Percepliquis Read online

  Modina ran to embrace Amilia the moment she climbed off her horse. “You made it!” she said, squeezing her. “And your family?”

  “They are on the wagons,” Amilia told her.

  “Bring them to the great hall. Are you hungry?”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “Then I will meet them and we will eat. I have people for you to meet as well. Nimbus!” Modina called.

  “Your Eminence.” The chancellor trotted to her side and Amilia hugged the beanpole of a man.

  Renwick could not see anymore as the army filled the street. He moved to the wall and climbed steps to the top of the gate, where Captain Everton was once more on duty, watching the progress of the army’s return below him.

  “Impressive, isn’t he?” Everton said to him as they watched the column from the battlements. “I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing Sir Breckton is here, and none too soon, I suspect.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t like the sky.”

  Renwick looked up. Overhead a dark haze swirled a strange mix of brown and yellow, a sickly soup of dense clouds that churned and folded like the contents of some witch’s brew.

  “That doesn’t look natural to me.”

  “It’s warmer too,” Renwick said, having just realized that he was outside without a cloak and not shivering. He breathed out and could not see his breath.

  He rushed to the edge of the battlement and looked southeast. In the distance, the clouds were darker still and he noticed an eerie green hue to the sky. “They are coming.”

  “Blow the horn,” Everton ordered as the last of the troops and wagons passed through. “Seal the gate.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE VAULT OF DAYS

  Running through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the swords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor—ten Teshlor Knights—screamed as their bodies ripped apart.

  She fell to her knees.

  “Emperor!” she cried. “I am here!”

  Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.

  “We must go,” she urged.

  The emperor shook his head. “The horn?”

  “I placed it in the tomb.”

  “My son?”

  “He is with Jerish. They have left the city.”

  “Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”

  She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.

  “Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”

  She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.

  “He is dead, then.” She heard the voice—so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.

  “And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you—you are the youngest of the council, a pup—you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art—my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support.”

  “That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are—murderer. You will not succeed.”

  “I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?”

  “I will die before telling you that.”

  “There are worse things than dying.”

  “I know,” she told him. “That’s why I choose death. Death for me, death for you…” She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. “Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last.”

  She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. “Maribor take us both,” she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.

  “He did it.”

  Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.

  She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with brass lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.

  Hadrian’s was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. “You’re awake at last,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

  Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.

  “You’re all right?” Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.

  “Just exhausted.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Five hours,” Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.

  “Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten,” she said, yawning.

  Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man—pale and withered—like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Sentinel Thranic,” Hadrian told her. “The last living member of the previous team. I’d introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall—nearly killed him.”

  “And he’s still alive?” Arista asked.

  “Don’t look at me. I haven’t stopped him,” Hadrian told her. “Hungry?”

  “I hate to say it, given the circumstances, but I’m famished.”

  “We thought you died,” Mauvin told her. “You stopped moving and even stopped breathing for such a long time. Hadrian slapped you a few times, but it did nothing.”

  “You hit me again?” She rubbed her cheek, feeling the soreness.

  He looked guilty. “I was scared. And it worked last time.”

  She noticed the bandage on Mauvin’s arm. “You’re wounded?”

  “More embarrassed than anything. But that’s bound to happen when you’re a Pickering fighting beside Hadrian. Doesn’t really hurt that much, honest.”

  “Hmm, let’s see.” She heard Hadrian rummaging around in a pack. “Would you like sal
t pork… or perhaps… let’s see now… how about salt pork?” he asked with a smile, handing a ration to her. She tore it open with shaking hands.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and she was surprised at the concern in his voice.

  “Just weak—like a fever broke, you know?” Hadrian did not indicate whether he knew, but sat watching her as if she might drop over dead any minute. “I’m fine—really.”

  Arista took a bite of the meat. The heavily salted and miserably dry pork was a joy to swallow, which she did almost without chewing.

  “Alric?” she asked.

  “He’s in the corridor,” Hadrian told her.

  “You haven’t buried him yet, have you?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Good, I would like to take him back to Melengar to be laid in the tomb of his fathers.”

  The others looked away, each noticeably silent, and she saw a disturbing grin stretch across Thranic’s face. The sentinel appeared ghoulish in the lantern light; his malevolence chilled her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t look like we will be getting back to Melengar,” Hadrian told her.

  “The horn isn’t here?”

  “Apparently it’s through that door, but we haven’t—”

  “Through that door is death,” Thranic told her. He spoke for the first time, his voice a hissing rasp. “Death for all the children of Maribor. The last emperor’s guardian watches the Vault of Days and will not suffer anyone’s passage.”

  “Guardian?” she asked.

  “A Gilarabrywn,” Hadrian told her. “A big one.”

  “Well, of course it’s big, if it’s a Gilarabrywn.”

  Hadrian smiled. “You don’t understand. This one is really big.”

  “Is there a sword? There has to be a sword to slay it, right?”

  Hadrian sighed. “Royce says there’s another door on the far side. Maybe it’s over there. We don’t know. Besides, you realize there’s no reason for the sword to be down here at all.”

  “We have to look. We have to…”

  The sword.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “Is the Gilarabrywn bigger than the one in Avempartha?”

  “A lot bigger.”

  “It would be,” she said, remembering her dream. “And the sword is there, on the far side of the room.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it… or at least, Esrahaddon did. Emperor Nareion created the Gilarabrywn himself. Esrahaddon enchanted the blade of the king’s sword with the name and Nareion conjured the beast. Only he did it with his own blood. He sacrificed himself in the making, adding power to the Gilarabrywn and assigning it the task of guarding the tombs where Esrahaddon hid the horn.”

