Percepliquis

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Oh no. I wasn’t speaking of that. It’s just that my brother mentioned you read quite a bit.”

  He shrugged. “I found a little library on the third floor, but there are only about twenty books there. I’m on my third time through.”

  “You’ve read all the books in the library three times?”

  “Almost. I always have trouble with Hartenford’s Genealogy of Warric Monarchs. It’s almost all names and I have to sound most of them out. What do you need to know?”

  “I was actually thinking about information you might have read about while at the Winds Abbey. Have you ever heard of the city of Percepliquis?”

  He nodded. “It’s the capital city of the original empire of Novron.”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”

  He thought a moment and smiled to himself. “In every text, they always refer to everything else by way of it. Hashton was twenty-five leagues southeast of Percepliquis. Fairington, a hundred leagues due north. No one ever mentioned where Percepliquis was, I presume because everyone already knew.”

  “If I got you a map, would it be possible to find it based on the references to other places?”

  “Maybe. I’m pretty sure that’s how Edmund Hall found it. Although, all you really need is his journal. I’ve always wanted to read that one.”

  “I thought reading his journal is considered heresy. Isn’t that why they locked Hall and his journal in the top of the Crown Tower?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you would still read it? Alric never mentioned what a rebel you are.”

  Myron looked puzzled, then smiled. “It is heresy for a member of the Nyphron Church to read it.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re a Monk of Maribor.”

  “And blessedly, we have no such restrictions on our reading material.”

  “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Arista said. “All the things that might be hidden at the top of the Crown Tower.”

  “Makes you wish you could get inside, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes—yes, it does.”

  They arrived late that evening, the whole castle buzzing with the news. Trumpets blared, servants rushed, and before she could get dressed, two servants, as well as Alric and Mauvin, had stopped by to tell Arista of the caravan that had just arrived from the north bearing the falcon crest and the banners of gold and green.

  She hoisted the hem of the robe and raced down the steps with the rest. A crowd formed on the front steps. Servants, artisans, bureaucrats, and nobles mingled and pushed to see the sight. Guards formed an aisle allowing her to pass to the front, where she stood next to Mauvin and Alric. To her left, she spotted Nimbus draping Amilia’s shoulders with his cloak, leaving the skinny man looking like a twig in the wind. She did not see the empress.

  Wind-whipped torches and a milky moon illuminated the courtyard as the caravan entered. There were no soldiers, just elderly men who walked behind carriages. Toward the rear of the procession came wagons bearing a shivering cargo. Women and children, crammed tightly together, huddled for warmth beneath communal blankets. The first carriage reached the bottom of the steps and Belinda and Lenare Pickering stepped out, followed by Alenda Lanaklin. The three women looked up at the crowd before them hesitantly.

  Mauvin ran forward to embrace his mother.

  “What are you all doing here?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Where’s Father, or didn’t he—” Arista saw Mauvin stiffen and pull back.

  There was no joy at this meeting. The women’s faces were sorrowful. They were pale, drawn, and gray, and only their eyes and noses held color—red and sore from crying and the bitter wind. Belinda held her son, wringing his clothes with her fists.

  “Your father is dead,” she cried, and buried her face in his chest.

  Moving slower than the rest, Julian Tempest, the elderly lord chamberlain of Melengar, climbed carefully down out of the carriage. When Arista saw him, her stomach tightened. She could think of very few things that might cause Julian to leave Melengar, and none of them good.

  “The elves have crossed the Nidwalden River,” Julian announced to the crowd. His voice fought against the wind that viciously fluttered the flags and banners. He walked gingerly, placing his feet upon the frozen ground as if it might be pulled out from beneath him. The old man’s stately robes snapped about him like living things, his cap threatening to fly off. “They’ve invaded and taken all of Dunmore and Ghent.” He paused, looked at King Alric, took a breath, and said, “And Melengar.”

  “The north has fallen? To elves?” Alric sounded incredulous. “But how?”

