Percepliquis Read online

  “Having read Hall’s journal,” the Patriarch said, “I believe you will need several skilled warriors, someone with historical knowledge of the city, someone with spelunking skills, and someone with sailing experience. I have already sent three teams on this very mission. Perhaps I—”

  “I know,” the empress said. “They all failed. Princess Arista will organize my team.”

  “If we could borrow Hall’s journal,” Arista said, “that would be of great assistance. I promise you’ll have it returned before the party sets out.”

  The Patriarch’s smile seemed to waver, but he nodded. “Of course. It is the least I can do.”

  Modina gestured toward Arista. “Your Highness, if you will…”

  The princess stood up and faced the table. Before she could talk, however, Sir Elgar got to his feet. “Hold on,” he said. “Are you saying we aren’t even going to try and fight them? We’re just going to sit here and wait for some fairy-tale horn that might not even exist anymore? I say we form ranks, march north, and hit them before they hit us!”

  “Your courage is commendable,” Sir Breckton said, “but in this instance foolish. We have no idea where our enemy is, the size or strength of their force, or their path of movement. Without even the faintest hint about our enemy we would be as a blind man fumbling around for a bear in the forest. And all attempts to discover anything about our foe have met with failure. I have sent dozens of scouts and few have returned.”

  “It seems wrong to just wait.”

  “We won’t just be waiting,” the empress said. “You can be assured that Sir Breckton has drawn up excellent plans for the defense of Aquesta, which I expect each of you to support. We have already begun overstocking the city with supplies and reinforcing the walls. We should not deceive ourselves: this war—this storm—is coming and we must be prepared for it. I assure you, we will stand, we will fight, and we will pray. As I find myself faced with annihilation, I am not above throwing support to even the thinnest promise. If there is a chance that finding this horn can save my people—my family—we must try. I will do whatever it takes to protect us. I would even make a deal with Uberlin himself if that is what is needed.”

  When she was done, no one said a word until she once more gestured toward Arista.

  The princess took a breath. “I have already discussed this with the empress. The team will be small, no more than twelve, I think. Two people must go. For the rest, I will ask for volunteers, starting from a list we have already prepared. I will speak with those on the list individually, in order to allow for the privacy of each person’s decision.”

  “And who are these two?” Murthas asked. “The ones that must go. Can we know their names?”

  “Yes,” Arista said. “They are Degan Gaunt and myself.”

  Several people spoke at once. Sir Elgar and the other knights laughed, and Alric started to protest, but by far the loudest voice in the room came from Degan Gaunt.

  “Are you insane?” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere! Why do I have to go? This is just another plot of the aristocracy to silence me. Can’t you see what this really is? This elven threat is a hoax, an excuse to oppress the common man once more!”

  “Sit down, Mr. Gaunt,” Modina said. “We’ll discuss this in private as soon as the meeting is over.”

  Gaunt dubiously sat down and slumped in his chair.

  The empress rose and the room went silent. “This concludes this meeting. Sir Breckton will begin by convening a war council here in one hour to specify in detail the reorganization of troops and the requisition of supplies and arms necessary to develop a proper defense for the city. Those not asked to join the Percepliquis party should meet back here at that time. In the future, Chancellor Nimbus and Secretary Amilia will be on hand in their offices to answer any additional questions. May Maribor protect us all.”

  The room filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and low conversations. Hadrian rose to his feet but stopped when he felt Arista’s hand on his arm.

  “We stay here,” she told him.

  He glanced up the length of the table as the kings and knights began filing out of the room. The empress made no indication of leaving, nor did Amilia or Nimbus. He even caught the spindling chancellor subtly patting the table with his hand, as further indication that Hadrian should sit back down. Alric and Mauvin stood but did not advance toward the exit.

  The Patriarch, flanked by his bodyguards, exited the hall. He looked back, nodding and smiling, his staff clicking on the stone. He was the last one out of the hall, and with a nod from Nimbus, guards closed the doors. A dull but—Hadrian felt—ominous thud echoed with their closing.

  “I’m going,” Alric told his sister.

  “But—” she started.

