Just a little piece Ch. 5

Ricio heaved a sigh. It was a loud sound he made and obviously exaggerated.

“We’re almost there,” Theor replied without actually thinking about it. His friend’s temper, unusually a short one, was really starting to grate on him. It was tiring and incredibly childish of the fighter, and his frustration was slowly getting to Theor as well. Istarel sensed the whirling emotion in his voice. She gave him a shy smile as her hand fumbled for his.

“You’ve said that before,” Ricio muttered, stopping to look inside another room. Obviously disgruntled with whatever he found inside, he smashed the wooden door close with a loud thud that was followed by a crack. “Nothing, just like before and before and before,” he growled, a sound so plausible Pandora wouldn’t have to feel ashamed if it came from her throat.

“I cannot fathom your impatience,” Istarel said quietly. “If Daragon’s riches are still here, they won’t disappear. And if they’re long gone, there’s nothing we can do about it. Besides,” she paused to take a breath and shot the back of his head a glowering look, “the castle is large enough to hold as many people as the city around could. We knew finding the king’s chambers might take a very long time when we entered.”

Pandora made a soft, kind of a whiney sound.

“You know what really would make me cross?” the fighter asked. “If the journal’s author made it all up and there was no treasury at Daragon’s room.”

“Why would he do that?” Theor asked simply. He tightened his hold on his wife’s hand. "Or she..." he mumbled. He wasn't sure who the author was exactly.

“What do I know? Maybe he didn’t want anyone to find it.”

“Then why would he disclose information about the treasure and the palace in the first place?” Theor opposed him calmly. Holding Istarel's hand helped almost like she could pour some of her calmness in him. She pulled at his hand and made him stop. She smiled at him and cradled his face. “Just ignore him. He’s only anxious.”

“Maybe he was nuts,” Ricio shrugged and passed by another door without a second glance. Or even the first.

Pandora lowered her head, following him soundlessly. She halted briefly, turning her head to see her Mistress and her mate had fallen back, but decided to follow the last member of the pack anyway. She smelled the air and her nostrils filled with the scent of his anger and impatience.

Istarel peeked into a room Ricio had so indifferently walked by. “So many bedrooms,” she breathed quietly, quickly examining the chamber with several beds and even more bedrolls laid out on the dirty floor. “I can’t even imagine the number of people living here.”

“Thousands,” Theor shrugged, sighing. He was worried about Ricio. The fighter had never been like this. True, he had a temper, but he’d never been so reckless and short-sighted before. Was it the image of treasure possibly awaiting them in depths of this place? And what would happen once they found it? Or worse...what if they failed to find the treasury?

“Ricio,” Istarel mumbled, catching her husband’s arm. “Where is he?”

Theor followed Istarel’s look and gazed into an empty corridor, sighing. Ricio didn’t even wait for them.

The fighter stubbornly went on. He even picked up a pace, muttering angrily under his breath. He had lost patience with this warren long time ago and his mood was worse by a second.

He lost count of all those crossroads and forks he’d passed absentmindedly and when he finally opened a door to carelessly look in, he was taken aback. Instead of a shabby old bedroom he stood on a threshold of a library.

It was probably the greatest library he’d ever been into – which wasn’t that difficult since he wasn’t been fond of such boring places. It stretched in front of him, disappearing into darkness where the light of his torch didn’t reach. Massive bookshelves were crammed with dusty old books and parchment rolls, ink bottles and quills were seemingly everywhere.

Ricio wrinkled his nose against the stale, murky air of the room and slammed the door close again, staring ahead. Boring and old the room could be, but it was obviously not very common in the outskirts of the palace. And as he continued, his hunch that he was getting to the richer part of the place was confirmed by more schoolrooms and study rooms he discovered along the way. He even found an armoury, though racks were mostly empty. Only blunted or rusty swords were left behind, broken foundations of spears and pikes, damaged and dented helmets and armours...

Either way, an armoury in a middle of a palace? It meant a lot of guards moving around. And what were guards made for? Guarding something valuable...or someone! With renown determination, Ricio set off again, more eager than ever, and Pandora quietly followed, intrigued by the change of his emotions.

