Percepliquis

by Michael J. Sullivan

“Damn it!” she said, and placing her hands on his chest, she closed her eyes and began the chant. Immediately she felt the resistance, a solid separation, as if a wall stood between them. The Hand of Ferrol left no cracks or seams. The shield was perfect and impervious.

  She opened her eyes. “I can’t help him,” she told the others. “Hadrian! Hurry! He’s dying!”

  At the sound of her voice Irawondona smiled. “I don’t even have to fight to win. I’m faster than you are. I can avoid you until he dies. Then Mawyndulë will be king. But rest assured I will kill you then. You will be the first; then I will kill your woman, and that empress of yours, then every last man, woman, and child on the face of Elan.”

  Hadrian nodded. “You could do that. And when your son and grandson ask about this day, you can tell them how in the fight that decided everything, you did nothing. You chose to run until time ran out, because you were afraid of being killed in a fair fight by a human—a fight ordained by your god, Ferrol. Then they will know that your race gained their dominance through cowardice and that mankind was truly the greater race.”

  Irawondona glared.

  “Go on, you can admit it. You’re afraid of me.” Hadrian raised his voice. “You’re afraid of me, and I’m only a human. I’m not even a noble or a knight. Do you know what I am? I’m a thief. Both of us are, Royce and I.” Hadrian pointed down the hill. “We’re nothing but a pair of common thieves. My father was a lowly blacksmith. He worked in a pathetic village not far from here.” Hadrian let himself laugh. “An orphan and a blacksmith’s son—two human thieves who terrify the invincible elven lords. It’s so pathetic.”

  “I’m afraid of no human.”

  “Then prove it. Don’t wait for him to die. Don’t be a coward. Have at me.”

  Irawondona did not move.

  “I thought as much,” Hadrian said, and turned his back on the elf.

  There was no sound. Hadrian knew there would not be. Years with Royce had taught him so. It was the look on the faces of those who watched that let him know Irawondona had moved.

  Hadrian had already shifted his grip on the two-handed pommel of the spadone. His fingers spread in the fashion his father had taught him. His knees bent as his back bowed and his arm moved. One minute he was on the hill at Amberton Lee and the next he was in Hintindar behind the forge as his father shouted instructions.

  Don’t look! Danbury ordered, tying on the blindfold. Trust your instincts. Don’t guess; know what he is doing. Believe it. Act on it!

  Hadrian swung outward to his right. The great sword of Jerish Grelad caught the morning sun on its worn blade and glinted, shining for one brief moment.

  It’s more than fighting, Haddy, Danbury said. It’s what you are. It’s what you will be—what you must be. Trust in it.

  Hadrian’s knees hit the snow, sending up a burst of ice crystals. He could see the shadow now, the rushing darkness of Irawondona running at him from behind. Pulling against the weight of the spadone, he started the pivot, the collapsing rotation.

  It was a blind attack.

  You don’t have to see your opponent to kill him, his father had explained. You just have to know where he will be. That’s the key to everything. And if you know, what good are eyes? What good is seeing? Trust in what I’ve taught you and you’ll hit him.

  Hadrian continued the spin, one knee coming up, his shoulder twisting his waist as he put his full weight into the arc. He did not look. He did not need to. He knew. He knew exactly where Irawondona was and where he would be.

  He felt metal kiss metal as Irawondona tried to parry. The force of the spadone, the weight behind it, was too much to deflect. The metal sang, but there was hardly a quiver to the stroke as it carried through the weak defense, driving the sword from Irawondona’s grip. The spadone continued in its stroke and Hadrian hardly felt the impact as it cut into the elf’s side. Irawondona’s body offered even less resistance than his blade, and Hadrian completed the swing as if he were performing it alone behind the blacksmith’s shop. The only difference was the splash of blood.

  The blue torches flared brilliantly white, then went out with a loud snap.

  “Ir a wondon,” the priest of Ferrol announced, and then, looking at Hadrian, added, “It is done.”

  “No!” Mawyndulë cried, raising his arms. He looked as if he was trying to speak when he coughed and blood sprayed the front of his robes. To either side, his guards started to draw their weapons but disappeared with a loud pop.

