Percepliquis Page 46

  The old man bit into a leg of duck and sat back with a glass of wine in his other hand. He leaned on one arm of the chair and looked up toward the stars. He followed the duck with a fresh strawberry and swooned. “Oh, you’ve got to try one of these. They’re perfect. That’s the problem with the real thing—you can never find them at their peak. Or they’re too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”

  He licked his fingers and looked at them. No one moved.

  “It was you,” Merton said at last. “The one you spoke of at the cathedral, the ancient enemy controlling everything.”

  “Of course,” the old man said. “I told you that if you thought hard enough, you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” He picked a grape this time but grimaced as he chewed. “See, I’m not nearly as good at these. Far too sour.”

  “You are evil.”

  “What do you know of evil?” Mawyndulë’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”

  “I do,” Royce said.

  Mawyndulë peered at the thief and nodded. “Then you know that evil is not born, but created. I was turned into what I have become. The council did that to me. They made me believe what they said. They put the dagger in my hand and sent me out with words of blessing. Elders who I revered, who I respected and trusted as the wisest of my people, told me what needed to be done. I believed them when they said the fate of our race was upon me. Back then, we were as you are now, a flickering flame in a growing wind. Nyphron had taken Avempartha. The council convinced me that I was our nation’s last hope. They told me my father was too stubborn to make peace and that he would see us all die. As long as he breathed, as long as he was king, we were doomed. No one dared move against him, as the murderer would pay first in this life and then in the next.”

  Mawyndulë plucked another strawberry but hesitated to eat. He held it between his fingers, rolling it.

  “Ten priests of Ferrol swore I would be absolved. Because the existence of the elven race was at stake, they convinced me that Ferrol would see me as a savior, not a murderer. The council agreed to support me, to waive the law. They were so sincere and I was… so young. As my father died, I saw him cry, not for himself but for me, because he knew what they had done, and what my fate would be.”

  “Why are you here?” Arista asked.

  Mawyndulë seemed to have just become aware of them around him. “What?”

  “I asked why you were here. Won’t they allow you in the elven camp? Are you still an outcast?”

  Mawyndulë glanced over his shoulder. “After I am king, they will accept me. They will do whatever I say.”

  He shifted in his seat and stroked one of the long arms of the chair. It was of unusual design but strangely familiar in shape. It was not until he moved that Arista realized she had seen similar ones in Avempartha. The Patriarch had brought his own chair with him—not from Aquesta, not from Ervanon, but from home.

  He hasn’t touched anything but that chair.

  She imagined Mawyndulë sealed in the Crown Tower, living in isolation, surrounded by elven furnishing, doing what he could to separate himself.

  Mawyndulë looked over to where Magnus sat. “I would have honored our agreement, dwarf. Your people could have had Delgos once more. I have no use for that rock. Of course, now I will have to kill you. As for the rest, you’ve done me a great service by retrieving the horn and for that I am tempted to let you all live. I could make you court slaves. You will be wonderful novelties—the last humans! A shame you die so quickly, but I suppose I could breed you. The princess looks healthy enough. I could raise a small domestic herd. You could perform at feasts. Oh, don’t look so distraught. It’s better than dying.”

  Mauvin’s expression hardened and Arista noticed the muscles on his sword arm tighten. She threw him a stern look. He glared back but relaxed.

  “Why bother to create the New Empire,” Arista asked quickly, “just to destroy it?”

  “I broke Esrahaddon’s spell and released the Gilarabrywn from Avempartha to show my brothers how weak the human world is, to encourage them to march the moment the Uli Vermar ended. Others took it upon themselves to use the occasion to their advantage. Still, I took advantage of Saldur, Galien, and Ethelred’s blundering to press for the eradication of the half-breeds. While my word will be undisputed as king, killing any who bear even a small amount of elven blood might not be popular with my kin once I assume the throne. And I cannot abide having their abomination survive. I was the one who started the idea that elves were slaves in the Old Empire. It made it easier, you see—it is so simple to hate those you feel are inferior.”

