Percepliquis Read online

  He stared at her now with a desperate look on his face—a pained expression, as if somehow she were torturing him.

  “I didn’t want you to die,” she said simply. “I didn’t really think beyond that. You were dying and I could save you, so I did.”

  “But you could have died—couldn’t you?”

  She shrugged.

  Magnus continued to glare at her as if he might either attack her or burst into tears.

  “Why is this such a problem for you? Aren’t you happy to be alive?”

  “No!” he shouted.

  Over his shoulder, she saw Myron and Gaunt still staring, but now with concerned faces.

  “You should have let me die—you should have let me die. Everything would have been fine if you had just let me die.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why would it have been better?”

  “I don’t deserve to live, that’s why. I don’t and now…” A dark expression came over him and he looked back out at the sea.

  “What? What happens now?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve hated you for so long.”

  “Me?” she asked, shocked. “What did I—”

  “All of you—humans. The water flooded the caverns, so we came to you for help—not a handout, but a fair trade, work for payment. You agreed and to a fair price. Then you herded us into the Barak Ghetto in Trent. We mined the Dithmar Range and you paid us all right, then came the taxes. Taxes for living in your filthy shacks, taxes on what we bought and sold, taxes on crops we raised, taxes for not being members of the Nyphron Church—taxes for being dwarves. Taxes so high a number of us turned their backs on Drome to worship your god, but still you did not accept us. You denied us the privilege to carry weapons, to ride horses. We worked night and day and still did not make enough to feed ourselves. We fell into your debt and you made slaves of us. Your kind whipped my kin to make us work, and killed us when we tried to leave. They called us thieves, just for trying to be free.” He shook his head miserably. “My whole family—Clan Derin—slaves to humans.” He spat the words. “The elves never treated us that badly. And it wasn’t just my family, it was all the dwarves.”

  He hooked a thumb at Myron. “He knows. He told you how centuries ago the dwarves helped you, saved you when you were desperate. And how did you repay us? Tell me, Princess, can a dwarf be a citizen in Melengar?” He did not wait for her answer. “Dwarves are never granted citizenship anywhere. Without it you can’t practice a trade. You can’t join a guild or open a business. You can’t legally work at all. And even in Melengar you put us in the most vile corners, the downhill alleys where all the sewage runs, where the shacks are rotting, and where on a warm day you can’t breathe. That’s what you’ve done to us—to dwarves. My great grandfather worked on Drumindor!” He straightened up as he spoke the name of the ancient dwarven fortress. “Now humans defile it.”

  “Not anymore,” she reminded him.

  “Good for them, you deserve what you got.”

  He placed his hands on the rail and stared down the side of the ship.

  Myron left Gaunt alone with the rope to listen.

  “I’m the last of Clan Derin—the only one to escape—a fugitive, an outlaw because I chose to be free. They hunted me for years. I got good at disappearing. You found that out too, didn’t you?

  “Your people disgraced and killed mine. Your kind never did anything unless it was for profit—and you call us greedy! I’ve heard your tales of evil dwarves kidnapping, killing, imprisoning—but that was all your doing. Why would a dwarf kidnap a princess or anyone? That was you using us as an excuse for your own sins.

  “Every few years, knights would come into the ghettos and burn them. Those so-called defenders of the law and decency would come in the middle of the night and set fire to our miserable shacks in the dark—and always in winter.”

  He turned and faced her once more. “But you…” He sighed, his eyes losing their fire, fogging instead with bewilderment and weariness. “You risked yourself and saved my life. It doesn’t make sense.”

  He sat down, looking exhausted. “I’ve hated you for so long and you go and do this.” He put his face in his hands and began to rock forward and back.

  “Maybe,” Myron said, coming behind the dwarf and placing a hand on his back. “Maybe Magnus did die.”

  The dwarf looked up and scowled.

  “Maybe you should let him die,” the monk added. “Let the hate, fear, and anger die with him. This is a chance to start over. The princess has given you a new life. You can choose to live it any way you want starting right now.”

  The dwarf lost his scowl.

  “It’s scary, isn’t it?” Myron said. “Imagining a different life? I was scared too, but you can do it.”

  “He’s right,” Arista said. “This could be a new start.”

  “That all depends,” Magnus replied, “and we’ll find out soon enough.”

  The dwarf stood up.

  “Royce!” he shouted. “Come down a second.”

  The thief looked irritated but grabbed a line and slid down, touching the deck lightly.

  “What is it? I can’t leave Mauvin up there alone, and I’m not feeling very well as it is.”

  Magnus held out Alverstone. “Take it back.”

  Royce narrowed his eyes. “I thought you wanted it.”

  “Take it. You might need it—sooner than you think.”

  Royce took the dagger suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

  Magnus glanced at Arista, and Myron, and lastly at Gaunt, who had finally secured the jib and walked over.

  “Before we left Aquesta, I made a bargain with the Patriarch.”

  “What kind of bargain?” Royce asked.

  “I was supposed to kill Degan after we found the horn, but before we left the caves. I was hired to kill him and return the horn to His Grace.”