  “These are not the mir, Your Majesty. They are not the half-breeds we are familiar with. Those that attacked are pure-blooded elves of the Erivan Empire. Terrible, fierce, and merciless, they came out of the east and crushed all in their path.” The wind gained a grip on the old man’s cap, throwing it across the yard and revealing his balding head, wreathed in thin white hair. His hands flew up in a futile effort and remained at face level, quivering and forgotten. “Woe to the House of Essendon, the kingdom is lost!”

  Alric’s gaze lifted to the caravan. He stood staring at the long line of wagons, studying its length, the number of faces crawling from them, and Arista knew what he was thinking.

  Is this all?

  Julian and the ladies were ushered inside. Arista watched them enter but remained on the steps. She recognized a face or two. One had been a barmaid at The Rose and Thorn. Another, a seamstress at the castle. Arista had often seen her daughter playing near the moat with a doll her mother had made from scraps. She did not have the doll now and Arista wondered, What became of it? What became of everything?

  “There’s not that many,” Amilia was saying to Sebastian. He was a ranking castle guard, but she could not recall his specific position. “Find room for them in the gallery for now.”

  He snapped a salute.

  “And have someone run and tell Ibis to get some food prepared; they look hungry.”

  Amilia turned back toward the castle doors when she made eye contact with Arista. She bit her lip in a sad expression. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say, and then walked away.

  Arista remained on the steps as the stable hands broke down the harnesses and the wagons emptied. A line of refugees filed past her, heading inside.

  “Melissa!” Arista called.

  “Your Highness.” Melissa curtsied.

  “Oh, forget that.” She ran down the remaining steps and gave the girl a hug. “I’m so happy you are all right.”

  “Are you the empress?” a little girl asked, holding on to Melissa’s hand.

  Arista had been away from Melengar for some time—only a few months short of a year—but this child could not have been Melissa’s. The girl had to be six or seven. She stood on the step beside Arista’s maid, bouncing on anxious feet and clutching a bundle to her chest with her free hand.

  “This is Mercy,” Melissa said, introducing her. “We found her on the way here.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “She’s an orphan.”

  There was something familiar about the little girl. Arista was certain she had seen her before. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not the empress. My name is Arista.”

  “Can I see the empress?”

  “I’m afraid not. The empress is very busy.”

  The child’s eager expression collapsed to one of disappointment, and her head drooped to look at her feet. “Arcadius said I would meet the empress when we got to Aquesta.”

  Arista studied her face a moment. “Arcadius? Oh yes, I remember you. We met last summer, wasn’t it?” Arista looked around the few remaining refugees but did not see her old teacher among them. Just then, she noticed the bundle move. “What have you got in there?”

  Before the girl could answer, the head of a raccoon poked out. “His name is Mr. Rings.”

  Arista bent down, and as she did, the robe brightened slightly—a soft pink glow. The girl’s eyes widened excitedly. “M
agic!” she exclaimed. She reached out, then paused and looked up.

  “You can touch it,” Arista told her.

  “It’s slippery,” she said, rubbing the material between her fingers. “Arcadius could do magic too.”

  “Where is Arcadius?” The little girl did not answer as she shivered in the cold. “Oh, I’m sorry, you both must be freezing. Let’s get inside.”

  They stepped from the pale blue winter into the dark fire-lit hall. The howl of the wind silenced at the closing of the doors, which boomed, echoing in the vaulted chamber. The little girl looked up in awe at the flight of steps, the stone columns and arches. A number of refugees, wrapped in blankets, shivered as they waited for directions.

  “Your Highness,” Melissa whispered. “We found Mercy alone on a horse.”

  “Alone? But where is…” She hesitated, seeing Melissa’s downcast eyes.

  “Mercy hasn’t said much, but… well, I’m sorry.”

  The light of her robe dimmed and the color turned blue. “He’s dead?” First Esrahaddon, now Arcadius.

  “The elves burned Ghent,” Melissa said. “Sheridan and Ervanon are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Burned.”