  “You’re so sure of yourself,” Mauvin said. “This protection of Ferrol is some sort of religious blessing. Placed on you by your god. It’s supposed to prevent anyone—other than Gaunt—from harming you, right? Thing is, a week ago Novron was a god too. Turns out that was just a lie. A story invented to control us. So what if this is too? What if Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor are all just stories? If it is, I could draw my sword and cut through that miserable throat of yours and save everyone here a lot of trouble.”

  “Mauvin, don’t,” Arista said.

  Mawyndulë chuckled. “Ever the Pickering, aren’t you? Go on, dear count. Swing away.”

  “Don’t,” Arista told him firmly.

  Mauvin’s eyes showed that he was considering it, but the count did not move.

  “You are wise to listen to your princess.” He paused. “Oh, but I forget, you’re his queen, aren’t you? King Alric is dead. You left him down there, didn’t you? Abandoned him to rot. What poor help you turned out to be.”

  “Mauvin, please. Let it go. He’ll be dead tomorrow.”

  “Do you really think so?” Mawyndulë snapped his fingers and a huge block of stone making up a portion of the ruins exploded, throwing up a cloud of dust. Everyone jumped.

  The old man laughed and said, “I don’t agree with your assessment. I think the odds are decidedly in my favor. It’s a shame, though, that there will be so few of you left.” He paused to look them over. “Is this all that survived? A queen, a count, a thief, the Teshlor, and…” He looked at Myron. “Who exactly would you be?”

  “Myron,” he said with his characteristic smile. “I’m a Monk of Maribor.”

  “A Monk of Maribor, indeed—the heretical cult. How dare you worship something other than an elf?” He smirked. “Didn’t you just hear your friend? Maribor is a myth, a fairy tale to make you think that life is fair or to provide the illusion of hope. Man created him out of fear, and ambitious men took advantage of that fear—I know of what I speak. I created an entire church—I created the god Novron out of the traitor Nyphron and a religion out of ignorance and intolerance.”

  Myron did not look concerned. He listened carefully, thoughtfully, then recited: “ ‘Erebus, father unto all that be, creator of Elan, divider of the seas and sky, brought forth the four: Ferrol, the eldest, the wise and clever; Drome, the stalwart and crafty; Maribor, the bold and adventurous; Muriel, the serene and beautiful—gods unto the world.’ ”

  “Do not quote me text from your cultish scriptures,” Mawyndulë said.

  “I’m not,” Myron said. “It’s yours—section one, paragraph eight of the Book of Ferrol. I found it in the tomb of Nyphron. I apologize if I did not get all the words correct. I am not entirely fluent in elvish.”

  Mawyndulë’s grin faded. “Oh yes, I recall your name now. You are Myron Lanaklin from the Winds Abbey. You were the one left as a witness while the other monks were burned alive, is that right? That incident was Saldur’s doing—he had a fetish for burning things—but you are as much to blame, aren’t you? You forced him by refusing to reveal what you knew. How do you live with all that guilt?”

  “Seemingly better than you live with your hatred,” Myron replied.

  “You think so?” Mawyndulë asked, and leaned forward. “You’re about to become a slave while I am about to be crowne
d king of the world.”

  His attempt at intimidation had no effect on the monk, who, to Arista’s astonishment, leaned forward and asked, “But for how long? You are ancient, even by elven standards. How short-lived will your victory be? And at what cost will you have achieved that which you think is so great? What have you had to endure to reach this moment? You wasted your long life to obtain a goal you can’t possibly live to appreciate. If you hadn’t allowed hatred to rule you, you might have spent all those years in contentment and love. You could have—”

  “I’m already enjoying it!” Mawyndulë shouted.

  “You have forgotten so much.” Myron sighed with obvious pity. “ ‘Revenge is a bittersweet fruit that leaves the foul aftertaste of regret.’—Patriarch Venlin, The Perdith Address to the Dolimins, circa twenty-one thirty-one.”

  “You are clever, aren’t you?” Mawyndulë said.

  “ ‘Clever are the Children of Ferrol, quick, certain, and dark their fate.’—Nyphron of the Instarya.”