  “You planned to betray us—again?” Royce asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You were going to kill me?” Gaunt asked.

  Royce stared at Magnus and looked down at the dagger.

  Myron and Arista watched him closely, tense, waiting.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The dwarf hesitated briefly. “Because… Magnus died before he could go through with it.”

  Royce stared at the dwarf, turning Alverstone over and over in his hands and pursing his lips. He glanced at Arista and at Myron, then nodded. “You know, I never did like that short son of a bitch.” He held out the dagger. “Here, I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

  Magnus did nothing for several minutes but stare at the dagger. He seemed to have trouble breathing. He finally stood up straight. “No.” The dwarf shook his head. “Magnus thought—when you gave him that dagger—it was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. He was wrong.”

  Royce nodded and slipped Alverstone back into the folds of his cloak. He gripped the rope and began to climb.

  Magnus stood looking lost for a moment.

  “Are you all right?” Myron asked.

  “I don’t know.” He looked down at the deck. “If Magnus died, then who am I?”

  “Whoever you want to be,” the monk said. “It’s a pretty wonderful gift.”

  “How far are we?” Arista asked Hadrian, sitting down on the wheel box beside him. The fighter was still grappling with the ship, still struggling to keep its sails balanced.

  “Not sure, but judging from the last crossing, we should see land in the next hour, unless Royce and I messed up really bad on the course or I wreck us. Too far this way and the sails collapse and we lose headway, which means we can’t steer. Too far the other way and the wind will flip us. Wyatt made this look so easy.”

  “Is it true what Magnus told me? Did you really find them?”

  Hadrian nodded sadly. “He was a good man—they both were. I keep thinking of Allie. They were the only family she had. Now what’s going to happen t
o her?”

  She nodded. So much death, so much sadness there were times she felt she might drown. Overhead the canvas fluttered, like the sheet of a maid making up a bed. The rings rattled against the poles and the waves crashed into the hull.

  She watched Hadrian standing at the wheel, his chin up, his back straight, and his eyes watching the water. The breeze blew back his hair, showing a worn face, but not hard or broken. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the muscles of his forearms stood out. She noted several scars on his arms. Two looked new—red and raised. His hands were broad and large, and his skin so tanned that his fingernails stood out lighter. He was a handsome man, but this was the first time she had really noticed. His looks were not what attracted her. It was his warmth, his kindness, his humor, and how safe it felt to sit beside him on a cold, dark night. Still, she had to admit that he was a handsome man in his tattered, coarse cloth and raw leather. She wondered how many women had noticed, and how many he had known. She glanced back across the sea behind them; the crypt of emperors seemed very far away.

  “You know, we really haven’t had a chance to talk since getting out.” She looked at the waves breaking at the bow. “I mean—you said some things in there that—well, maybe they were only meant for in there. We both thought we were dying and people can—”

  “I meant every word,” he told her firmly. “How about you, do you regret it?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “When I woke up, I thought it might have been a beautiful dream. I never really considered myself the kind of woman men wanted. I’m pushy, controlling, I butt into places I shouldn’t, and I have far too many opinions on far too many subjects—subjects women aren’t supposed to be interested in. I never even bothered to try to make myself more appealing. I avoided dances and never presented myself with my hair up and neckline down. I don’t have a clue about flirting.” She sighed and ran a hand over her matted hair. “I never cared how I looked before, but now… for the first time I’d like to be pretty… for you.”

  “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “Oh, wait.” Hadrian reached over to his backpack. “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it and hold out your hands.”

  She did as instructed, feeling a bit silly as she heard him rummaging through his pack, then silence. A moment later she felt something in her hands. Her fingers closed and she knew what it was before she opened her eyes. She began to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Hadrian asked in a sudden panic.

  “Nothing,” she said, wiping the tears away and feeling foolish. She had to stop this. He was going to think she cried all the time.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “It’s okay. I’m happy.”

  “You are?” Hadrian asked skeptically.

  She nodded, smiling at him as tears continued to run down her cheeks.

  “It’s not worth getting all that excited over, you know. Everything else in that place was gold and encrusted in jewels. I’m not even sure this is real silver. I was actually so disappointed that I considered not giving it to you, but after what you said—”

  “It’s the most wonderful gift you could have given me.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “It’s just a hairbrush.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “It really is.”

  CHAPTER 25

  THE ARRIVAL

  Modina faced the Gilarabrywn. She waited for it to attack, to kill her and the rest of her family. But the beast did none of those things. The monster stared at her for a moment, then spread its wings and lifted off, flying away.

  They all waited, staring out through the missing wall.

  “Horses,” someone said, and soon Modina also heard the sound of trotting hooves.

  Twelve elves rode on white mounts. They wore lion helms and long purple capes that draped over the back of their mounts. Drawing off their helms in unison, they revealed long white hair, sharp pointed ears, angled brows, and luminous eyes of green, as if a magical fire burned within.

  The lead rider looked about the shattered ruins of the castle; the mere turning of his head revealed a startling, unworldly grace and it was easy to understand how they were once thought to be gods. His eyes settled on Modina, and Amilia wondered how she could manage to stand beneath his stare.