He passed by a staircase leading down and then he abruptly stopped. The stairs were collapsed. He narrowed his eyes. He tried to see through the darkness, but he could see nothing. Obviously, the gap was too wide. “Well, I don’t think anyone could jump over it,” he said, holding out his torch, but he still couldn’t glimpse anything. His eyes studied the walls and the ceiling and frowned even more. It seemed nothing but the stairs was damaged. He didn’t know of a weapon that could manage it. “Magic,” he mumbled. And magic spoke of intent. “I hope it wasn’t the treasury someone tried to hide down there,” he told Pandora who had walked up to him. “But then Theor said the entrance was in the king’s chambers,” he tried to make himself feel better. “Let’s go,” he said finally and continued.

The corridor he followed ended in two sets of stairs, both leading up, but one of them to the left and the other to the right. Pandora stopped and gazed up into the air for a moment and then made the choice for him as she started climbing the left steps. Slowly she raised one leg at a time to climb the high stairs, ignoring all doors along the way, and stopped only at the top to gaze at Ricio, waiting for him to open the door that stopped her.

And when he opened it, he felt indescribable triumph wash over him. He found it! Almost. One look around the room and it was obvious this was the queen’s bedroom. Mirrors were all around him, various flasks containing colourful liquids, probably perfumes, dresses still hanging peacefully in a half-opened wardrobe...without a single trace that a man ever inhabited this room.

Pandora’s ears twitched and she whirled, dashing out of the room and down the stairs, obedient as ever to her Mistress’ call.

Ricio looked around carefully. All the furniture, a massive table, wardrobes, chairs and seats, a bed...all made of what seemed to be the same kind of dark wood. There were carvings of leaves and blooms and flowers adorning the wood here and there.

On the right side of the room there was another door and Ricio made a step to it before his attention was drawn by excessively huge hearth dominating the bedroom. It was made of stone, adorned with small statuettes of what looked like gargoyles to Ricio. Which he thought very stupid. Gargoyles were supposed to be guarding outside to prevent evil from entering, not inside. Inside, they were useless, he mused, shaking his head as he stepped closer to get a better look. He then jumped back, somehow alarmed he might spread the ashes around, but he blinked when he realized the fire place had been rid of all the cinder masterly.

He smirked, stepping back again. “I wouldn’t want to be a servant here,” he assessed just as hurried steps echoed from the staircase. Theor, quite breathless, emerged and immediately collapsed, leaning heavily on his staff, obviously having run up the stairs. Istarel seemed at a better shape as she appeared in the room, her faithful Pandora walking in right behind her.

Ricio paid them only the briefest of looks before he focused on a painting hanging above the fire place. It depicted a woman with long raven hair and green eyes wearing fitting red and silver dress with sleeves so long she trailed the ends across the floor. She didn’t wear a single piece of jewellery save for a single gold necklace with a pendant made of a raw, shapeless black stone. The Necklace. The part of Daragon’s treasure he wanted the most. A legendary artefact with unimaginable power to allow its wearer a glimpse into their future and also a reason why Daragon’s reign brutally ended.

It was this Necklace that Daragon’s treacherous neighbour and former ally wanted. The legend said it was made from a star that had fallen from the sky and shattered into the smallest of pieces.  It wasn’t known who first discovered the power hidden in the mysterious stone, or how, or when. An oracle was built at the place of the impact and scholars did their best to gather as many pieces as possible hoping it would multiply its power. Alas, no matter how many of them were together, the premonitions were still vague. It was the size of them that influenced how coherent they would be. And Daragon’s Necklace was rumoured to be one of the biggest.

However it was never found. After Daragon foresaw his wife’s death, but failed to understand and therefore prevent it, he locked it away. It was rumoured to have been hidden together with the rest of Daragon’s wealth somewhere in his palace. The problem was, no one had seen the palace or the city around, or its remains at least, since the fateful war. Until now.

And Ricio would do anything to be the first to get the Necklace. He tilted his head and gave the woman a searching look. “Daragon had a taste,” he said in an attempt to make his intensive glare look less suspicious, turning to gaze at his friends,

Theor, still breathing heavily but already standing without help, watched the woman’s face with a frown. “What was...” he started saying, but had to pause to take a breath, “her name...again?” he wheezed.

“Raenah,” Istarel mumbled, watching the woman with strange fascination, her eyes wide and her mouth half-opened. That didn't feel right. Raenah. As soon as it rolled off her tongue, it felt wrong.

“Luxurious place, isn’t it?” Ricio said next, opening his arms as if this all was his to brag about in the first place.

“Where are the king’s possessions?” Theor asked.