  “Shut up, Myron,” Hadrian growled.

  Arista also saw the flare in the elf’s eyes but Myron appeared oblivious. To her relief, Mawyndulë did not strike out. Instead he stood and walked away. His two guards followed with the chair. The banquet vanished and the fire’s flames dwindled to mere embers.

  “Are you insane?” Hadrian asked Myron.

  “I’m sorry,” the monk said.

  “I’m not.” Mauvin clapped the monk on the back, grinning. “You’re my new hero.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE CHALLENGE

  Trumpets announced the gray light of the predawn.

  The elves had transformed the top of Amberton Lee overnight. Where once only the desolate remains of ancient walls and half-buried pillars stood, the crest of the hill now displayed seven great tents marked by shimmering banners. In the misty haze of melting snow, a low wall of intertwined brambles created an arena marked by torches that burned blue flames. Drums followed a loud fanfare and beat to an ominous rhythm—the heartbeat of an ancient people.

  Degan shivered in the cold, looking even worse than the night before. Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin fed him coffee that steamed like some magical draft. Gaunt clutched the mug with both hands and still the liquid threatened to spill from his shaking. Arista stood with her feet in the cold dew, every muscle in her body tense as she waited. Everyone waited. Aside from the three whispering last-minute instructions into Gaunt’s ear, no one else spoke. They all stood like stones on the Lee, unwilling witnesses.

  Modina waited with the girls, prepared to face what could be their last sunrise. The boys stood only a few feet from her with Magnus and Myron. The lot of them formed a straight line, uniformly standing with their arms folded across their chests—all eyes on Degan.

  Mawyndulë appeared relaxed as he sat in his chair, his legs outstretched and crossed, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The rest of the elves milled about in small groups, speaking in hushed, reverent tones. Arista guessed this was a sacred religious event for them. For those in her party, it was just terrifying.

  She turned when she heard Monsignor Merton say, “I know you have a good reason.” At first, she thought he was speaking to her, but when she saw him, his eyes were looking up. “But you have to understand I’m but the ignorant fool you made. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. Perish the thought. Who am I to pass judgment on your creation? Still, I hope you have enjoyed our talks. I am entertaining at least, aren’t I, Lord? You wouldn’t want to lose that, would you? Many of us are entertaining and it would be a shame if we disappeared altogether. Have you considered how you might miss us?” He paused as if listening, then nodded.

  “What did he say?” Arista asked.

  Merton looked up, startled. “Oh? What he always says.”

  She waited, but the monsignor never explained further.

  The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. The sky began to lighten and birds, newly returned to the north, began to sing. The faces of the men and elves grew more serious as the priest of Ferrol entered the ring with a thurible burning Agarwood incense. He began singing softly in elvish.

  Gaunt placed a hand to his chest, rubbed his shirt, and whispered to himself. Arista cringed and Hadrian said something sharply but quietly and Gaunt pulled his hand away. Arista glanced at Mawyndulë and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.

  Mawyndulë rose from his seat and walked toward Gaunt. He glanced to the eastern horizon. “Not long now,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

  The once Patriarch held out his hand. Gaunt looked at it hesitantly but reached out to shake. Mawyndulë was quick and nimble and he tore Gaunt’s collar wide, revealing the medallion hanging there. He staggered backward as Hadrian and Royce quickly pulled Gaunt away. Mawyndulë sneered and glanced at Arista, then Hadrian, and lastly Myron. He looked about quickly, nervously.

  “Not long now,” Royce reminded him. “And how will you fare when your magic is useless?”

  Mawyndulë smiled and with clenched teeth he began to laugh.

  “Muer wir ahran dulwyer!” Mawyndulë shouted suddenly. All the elves turned to face him. Everyone else looked at Myron.

  “He evokes the Right of Champion,” Myron said.

  “What does that mean?” Royce asked.

  “It means he asks for someone else to fight in his stead.”

  “Can he do that?” Arista asked.

