Chapter 37 – Meeting the Prince

With Vyle leading the way, the four of them slowly but methodically searched through the Winter Palace, checking each room they came across in turn for Prince Blyth or anything else that might be of use to them. So far, they had found nothing of interest and seen no one. The eerie emptiness of the palace unnerved Vard, who felt as if they were walking through a strange, twilight world where only they were real. This feeling was enhanced by an odd prickling sensation on the back of his neck, along with the uncanny yet unshakeable certainty that they were currently being watched. Unable to ignore it any longer, Vard spun around, then audibly sighed with relief. He had been frightened by a life-sized portrait of the Empress and her family, which hung ever so slightly crooked on the wall.

The Empress was dressed in her royal regalia, the artist who had composed the painting doing an excellent job of capturing the sparkle of the jewelry with his oils. The Empress’ expression was aloof and serene, staring off into the distance. Prince Blyth, on the other hand, who as depicted was no older than ten, had a haunted, almost ecstatic expression on his face as his hollow eyes stared intensely at the viewer. His mother’s hand rested on his shoulder in a protective gesture, clearly trying to shelter the ailing child from the woes of the world. In the distance behind the two of them, Prince Grevel could be seen lurking with an impish grin on his face, as if he had snuck into the studio during the painting’s creation. Vard shifted uncomfortably; although he knew it was a trick of his imagination, it seemed to him like the painting’s eyes were following him as he walked.

“What is it?” Vyle asked, his tone hushed, as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Vard admitted. “Just…jumping at ghosts.” Vyle harrumphed quietly but refrained from further comments. Vard spoke up again then, saying, “This portrait, there’s something about it that just feels off to me.”

“It’s because it’s crooked,” Vyle said with a shrug.

Vard frowned. “Everything else in the palace we have seen is taken care of meticulously. Why should this portrait be different?”

“It’s just a painting,” Vyle said.

“Perhaps,” Vard said. “But I have a hunch…,” Reaching forward, he grabbed one side of the painting and experimentally pushed on it. Sure enough, it swung to the side, revealing a hidden door in the wall behind the enormous portrait.

Henricks and Velen glanced at each other, then at their leader. “Somebody really wants to keep whatever is in there a secret,” Velen suggested.

Vyle, now intrigued, reached up and snatched a candle from a sconce in the wall, then stepped over to the darkened doorway, which a heavy purple silk curtain hung in front of. Pushing the curtain aside, he saw a pitch-black room, which the candle he held cast a feeble light into. The room was a stark difference from the rest of the exquisitely cleaned palace, dingy and moldy. A single wooden table, of the type that craftsmen would use in their shop, stood along the back wall of the chamber. On that table sat a collection of tools, an unlit lantern, and a large, leather-bound book.

Curious, Vard pushed his way past Vyle and stepped into the room, walking over to the table. Upon closer inspection, he saw crimson stains running along the table, the walls, and the floors which filled him with nausea and horror. He recognized the tools upon the table as well; small knives and scalpels used for bloodletting, bowls for collecting the blood as it was drained, thread and sewing needles, and a thankfully sealed glass jar which sat full of wriggling leeches.

“These are hemomancer tools,” Henricks said, aghast.

“I can’t believe it,” Vard said, awed. “We’ve found the Master’s workshop.”

Vyle looked sharply at him in astonishment. “Are you sure?”

“What else could it be?” Vard said. “A hidden chamber, in the heart of the Winter Palace, full of hemomantic devices? The twins were correct; the Master was in the palace the whole time.”

Vyle’s face blanched. “Then he could be anywhere in the palace right now. We must warn Sir Kyr and the twins.”

“Not without evidence,” Vard said. “With what’s in this room, in addition to the twins’ letter, we will have definitive proof to what the Master has been plotting.”

“Very well,” Vyle said, hastily reaching a decision. “Henricks, Velen, stay here with Vard and collect what you can; I will go and try to find the others.” Vyle sprinted out of the secret room and down the hall, his footsteps slowly receding into the distance.

“Right then,” Vard said. “We need to work quickly.”

He took a bag off his belt, in which carried a flute he used for his performances. Emptying the bag and laying the instrument on the table, he and the two bandits began hastily taking everything they could off the table and stuffing it into the burlap sack.