  Mawyndulë collapsed face-first. Behind him, Monsignor Merton stood holding the bloodstained Alverstone in both hands.

  The elves did not move or react. Instead they stood silently, their faces solemn, their eyes downcast. No one looked at Irawondona and none bothered with Mawyndulë; instead they started down the hill toward Royce.

  “Hadrian!” Arista screamed.

  He pushed his way through the elves, then finally past Modina, the girls, and the boys to find Arista kneeling on the ground clutching Royce. The ground was soaked and his friend’s eyes were closed.

  “Help him!” Hadrian told her.

  “I can’t! I tried!” she cried, her eyes frightened.

  “But I won,” he said, and looked to Myron. “The blessing is gone now, right?”

  The monk nodded.

  “There—see? Do it, do it now! Pull him back!”

  “I tried!” she shouted at him. “Don’t you think I tried! I was waiting, and the second the wall was gone, I went in. But I still can’t reach him. Hadrian… he doesn’t want to be saved. I think he wants to die.”

  Hadrian felt the strength at last go out of his legs and he collapsed to his knees.

  “He sees her, Hadrian,” Arista cried, cradling Royce’s head on her lap. “He sees her in the light. He doesn’t even hear me. All he sees is her and he keeps saying he did it, he saved you.”

  Hadrian nodded. Tears filled his eyes and he reached out and brushed the hair away from Royce’s face. “Damn it, Royce! Don’t leave me, pal. Com’on, buddy, you have to come back. I finally did it. I killed the bad guy, saved the kingdom, won the girl, and you’re ruining it all for me. You don’t want to do that, do you? Please, we still need you.”

  “What happens if he dies?” Gaunt asked from above him.

  “The elves will be without a king,” Myron said in a shaking voice. “The next elf to blow the horn will be king, unless there is another challenger and a fight. But either way, an elf will be crowned.”

  “Do you hear that, Royce? It isn’t over. You have to live or we all die. You won’t have saved me after all. Com’on, pal.” He lifted him, cradling Royce in his arms. “You can’t leave now.”

  Hadrian studied his face—no change.

  “There’s just nothing keeping you here anymore, is there?” Tears ran down Hadrian’s cheeks. “I love you, buddy,” he said, and laid him back down.

  Those watching fell silent as they listened to Royce’s breathing. It grew shallower and slower, fainter with each rasping in and out. Somewhere a bird sang, and the wind blew across the hilltop.

  “Who is he?”

  Hadrian heard a small voice disturb the silence.

  “Mercy, shush,” the empress Modina said. “His name is Royce, now be quiet.”

  Hadrian looked up suddenly.

  “What?” Arista asked.

  “Gwen,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Gwen told me how to save him.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, something about… It was the last time I saw her—one of the last things she ever told me. I—I didn’t realize…”

  “Realize what?” Arista asked.

  “She knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “She knew everything,” Hadrian replied. “I remember she told me what to do to save him but at the time I didn’t understand. Damn, I wish I had Myron’s brain!”

  Hadrian took a breath and tried to calm down. “I was with her in The Rose and Thorn, at the table. Roy
ce was there—no—no, he wasn’t—he was in the kitchen doing something. He was happy—happy about… about… the wedding! Yes, we were talking about the wedding and about how Royce had changed over the years. I felt bad taking him away from her and she said that he had to go or I would die.” He looked back toward the arena, where Irawondona’s body still lay. “She meant this. She saw this! But then she said something else. She said… Oh, what did she say?”

  He struggled to remember her voice, her words: He’s seen too much cruelty and betrayal. He’s never known mercy. That was what she had said but then there was something else, something she wanted him to do. You have to do this, Hadrian. You have to be the one to show him mercy. If you can do that, I know it will save him.

  “No,” he said, stunned. “Not show him mercy—oh god! She wanted me to show him Mercy!”

  He leapt to his feet and grabbed the little girl standing beside Modina. She pulled back, frightened.

  “Relax, honey. Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “Just tell me your name.”

  The girl looked at Modina, who nodded.

  “Mercy.”

  “No—no, what’s your full name?”

  “Mercedes, but no one calls me that except my mother—at least, she used to.”