  “But the tower of Glenmorgan, the Crown Tower…”

  Melissa shook her head. “We joined with some people fleeing south. Several saw it fall. One said it looked like a child’s toy being toppled. Everything is gone.” Melissa’s eyes glistened. “They’re… unstoppable.”

  Arista expected tears, but all she felt was a numbness—too much loss all at once. She gently touched Mercy’s cheek.

  “Can I let Mr. Rings play in here?” Mercy asked.

  “What? Oh, I suppose, as long as you keep a sharp eye on him,” Arista said. “There’s an elkhound that might gobble him up if he goes too far.”

  She set the raccoon down. It sniffed the floor and cautiously skittered to the wall near the steps, where it began a systematic smelling along all the baseboards. Mercy followed and took a seat on the lowest step.

  “I can’t believe Arcadius is dead.”

  … at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies. The words of Esrahaddon echoed in Arista’s head. Words of warning mingled with words she still did not fully understand.

  Mercy yawned and rested her chin on her hands as Mr. Rings inched along the length of the step, exploring the world.

  “She’s tired,” Arista said. “I think they are handing out soup in the great hall. Would you like some soup, Mercy?”

  The girl looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Mr. Rings is hungry too, aren’t you, Mr. Rings?”

  The city was more beautiful than anything Arista had ever seen. White buildings, taller than the highest tree, taller than any building she had ever seen, rose up like slender fingers reaching for the sky. Sweeping pennants of greens and blues trailed from their pinnacles snapping in the breeze and shimmering like crystal. A road, broad enough for four carriages, straight as a maypole, and paved with smooth stone, led into the city. Upon it moved a multitude of wagons, carts, wains, coaches, and buggies. No wall or gate hindered the flow of traffic. No guardhouse gave them pause. The city lacked towers, barbican, and moat. It stood naked and beautiful—fearless and proud with only a pair of sculptured lions to intimidate visitors. The breadth of the city was hard to accept, hard for her to believe. It dominated three full hills and filled the vast valley where a gentle river flowed. It was a lovely place—and it was so familiar.

  Arista, you must remember.

  She felt the urgency, a tightness in her stomach, a chill across her back. Arista had to think; she needed to solve the puzzle. So little time remained, but such a sight as this would be impossible to forget. She could not have seen it before.

  You were here.

  She was not. Such a place as this could not even exist. This was a dream, an illusion.

  You must trust me. You were here. Look closely.

  Arista was shaking her head. It was ridiculous… and yet… something about the river, the way it curved near the base of the northern hill. Yes, the hill. The hill did look familiar. And the road—not so wide. It had been overgrown and hidden. She remembered finding it in the dark; she remembered wondering how it had come to be there.

  Yes, you were here. On the hill, look at the Aguanon.

  Arista did not understand.

  The northern hill, look at the temple on the crest.

  She spotted it. Yes, it was familiar, but it did not look the same in her memory. It was broken, fallen, mostly buried, but it was the same. Arista had been there and it frightened her to remember. Something bad had happened to her here. She had nearly died on this hill before the broken stones, amidst the splintered remains of shattered columns and breaching slabs. But she had not died. She did something on that hill, something awful, something that made her rip the dewy grass with her fists and beg Maribor for forgiveness.

  At last, Arista understood where she was, what she was seeing.

  This is it. This was my home. Go there, dig down, find the tomb, bring forth the horn. Do it, Arista! You must! There is no time left! Everyone will die! Everyone will die! EVERYONE WILL—

  Arista woke up screaming.

  CHAPTER 3

  PRISONS

  Get out of the way!” Hadrian shouted, his voice booming through the corridor. He stood just a few feet from the guard glaring at him, breathing on him. The two guards who watched from the end of the hall ran forward. He heard their chain mail jingling, their empty scabbards slapping their thighs. Both stopped short of sword’s length.

  “It’s the Teshlor,” one warned in a whisper.