“We can sort through it later,” Vard muttered to the others. Soon they had cleared off most everything, save for the book, which Vard picked up and opened, to see what was inside. Aghast, he found he had opened to a page with a vivid illustration of a man whose arms had been removed having a bear’s limbs stitched in their place. Countless scribbled notes were crammed in the margins around the drawing, discussing the finer points and techniques to the surgery, as well as how to keep the patient alive throughout and after the process.

“What is this?” Velen asked, his voice hoarse.

“A manual, or perhaps a journal,” Vard said, slamming the book shut with an audible thump. “Undoubtedly a guide to all the dark parts of hemomancy; everything the Master could use to further his own goals of conquest.” Sliding the book under one arm, Vard said, “Henricks, Velen, go the door, make sure that the hallway is still empty; I’m going to check again to ensure we didn’t miss anything.”

He quickly looked over the table one last time, making sure they had already grabbed anything that might help them make their case. Once he was satisfied, he called without looking, “Anyone coming?”

In response to his question, he heard an oddly strangled gasp from Henricks, followed by the sound of something large falling to the floor. Velen tried to speak then, but abruptly stopped mid-word, followed by the sound of another crash. His former feeling of dread returning tenfold, Vard slowly turned, hardly believing what he saw. Both Henricks and Velen lay unmoving on the floor, their eyes wide and frozen forever in an expression of perpetual agonized shock. Slowly raising his eyes from the floor, Vard’s mouth hung open in disbelief when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

“Surprised to see me, Vard?” the Master asked smugly.

Vard’s felt an icy chill on his spine. “You know who I am?”

“Of course, Vard,” the Master said , practically purring. “I know who you all are. And I’m so very, very happy that you all chose to waltz right into my grasp, where I can dispose of you myself. You see, just a short minute ago, your bandit friend came blundering into me and my guards. It was almost pathetically easy to subjugate him and make him our prisoner. As for these two…well, they might be regretting their decision to come along on this quest, now. To think, you all came all this way without the slightest idea who I truly was.”

“I have to confess, of everyone I suspected of being the Master, you hardly even crossed my mind,” Vard said weakly.

“I am thrilled to learn my cover did just as excellent a job of fooling you as it did everyone else,” the Master said. “I take it you uncovered my workshop. Impressive. How did you know where to find it?”

Vard wiped a hand nervously across his face, eyes darting around the chamber as he tried to think of a way out of his current situation. He hoped that if he delayed the Master long enough, an opportunity for escape would present itself. Even so, he had to admit that things had rarely looked this grim. “The painting was slightly askew. I was curious enough to investigate further and found this chamber behind.”

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“Fascinating,” the Master said. “No one else has found it in all the time I’ve been working here. You, Sir Kyr, the twins, and all the rest of your loathsome band continue to amaze me with just how much of a nuisance you can be, and how swiftly you can interfere with my schemes. Of course, I am willing to forgive and overlook a lot, if you will tell me where I can find the twins and their beastly guardian. Otherwise, you will not leave this chamber alive.”

“I won’t tell you anything,” Vard said calmly.

“Unfortunate,” the Master said, coughing into his hand as he did so. “I so wish I could haggle with you further, but I am a very busy man, especially tonight. Goodbye, Vard Exlis Ffyddlar.”

Vard suddenly felt a stabbing pain through his heart, and reached a hand to his chest, gasping in agony. His legs buckled below him, and he fell to the floor, writhing in agony. As his vision darkened, he heard, as if from a great distance away, the Master say, “such a waste.” Vard struggled to raise his head, but found he no longer had the strength to do so. He wished desperately that he had had the chance to warn the twins as to the Master’s true identity. All sensation slipped from his awareness, and the pain blissfully faded away.

Then, there was only darkness.

Looking around, Zull and Zaphyr both felt an overwhelming sense of…disappointment.

“This is it?” Zaphyr asked. “Where is the prince?”

“I don’t know,” Zull said. “But I intend to find out.”

