory foods.

  Dozens of servants descended wide stairs, carrying steaming platters. They walked toward Kaescis and Practil but ignored them, their demeanors solemn and reverent, much like the participants of the Feast of Sorrows. Their gaits were somber and deliberate.

  Kaescis turned back toward the stranger, but to his surprise he was nowhere to be found. A fading black mist dissipated within the garden where the stranger had walked.

  Where is he? Kaescis wondered. He hadn’t heard an incantation, or words to activate a teleporting tevisral. Soon, the mist was gone. Had it really been there? Or was it something he had imagined?

  “Come, Your Imperial Highness,” Practil urged gently. “We should get ahead of the servers.”

  Kaescis stared at the area where the stranger had stood, disturbed by his swift disappearance. But he turned and followed Practil to the banquet yard.

  What was this Dalgilur’s Isle? Kaescis had never heard of such an island. All of Kalda’s sea
s were charted. Every island had been discovered and explored. After all, men had sailed the seas of Kalda for thousands of years.

  The orchestra’s fourth movement began as Kaescis and Practil picked their way past the tables of the banquet yard. Many of the men and women there—the Partakers of the Feast—were from other parts of the world. Some were renowned, others notorious. These people were all devout followers of the One True God, bound together by their religion.

  Hardly anyone paid attention to Kaescis. The Partakers of the Feast were drawn to the smells coming from the palace. That foolish stranger had spoiled his plans. If Kaescis hadn’t stopped to speak he would have been the center of attention. Now he was lost amid the servants bearing food.

  Two middle-aged men whispering to each other, seated at a nearby table. Both were dressed in the formal garb of Losians. It was odd to see people like them here. Losians weren’t typically fond of religion, nor the Mindolarn Empire. Did they even believe in a higher power?

  His eyes were drawn to a ring on one of them. The ring bore the emblem of an organization in the Losian government, the League of Surveilors. We have Devouts there? Kaescis was surprised. We really are spreading everywhere as Father predicted.

  Kaescis and Practil continued across the banquet yard to the far end where the Mindolarn Royals sat. There were, however, foreigners seated among his family. He recognized two of them: an aristocrat from a backwater chain of islands and a mage from that same nation: a pitiful place called Soroth. The latter was the grandmaster of an Order of mages.

  This foreign aristocrat was a burly man, with wavy blond hair. His complexion was fair and his face clean-shaven. He wore a formal crimson garb—a stiff tunic and pants with black embroidery. He could have passed as a Mindolarnian. Kaescis couldn’t remember his name but knew he was a baron and the sovereign ruler of an island.

  The mage, however, wore a black robe. Kaescis barely saw the woven symbols on the robe, but he knew what they represented—the mystical art of necromancy. Unlike the aristocrat, he had dark-olive skin, a long, thick white beard, and white hair hanging past his shoulders. The necromancer’s hazel-blue eyes coldly studied Kaescis.

  These two had attended the Feast of Sorrows many times. But why weren’t they sitting with the rest of their people? The other Sorothians sat closer to the palace.

  Kaescis shrugged off the thought and sat in the only empty seat between his cousins. Kaescis was fond of one and tolerated the other. Raedina was the favored of the two. She was a tall woman, slender and elegant. Her long black hair was braided, hanging over her shoulder past her chest. She had vibrant green eyes that could send a chill up your spine. But, she was a kind woman, at least to Kaescis. Like many of the other regal women, she wore a blood-red gown.

  Kaescis waved off Practil, and the servant departed. He carefully picked his way through the crowd of servers bringing the food, moving to the rear of the banquet yard where other servants of the royal house sat.

  Raedina leaned toward her cousin, tapping a finger to the back of his hand. “You are dreadfully late,” she whispered. “I thought you were planning to arrive at the last stanza of the third movement?”

  “I was delayed,” Kaescis answered, matching his whisper to hers in volume. “Some crazed fool wanted to speak with me.”

  “During the Feast of Sorrows?” Raedina asked, incredulous.

  “It was nonsense,” Kaescis said.

  “Well this nonsense has disrupted our plan,” Raedina said with a sigh.

  She turned away, twisting her lips in a crooked frown. Her neck seemed to pull away at one side, thus causing the odd frown. Raedina always made that strange frown when she was upset.

  Kaescis turned his attention to the servers. The servers all gathered along a series of tables running the entire length of the banquet yard. The savory aromas caused a sudden pang of hunger. It was tradition to forgo food for a day before the feast, although some Partakers went longer. Kaescis had gone without longer than most, due to his tardiness. His short delay would have been worthwhile, but now it seemed a worthless sacrifice.

  A server unknown to him caught his eye. Was he new? Kaescis wasn’t aware of a staff change. He didn’t know all of the palace servants personally, but he made it a point to recognize all of them. A Mindolarn prince couldn’t be too cautious. The empire had many enemies. Not paying attention to servants could be fatal.

  Kaescis cocked his head, staring at the server. Something was off about him. Many of the other servers plated the food uniformly, but this man was a little off. Perhaps he was new. There was ritual when plating food for those partaking in the feast, and this man was doing it wrong.