“These are only the queen’s chambers,” Ricio shrugged.

“Didn't they live togehter?”

Ricio frowned, then looked at the painting again, then at Theor. “Maybe they weren’t a happy couple? Royal marriages aren’t about love, but power. They never loved each other, why share a room?”

Pandora ambled across the room and sat beside the other door leaving out of the room, looking away from the trio.

Theor took his time before he answered, finally managing to bring his breathing under control. “Could be it. They had an heir so they probably considered it the end of their duties to each other,” Theor mused. He looked at Istarel, seeking her opinion, but she didn’t meet his eye. She watched the painting and she couldn’t fathom what she was seeing. If she didn’t know it was impossible, she would think it wasn’t a piece of art, but a living, breathing person standing in the frame, looking down at her. There was something very strange about the portrait.

“Or he had a mistress, she got angry and moved out,” Ricio continued, scratching the back of his neck.

But Theor wasn’t paying attention anymore. “Istarel? Love?” he reached to touch his wife who started, gasping, as if awoken from a slumber all of a sudden. She gave him a wide-eyed look and then her attention whipped back to the portrait.

“We should go,” Theor said quietly and gently placed his hands on her arms, steering her away from the painting and towards the door Pandora blocked. Istarel didn’t resist and shifted her attention to the floor under her feet instead. She had to be seeing things, she had to be going mad! The longer she had watched the woman’s face, the more pain was mirrored on the queen’s features. But that was impossible. Painted people couldn’t move, or change expressions.

There was a short, small corridor ending in a very similar room that differed in details. There weren’t nearly as many mirrors and even furniture wasn’t as numerous. There were fewer things scattered around and the table was covered in pieces of parchments. Quills, even broken ones, lay all over its surface. There was a dagger jabbed into it, too, its hilt embedded with small glistening stones. Just like the previous room this had a huge fire place. Only it looked less tidy, actually it looked like it had been recently used. It wasn’t as grandiosely decorated and there was not a single gargoyle, to Ricio's satisfaction. They got at least one fire place right.

A rocking chair stood in front of it, awkwardly positioned in a middle of the room, and there were a couple of foot prints around, too. Windows were all half-hidden behind a black curtain, letting in only a spare light.

Pandora, unscrupulously, jumped into one of the seats and savagely growled at Theor who moved to chase her out of it, pinning her ears and baring her teeth. Theor stopped dead in his tracks and made a slow step back, smiling. He knew the she-wolf enough to understand that the flash of her teeth didn’t promise an attack as long as her muzzle wasn’t wrinkled as well.  This was just a warning. So, nodding he stepped awa and let her settle in comfortably.

“Right, here we are,” Ricio said with a wide smile and headed to the table. He freed the dagger and it very quickly replaced his old one in the sheath. “What? We came to rob this place anyway,” Ricio shrugged as a reply to Theor’s reproachful look.

“So this is Daragon,” Istarel said, earning attention of both her comrades, as she examined a painting above the hearth. It showed a man in his thirties in a dark blue and silver embroidered waistcoat with a white shirt underneath. His breeches ended in shining knee-high riding boots. All in all, he looked quite moderate for a king. She considered it more of a family portrait rather than a royal one, especially with the ten-year-old boy standing next to Daragon. He wore only an ivory tunic and black trousers that were also tucked in riding boots. His sand blond hair was long enough to get in his eyes, but was combed away from his face. Unlike the king, the boy looked infinitely bored.

Theor frowned. “And this must be the prince.”

“I imagined him more...” Istarel murmured. “More,” she shrugged. He looked so ordinary.

“The boy?” Ricio asked, looking around, eager for them to start the real searching.

“Daragon,” she specified.

Theor lifted his eyebrows. “He was but a man.”

“With all we know about him, I just pictured him differently.”

“Right, right, what a disappointment. But let’s not waste time. We have a treasure to find. Where to start?” the fighter interrupted them and gave Theor an impatient look.

 

***

 

“You wished to speak to me, Your Highness?” Galean asked in a quiet voice as soon as he entered the royal chambers, answering his ruler’s summons. He had dropped on one knee, his forehead almost touching his bent leg, waiting with strange anticipation.

“Yes,” came just as quiet a reply. “I want everyone gathered in the throne room.” A dark silhouette was all he could discern as Daragon stood in front of the hearth, facing the warmth of the hungry flames. Other than that there was no other source of light, even the windows covered to hide the view outside that had caused many palace occupants sleepless nights; everyone quivered at the mere mentioning of the army outside.

