Percepliquis Page 3

  “You’ve handled a blade before,” Guy said, surprised.

  “I am a Pickering.”

  He swung at her. She blocked. He swiped. She parried. Then Lenare slashed and cut Guy across the cheek.

  “Lenare,” her mother said with a stern tone. “Don’t play games.”

  Guy paused, holding a hand to his bleeding face.

  “He killed Fanen, Mother,” Lenare said coldly. “He should be made to suffer. He should be made an example.”

  “No,” Belinda said. “It’s not our way. Your father wouldn’t approve. You know that. Just finish it.”

  “What is this?” Guy demanded, but there was a hesitation in his voice. “You’re a woman.”

  “I told you—I am a Pickering and you killed my brother.”

  Guy began to raise his sword.

  Lenare stepped and lunged. The thin rapier pierced the man’s heart and was withdrawn before he finished his stroke.

  Luis Guy fell dead, facedown in the blood-soaked snow.

  CHAPTER 2

  NIGHTMARES

  Arista woke up screaming. Her body trembled; her stomach suffered from a sinking sensation—the remaining residue of a dream she could not remember. She sat up, her left hand crawling to her chest, where she felt the thundering of her heart. It was pounding so hard, so fast, beating against her ribs as if needing to escape. She tried to remember. She could only recall brief snippets, tiny bits that appeared to be disjointed and unrelated. The one constant was Esrahaddon, his voice so distant and weak she could never hear what he said.

  Her thin linen nightgown clung to her skin, soaked with sweat. Her bedsheets, stripped from the mattress, spilled to the floor. The quilt, embroidered with designs of spring flowers, lay waded up nearly on the other side of the room. Esrahaddon’s robe, however, rested neatly next to her, giving off a faint blue radiance. The garment appeared as if a maid had prepared it for her morning dressing. Arista’s hand was touching it.

  How is it on the bed? Arista looked at the wardrobe. The door she remembered closing hung open, and a chill ran through her. She was alone.

  A soft knock at the door startled her.

  “Arista?” Alric’s voice came from the other side.

  She threw the robe around her shoulders and immediately felt warmer, safer. “Come in,” she called.

  Her brother opened the door and peered in, holding a candle a bit above his head. Dressed in a burgundy robe, he had a thick baldric buckled around his waist, the Sword of Essendon hanging at his side. The weapon was huge, and as he entered, Alric used one hand to tilt it up to keep the tip from dragging on the floor. The sight reminded her of the night their father was murdered—the night Alric became king.

  “I heard you cry out. Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching the room and settling on the glowing robe.

  “I’m fine—just a nightmare.”

  “Another one?” He sighed. “You know, it might help if you didn’t sleep in that thing.” He gestured toward the robe. “Sleeping in a dead man’s clothes… it’s creepy—sort of sick, really. Don’t forget he was a wizard. That thing could be—well, I’ll just say it—it is enchanted. I’m sure it is responsible. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  “I don’t remember much. Like all the others, I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. There’s this sense of urgency that’s overwhelming. I feel this need to find something—that if I don’t, I’ll die. I always wake up terrified, like I am walking off a cliff and don’t see it.”

  “Can I get you something?” he asked. “Water? Tea? Soup?”

  “Soup? Where will you get soup in the middle of the night?”

  He shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to beat me up for it. I hear you scream, I jump out of bed and rush to your door, I offer to play servant for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “I’m sorry.” She frowned playfully but meant what she said. Having him there did chase the shadows away and took her mind off the wardrobe. She patted her bed. “Sit down.”

  Alric hesitated, then set the candle on her nightstand and took a seat beside her. “What happened to the sheets and quilt? Looks like you were wrestling.”

  “Maybe I was. I can’t remember.”

  “You look terrible,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you’re still my little brother and this new protective side of yours is hard to get used to. Remember when I fell off Tamarisk and broke my ankle? It hurt so bad that I couldn’t see straight. When I asked you to get help, you just stood there laughing and pointing.”

  “I was twelve.”

  “You were a brat.”

  He frowned at her.

  “But you’re not anymore.” She took his hand and cupped it in both of hers. “Thank you for checking on me. You even wore your sword.”

  Alric looked down. “I didn’t know what beast or scoundrel might be attacking the princess. I had to come prepared to do battle.”

  “Can you even draw that thing?”

  He frowned at her again. “Oh, quit it, will you? They say I fought masterfully in the Battle of Medford.”

  “Masterfully?”

  He struggled to stop himself from smiling. “Yes, some might even say heroically. In fact, I believe some did say heroically.”

  “You’ve watched that silly play too many times.”

  “It’s good theater, and I like to support the arts.”

  “The arts.” She rolled her eyes. “You just like it because it makes all the girls swoon and you love all the attention.”

  “Well…” He shrugged guiltily.

  “Don’t deny it! I’ve seen you with a crowd of them circling like vultures and you grinning and strutting around like the prize bull at the fair. Do you make a list? Does Julian send them to your chambers by hair color, height, or merely in alphabetical order?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You know, you do have to get married, and the sooner, the better. You have a lineage to protect. Kings who don’t produce heirs cause civil wars.”