  “What’s your mother’s name, honey?” Hadrian asked, his hands trembling as he held her.

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Yes, dear, but what was her name?”

  The little girl smiled. “Gwendolyn DeLancy.”

  “Did you hear that, Royce!” Hadrian shouted. “Her name is Mercedes.”

  He kept shouting at him. “Elias or Sterling if a boy, right? But there was only one name for the girl, Mercedes. There was only one name because Gwen had already named her! This is your daughter, Royce! This is your and Gwen’s daughter! How old are you, sweetie? Five? Six?”

  “Six,” she said proudly.

  “She’s six, Royce. That would have been the year we spent locked up in Alburn, remember? Gwen took her baby to Arcadius. She probably didn’t want you to feel trapped, or maybe she didn’t want her growing up in a whorehouse. In any case, she knew she would die before introducing you to your daughter. That’s why she told me to. Royce, you have a daughter, you old bastard!” He reached out and took hold of Royce’s face. “Part of Gwen is still here! Do you hear me?”

  “Is he my father?” Mercy asked, drawing closer. “My mother told me that one day I would meet my father and that he would take me to live in a beautiful place and I would become a fairy princess and a queen of the forest.”

  Royce’s eyelids twitched.

  “Now!” Hadrian told Arista, but it was not necessary. She was already chanting. The chanting quieted to a hum and then Arista went silent. She jerked abruptly and violently. Hadrian took hold of her. He had one hand on each of them as he prayed to Maribor. Every muscle in Arista’s body was taut and her head hitched as if she were being slapped. Then suddenly she shook and her breath shortened to gasps. The time between gasps grew until she stopped breathing entirely.

  All around them the crowd stopped breathing as well.

  “Royce!” Hadrian screamed at him. “She’s your daughter, and if you die, she’ll be an orphan, just like you! Are you going to abandon her and leave her alone like your parents did? Royce!”

  Both bodies lurched in unison and they gasped for air. Arista, damp with sweat, laid her head against Hadrian. Royce breathed deeply, and slowly his eyes fluttered open. He did not speak, but his eyes focused on the little girl.

  CHAPTER 28

  FULL CIRCLE

  The rear wheel of the wagon fell into another hole and bounced so hard that Arista woke. She pulled back the blanket and squinted at the sky. The sun was low on the horizon and the movement of the wagon made the forest on a hill to their right look as if it were marching in the opposite direction. Her neck and back were sore, her muscles stiff, and she was still groggy. She realized that despite the bouncing buckboard, she had slept the day away. Now her stomach ached from hunger. Her teeth felt fuzzy, almost sandy, and her left hand was numb from her lying on it. She rode in the back of the wagon that Magnus and Degan drove. Hadrian had made her the best bed he could, laying down all their blankets as padding in the space left by the consumed supplies.

  Modina and the girls rode with her. Allie and Mercy were asleep between her and the empress. The two curled up in tight balls, their knees pulled to their chests. Modina sat with a blanket around her shoulders, staring off at the landscape. The sled runners had been replaced by wheels and they traveled on a rutted, muddy road that formed a dark line between two fields of snow that occasionally showed a patch of matted, tangled weeds. Seeing them got her thinking. She wiped her face with the blanket and, digging her brush out of a nearby pack, began the arduous process of clearing the snarls from her hair.

  She pulled, grunted, and then sighed. Modina looked over with a questioning expression, and Arista explained by letting go of the brush and leaving it to hang.

  Modina smiled and crawled over to her. “Turn around,” she said, and taking the brush, the empress began working the back of Arista’s head. “You have quite the rat’s nest here.”

  “Be careful one doesn’t bite you,” Arista replied. “Do you know where we are?”

  “I have no idea. I’m not really much of a world traveler, you know.”

  “This doesn’t look like the road to Aquesta.”

  “No,” Modina said as she worked on a particularly tough snarl. “It’s too late to travel that far today, and neither you, Royce, nor Hadrian were up for a long trip. After all, you three had a pretty big day.”