And it seemed Daragon felt the very same way, according to the tone in which the order was delivered. Galean paid the pacing silhouette of his monarch a searching look, squinting against the light of the fire dancing in the hearth.

“And remind Leras he’s been summoned as well.” Despite the sharpness of the words, Daragon’s voice lacked harshness.

“As you command, Your Highness,” Galean all but whispered. Something about the sight in front of him sent chills down his spine but he couldn’t tell what exactly it was. He looked around Raenah’s chambers, trying to think of the last time he was here. Two years ago. And it wasn’t a pleasant memory. Or maybe it was Daragon’s refusal to meet his eye, for the very first time as he could remember, that caused his anxiety.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his armour chinked merrily, and spun. He was never happier to leave his sovereign’s side.

 

***

 

Theor didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Well, the vault is supposed to stretch beneath the palace and the city around. The author didn’t mention the location of the main entrance, but the journal spoke about a secret one. In Daragon’s chambers. Built in case of an emergency if the monarch needed to leave quickly and without anyone knowing.”

Ricio turned to him and waited, obviously expecting a more thorough reply.

“There is a secret entrance inside this chamber,” the mage repeated slowly.

“You’ve said that. Where is it? How do we find it?” Ricio pressed on.

“We’ll have to find an opening mechanism,” Theor drawled tentatively, looking around the room. “Unfortunately, the author mentioned it very briefly and didn’t bother describing what it looked like. A lever, button...” he trailed off, waving his hand that wasn’t tightly curled around his staff.

The fighter just blinked at him.

“So we have no idea what to look for,” Istarel concluded.

“You gotta be kidding me...” Ricio growled.

Pandora huffed happily, closing her eyes.

 

***

 

“But...why?” Leras inquired.

“Someone has to stay.”

The mage shook his head vigorously. “No. Does not have to and definitely should not. The Seal will...”

But Daragon cut him off in a soft, gentle voice. “I can handle myself, Leras.”

“Of course!” Leras agreed hastily, making a step forward. “I don’t doubt your skills. I have had the honour to see you unleash your power, but...”

“There is no but, Leras,” Daragon once again didn’t let him finish, but this time a little bit of anger and impatience leaked into the reply. “If I leave, the palace will fall. And my son will die.”

“If you leave, you can protect him,” Leras said sharply, giving the back of Daragon’s head an angry look. His sovereign didn’t seem to care at all, just stood quite still in front of the fire place, staring into the flames pensively. “The Seal won’t last much longer. If you stay, you’ll die and he’ll be on his own. He’s too young for that.”

And then Daragon moved slightly, an almost imperceptible turn of a head as if wanting to give the mage a sideways look. There was a sound of a quiet chuckle, mirthless, cold, empty, and it frightened Leras like nothing he’d ever heard before.

“He will be on his own either way, Leras. But this way...there is a chance to save him.” Daragon paused, focusing on nothing but the cold pendant against the sickly white skin, always so cold despite the warmth of the flames. There was an image dancing in front of Daragon’s eyes, vague and blurry. An image of Modoras sitting on a throne. There was only one distinguishable detail about the vision; he wore the Necklace. And that meant only one thing. Daragon was not around to forbid it. The Necklace was dangerous and not fitted in hands of young boys, albeit princes...  In the vision, Daragon had to be dead. And if Death was coming, Daragon was determined to make the most out of it. “Death can pay for a life,” the words slipped out quietly. Staying alive might endanger the fulfilling of the vision, endanger Modoras.

Leras stared mutely, chills running down his spine. He remembered the dark prophecy from the shire, the way the words cut deep, deeper than any knife ever could. “You cannot be serious,” he whispered at last. “Death can pay for a life?” He was much, much more than a mere advisor and Modoras’ teacher. He was also Daragon’s childhood friend. He knew the darkest corners of Daragon’s soul and right now, he was invited to also glimpse them.

Magic, all magic, required sacrifice. Usually it was their own energy the caster sacrificed to power up their spells, coming out exhausted and famished from spell casting. It wasn’t a physical strength; if a seasoned warrior could learn to throw spells around, he wouldn’t be more powerful based on his muscles. Young mages weren’t more powerful than old sages. Magic drew from the very centre of every being, their will and their soul.