  “No buts,” he said firmly. “You went to meet with Gaunt against my wishes. You tried to free him from these dungeons instead of coming home. You even managed to be on hand when Modina slew the Gilarabrywn. I’m tired of being the one sitting home worrying. I may no longer have a kingdom, but I am still the king! If you go, I go.”

  “Me too,” Mauvin put in. “As Count of Galilin, it falls to me to keep both of you safe. My father would have insisted.”

  “I was just going to say, before you interrupted,” Arista began, “that you’re both already on the list. I’ll just check you both off as agreeing.”

  “Good.” Alric smiled triumphantly, folding his arms across his chest, then grinned at Mauvin. “Looks like we’ll make it to Percepliquis after all.”

  “And you can take me off your bloody list!” Degan Gaunt shouted. He was on his feet. “I’m not going!”

  “Please sit down, Degan,” Arista told him. “I need to explain.”

  Degan remained furious, his eyes wide, his hands tugging at his doublet and his tight collar. “You!” He pointed at Hadrian. “Are you just going to sit there? Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”

  “From what?” he asked. “They only want to talk.”

  “From the brutish manhandling of the common man by the rich aristocracy!”

  “That’s actually what we need to speak about,” Modina explained. “You are the true Heir of Novron, not I. That is why Ethelred and Saldur locked you up.”

  “Then why haven’t I been acknowledged? I’ve seen precious little benefit from that wondrous title. I should be the emperor—I should be on the throne. Why hasn’t my pedigree been announced? Why do you feel it is necessary to speak about my lineage in private? If I really am this heir, I should be sitting for my coronation right now, not going on some suicide mission. How stupid do you think I am? If I really were this descendant of a god, I would be too valuable to risk. Oh no, you want me out of the way so you can rule! I am an inconvenience that you have found a convenient way to dispose of!”

  “Your lineage hasn’t been announced for your own safety. If—”

  Gaunt cut Modina off. “My own safety? You people are the only ones that threaten me!”

  “Will you let her finish?” Amilia told him.

  Modina patted her hand and then continued. “The heir has the ability to unite the four nations of Apeladorn under one banner, but I have already accomplished that, or rather the late regents, Saldur and Ethelred, have. Through their diligent, misguided efforts, the world already believes the heir sits on the imperial throne. At this moment, we are in a war with an adversary we have little chance of defeating. This is no time to shake the people’s belief. They must remain strong and confident that the heir already rules. We must remain united in the face of our enemy. If we revealed the truth now, that confidence would be shaken and our strength destroyed. If we manage to survive, if we live to see the snow melt and the flowers bloom again, then you and I can talk about who sits on the throne.”

  Degan stood with less conviction now. He leaned on the table, pulling on his collar. “I still don’t see why I need to go on this loony trip into a buried city.”

  “The ability to unite the
kingdoms was thought to be the sum of the heir’s value, but we now believe it is trivial compared to your true importance.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your ability to both find and use the Horn of Gylindora.”

  “But I don’t know anything about this—this horn thingy. What is it I’m supposed to do, exactly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What will happen if I use it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I don’t know that I am going. You said that if everything works out, we’ll talk about who sits on the imperial throne, but I say we have that discussion now. I will go on this quest of yours, but in return I demand the throne. I want it in writing, signed with your hand, that I will be Emperor of Apeladorn upon my return, regardless of success. And I want two copies, one which I will take with me in case the other is somehow lost.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Alric declared.

  “Perhaps, but I won’t go otherwise.”

  “Oh, you’ll go,” Mauvin assured him with a smirk.

  “Sure, you can tie me up and drag me, but I’ll hang limp—a dead weight that will slow you down. And at some point you’ll need me to do something, which I assure you I will not. So if you want my cooperation, you will give me the throne.”

  Modina stared at him. “All right,” she said. “If that is your price, I will pay it.”

  “You’re not serious!” Alric exclaimed. “You can’t agree to put this—this—”

  “Careful,” Gaunt said. “You are speaking of your next emperor, and I remember slights against me.”

  “What will happen to Modina?” Amilia asked.

  Gaunt pursed his lips, considering. “She was a farmer once, wasn’t she? She can go back to that.”

  “Empress,” Alric began, “think about what you are doing.”

