Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (30 page)

The famed wine was brewed from fermented giant cactus blossoms, which only seasoned once every quarter century. There was no question as to why it was the most highly prized, as well as priced wine around.

"For the price, I wouldn't expect you have. Also, I bought the last three bottles in the city four years ago," lied Shomnath

Londo salivated through every word. “You have three bottles?”

“That's right," said Shomnath. "And since everyone outside is making merry, there's no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves in here, right?”

“Well,” Londo was daydreaming, riding the waves of a cherry cactus river. “I can’t see how it would hurt anything.”

“Great! It’s the red bottles on the top shelf. Grab two, along with two of the glasses,” Shomnath said.

“Two glasses?” Londo said innocently, although it wasn't in objection.

"Well I can’t drink alone," chuckled Shomnath. "And it’s cherry cactus wine! Don't you want some?" Shomnath could have been cursing out Londo’s mother, for at this point it didn’t matter. Londo had his eyes on the bottles, and was in for the ride.

“That’s true,” was all the fight that Londo offered, as the soldier smiled and continued to retrieve the wine.

As Londo fetched the drinks, Shomnath reached over and slid open the lone drawer to his nightstand. From the drawer he pulled out a small, lime-green leaf and popped it into his mouth.

“Magnificent!” Londo gasped from the armoire, and then he swiftly plucked two crystal glasses that hung from cup holders built inside the cabinet doors, and swiped two of the three, blood-red wine bottles staring from the top shelf. He tried to keep a stern face as he turned back to Shomnath, but the look did not match well with the way he lovingly hugged the bottles against his chest. The prince was still sitting in the center of his bed, waiting patiently.

“Can we hurry? I want to hear all the details,” chimed Shomnath.

Even if Londo knew that Shomnath was chewing on a Babo leaf, a plant that disables the effects of alcohol, it might not have mattered. When the soldier tasted wine all was right in the world, and Shomnath happened to have the best wine there was.

First, Shomnath intended to get Londo drunk enough to tell him everything he knew. Then he would get him drunk enough to sleep.

"The castle has many powerful secrets," his father used to say. It was a lesson about the power of listening. The secret about Londo’s addiction to wine was one that should have been better kept, Shomnath thought, as he smiled and poured wine.

Two hours.

In the span of just two hours, Shomnath knew more than he ever wanted to know about Londo, as well as a few things he was already trying to forget. Like Londo’s tearful testimony about the constant degradation from the king, day after day, which apparently was eating holes into his self-esteem and driving him to suicidal thoughts. During one part of Londo’s sob story the prince actually felt worried for his father. If anyone was going to assassinate him, it was definitely going to be this guy.

Shomnath didn't want his father to die, or at least not yet. He wanted the bastard to live to a ripe old age, with his royal ass attached to the throne the entire time. Shomnath wanted to finish up with Londo quickly. He knew that while they were drinking away his father was out campaigning Shomnath’s reign. Londo informed him that he was to receive his title and crown at the next fat moon festival, as was customary.

Judging by the sound of the cheers, the citizens were all for it. Streaks of orange light slipped through the curtains over Shomnath’s bed, and his heart skipped when he realized that dawn was already near. The next fat moon was only days away, but he knew that the minute he's officially king his father would have the royal guard transferred to him. Once that happened he wouldn’t be afforded the privacy to wipe his ass, let alone a chance to escape.

“What a waste of fabulous wine,” said Shomnath, as he spit out the stringy remains of the Babo leaf. "But totally worth it," he smiled, and pulled on a fresh shirt.

Shomnath had to dig deep within his wardrobe to find something that didn’t scream royalty. He looked himself up and down in the large vanity above his dresser and inspected the white, hooded shirt that he found. If someone got close enough they might notice the intricate stitch and fine silk material, but he had no other choice. It was the closest thing to commoner clothing he had. He kept his adventure wear hidden in the royal stables.