After opening the door, the two had entered Prince Blyth’s chamber, which they saw had been tastefully, if somewhat plainly, decorated. The walls were painted a faint sky blue, and the ceiling showed a scene of a storm-tossed sea just at the break of dawn. There was a large bed, with silk curtains drawn around it, standing at the far end of the chamber beside a large fireplace, in which a low, crackling fire was currently burning. An iron poker lay besides the fireplace, as if discarded. There was a small bedstand near the bed, on which an inkpot and quill lay. Aside from these two pieces of furniture and a side door connecting the chamber to a lavatory, the prince’s room stood bare. There wasn’t even a carpet to provide more warmth than the cold wooden floor. Zaphyr shivered slightly as she looked around.

“Sir Kyr, do you see anybody?” Zull asked.

“No,” the knight told them. “The way is clear, for the moment.”

“Then we have some time,” Zull said.

Zaphyr, clearly frustrated, complained, “The maid said he was here.”

“He most likely just left, and if I had to guess, he will be back soon,” Zull told her. “Look: the fire is still lit.”

Zaphyr, who hadn’t noticed this detail, let out a small “oh” of realization. “Then we can just wait here for him to return!”

Zull nodded.

A short while later, Sir Kyr called to them from the hallway, saying in a hushed, urgent voice, “Someone’s coming!”

“Is it the prince?” Zaphyr asked excitedly.

“It looks like him,” Sir Kyr told them. “But he’s far away down a long hall, and I can’t be quite sure.”

“Hide,” Zull said insistently. “We don’t you to startle the prince before he has to hear what we have to say.”

Sir Kyr agreed, slinking away quietly. Zull and Zaphyr, too, tried to hide themselves, standing behind the half open door to wait until the prince arrived. A short while later, they heard someone limping down the hallway stopping before the half-open door. Then, in a soft, quavering voice, someone called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Prince Blyth?” Zaphyr said.

“Yes?”

“We need to speak with you.”

Prince Blyth stepped into the chamber, watching the twins as they came out into the open. His ashen, sickly face watched them with morbid curiosity. He was trembling slightly, seemingly from the cold, despite the relative warmth in the room from the fire. Zull noted that he was dressed in a light blue uniform which matched his glacial eyes. He was clearly preparing for the jubilee later that night.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring at them both in bewilderment. “How did you get into the palace?”

“Our names are Zaphyr and Zull Tyrill, Your Highness,” Zull said with a slight bow, which his sister imitated. “Our teacher, Gerok, charged us with delivering a message to your mother, the Empress.”

Prince Blyth smiled sadly, gently sliding the door behind him closed with a soft click. “Gerok? Mother’s old healer? I don’t know where you heard that name, children, but I’m afraid that your prank has gone slightly awry; the Empress is on the opposite end of town, in the Summer Palace.”

“We know she is,” Zull said. “However, Your Highness, this isn’t a prank. We don’t have much time and we needed to speak with someone of the royal family. You see-”

“Please, wait one moment,” Prince Blyth said, raising a hand plaintively. “I…I need to sit down.” He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, holding his head in his hands for several seconds before looking up, eyes bloodshot, and saying, “So, what was it you wanted to tell me, children?”

Zull and Zaphyr began telling Prince Blyth about how their Master Gerok had learned some terrible secret related to the shadowy criminal known as the Master, and had charged them with delivering it to the Empress. They explained how they were quickly pursued by the Master’s agents, until Sir Kyr had come to the their rescue. With the aid of Sir Kyr, Vard the jovial bard, and the bandit Argus Vyle, they had fought their way through the Master’s assassins and had come all the way to Melkis to deliver Gerok’s letter.

Once they had finished, Prince Blyth leaned back, eyes wide. “An astonishing story,” Prince Blyth said. “Very impressive, especially for two youths of your age to compose. Which of the servants put you up to this? Was it Grevel or that obnoxious manservant of his, Zaril? It was Grevel, I’m sure of it.”

“We have proof, Your Highness,” Zull insisted.

Prince Blyth smiled benevolently. “Yes, I am quite sure you do.”

Zull obligingly reached into the sleeve of his tunic and drew out Gerok’s sealed letter. The envelope was dirty and battered from their weeks on the road, but the wax seal remained unbroken. Prince Blyth’s eyes widened, his humorous grin vanishing in an instant.

“I recognize that seal,” he said, voice quavering. “That…that really was written by Gerok. Incredible. Was everything else you told me true? All of it?”

“Every word, Your Highness,” Zaphyr assured him.