But there was one other way to give spells their power. The ultimate sacrifice. Death.

“No, Daragon, not that kind of magic. Not this way,” he shook his head. “Once you dip into this magic, your soul will be forever marked. It’s unnatural!” Leras had seen it before. Using someone else’s death to power up magic could tear the caster’s soul apart. And then there was no coming back.

“Only if I intent to kill someone else...” the soft wheeze of the words almost got lost in the cracking of the fire. “Do you remember the last time we were here like this? Together? With Modoras? With...with Raenah?”

He did. And it was painful to remember. It was very unexpected as whatever illness had dug its clutches into Raenah was swift and brutal. Two days. Just two days...and things were never like they had been before.

Leras remembered it like it happened yesterday as he forced the young prince to eat and sleep while inwardly worrying for Daragon who didn’t fare any better. Both suffered greatly and as Modoras was too young and inexperienced and Daragon too shattered, Leras had been asked several times to start ruling in their stead. But he always refused. He was afraid if he took the responsibility of the kingdom’s wellbeing from them, nothing would ever help them. It was the only reason to keep them going.

“Someone else? I don’t understand,” Leras whispered. But he did. Darkness. Nothing but darkness. “You don’t plan to...?” he broke off.

“I told you. Modoras will be on his own no matter what I do. I’m dying. And it’s taking its toll. I would not be able to hide it from him and he needs to be strong after I’m gone. He will crush our enemy if he believes he’s dashing to my rescue.” There was a smile to be heard in the soft words. With a light finger Daragon touched the pendant. The chain felt hot against the skin, swallowing warmth from the flames, but the rock was cold.

Leras couldn’t help but laugh mirthlessly. “And after he discovers you’re dead? A single won battle won’t win us the war.”

“He will defeat them if he believes he’s avenging me. Besides, that’s where you come in. You have to help him.”

Leras shook his head. “I will not be able to help,” he said softly. “Don’t you understand?” And then it dawned on him. This was the last time they ever talked. This was the last time they saw each other. The last time he could say it. The last chance he would ever had to finally admit it.

“Don’t,” Daragon replied softly, all but cheerfully, before he even managed to draw a breath, and finally met his eye. “I know and understand. I’ve always understood. And that’s why you’ll do it. That’s why you’ll do your best to fulfil my dying wish.”

“God dammit, Daragon!” the mage swore, his voice shaking. “Isn’t there...don’t tell me there’s...there must be a way! Your magic...can’t you...”

“I’ve prolonged the agony long enough and what good did it do? It’s weakened my mind and body. It’s weakened my rule. It’s weakened my kingdom and it has brought a war upon us. After all, we are not the only ones with a piece of a Star. Who has tasted its power, will always crave for more.” Cold, always so cold. “And there’s no one who’s got more than us.”

“I will stay. I will help you.”

“No. You will leave. And you mustn’t look back. Can you hear me, Leras? I implore you. You must not look back.”

Defeated, he broke the eye-contact, hanging his head. “As you wish. Your Highness.”

 

Galean stood as if in a dream, the only one still at the buzzing throne room. He watched his friend with incredulous face. He didn’t seem to register the commotion around him, people talking and leaving, screaming and whispering, sending the message on to whoever didn’t fit in the hall. He knew his soldiers awaited his commands, but he found his limbs refused to obey him to move and issue them.

Leras answered his silent plea and approached him, making his way through the crowd with a solemn, unhappy face. “We’re leaving,” he repeated. Needlessly. He had told them all there was to know. Hermius’ army was approaching. It drew Erbenian eyes from the castle and forced his soldiers to put their backs to it. They could use the tunnels leading from the Vaults to escape, but they could only bring the most necessary possessions. The main entrance wasn’t large enough to fit a carriage, and there was only so much carts could be loaded with. And most of them would be loaded with supplies. As for the entrance in Daragon’s personal chambers, it was only big enough for a person to slip through.

“I have heard you,” Galean said. “And I have also caught what you have not said. What of Daragon? You said it would be the prince who’d lead us out of the tunnels.”

“Daragon has magic,” Leras started. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to tell him everything. But that would be looking back. And he was forbidden to look back. He promised not to look back. “It’ll keep them both safe.”

“Them both?”

“Daragon and the palace,” Leras mumbled, surprised at his own calm facade. Not looking back. “Everything will work out as it is supposed to be. As the goddess wills it to be.” Never looking back.