Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) by Jeffrey Quyle

Ophiuchus had told him that he had to retrieve something rare, and he suddenly knew that it was something in this place, something that was kept down in the storage room below the kitchen.
    He padded down the stairs and through the castle to the kitchen.  There was a door that he knew he had to open.  There was a yawning darkness within, and he stepped cautiously as he descended the stairs that took him down to a place where he could see nothing, and didn’t know which way to turn.
    His hand – his right hand – immediately flared up with an illuminating glow that startled him so much that he gave a brief yelp. He looked at the hand, the golden hand that had shown mysterious powers in the past on his journey.  It felt no pain, yet emitted the light that let him see a hallway and a doorway.  As he moved his hand towards the doorway it seemed to glow brighter, a sign that Marco took to signify he needed to look at whatever was behind the door.
    There was a room, a room that was filled with work tables and mysterious supplies, jars and boxes and canisters that held a vast array of unlabeled items.  It was overwhelming to think that he could find the right item to select among all the materiel that sat about.
    As he stood and studied the room, a small box on a high shelf began to glow.  He knew intuitively that the glow was a reflection of the light from his hand, a recapturing and redisplay of the very same energy he was emitting, serving as a marker to draw his attention.  Without hesitation he stepped up onto a table and grabbed the small box, then carried it up to his room.  As soon as he reached the kitchen, the light in his hand extinguished itself.  He felt no curiosity about the box, only a sense of relief that he had accomplished some important task.
    It seemed the next morning that everyone was cautious, willing to wait to see if Marco would return and if his relationship with Mirra would return with him.  He had decided not to take a horse into Barcelon, believing that he was simply going to pass through the city and leave via the harbor.  Perago watched him closely as he stood on the steps of the castle’s main door, facing Mirra.
    “I’ll come back someday when all this is over,” he promised her.
    “I hope you come without another wife,” she said pleasantly, then they kissed one another on their cheeks, awkwardly, and Marco started off.
    He was wearing new, and clean clothes.  That had been one pleasant benefit of his stay at the castle.  Nothing had been unpleasant, but much of it had been unsettling.  He had learned that he would have a challenge in the future, the challenge of living up to the staff’s high expectations for anyone who sought to be loved by Mira.
    The walk to Barcelona took all morning, and into the early afternoon.  He walked through the city gates, then wandered among the streets in the direction that he expected would lead to the harbor.  By the time he actually found the harbor, the sun was low in the western sky.
    The day of traveling had given Marco time to think, time to reflect on all that he had learned.  He resented the geas, he had decided.  He had started the journey from Station Island simply following the direction to move forward, but as he had progressed, and as he had learned so much about his life before, he found that he wished there was no geas, no compunction to keep moving, and most importantly, no unmooring from the life he had led before, the life with Mirra and a castle, alchemy and a friendship with a dolphin.
    Marco went to the end of a pier and looked down at the dark water.  It looked murky, and he had no desire to have to enter the water, nor did he envy the poor dolphin who would apparently arrive to carry him.
    He climbed down the ladder that was attached to the pilings of the pier, and stepped onto a cross beam near the water level.  “Hello?” he called tentatively.  “Hello, dolphin?” he repeated.
    There was no movement in the