Priceless Antiquity

Cover image courtesy of wix media and unsplash.

This is a "Chapter 1" Short story, meaning that it could be used as the start of a new adventure set up then asking, "What happens next?"

Kestrel had been brought to the footholds of many lords and kings, but never in chains. The cold strangled his wrists, scraping against the bone as he fidgeted for comfort. Usually he would have donned his finest suit, the emerald one with a fine angular collar and golden cuffs. Of course, it wasn’t real gold. But he was fortunate to have a friend or two who had mastered their crafts. Even high born ladies in this country had admired the detail, and Kestrel had been told the nobility of Vaspal was particularly venomous towards fakes.

Of course, they never said so. But he recognized snide comments veiled in friendship, or the sideways looks as they spoke to the other high born. Kestrel longed for the Eromani court, or the bluntness of the Uswaini Admirals. Here the halls were so wide and grand they made everything else clamor to have some semblance of greatness.

I wonder how much longer it’ll be. He grimaced.

As he sat there, outside the great doors, he couldn’t help but admire the intricate handiwork of the castle. It drew his mind away from the reigns that held him. The white stone had faded with age, turning into a soft gray. Instead of looking drabby, it made the intricate nature reliefs sharpen as the center of attention. The doorways were all decorated with interconnecting bands, vines entangling each other with trees intermixed to source them. Even the floor, while coated in a thick layer of polished glass, had carvings enveloping a detailed fresco of golden figures, reddish fire, and green magic. All meticulously preserved by the Vaspali people.

Just by looking at them Kestrel knew the Age. The Fourth Age of Fae, the Elder Race’s cultural Renaissance, thanks to the subjugation of humans, elves, and dwarves. He wondered just how many of his ancestors had toiled here on their hands and knees, only to be devoured like roast pigs in celebration.

The doors of the entry hall opened and a middle aged man emerged. He was human, with graying hair and a face deprived of sleep. He wore a black and white tunic embellished with golden vines. These Vaspali sure kept to a theme, that was for certain. He was not the fanciest dressed man Kestrel had seen, but with his ring of keys and his confident stride, Kestrel guessed he was the steward. As the man approached and set his eyes on Kestrel, the steward’s upper lip stiffened.

“I take it you are Lord Layne?”

Kestrel nodded and stood. “Not a lord, my lord, just a sir.”

“Mm. Well, Sir Layne, his Majesty has many responsibilities to attend to, and one in particular demands his attention at this time. However, he said to allow you freedom of the main hall and he will join you at his earliest convenience.”

“Within eyesight and weighted down, of course.”

The steward blinked at him. “Of course. If his Majesty deems it appropriate, perhaps you can be allowed a mark.”

“I’d rather avoid that, if possible. I like my skin how it is.”

“That is for His Majesty to decide. Follow me.”

Kestrel grimaced and gave a reluctant nod. A mark, more or less, meant being magically branded. He had seen it on a servant when he’d arrived - a black grotesque coil on the center of the chest. He wasn’t certain if it could be removed, or to even what extent the removal was possible. Still he would rather avoid that enlightening moment.

The steward led him past the great doors and into the throne room. The tiny confines of the entryway exploded into the enormous length that made the seat of Vaspali power. The furthest wall had large thick windows that drew in the Sunfire glow, causing the whole room of white stone to shine like finely spun gold and red silks. And yet the light was not even the most impressive.

The throne sat with its back to those windows, the seat made of large stretching metal bands, all bursting outward from the chair. The metal was ancient Fae, easily recognizable by the almost obsidian color. Some of the bands had been painted gold, and shards of mirrors poked between both causing the light to further dance along the throne itself. The seat of Vaspal itself looked like the exploding sun, poised westward to capture the omnipresent sunset of the Sunfire.

Golden lines on the floor guided one up to that far off display, creating a path for the king or queen to walk straight up to his or her seat, with the walls and square jutting columns poised only to frame the throne and the grand hall. The only other decoration in this place were golden framed portraits running the length of the walls.