  “Er un don Irawondona fey Asendwayr. Susyen vie eyurian Novron fey Instayria?” he said. His voice sounded like the ringing of fine crystal.

  Modina continued to stare back at the elf.

  Nimbus rose and, moving to Modina’s side, replied, “Er un don Modina vie eyurian Novron fey Instayria.”

  The elf stared at Modina for a long moment, then dismounted, his movements as fluid as silk blowing in the wind. Amilia thought his expression was filled with contempt, but she knew nothing about elves.

  “What did you two say?” Modina asked.

  “He introduced himself as Lord Irawondona of the Asendwayr tribe. He said the Gilarabrywn heard your claim and came to ask if you were in fact the daughter of Novron. I told him yes.”

  “Vie eyurian Novron un Persephone, cy mor guyernian fi hyliclor Gylindora dur Avempartha sen youri? Uli Vermar fie veriden ves uyeria! Ves Ferrol boryeten.”

  “He asks, if you are the daughter of Novron and Persephone, why have you not presented the horn for challenge at Avempartha? He says that the Uli Vermar ended some time ago and by failing to present the horn you stand in violation before Ferrol.”

  “Vie hillin jes lineia hes filhari fi ish tylor baliyan. Sein lori es runyor ahit eston.”

  “He says that by not producing the horn, your violation releases them from all treaties, agreements, and requirements to abide your commands.”

  “Tell him I’m in the process of retrieving the horn.”

  Nimbus spoke in the musical language and the elven lord replied.

  “He insists that you must present it at once.”

  Nimbus spoke again, and the elf turned and consulted with one of the mounted riders.

  “I explained that it was in the ancient city of Percepliquis and would be brought here soon. I hope that I did not overstep my—”

  Modina took Nimbus’s face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. “I love you, Nimbus.”

  The chancellor looked befuddled and, stepping back, checked to see if his wig was on straight.

  “He is coming back,” Amilia told them.

  Once more Nimbus did the talking. There appeared to be some kind of minor dispute and once the elven lord looked over Nimbus’s shoulder at the girls sitting on the floor, then nodded. With the tone of general agreement, the elf remounted his horse and rode back out of the courtyard with the others.

  “What?” Modina asked.

  “They have decided not to wait and will go to Percepliquis to meet the horn. Should you be telling the truth, they will hold the challenge ceremony there. If you are lying, Irawondona will claim his right to rule through default. I presume that will mean they will continue in their march to rid the world of mankind. Either way you must go with them.”

  “When?”

  “You have just enough time to grab a change of clothes, I think. I tried to arrange a small retinue, but they refused. I did manage to gain agreement for the girls to go. Allie deserves to be with her father when he returns and Mercy will comfort her if he does not. I told him they were your daughters.”

  “Thank you, Nimbus, you may very well have saved all our lives.”

  “I fear it may only be a stay of execution.”

  “Not if Arista succeeds, and every day granted to us is another day to hope.”

  Mince climbed out of the Hovel, pulling his hood up and yawning. The others had kicked him awake, as it was his turn to check the horses. The rule in their group had always been that those who worked ate. It was a simple rule, with little room for interpretation, but early on a cold winter’s morning, when he was bundled in blankets and half-asleep, the thought of goin
g outside in the wind and snow made forgetting even simple rules easy. Finally he had relented, knowing they would just kick him harder.

  He stood up and stretched his back as he did every morning, thinking about how old he was getting. It was still early, and the sun was only now breaching the tree line, casting sharp angles of golden light in slants, making the snow crystals glimmer. It was warmer, but the night’s chill still lingered. He decided it was the wetness that made it feel worse; at least when it was cold, the air and even snow were dry.

  Mince walked to the line of horses waiting for him. He knew them all by name and they knew him. Each of their heads turned, their ears rotating his way. They were lucky. The bitter cold had ended abruptly and none of the horses had died. Even the one Mince was certain had stopped breathing survived.

  “Morning, ladies and gents,” he greeted them as he did each day, with a nod of his head and a wave of his hand. “How are we this miserable excuse of a day, huh? What’s that, Simpleton? You don’t agree? You think it is a fine day, you say? Much warmer than yesterday morn? Well, I don’t know if I can agree with you, sir. What’s that, Mouse? You agree with Simpleton? Hmm, I don’t know. It just seems… too quiet—far too quiet.”

  It did. Mince stood still with his feet in the slush and listened. There were no wind or sound. It was a strange sort of stillness, as if the world were dead.

  Perhaps it is.

  Who knew what had happened up north, or to the south, for that matter.

  What if they are all dead now? What if the four of us are all that are left?

  A crow cawed in a nearby tree; the stark call made the silence desolate. A sense of emptiness and loss hung in the air. Mince felt the line tethering the horses, making sure it was still secure, then pulled open the feed bags. Normally they jostled each other, trying to stick their noses in, but this morning something drew their attention. The horse’s heads turned, their ears twitching to the left, their big eyes peering.