  “You sound like Father. Maribor forbid I should have any enjoyment in my life. I have to be king—don’t make me have to be a husband and father too. You might as well just lock me up and get it over with. Besides, there’s plenty of time. I’m still young. You make it sound like I am teetering on the edge of my grave. And what about you? You’re pushing old-maid status now. Shouldn’t we be searching for suitable nobles? Do you remember when you thought I arranged a marriage for you with Prince Rudolf, and—Arista? Are you all right?”

  She turned away, wiping the moisture from her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry.” She felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” she replied, and coughed to clear her throat.

  “You know I would never—”

  “I know. It’s all right, really.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. They sat in silence for a few minutes; then Arista said, “I would have married Hilfred, you know. I don’t care what you or the council would have said.”

  A look of surprise came over him. “Since when have you ever cared… Hilfred, huh?” He smirked and shook his head.

  She glared back.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “What is it, then?” she asked with an accusing tone, thinking that the boy who had laughed at her falling from her horse had reappeared.

  “No slight to Hilfred. I liked him. He was a good man and loved you very much.”

  “But he wasn’t noble,” she interrupted. “Well, listen—”

  “Wait.” Her brother held up a hand. “Let me finish. I don’t care if he was noble or not. Truth is he was nobler than just about anyone I can think of, except maybe that Breckton fellow. How Hilfred managed to stand by you every day, while not saying anything—that was real chivalry. He wasn’t a knight, but he’s the only one I ever saw who acted like one. No,
it’s not because he wasn’t noble-born, and it’s not because he wasn’t a great guy. I would have loved to have him as a brother.”

  “What, then?” she asked, this time confused.

  Alric looked at her, and in his eyes was the same expression she had seen when he had found her in the dark of the imperial prison.

  “You didn’t love him,” he said simply.

  The words shocked her. She did not say anything. She could not say anything.

  “I don’t think there was anyone in Essendon Castle who didn’t know how Hilfred felt. Why didn’t you?” he asked.

  She could not help it. She started crying.

  “Arista, I’m sorry. I just…”

  She shook her head, trying to get enough air into her lungs to speak. “No—you’re right—you’re right.” She could not keep her lips from quivering. “But I would have married him just the same. I would have made him happy.”

  Alric reached out and pulled her close. She buried her head into the thick folds of his robe and squeezed. They did not say anything for a long while and then Arista sat up and wiped her face.

  She took a breath. “So when did you get so romantic, anyway? Since when does love have anything to do with marriage? You don’t love any of the girls you spend your time with.”

  “And that’s why I’m not married.”

  “Really?”

  “Surprised? I guess I just remember Mom and Dad, you know?”

  Arista narrowed her eyes at him. “He married Mother because she was Ethelred’s niece and he needed the leverage with Warric to combat the trade war with Chadwick and Glouston.”

  “Maybe at the start, but they grew to love each other. Father used to tell me that wherever he was, if Mom was there, it was home. I always remembered that. I’ve never found anyone who made me feel that way. Have you?”

  She hesitated. For a moment she considered telling him the truth, then just shook her head.

  They sat again in silence; then finally Alric rose. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “No, but thank you. It means a lot to know that you care.”

  He started to leave, and as he reached the door, she said, “Alric?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember when you and Mauvin were planning on going to Percepliquis?”

  “Oh yeah, believe me, I think about that a lot these days. What I wouldn’t give to be able to—”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Percepliquis? No. No one does. Mauvin and I were just hoping we’d be the ones to stumble on it. Typical kid stuff, like slaying a dragon or winning the Wintertide games. It sure would have been fun to look, though. Instead, I guess I have to go home and look for a bride. She’ll make me wear shoes at dinner—I know she will.”

  Alric left, closing the door softly behind him and leaving her in the blue glow of the robe. She lay back down with her eyes open, studying the stone and mortar above her bed. She saw where the artisan had scraped his trowel, leaving an impression frozen in time. The light of the robe shifted with her breaths, creating the illusion of movement and giving her the sensation of being underwater, as if the ceiling were the lighted surface of a winter pond. It felt like she was drowning, trapped beneath a thick slab of solid blue ice.

  She closed her eyes. It did not help.

  Soup, she thought—warm, tasty, comforting soup. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all. Maybe someone would be in the kitchen. She had no idea what time it was. It was dark, but it was also winter. Still, it had to be early, since there had been no scuttling of castle servants past her door. It did not matter. She would not fall back to sleep now, so she might as well get up. If no one was awake, she might manage on her own.

  The idea of doing something for herself, of being useful, got her going. She was actually excited as her feet hit the cold stone and she looked around for her slippers. The robe glowed brighter, as if sensing her need. When she entered the dark hall, it remained bright until she descended the stairs. As she entered into torchlight, the robe dimmed until it only reflected the firelight.