Kestrel stood in the blinding light for a long moment. He had heard of the grandness of the western throne, but had never seen it up close. It had been a point of pride for the other elves he’d spoken to. The endless light of gold, the glow of the Sunfire hanging forever in the background, the natural fixture that chased away the dark of what other eastern cultures knew as night. It was the pinnacle of the constructs of the escaped slaves; from their place on the dinner table to the seat of kings.

Even without its beauty, it was the warmest throne room he had ever stood in, and that itself made Kestrel admire the design that much more. The western cliffs and cold mountain passes that he had trudged through to get here had been long, arduous, and miserable for proper toe circulation.

He glanced over at the steward who was also keeping an eye on him. The man had his hands poised behind his back, a stance Kestrel recalled many of the guardsmen perform at attention. Perhaps that was a former life?

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced.” Kestrel offered. “You know my name. What do I call you?”

“I am Rialto Beltan, first of the Beltan House of Healers and Majesty’s Steward.”

“The House of Healers?”

“The organization of mages, herbalists, and scientists seeking progress. My family lends them funding and, at times, direction.”

Kestrel felt his ears twitch. “Is your organization paired with the Faiths? I understand there are several Vestibules here dedicated to medicine.”

“Some of them, yes. It is more likely that our members volunteer with both rather than a partnership. We have some… differences, between the Faiths.”

“Such as?”

“Methods.” The Steward’s mouth twitched a little. “Tell me, have the gods healed your blood?”

Kestrel bristled. Bluntness. Alright.

“No, and I have not asked them.”

“And why is that?”

“They have bigger things to worry about than I.”

Steward Rialto broke a smile at that. A small one. Though Kestrel imagined it was because he had struck a tone of agreement. He let his statement linger there, looking around the throne room once more. His eyes traced over the square columns that jutted from the walls, ones that sectioned off a few portraits at a time. Each face was captured in oil paint and framed in filigree and gold. The colors were all dark, muted, even muddy from a distance. Up close, the more detailed shades and shadows came forward, emphasizing the frame that surrounded them.

One caught his eye; a young human woman, her skin dark and freckled. Her hair was intricately woven with ribbons and gems through the tightly wound curls, framing her face like a crown. Her gown was a rich dark velvet, with golden accents and a low cut. Her eyes stared out into the room, brow slightly arched, her hands folding over each other on her stomach as if to hold her ladylike poise and posture. The depth of her gaze was immense. The artist had captured the fine details of her eyes, her individual lashes, down to the flecks of green that would have been hidden in her iris.

The plaque at the base of the painting read, “Baroness Ellia Dan’Gallagher.”

Kestrel blinked in amazement. The Dan’Gallaghers had died out with the Baroness in the last war with Eroman. Their sacrifice held off raids for over a year. No one had ever painted a member of their family. At least, that is what he had thought.

Who managed to get her to sit for this? He wondered. And when?

He searched the corners and hidden points of the Baron’s dress, trying to find a signature. If it was there, it was well concealed.

He heard the door to the throne room open, and when he turned he saw the king himself.

His royal majesty, King Arden Isolewen, appeared nothing like how Kestrel thought. He strode in with confidence and poise, true, but he looked very little like the elven people Kestrel had seen in his travels. Vaspali elves were one wrung above most others, their territory was all but dedicated to their health and wellbeing, and he supposed royalty got even more care. The King’s face was full of light, his features sharp and angular like most elves, but there was a softness that smoothed his face into a warm one. Instead of illustrious robes and fine colors, the King had instead donned a light armor of dark iridescent scales, fur, and leathers. It was simple in design, but was lavish in its own way. He was almost entirely covered, save for the face. He scanned the throne room until at last his eyes set on Kestrel. He offered a small smile and inclined his head.

“Your Majesty.” Kestrel bowed, though still found himself looking up at the King as the man approached. The King gestured for Kestrel to rise, and he did. To his surprise, he found he could meet the King’s eye level.

