R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Luthien stepped up and swooped his cape over Oliver, then fell back against the wall, the halfling in tow.

Half a dozen cyclopians, wearing the black-and-silver uniforms of Praetorian Guards, came around the corner in tight formation, the one farthest from the wall carrying a blazing torch. Luthien ducked low under his hood, bending his head forward so that the cowl would completely block his face. He held his confidence in the enchanted cape, but could only hope now that the brutes wouldn’t notice the fine cord hanging down the side of the palace wall, and hope, too, that the cydopians didn’t accidentally walk right into him!

They passed less than four feet away, right by Oliver and Luthien as though the two weren’t even there. Indeed, to the cyclopians, they were not, purely invisible under the folds of the crimson cape.

As soon as the brutes were out of sight, Luthien moved out of hiding and Oliver jumped to the cord, climbing quickly, hand over hand. Luthien braced the rope for a moment, allowing Oliver to get up to the second story, then the young Bedwyr also took a tight hold and began to climb, wanting to be off the ground as quickly as possible.

It seemed like many minutes drifted by, but in truth, the two friends were inside the palace in the space of a few heartbeats. Oliver reached out through the hole in the window and gave three sharp tugs on the cord, freeing the puckered ball and pulling it in behind him. Gone without a trace—except for the circle of cut glass lying on the grass and the image of a shadow, a crimson shadow, indelibly stained upon the white wall of the palace.

Luthien settled himself and waited for his eyes to adjust to the shift in the level of darkness. They were in the palace, but where to go? How many scores of rooms could they possibly search?

“He will be near the middle,” reasoned Oliver, who knew his way around nobility fairly well. “In the rooms to one or the other side of the dome. That dome signals the chapel; the duke will not be far from it.”

“I thought the cathedral was the chapel,” Luthien said.

“Duke-types and prince-types are lazy,” Oliver replied. “They keep a chapel in their palace home.”

Luthien nodded, accepting the reasoning.

“But the dungeons will be below,” Oliver went on. He saw the horrified look crossing his friend’s face and quickly added, “I do not think this Duke Paragor would put so valuable a prisoner as Katerin in the dungeons. She is with him, I think, or near to him.”

Luthien did not reply, just tried hard to keep his breathing steady. Oliver took that as acceptance of his reasoning.

“To the duke, then,” Oliver said, and started off, but Luthien put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Greensparrow’s dukes follow no law of God,” the young Bedwyr reminded him, suddenly wondering if the halfling’s reasoning was sound. “They care not for any chapel.”

“Ah, but the palace was built before Greensparrow,” the halfling replied without the slightest hesitation. “And the old princes, they did care. And so the finest rooms are near to the dome. Now, do you wish to sit here in the dark and discuss the design of the palace, or do you wish to be off, that we might see the truth of the place?”

Luthien was out of answers and out of questions, so he shrugged and followed Oliver to the room’s closed door, distinguishable only because they saw the light from the corridor coming through the keyhole.

That hole was about eye-level with the halfling, and he paused and peeked through, then boldly opened the door.

In the light, Luthien came to see that Princetown’s palace was as fabulous on the inside as on the outside. Huge tapestries, intricately woven and some with golden thread interlaced with their designs, covered the walls, and carved wooden pedestals lined the length of the corridor, each bearing artwork: busts of previous kings or heroes, or simple sculptures, or even gems and jewels encased in glass.

More than once, Luthien had to pull Oliver along forcibly, the halfling mesmerized by the sight of such treasures within easy grasp.

There was only one treasure that Luthien Bedwyr wanted to take from this palace.

Gradually, the companions neared the center of the palace. The hallways became more ornate, more decorated, the treasures greater and more closely packed together, giving credence to Oliver’s reasoning concerning the likely location of the duke. But so, too, did the light grow, with crystal chandeliers, a hundred candles burning in each, hanging from the ceiling every twenty paces along the corridor. Many doors were thrown wide, and all the side rooms lit; though it was very late by then, near to midnight, the palace was far from asleep. A commotion caught the pair, particularly Luthien, off guard; the young Bedwyr even considered turning around and hiding until later. But Oliver would hear none of that. They were inside now, and any delay could be dangerous for them and for Katerin.

“Besides,” Oliver added quietly, “we do not even know if the party will end. In Gascony, the lords and ladies are known to stay up all the night, every night.”

Luthien didn’t argue, just followed his diminutive companion into the party. Merchants and their prettily dressed ladies danced in the side rooms, often sweeping out into the hall to twirl through the next open door, joining yet another of the many parties. Even worse for Luthien and Oliver, Praetorian Guards seemed to be around every corner.

The halfling thought that they should walk openly, then, and pretend to be a part of it all; Luthien, realizing that even the magical crimson cape could not fully shield them from this growing mob, reluctantly agreed. He was well dressed, after all, especially with the fabulous cape shimmering over his shoulders, and Oliver always seemed to fit in. And so they half walked, half danced their way along the corridors. Oliver scooped two goblets of wine from the first cyclopian servant they passed who was bearing a full tray.

The atmosphere was more intoxicating than the wine, with music and excited chatter, promises of love from lecherous merchants to the many fawning ladies. Oliver seemed right at home, and that bothered Luthien, who preferred the open road. Still, as he became confident that their disguise, or lack of one, was acceptable in this company, particularly with Oliver’s foppish clothing and his own magnificent cape, Luthien grew more at ease, even managed a smile as he caught in his arms one young lady who stumbled drunkenly out of a room.

Luthien’s smile quickly disintegrated; the painted and perfumed woman reminded him much of Lady Elenia, one of Viscount Aubrey’s entourage who had come to Dun Varna, his home on faraway Isle Bedwydrin. Those two ladies who had accompanied Aubrey, Elenia and Avonese, had started it all; their bickering had precipitated the death of Garth Rogar, Luthien’s boyhood friend.

Luthien stood the woman up and firmly straightened her, though she immediately slumped once more.

“Ooh, so strong,” she slurred. She ran her fingers down one of Luthien’s muscled arms, her eyes filled with lust.

“Strong and available,” Oliver promised, figuring out the potential trouble here. He stepped in between the two. “But first, my strong friend and I must speak with the duke.” The halfling looked around helplessly. “But we cannot find the man!”

The woman seemed not to notice Oliver as he rambled along. She reached right over his head to again stroke Luthien’s arm, not fathoming the dangerous glare the young Bedwyr was now giving her.

“Yes, yes,” Oliver said, pulling her arm away, pulling it hard to bend her over so that she had to look at him. “You might rub all of his strong body, but only after we have met with the duke. Do you know where he is?”