Page 80 of Disenchanted
He stole a look behind him, and then craned his neck to peer ahead. Appearing satisfied that he was alone, he crept over to a suit of armor positioned along the wall opposite from where I hid.
He lifted the visor and thrust his hand inside the helmet. He groped about for a few seconds and pulled out a small pouch. I watched mystified as he loosened the drawstring and poured what looked like a silvery powder in the palm of his hand.
Kendrick raised his cupped fingers to his nose and inhaled so deeply that he sneezed violently. He gave a deep sigh, “Ah!”
As a beatific smile spread over his face, I realized the strange silvery substance had to be pixie dust. The most noble Prince Kendrick was a pixie sniffer! As he hid the pouch back inside the suit of armor, my tension eased. Kendrick drifted in the direction of the stairs leading up to the ballroom.
When I was sure he was gone, I crept out from my hiding place and continued to the end of the hall. Corridors branched out in both directions. I took the one to the right, hurrying pasta succession of heavy wooden doors until I came to an enormous portrait that stretched from the floor almost to the ceiling.
The painting depicted a young man in full royal regalia, an ermine trimmed purple robe draped about his broad shoulders. A jeweled crown encircled his head and in his right hand, he clutched a golden scepter. His long blond hair and features were not unlike Prince Florian’s, but from what Mal had told me this was a portrait of King August at his coronation.
If the artist had been true to his subject and not seeking to flatter, our king would have been a handsome youth. I was arrested by the expression in his eyes. They were almost shining; the eyes of a young man gazing into a future bright with promise. Not a hint of the miserable old tyrant he had become. I could have pitied him, if August’s cruelty and avarice had not brought so much suffering to our kingdom.
I shifted my gaze from the portrait, focusing on the ornate frame instead. The gilded wood was carved with an elaborate design of vines and intertwining roses. Running my fingers along the right side of the frame, I counted. One, two, three, four, five roses up from the bottom. My heart hammered. I looked around me, fearing some guard would come running to stop me.
None did. I pressed in on the center of the flower and heard a faint click. I leapt back as the portrait slowly swung forward, revealing it to be a door. With one final anxious glance down the corridor, I slipped through the opening. There was a handle on the back of the painting. I pulled on it, closing the door.
I rested my forehead against the wooden panel, clutching my dancing slippers to my breast. I exhaled a deep breath, unable to believe I had made it. I was in the king’s private treasury. Granted I still had to find the orb and steal back to the ballroom undetected. I had succeeded in getting this far. I had to believe that I would manage the rest.
I came about slowly, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. The chamber was windowless and would have been pitch black if not for a small lamp mounted near the doorway. Its glow did not offer much by way of illumination, just enough for me to gape at my surroundings.
I do not know exactly what I had expected to find in the king’s treasure room, but certainly not this utter chaos. The chamber was heaped with coin chests, jewel boxes, stacks of paintings and porcelain statues to such a degree, it appeared impossible to find a path between all these stacks.
It reminded me of Withypole Fugitate’s shop and I wondered if it was possible that a king, just like a fairy, could become a gleaner. A fairy’s compulsive hoarding had its roots in a broken heart. I was sure that King August’s acquisitiveness was inspired by greed. My heart swelled with anger as I thought of how many of his subjects he must have persecuted and defrauded to amass all this treasure.
I had little hope of finding the orb in all this mess, at least not in this dim light. I spotted a silver branch of candlesticks amidst the piles. Setting my shoes down atop a large chest, I carried the candelabrum over to the lamp and removed the globe. The flame was the oddest that I had ever seen. The wick burned brightly but I could detect no source of fuel, neither wax nor oil.
This had to be some sort of magic that the wizard Mercato had devised. I tentatively touched the wick of one of the candles to the strange flame. Nothing happened. I wondered if the candles were too ordinary to ignite by the wizard’s lamp. Suddenly the flame crackled, and the wick caught.