  The soldier who blocked the door stood his ground. Hadrian sensed the tension, the fear, the lack of confidence, but he also felt the courage and loyalty that refused to let him waver. He usually respected such qualities in a man, but not this time. This man was merely in his way.

  Behind him, a latch lifted and a door creaked. “What’s going on?” a befuddled woman’s voice asked.

  Hadrian glanced. It was Amilia. She shuffled forward, wiping her eyes and fumbling with the tie of her robe.

  “I need to speak to the empress,” he growled. “Tell them to stand down.”

  “It’s the middle of the night!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “You can’t see her. If you want, I’ll try to arrange an appointment in the morning, but I must tell you, Her Eminence is very busy. The news—”

  Hadrian’s hands rose and he took hold of his sword grips. The three soldiers tensed and all but the door guard took a step back. The man before him let his own hand settle slowly on his weapon but he did not pull it.

  This guard is a cool one, Hadrian thought, and took another half step closer, until their noses nearly touched. “Get out of my way.”

  “Hadrian? What are you doing?” This time it was Arista’s voice echoing down the hallway.

  “I’m seeking an audience with the empress,” he said through gritted teeth. He broke his stare to turn and see the princess trotting up the fifth-floor corridor. As always these days, she was dressed in Esrahaddon’s robe, which was a dull blue and, at the moment, only reflected the fire of the torches hanging in the wall sconces.

  “They have him locked up. They won’t even let me see him,” Hadrian told her.

  “Royce?”

  “He didn’t want to kidnap the empress, but he would have done anything to get Gwen back. They should give him a medal for killing Saldur and Merrick.” Hadrian sighed. “Gwen died in his arms and he wasn’t thinking straight. He never meant to harm Modina. I found out he’s being held in the north tower. I don’t think Modina even knows. So I’m going to tell her. Don’t try and stop me.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I have to see her as well.”

  “What for?”

  The princess looked uncomfortable. “I had a bad dream.”

  “What?”

  “No one is seeing the empress tonight!” Amilia declared. S
ix more guards arrived, trotting toward them. “I’ll turn out the whole castle regiment if I have to!”

  Hadrian glanced at the imperial secretary. “Do you think they’ll stop me?”

  “The door has a bolt on the inside,” the door guard said. “Even if you got past us, there’s half a foot of solid oak in your way.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Arista assured them. “But I should warn you, I can’t be responsible for wounds from flying splinters.” Her robe began to glow. It gave off a hazy gray light that slowly brightened, bleaching their faces and weakening the torch-fed shadows. Hadrian noticed a faint breeze in the corridor. A warm wind was rising, swirling around Arista like a tiny cyclone, fluttering the hem of her robe and the ends of her hair.

  Amilia stared, horrified.

  “Open the door, Amilia, or I’ll remove it.”

  Amilia looked as if she might scream.

  “Let them in, Gerald.” The voice emanated from the other side of the door.

  “Your Eminence?”

  “Yes, Gerald. It isn’t locked. Let them in.”

  The door guard lifted the latch and gave a push. The door swung inward, revealing the darkness of the imperial bedroom. Amilia said nothing. She was breathing faster than normal, her fists clenched at her sides. Hadrian entered first, with Arista behind, both followed by Amilia and Gerald.

  It was cold in the bedroom. The fireplace was dark and the only light came in through the open window in the far wall. To either side, sheer white curtains billowed inward, dancing in the faint moonlight like a pair of ghosts. Dressed in only her nightgown, Empress Modina rested on the floor, looking out at the stars. She sat on her knees, hands in her lap, her shoulders drawn up against the cold. Bare toes poked out from within the pool of white linen that gathered around her. Blonde hair fell down her back in tangles. She appeared much like the girl Hadrian had seen under the Tradesmen’s Arch in Colnora so long ago.

  “They arrested Royce,” Hadrian told her. “They’ve locked him in a cell in the tower.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?” he said incredulously. “How long have—”