“I don’t believe it,” Prince Blyth said blankly. “And this…this hemomantic abomination, Sir Kyr? Where is he?”

“He’s hiding outside, Your Highness,” Zaphyr said. “We didn’t want his appearance to startle you.”

Prince Blyth’s shoulders slumped forward in relief. “Thank you.” Another thought seemed to occur to him. “How did you manage to sneak into the palace, past the guards?”

“The gates might have been guarded, but the roof wasn’t,” Zaphyr boasted.

“Very clever,” Prince Blyth murmured. “May I see the letter?”

Zull started to reach out, then hesitated. “Gerok made us promise to deliver this to the Empress, and no one else,” Zull said. “Will you pass it along to the Empress?”

“Of course,” Prince Blyth said. “But as you have rightly said, we don’t have much time. If this…Master plans to strike tonight, we must know what he has planned now if we are to save my mother.”

Zull passed the letter to Prince Blyth, who eagerly cracked the wax seal. Standing up, he began pacing slowly about the chamber as he read through the letter, lips moving soundlessly as he poured over it. Once he had finished reading it, he relaxed visibly, his expression becoming one of calm assurance. Limping slightly as he did so, he walked over to stand beside the fireplace.

“Thank you for bringing this to me, Zull, Zaphyr,” Prince Blyth said. “You will never know how much this means to me.”

Without another word, he turned and tossed Gerok’s letter into the crackling fireplace behind him.

“No!” Zaphyr said, bolting forward before her brother put his hands on her shoulders to restrain her. “You can’t!”

“I just did,” Prince Blyth said emotionlessly. “You have saved me a great deal of pain and effort by coming to me rather than the Empress. It could have ruined everything if she had read it.”

Zaphyr sank to her knees, tears streaming from her eyes. In a matter of moments, everything that she and Zull had suffered through was rendered pointless by the destruction of the letter. Zull, stone faced, was just as shaken. “Why?” Zaphyr asked. “What could have possibly been in that letter to justify destroying it?”

“Oh poor, simple Zaphyr,” Prince Blyth said. All his earlier weakness and gentleness had disappeared from his face, his very posture. Now he stood, tall and commanding and utterly aloof. “Isn’t it obvious by now? Gerok was trying to warn the Empress that her poor, ailing son Prince Blyth was, in truth, the criminal genius known as ‘the Master.’”

“What?” Zaphyr said faintly, hardly believing what she was hearing. “But you’re…”

“Not a hemomancer?” Prince Blyth said, sneering as he did so. “That was exactly what I wanted people to believe. The talent ran in the royal family; I merely inherited a far weaker version than Cousin Grevel. Gerok alone noticed what I was capable of. I begged him to keep it a secret, which he obligingly did. Thus, I was able to nurture and hone my talent in secret. Unfortunately, as soon as rumors of a powerful hemomancer working through the underworld began to spread, Gerok deduced my identity. I had to have him destroyed, but through you two, he continued to haunt my schemes even after death, threatening to expose me before I was ready.”

“You’ll never succeed in overthrowing the Empress,” Zull said.

Prince Blyth laughed. “Oh? Everyone who knows my identity is loyal to me or dead, save for you two. That includes your friends, of course." He paused, relishing in the looks of surprise and anguish on their faces. "Oh, yes. I ran into them, just a few short minutes ago. That ludicrous bard and Vyle's men are both dead. Vyle himself is my prisoner, as may still be of use."

"No," Zaphyr said simply, her expression blank from shock.

"Yes. And, now you are right here, within my reach.” His eyes flashed, the rage and utter contempt he felt for the twins becoming visible for the first time. “Now die.”

Both Zaphyr and Zull felt a stab of excruciating pain through their chest, which abruptly stopped an instant later when the doors to the chamber were shredded in a hail of wood as Sir Kyr, snarling ferociously, burst through into the Prince’s chamber. Prince Blyth recoiled, eyes wide.

“You will not harm these children,” Sir Kyr said. “Not while I live.”

Prince Blyth, recovering his former composure quickly, chortled softly. “The mighty Sir Kyr. We meet at last. If I recall correctly, you told a minion of mine that you would tear limb from limb everyone who tried to harm these children. Let us see if your strength is equal to your bravado.”