  “Yes,” Myron replied. “Remember the inscription on the horn:

  Should champion be called to fight

  evoked is the Hand of Ferrol,

  Which protects the championed from all,

  and champion from all—save one—from peril.

  “If the champion wins, Mawyndulë will be king.”

  “Byrinith con duylar ben lar Irawondona!” Mawyndulë shouted and there was a loud murmur among the elves as they all turned to face the elven lord.

  “Oh damn,” Hadrian said. “He had to pick the big guy. I’m pretty sure he knows how to fight.”

  Lord Irawondona stepped forward in his shimmering armor. He said something that none of them could hear. Mawyndulë replied by nodding and Lord Irawondona raised his hands and shouted, “Duylar e finis dan iskabareth ben Mawyndulë!”

  “He just accepted,” Myron reported.

  Gaunt, who had been shaking his head, erupted, “I’m not fighting him. I’m supposed to fight the old guy, not this guy.”

  “Myron.” Arista spun the monk to face her. “Can Gaunt do the same? Can he pick a champion?”

  “Ah—yes. I believe so. It would only make sense, as the entire competition is designed for a fair contest between the opponents.”

  She watched Lord Irawondona remove his cloak. The elf looked imposing even from across the field. “Hadrian is the only one who has any chance of winning. Name him your champion. Myron, tell Gaunt the words he needs to say.”

  “They weren’t on the horn.”

  “You just heard him,” Royce reminded him. “Just repeat what you heard Mawyndulë say, and quickly.”

  “Oh, right. Muer wir ahran dulwyer,” Myron said.

  “Degan, say it! Say it loud!”

  “Muer wir—ah—ahran—ah—” Gaunt stumbled and hesitated.

  “Dulwyer,” Myron whispered.

  “Dulwyer!” Gaunt shouted.

  The heads of the elves turned.

  “Now the next line and substitute my name for Irawondona,” Hadrian said.

  Myron fed him the words and Gaunt recited them. The elves looked confused for a moment, until Gaunt pointed at Hadrian. Myron gave Hadrian the next line and Arista stood shaking as she heard him recite it aloud, accepting the role of Gaunt’s champion.

  “Degan,” she said, “give Hadrian the medallion back.”

  “But he said—”

  “I know what he said, and he’ll let you have it after the fight, but right now he needs all the help he can get. Give it to him now!” Degan tore the ch
ain off his neck and handed it to her.

  “Boys!” Hadrian shouted. “Fetch me that bundle near my blanket and the shield!”

  The four boys sprinted down the slope to the camp.

  “You can beat him, can’t you?” Arista asked while slipping the chain over his head. She was trembling. “You will beat him for me, won’t you? You can’t leave me like Emery and Hilfred. You know I couldn’t take that, right? You know that—you have to win.”

  “For you? Anything,” he said, and kissed her hard, pulling her to him.

  The boys returned and threw open the bundle, revealing the brilliant armor of Jerish Grelad. “Help me on with this,” Hadrian said, and everyone, including Degan and Myron, looked for ways to assist.

  An elf appeared before them, holding one of the strange halberd weapons they had seen images of in Percepliquis. He held it out to Hadrian.

  “You know how to use this?” Arista asked.

  “Never touched one before.”

  “Something tells me he has,” she said as across the field Lord Irawondona lifted his own halberd with both hands spread apart, holding it like a double-bladed quarterstaff. He spun it with remarkable speed such that the blades hummed.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Hadrian took a breath and turned to her. Their eyes met just at the moment the sun broke over the trees and shone on their faces. Hadrian looked beautiful, glimmering in his golden armor. He appeared like an ancient god reborn onto the world of man.

  The priest of Ferrol shouted something and neither needed Myron to translate.

  It was time.

  Arista found it hard to breathe and her legs grew weak as she watched Hadrian enter the ring of torches. He stepped to the center and waited, planting his feet in the packed snow and shifting his grip on the strange weapon.

  She looked at Mawyndulë and saw he was no longer smiling; his face showed concern as Irawondona entered the ring. The blue torches flared with his passing and the elven lord strode about the space casually, confidently.