Londo was bound and tucked under Shomnath’s sheets, although he wasn't going to put up a struggle any time soon, as he guzzled down an amazing amount of wine. The prince only drank one glass from the first two bottles, and quite regrettably still had to open the third just to put the lush down.

Sure enough, Londo collapsed halfway through the last bottle. One moment he was sitting across from the prince crying his heart out, the next slumped forward, with his face planted to the floor. Yet like a true alcoholic he managed to prop his wineglass upright as he went down, and he didn’t spill a single drop.

“Sorry Londo, but it's time for me leave,” Shomnath said, and then he snatched a pillow and took the cover from it.

He threw in a few sets of clothes, a picture of his mother, and his gauntlet, which he was surprised to find returned to his dresser. Then he lugged the bag to his desk and shoveled in all his royal jewelry, as well as anything else that looked as though it would sell for a bit of gold. He wasn’t planning on coming back for a long time.

Satisfied, he took one last scan of his room. Good-bye again, sweet comfort, he thought, before swinging the sack over his shoulder and calmly walking from the room. Once he was free, he wasn't surprised to find the halls of the castle were empty, for his father was throwing a festival of the grandest scale. The toast wasn't only honoring Somerlund’s victory, but later in the night Somerlund’s new Archmage was going to be sworn in.

“Fenwick,” he whispered. “Who in the blazes is Fenwick?” The mysterious name echoed down the stone hall, in rhythm with the clicking of his boots.

He could hardly believe it when Londo told him that Somerlund’s new Archmage was a complete unknown. Londo also explained how Baymar was found keeping him, as well as his friends alive, which made the decision to choose this Fenwick character for Archmage all the more absurd. Even though his memory of what occurred at the end of the battle remained fuzzy, his gut told him that Baymar had something to do with their victory, if not everything.

Londo said that he couldn't hear the words that were shared between his father and the wizard, but he did say that whatever was said between them put the king in a sour mood. He said that following their private talk King Shomnor hadn't spoken more than a few words to anyone.

“Fenwick,” repeated Shomnath curiously, and he strained to place a face to the name, but the name. He only conjured visions of a scrawny servant he’d seen mopping floors. That can’t be right, he thought, and he shook the image from his head. He supposed that there must be another Fenwick within the guild.

As Shomnath made his way down the tower stairwell, he decided to stop on the third floor. Once there he cracked the door open, but only wide enough to see down the long corridor. He was delighted to see that the third floor hall was also empty. This level belonged to the Mages Guild, and if Londo was right about a certain ring that was found, then he had some business to do before leaving.

Shomnath limped down the long corridor, and was glad to find that with every step he was feeling better. On this floor the walls were decorated life-sized portraits, each with the bust of one of Somerlund's more famous disciples of the dark arts. Some of them posed with exotic creatures, some with ghosts, and a few were even covered in flames. None of the grand wizards had the same dress, but they all shared one thing in common, they all looked very tired around the eyes.

The main entrance to the guild was found midway through the hall, but there wasn't a door there. In place of a door, a thin waterfall of black liquid continuously dripped down within what otherwise seemed like an ordinary, wooden doorframe. Horace created the magical portal to keep intruders out many years ago. If you were not one of the royal party, castle security, or guild member you would find a long, suffering time ahead of you, as the liquid sticks to anyone else, and immediately begins to eat away at its victim like an acid.

Shomnath dropped his sack beside the doorway and pulled back his hood to reveal his face, which reflected back perfectly in the sheen of the flowing sludge. He then took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves.

“I never did trust this damn door,” Shomnath mumbled. He then tensed up and stepped swiftly through the black curtain.

Fenwick didn't notice Shomnath emerge from the gushing, yet obscenely silent waterfall doorway across the room. He was sitting behind a large desk that faced the portal, yet he was so absorbed in thought that he did not see the prince for almost a minute after the black liquid fell from the prince's body. It slipped from his body like a silk bed sheet might, rather than some liquid, and it vanished upon touching the ground like a shadow exposed to sunlight.