  She was disappointed to find several people already at work in the kitchen. Cora, the stocky dairymaid with the bushy eyebrows and rosy cheeks, was at work churning butter near the door, pumping the plunger in a steady rhythm, trading one hand for another. The young boy Nipper, with his shoulders powdered in snow, stomped his feet as he entered from the dark courtyard, carrying an armload of wood, pausing to shake his head like a dog. He threw a spray that garnered a curse from Cora. Leif and Ibis stoked the stoves, grumbling to each other about damp tinder. Lila stood on a ladder like a circus performer, pulling down the teetering bowls stacked on the top shelf. Edith Mon had always insisted on having them dusted at the start of each month. While the ogre herself was gone, her tyranny lived on.

  Arista had looked forward to rustling around in the darkened scullery, searching for a meal like a mouse. Now her adventure was ruined and she considered returning upstairs to avoid an awkward encounter. Arista knew all the scullery servants from her days posing as Ella the chambermaid. She might be a princess, but she was also a liar, a spy, and, of course, a witch.

  Do they hate me? Fear me?

  There was a time when the thought of servants had not bothered her, a time when she had hardly noticed them at all. Standing at the bottom of the steps, watching them scurry around the chilly kitchen, she could not determine if she had gained wisdom or lost innocence.

  Arista pivoted, hoping to escape unnoticed back up the stairs to the sheltered sanctuary of her chamber, when she spotted the monk. He sat on the floor near the washbasins, where the stone was wet from a leaky plug. His back rested against the lye barrel. He was small, thin, and dressed in the traditional russet frock of the order of the Monks of Maribor. Delighted by rubbing the shaggy sides of Red, the big elkhound who sat before him, he had a great smile on his face. The dog was a fixture in the kitchen, where he routinely cleared scraps. The dog’s eyes were closed, his long tongue hung dripping, and his body rocked as the monk scratched him.

  Arista had not seen much of Myron since the day he had arrived at the castle. So much had happened since then that she forgot he was still there.

  Walking forward, she adjusted her robe, straightening it and fixing the collar. Heads looked up. Cora was the first to see her. The pace of her plunging slowed. Her eyes tracked Arista’s movements with interest. Nipper, having dropped his load, stood up and was in the process of brushing the snow off when he stopped in mid-stroke.

  “Ella—ah, forgive me, Your Highness.” Ibis Thinly was the first to speak.

  “Actually, I’d prefer Arista,” she replied. “I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping to maybe get a little soup?”

  Ibis grinned knowingly. “It can get cold up in them towers, can’t it? As it happens, I saved a pot of last night’s venison stew, froze it out in the snow. If that’s all right, I’ll have Nipper fetch it. I can heat it up in two shakes. It’ll warm you nicely, and how about some hot cider and cinnamon to go with it? Still got some that ain’t quite turned yet. It will have a bit of a bite, but it’s still good.”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful.”

  “I’ll have someone run it up to your chambers. You’re on the third floor, right?”

  “Ah, no. Actually, I was thinking of eating down here—if that’s okay?”

  Ibis chuckled. “Of course it is. Folks been doing that a good deal these days, and I’m sure you can eat anywhere that pleases you, ’cepting maybe the empress’s bedroom—course rumor has it you did that already.” He chuckled.

  “It’s just that”—she looked at the others, all of whom were watching and listening—“I thought I might not be welcome after… after lying to all of you.”

  The cook made a dismissive pfft sound. “You forget, we worked for Saldur and Ethelred. All they ever did was lie and they sure never scrubbed floors or emptied no chamber pots along with us. You take a seat at the table, Your Highness. I�
�ll get you that stew. Nipper, fetch the pot and get me the jug of cider too!”

  She took a seat as instructed and whether they agreed with Ibis’s sentiments or not, none of them said a word. They returned to work and only occasionally glanced at her. Lila even ventured a tiny smile and a modest wave before returning to her struggle with the bowls.

  “You’re Myron Lanaklin, aren’t you?” Arista asked, turning on her stool to face the monk and the dog.

  He looked up, surprised. “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Arista. I believe you know my brother, Alric?”

  “Of course! How is he?”

  “He’s fine. Haven’t you seen him? He’s just upstairs.”

  The monk shook his head.

  No longer being scratched, Red opened his eyes and looked at Myron with a decidedly disappointed expression.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Myron declared. “I’ve never seen a dog this big. I didn’t know what he was at first. I thought he might be a shaggy breed of deer that they housed in the kitchen, much like we used to keep pigs and chickens at the abbey. I was so happy to discover he was not a future meal. His name is Red. He’s an elkhound. Although, I think his days of hunting wolves and boar are over. Did you know that in times of war, they can take knights down off horses? They kill their prey by biting the neck and crushing the spine, but really he’s not vicious at all. I come down here every day to see him.”

  “Do you always get up this early?”

  “Oh, this isn’t early. At the abbey this would be lazy.”

  “You must go to sleep early, then.”

  “Actually, I don’t sleep much,” he said as he resumed petting the dog.

  “Me neither,” she admitted. “Bad dreams.”

  Myron looked surprised. Again, he stopped stroking Red, who nosed his hand in protest. She thought he was about to say something, but then he returned his attention to the dog.

  “Myron, I’m wondering if you can help me?” she asked.

  “Of course. What are the nightmares about?”