I lit the other two wicks and the candles burned with an astonishing brightness that illuminated the entire room. I could see what lay hidden in shadow. I held the branch of candles aloft and stared straight into the eyes of the dragon looming over me.
I shrieked and stumbled back, nearly dropping the candles. Hot wax spattered my hand, and I could feel the burn even through my glove. Trembling, I wielded the candlestick as though it was a sword, hoping I could make it to the door before the beast snapped me up in its terrible jaws.
I was astonished that the dragon had not tried to do so already. Then I realized why. The alarming creature was no more than a stuffed head mounted on the wall. I took a deep breath, feeling foolish for having panicked.
Whoever had preserved the dragon’s head had done an incredible job. Recovering from my fright, I examined the fearsome beast more closely. Judging from the size of its head, the dragon must have been huge. I imagined that the ground would tremble beneath its mighty feet. Its golden scales appeared iridescent beneath the glow of the candles. No sharp horns sprouted from its brow, but rather a tall crest the color of flame. Its deep-set eyes must have been mesmerizing when the creature was alive. Now they regarded me with a vacant glassy stare.
I had heard that dragons were not aggressive creatures unless challenged by some vainglorious knight out to enhance his reputation as a warrior. That struck me as a more apt description of Prince Florian than his younger brother Ryland.
Yet Ryland was the one known for his quests to slay dragons. Was this the very beast that had devoured his hand? Despite what had happened to Ryland, I mourned for the dragon. Such a magnificent creature deserved better than to become a trophy on the king’s wall. The gentle lover I had known as Harper would have agreed with me. But that boy was gone, as dead to me as this dragon.
I stretched up on tiptoe to caress the poor beast’s snout, offering up a silent apology. I withdrew my hand at once, frowning in puzzlement. I do not know how I expected the scalyskin of a dragon to feel, certainly not like stiff painted leather. I rapped against the dragon’s nose and produced a hollow, wooden echo.
The dragon’s head was fake, nothing more than a clever reproduction. It was as false as everything else about the Helavalerian family. I rocked back on my heels, relieved that the dragon was not real and yet at the same time, seething with indignation.
I wondered if there had ever been an actual dragon or if the story about Ryland going on such a quest was nothing but more lies. If there was no dragon, how had Ryland come to lose his hand? Why did I even care?
I needed to forget about Ryland and concentrate upon my reason for being here. I backed away from the dragon’s head, directing the glow of my candles toward the rest of the chamber. As the light flickered over all those endless stacks of confiscated treasure, I felt overwhelmed. If the orb was buried in one of the chests, it would take me all night to find it.
According to Mal’s source, the orb was supposed to be somewhere prominently displayed beneath a glass dome, easy to access. I skirted through the piles of trunks, paintings, and statuary, doing my best not to knock anything down. My aim was to find the orb and replace it without leaving a trace of my presence. The fact that I had an unregistered aura would help, but that advantage would be lost if I dislodged too many items during my search.
I did not know how anyone could tell if anything had been shifted in all this mess. But Mal’s apothecary shop was also a mass of clutter, and yet Mal would know at once if someone had moved a bottle so much as an inch. I suspected that our king might be equally sharp-eyed when it came to protecting his treasures.
I crept about the chamber, examining every nook and crowded shelf with a sense of increasing desperation. I saw no sign of anything resembling a glass dome crammed amongst all the figurines, old books, and music boxes. Only one small ledge remained uncluttered in all this chaos.
The carved, half-circle shelf boasted no more than a single miniature portrait. I needed to keep searching for the orb, but my curiosity was roused. Whose image did our tyrant king cherish so much that he would give it pride of place above all the other treasure in this room?
I expected that it would turn out to be a painting of the king’s most beloved son and heir, Prince Florian. As I drew nearer, I saw that it was a miniature of a lovely young woman with soft golden tresses. My breath hitched in my throat as I recognized her gentle features, that warm, sweet smile.