  The sentinel eyed her curiously. “The Patriarch was not aware of its existence, nor did we realize it was there until we opened that door. No spell, no stealth, no army, no wishful thinking will grant anyone access to the room beyond. The quest for the horn ends here.”

  “And someone sealed the way out,” Gaunt reminded her. He reclined on his pack. His fur-lined houppelande, pulled tight to his chin, was torn and stained. His chaperon hat was a rumpled mess, the folds ripped and pulled down over his ears. The liripipe was missing altogether and Arista only then realized the same black cloth of Gaunt’s headdress wrapped Mauvin’s arm. “Which means we’re trapped in this room until we die of thirst or starvation. At least this bugger was able to live off goblins. What are we going to do, carve up each other?”

  “Don’t be so optimistic, Mr. Sunshine,” Mauvin told him. “You might just get our hopes too high, and then we’ll be disappointed in the end.”

  “We have to try something,” she said.

  “We will,” Hadrian assured her. “Royce and I don’t give up that easily—you know that—but you should rest more before we do anything. We might need you. By the way, what did you mean by ‘he did it’?”

  “What?”

  “When you woke up, you said, ‘He did it.’ It sounded important. Another one of your dreams?”

  “Oh, that, yeah,” she said, confused for a moment, trying to remember. Already the memory was fogged and blowing away. “It was Esrahaddon, he did this.”

  “Did what?”

  “All this,” she said, pointing up and whirling her hand around. “He destroyed the city—just like they said he did. You remember what I did at the stairs? Well, he was a bit more powerful. He collapsed the entire city, sunk and buried it.”

  “So he wasn’t kidding when he said he was better with hands,” Royce observed.

  “And the people?” Mauvin asked.

  “They were having a Founder’s Day celebration. The city was packed with people, all the dignitaries, all the knights and Cenzars, and… yes, he killed everyone.”

  “Of course he did!” Thranic shouted as best he could. “Did you think the church lied? Esrahaddon destroyed the empire!”

  “No,” she said. “He tried to save it. It was Patriarch Venlin who betrayed the emperor. He was behind it all. Somehow, he convinced the Teshlor and the Cenzar to join him. He wanted to overthrow the emperor, kill him and wipe out his entire family. I think it was his intention to become the new ruler. But Esrahaddon stopped him. He got the emperor’s son, Nevrik, out, then destroyed the city. I think he was trying to kill everyone associated with the rebellion, literally crushing all the enemies of Nevrik in one stroke. He expected to die along with them.”

  “But Esrahaddon survived,” Hadrian said.

  “So did Venlin,” she added. “I don’t know how. Maybe Yolric, or no—Venlin may have done something—cast some spell.”

  “The Patriarch was a wizard?” Hadrian asked.

  She nodded. “A very powerful one, I think. More powerful than Esrahaddon.”

  “That’s blasphemy!” Thranic said accusingly, and then fell into a coughing fit that left him exhausted.

  “He was so powerful that Esrahaddon never even considered fighting him. He knew he’d lose and Esra was capable of destroying this entire city and nearly everyone in it.”

  Arista paused and turned her head back the way they had come. “They were all out there, lining the streets. I think they were having a parade. Each of them singing, cheering, eating sweets, dancing, drinking Trembles, enjoying the spring weather—then it all ended.

  “I can still feel the chords Esrahaddon used. The deep chords, like the ones I touched on the ship just before you hit me. I barely touched those strings, but Esrahaddon played them loudly. His heart broke as he did it. A woman he loved lived in the city, a woman he planned to marry. He didn’t have time to get her out.”

  “This is larger than your loss! It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget—I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and—”

  Arista finally knew the unspoken words from their last meeting in the Ratibor mayoral office. Her hand touched the material of the robe as she remembered the way she had treated him. She had had no idea.

  As a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all—and sacrifices are always necessary.

  She stared at the floor, recalling the memory of the dream and the memories of the past, feeling sadness and loss. Beside her, Hadrian began humming a simple tune and then sang softly the words to the old song:

  Gala halted, city’s doom

  Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom

  Darkness sealed, blankets all

  Death upon them, fall the wall.

  Ancient stones upon the Lee

  Dusts of memories gone we see

  Once the center, once the all

  Lost forever, fall the wall.

  “I grew up believing it was all just nonsense, something kids made up. We used to join hands, forming lines, and sing that while
someone tried to pull the others down or break the line. If they did, they could take their place. We had no idea what any of it meant.”

  “Lies! All of it, lies!” Thranic shouted at them, straining to his knees. He was shaking, but Arista couldn’t tell if it was from weakness or rage—perhaps both.

  “I don’t think so,” Myron said from within a pile of scrolls.

  “You shouldn’t be reading those,” the sentinel snapped. “The church placed a ban on all literature found here. It is forbidden!”

  “I can see why,” Myron replied.

  “You are defying the Church of Nyphron by even touching them!”

  “Luckily, I am not a member of the Church of Nyphron. The Monks of Maribor have no such canon.”

  “You’re the one who ripped up these other scrolls,” Hadrian said accusingly.

  “They are evil.”

  “What was on them? What was so terrible? You were the one that burned the library. What are you trying to hide?” Hadrian thought a moment, then gestured toward the statue. “And what’s with the heads? You did that too. Not just this one, but all throughout the city. Why?”

  When Thranic remained silent, Hadrian turned to Myron. “What did you find out?”

  “Many things. The most significant is that elves were never enslaved by the empire.”

  “What?” Royce asked.

  “According to everything I’ve read since we’ve entered, elves were never enslaved. There’s overwhelming evidence that the elves were equal citizens—even revered.”