  “But the people in—”

  Modina patted her shoulder. “It’s all right. I sent Merton back with instructions for Nimbus and Amilia, and Royce sent the elves with him—well, most of them. A few insisted on staying with their new king. There’s nothing left in Aquesta to go back to. The city was destroyed. I ordered the remaining stores to be divided between those who survived. The people will be sent to Colnora, Ratibor, Kilnar, and Vernes, but organized into equal groups so no one city is too overwhelmed.”

  Arista laughed and shook her head, making it hard for Modina to work. “Are you sure you’re the same Thrace Wood I once knew?”

  “No, I don’t suppose I am,” Modina replied. “Thrace was a wonderful girl, naive, starry-eyed, bursting with life. For a long time I thought she was dead and gone, but I think—no, I know—some part of her still exists, but I’m Modina now.”

  “Well, whoever you are, you’re amazing. You truly are the empress worthy of ruling all of mankind.”

  Modina lowered her voice and said, “I’ll tell you a secret—it’s not me at all, really. Sure, on occasion, I come up with something intelligent—and I am usually surprised by it myself—but the real genius behind my throne is Nimbus. Amilia deserves everything this empire can give her for hiring him. The man is a wonder: quiet, unassuming, but utterly brilliant. If he had a mind to, he could replace me in a heartbeat. I am convinced he could organize a perfectly lovely coup, but he has no aspirations for power at all. I haven’t been in politics long, but even I can see that a man as capable as he and yet so absent of greed is a rare thing. Do you know he still sleeps in his cubicle? Or at least he did until the castle was destroyed. Even though he was chancellor of the empire, he lived in a tiny stone cell. He, Amilia, and Breckton are my jewels, my treasures. I don’t know how I could have survived without them.”

  “Don’t forget Hadrian,” Arista reminded her.

  “Hadrian? No, he’s not a treasure of mine and neither are you.” She paused in her brushing and Arista felt Modina kiss her head. “There’s not a word that can describe how I feel about the two of you, except perhaps… miracle workers.”

  The center of the village clustered along the main road. Wood, stone, and wattle-and-daub buildings with grass-thatched roofs lined either side, beginning at the little wooden bridge and ending before the slope that climbed a
hill to the manor house. They consisted of a ramshackle assortment of shops, homes, and hovels, casting long shadows. Beyond them, Hadrian could see people in the fields working in the strips closest to the village. Down in the valley, near the river, the fields were nearly clear of snow and villeins worked to spread manure from large carts. Hooded in wool cowls, the workers labored. Long curved rakes rose and fell in the faltering light. In the village, smoke rose from a few of the buildings and shops, but none came from the smithy.

  As they approached, their horses announced their arrival with a loud hollow clop clip clop as they crossed the bridge. A pair of dogs lifted their heads, the sign above the shoemaker’s shop squeaked as it swayed, and farther down the road a stable door clapped absently against its frame. The intermittent warbling wail of lambs called out from hidden pens.

  Hadrian and Royce led the procession through the village. Behind them rode three elves—Royce’s new shadows. Now that Royce was their king, and given what happened to Novron, and his predecessor, they were adamant about his protection.

  The change in the elves’ demeanor had been dramatic. The moment Royce got to his feet, they all knelt. The sneering looks of contempt were replaced instantly with reverence. If they were acting, Hadrian thought they were all remarkable performers. Perhaps it was seeing Royce come back from the dead, or some magic of the horn, but the elven lords could not appear to be more devoted to him.

  Royce did not protest his new protectors. He said little on the subject and rode as if they were not there. Hadrian guessed he was humoring them—for now. Everyone, especially Royce, was too exhausted to think, much less argue, and Hadrian had just a single thought—to find shelter before dark. With that in mind, he headed south, following the little tributary of the Bernum River he knew simply as the South Fork, which brought them to his boyhood home of Hintindar.

  A man sitting in front of the stable was filing the edges of the coulter on a moul board plow when he caught sight of them. He had a bristling black beard and a dirty, pockmarked face. He was dressed in the usual hooded cowl and knee-length tunic of a villein. The man stared, shocked, for a handful of seconds, then emitted a brief utterance that might have been a squeak. He ran to the bell mounted on the pole in the middle of the street and rang it five times, then bolted up the main street toward the manor house.