An Ocean of Lies (AFOS II)

Chapter 11: Laurentius

The palace was so much bigger than he expected from up close. Maybe his pigeon shape had something to do with it, but still, he suspected even a dragon would've found it humungous. A patrol of ten men marched back and forth at the front gates, many others circled the battlements, manned the ballistas, scouted the coast from their towers. A busy place, even at night. The gardens were softly illuminated by glowing water canals and fountains, rose promenades budding in the middle of winter, everblooming lemon trees. Magic, no doubt. The late King had been a modest man, hadn't he? He could picture himself down there with a book, under the gentle shadow of a tree, feeling the ocean breeze. Not the worst place to spend an afternoon, or a whole winter.

Laurentius flew as high as his little pigeon wings allowed, in small bursts. His arms would burn like the underworld's fire in the morning, he wasn't used to that much physical activity. Not that kind, at least. He could feel the magic of the wards around him, pushing him away like a polarized magnet. Flying like that wasn't exactly easy, his pigeon bones threatened to crack with every thrust of his wings. The palace looked smaller, the fog got thinner, he could almost see the stars up there. He missed them, he'd almost forgotten how beautiful they were. Back at his old master's, he'd go out and stare at the night sky for hours, basking in their ethereal beauty, thousands of kilometers away, most of them long dead. Ghosts. But the college was better. He wondered how his master was, he hadn't returned his letters. Maybe it was for the best. He wasn't the same person anymore, he didn't feel the same, at least.

The last push took him farther than he intended, his wings twisted, his little feathered body precipitated down to the palace. He'd found a hole on top of the ward, just as he'd anticipated. He recovered in midair, albeit not gracefully, and slowly continued his descent, shaking.

He flew between the bushes, perched himself in a branch. A pigeon entering the palace's rookery would be too conspicuous, he needed to rethink his shape and his way in. A mouse would be fast, a tiny body, easy to sneak underneath heavy doors. He would also be killed on sight. There were too many bats flying around to even think of becoming a moth or a fly, and bats would carry the same fate as mice inside the glossy walls of the palace. Think, Laurentius. A cat. There were a few lurking around, he could feel them prancing, their ears twitching, ready to make him their dinner. Black smoke to avoid, for once, attracting attention to himself. The cat waiting for him under the branch recoiled, hissed and ran as fast as his legs could take him back into the night. Laurentius licked his paws, a reflex of his new body. He hated becoming a cat, but at least licking is own fur wasn't as unglamorous as sniffing other dogs' tails. His nose twitched.

He swayed his tail, jumped off the branch and entered through the front door of the palace. One of the guards stopped him, as did his feline heart. The man kneeled and pat him between the ears, tickled his chin. His legs gave in, he relaxed —creators, he even purred. That had been close, but he was inside the palace already: get in, she told him. That had been the easy part, it seemed. He had to find Volstad, it wouldn't be a problem in that monster of a palace, would it? It would take but a minute. He stretched. It would be a long night.

The palace was a maze of sculpted promenades, potted plants, sculptures, and marble. He'd never seen so much marble, borderline distasteful but not entirely unpleasant to look at once the eyes adjusted. Some portions of the floor had firedust-marbled stones, warm to the touch, perpetually glowing. He could see himself living there, maybe he could forget about finding Volstad, the letter, the whole mess, and live forever as a cat in the palace, staring at the beauty of its halls and gardens, getting fat on fish and liver. The whole world could burn around him, it wouldn't matter. No wonder why Volstad didn't bother to come out, in his place he would've done exactly the same. The rest of the world would look dull and ashen in comparison. He didn't look forward to going back to the city.