“Fenwick?” asked Shomnath, startling the young man from his daze. Shomnath held back his surprise when he saw that Fenwick was the skinny mop boy he remembered. Only now he was richly costumed, sitting behind Horace’s desk.

"My Lord?" Fenwick said, and sat up straight in his chair, although he kept his eyes lowered to the floor. It was a reaction built after many years of living as a servant. For a moment he forgot that the room belonged to him now. A week prior he would have been severely punished just for sitting when there was cleaning to be done, while actually sitting in the Archmage's chair was unthinkable.

“Hello?” he called, trying to inject confidence into his voice.

“I'm here to see Fenwick,” Shomnath said as he stepped from the shadows. “My father has sent me,” he lied.

“My prince! I didn't know you were up. What do I owe this honor? Please, come in. Be comfortable.” Fenwick stood up then and bowed low, extending his arms out wide.

Shomnath grinned when Fenwick said to be comfortable, considering the only chair in the room was the one that Fenwick was sitting on. The only other furniture in Horace's old chamber were tables, racks, and shelves, which were mostly covered with books.

“No,” said Shomnath. “I don't have time to stay, but maybe another time.”

“Is there anything I can do for you then?” said Fenwick.

“Yes, actually. My father sent me to see you about a particular ring, a ring that was salvaged from the battle in the forest.” as Shomnath spoke, the demeanor of Fenwick subtly shifted towards the defensive. Londo was right, thought a puzzled Shomnath, my father actually gave this
boy
the ring.

“Oh, the ring,” Fenwick said, and then hesitantly walked over to the cabinet to the left of his desk. He reached up to open the doors and paused, “Did his highness have any questions about it?”

“What have you discovered?”

“Frostbern,” replied Fenwick, as he opened the cabinet and pulled out a small silver box. When light reflected off of the lid it revealed that it was covered in textured snowflake patterns. When Fenwick turned to face the prince, Shomnath noticed that the bottom half of the box was coated in what appeared to be snow and wavy ribbons of white vapor fell in wisps.

“Excuse me?” said Shomnath.

“Horace’s ring," said Fenwick. "The name of the ring is Frostbern.”

Shomnath held an impartial expression, although he probably knew more about the ring and its origins than the young mage had.

“Yes, well whatever the name, my father has sent me for it,” said Shomnath, as passively as he could.

Fenwick curled the box to his body defensively, something Shomnath did not want. He really didn’t have the time to exchange words, and he feared that his father might send someone to check on him or even worse send for Londo. The guard was snuggly bundled and passed out cold on his bed. He knew that taking the ring from Fenwick by force would be easy, but he also knew that protective wards designed to pacify aggressors were placed throughout the Mage's Guild.

“But I haven’t begun testing it yet,” said Fenwick. From the look of anguish on his face, it was obvious to Shomnath that the young mage was proud to have such a powerful specimen in his possession, and that he was not willing to let it go.

“There is surely none better suited to do tests on such a magical wonder than you,” Shomnath added carefully. “But my father wants it to be inspected by the church, first.”

“The church?" said Fenwick. "Why would the church want to inspect an enchanted ring?” It was a good question, but not good enough to stump the sly prince.

“Archbishop Alexander is concerned about any disgruntled spirit that may have tagged along with the ring, and my father will not be pleased if there is any truth to his worries. He wouldn’t want a rogue spirit in his castle. If there is a stowaway in there, it won’t be able to escape the church’s holy walls.”

Fenwick raised a brow, but had nothing to say. If the prince was lying, he couldn’t tell. It was preposterous to claim that a priest could handle a disgruntled spirit better than a wizard, but Shomnath was weaving his story on faith that Fenwick lacked the skills to handle any spirit that didn’t come corked in a bottle. The assumption was accurate. Fenwick wouldn’t know if a violent spirit was in the ring if it bit his finger off.