“You are one of my people.” The King replied. Kestrel nodded, though he did not know if this was to his benefit or not. He was, afterall, still in chains. Still the King continued. “I confess I was curious as to whether you would visit the palace. I have heard a great deal about you from my court.”

“That could mean many things, your Majesty. I hope good ones.” Kestrel admitted.

The King laughed. “As I would hope as well. Lord Tierney regaled me about a time you visited his estate.”

“Ah… yes… I remember the good lord.” His gut sunk a little.

“Many pressed Lord Tierney that he should confer with the scholars of Kvia, to ensure his collection was as he had thought. Lorocan raiders are hardly the credible source he made them out to be. I am pleased you were able to resolve the issue.”

“His relics were little more than scraps. He did have a painting of Lunendon by Pasquale Hass that was worth a small fortune, however.”

“Yes he informed the court as soon as he collected on his sum.” The King chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. His gaze then turned to the painting of the Baroness behind Kestrel. “So what do you make of her, Sir Layne?”

“Her? ...she’s beautiful. The artist likely did her justice.”

He gave a slight nod, pleased with this. “She was a woman worth such an effort, without question. But I refer to the craftsmanship? I would have you appraise it.”

“Well… do you know the artist, or when the palace acquired it?” Kestrel’s brows bent.

“Shortly after the Battle of the Bluff, when the Baroness and her forces fell. A servant smuggled the painting into the west and was presented to us within the month. As for the artist, none have come forward… at least, none able to recreate the skill.” The King gestured for them to walk the length of the wall. “They say you have an eye for the Ages, my Lord Kestrel.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Might I ask what brought you to the past, and to Vaspal?”

“I… it was a personal matter, your Majesty.”

“A personal matter that spewed into the streets, I would add.” The King said. “Though I wonder what warranted your crime.”

“Many things, your Majesty. Panic being one of them.”

“Yes I imagine so. That medicinal hut you attended to is one of poor repute.”

More than you might think. Kestrel thought, though he kept that to himself.

“If you are seeking treatment, my lord, I would make you an offer.”

“An offer from the King?” Kestrel blinked. “And it doesn’t involve hanging?”

“I have not made the offer yet.”

Kestrel shrunk a little at that and nodded. The King looked to each of the portraits again, then wandered more towards the far back of the room, where the throne and windows stood. There the reddish gold Sunfire glinted off the scales of his armor. He shimmered like dragon hide. Perhaps that is what they were.

“Each of these portraits has come in time, whether by gift to the royal family, or by circumstance.” The King said. “I do not have the eye for antiquity as you do, though I can sense familiarity among each portrait. They were done by the same hand, or a twin of that hand, I am certain. I would like you to examine them all. Tell me what you see, what your eye tells you. In exchange for this service, you may use the guest quarters for residence during your investigation, and accommodations will be made for your stay.”

Kestrel listened, waiting for the “but…”, or some other negative side to dig in. But a beat passed. Then another. The King looked out the window, his poise still and calm. Finally Kestrel broke the silence.

“My lord--er, your Majesty… I believe I committed a crime?”

“Yes you did. Your stay is, of course, monitored, and you are not to leave the palace without an escort. As for your sentence… I will be considering the penalty during your investigation. Your behavior and hanging would be a waste of your talents. Should your answers prove… enlightening, perhaps the service to the crown could pardon you.”

“That’s… a very generous offer, your Majesty… these paintings must mean a great deal to your family.”

“And to me.” The king said. “Do I have your word?”

“Of course, your Majesty… but I’ve a question, if I may.”

“Granted.”

“Hasn’t your family employed other appraisers? There are many skilled craftsmen in Eroman or Uswain that could tell you just as much as I, I’m certain.”

The king chuckled and turned then, walking back towards Kestrel. “You do not often make sales pitches, do you? My father refused to explore the paintings, and my grandfather by contrast, sent out hunters in every direction. You will have access to what they have found. As for why I am offering this to you… You are here, you are motivated, and I have heard your recommendations by close members of the court. Circumstance has aided you, nothing more. Use it wisely.”

~*~