  All the other servers—totaling seventy-two—put together plates for the Partakers. Once they had two plates in hand, they marched across the banquet yard and served Kaescis and the others.

  Kaescis continued eyeing the unknown server, who gave plates to both the Sorothians seated with the Royals.

  The servers returned to the steamy platters, dishing out more food. They took two plates each to the rest of the Partakers. Two runs were enough to serve everyone. Nearly three hundred people were present at this feast.

  The orchestra’s fourth movement faded. Silence hung over the banquet yard, and everyone patiently waited for the Presider of the Feast to speak. It was customary after each plate was delivered to hear from the Presider, or someone elected by him, on the purpose of the feast. By tradition, the emperor fulfilled the role as Presider, but that observance was not practiced in this day and age.

  Vikanin rose from a nearby table. He was the Steward of the Empire. Kaescis’s uncle—Emperor Monddar—wasn’t present at the Feast of Sorrows. His absence was not unusual. Kaescis couldn’t remember the last time the emperor had attended such an event.

  Uncle Monddar often kept to himself, secretly moving around the empire, always guarded by the Crimson Praetorians. It seemed paranoid, but with the assassinations of the other emperors it was expected.

  But today, Uncle Monddar was sequestered inside his palace. No one knew it, though, besides Kaescis and a few others. The emperor only made it known to those with whom he wished to speak. Kaescis planned to meet with him after the feast to discuss his plans for a stronger Mindolarn.

  Vikanin walked to a raised stand at the far end of the banquet yard. He stood against the backdrop of the grand capital. The Steward of the Empire was a short man, but had a strong build. He had been a general in the wars to defend against eastern aggression. Now he was a politician, taking the public place of Kaescis’s uncle. And, today he acted as Presider.

  “My brethren and sisters,” Vikanin declared loudly, addressing the Partakers of the Feast. “Once again, we come in remembrance of our God and Father. As we eat and drink, reflect upon His absence. But cling to the hope of His advent. Recall the signs that herald—”

  A beam of violet light struck Vikanin in the chest. It was disintegrating magic. The beam burned a hole through him, and Vikanin fell, collapsing lifelessly.

  That servant, Kaescis thought, turning violently. He looked to the servers. The man unknown to Kaescis looked horrified, gazing at another near the center of the banquet yard. The newcomer wasn’t the attacker. Surprising! Kaescis followed his gaze, seeing the attacker, a man he had known for many years, Ascrol.

  Ascrol held his hand outstretched, pointed toward the dead Vikanin. But it couldn’t be Ascrol. Ascrol didn’t know how to cast spells. Did he? Fifteen other servers around Ascrol mustered magic. Each uttered incantations, gathering destructive energies.

  Sharp words resounded from behind Kaescis, coming from Raedina’s lips. Her hand reached over his shoulder. She wore a silvery bracelet with gems inlaid all around it that gleamed a blue hue and hummed. The bracelet was a tevisral. Soon after, a wave of blue light rippled from Raedina’s hand, veiling her and Kaescis. The light was a type of magic called barsion. It was a protective magic and could prevent anything, both physical and magical in nature, from passing thro
ugh it. The bracelet encased both of them in an ovoid shield of barsion.

  They were safe, but others were not.

  Kaescis watched as the traitorous servers flung deadly bolts into the crowd of Partakers. Many of them fled, frantic. Some others, however, began mustering their own magics.

  One such man hurled an off-white mass of dispelling magic at the attacking servers.

  The servers’ faces contorted, then washed away, revealing imposters dressed in the servers’ clothes. They all looked aggressive, hostile, and determined to kill.

  “We need to get to Uncle,” Raedina almost shouted, sounding frazzled.

  Kaescis glanced to her calmly. Hostility didn’t bother him. He was accustomed to it—

  Sounds of battle erupted from the palace. That worried him. No one before had ever dared attack the seat of the empire. Their enemies had never come this far into their domain.

  Angered, Kaescis uttered a sharp string of words, the words to a magical incantation. Blackness seeped from the pores of his hands, gathering like a mist. It coalesced into a shaft. Within seconds, it became a sword composed entirely of blackness. It was a destructive power called Ko’delish by his ancestors. The black sword glowed a deathly light, faintly misting black particles.

  “Where is your wand?” Kaescis asked Raedina coldly.

  “My chambers, of course!” she shrieked. “Why would I bring it to the Feast?”

  She had a point.

  Kaescis grabbed Raedina by the waist with his freehand, guiding her across the banquet yard. His grip was protective and firm. Empty chairs in their path flew out of their way, repulsed by the barsion of Raedina’s bracelet.

  Those who hadn’t fled were now engaged in a deadly duel with the imposters. The necromancer from Soroth was fighting two of them, keeping both at bay. He was protecting the baron and another member of the Mindolarn Royal Family. He seemed skilled in the art of combat, a deadly opponent.

  Arcane bolts struck the barsion protecting Kaescis and Raedina, flung by one of the imposters. Kaescis glanced at the man but continued onward to the palace.