  “I am.” She turned to Nimbus. “Take Gaunt. Have the scribe write up whatever he wants. I will sign it.”

  Gaunt smiled broadly and followed the chancellor out of the hall. A silence followed. Alric started to speak several times but stopped himself and finally slumped in his seat.

  Arista looked at Hadrian and took his hand. “I want you to go.”

  Hadrian glanced at the door. “Being his bodyguard, I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

  She smiled, then added, “I also want Royce to come.”

  Hadrian ran a hand through his hair. “That might be a bit of a problem.” He looked toward Modina.

  “I have no objection,” she said.

  “We need the best team I can put together,” Arista added.

  “That’s right,” Alric said. “If ever there was a need for my miracle team, this is it. Tell him I’ll make it worth his time. I still have some fortune left.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “This time it won’t be about money.”

  “But you will talk to him?” Arista asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Hey,” Alric said to Arista, “why is it that you feel compelled to go? I never remember you having any interest in Percepliquis before.”

  “To be honest, I would rather not go, but it’s my responsibility now.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “Perhaps penance is a better word. You could say I am haunted.” Her brother did not appear to understand, but she did not elaborate. “We still need a historian. If only Arcadius had… but now…”

  “I know someone,” Hadrian said, picking up Hall’s journal. “A friend with an appetite for books and an uncanny memory.”

  Arista noded. “What about someone with sailing experience?”

  “Royce and I spent a month on the Emerald Storm. We know a little about ships. It’s a shame I don’t know where Wyatt Deminthal is, though. He was the helmsman on the Storm and a fantastic seaman.”

  “I’m familiar with Mr. Deminthal,” Modina said, drawing a curious look from Hadrian. “I’ll see if I can convince him to sign on.”

  “That just leaves the dwarf,” Arista said.

  “The what?” Hadrian stared at her.

  “Magnus.”

  “You’ve found him?” Alric asked.

  “Modina did.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Alric exclaimed. “Can we execute him before our departure?”

  “He’s going with you,” Modina told him.

  “He killed my father!” Alric shouted. “He stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer!”

  “While I can see your point, Your Majesty,” Hadrian said to Alric, “there is a more pressing issue. He nearly killed Royce twice. If he sees Magnus, the dwarf is dead.”

  “Then perhaps you should be the one to hang on to this.” Modina produced the white dagger and slid it down the table, where it came to rest, spinning slightly before Hadrian. “I know all about Magnus’s crimes. His obsession with Royce’s dagger caused him to make poor decisions, including the one that got him arrested when he tried to steal it from the storehouse. You are going underground, perhaps deep underground. There will be no maps or road signs and I can’t afford for you to get lost.”

  “Alric, Modina and I agree on this,” Arista said. “Remember he was my father as well. We are setting out on a journey that may decide the fate of our race! The elves don’t want to push us from our lands and lock us in slums. They plan to eradicate us. They won’t ever let us have a second chance to hurt them. If we don’t succeed, it’s over—all of it. No more Melengar, no more Warric, no more Avryn. We will cease to exist. If I must tolerate—even forgive—a murderer as payment for the safety of everyone and everything I’ve ever known… Why, I’d marry the little cretin if that was the modest price Maribor put on this prize.”

  There was a silence after the princess stopped speaking.

  “All right,” Alric said grudgingly. “I guess I can put up with him.”

  Hadrian reached out and picked up Alverstone. “I will definitely need to hold on to this.”

  “Wow,” Mauvin said, looking at Arista. “You’d marry him? That’s really sick.”

  “Supplies are being prepared,” Modina explained. “Food kits designed by Ibis Thinly will be packed along with lanterns, ropes, harnesses, axes, cloth, pitch, blankets, and everything else we can think of that you might need.”

  “Then we will leave as soon as the supplies are ready,” Arista declared.

  “So it’s settled.” Modina stood and all the others followed suit. “May Maribor guide your steps.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MARQUIS OF GLOUSTON

  Myron sat curled up on his bunk, bundled deep in several layers of blankets. He had his hood up and a candle in his hand, which hovered over a giant book spread across his knees. He shared Hadrian’s room in the knights’ dormitories. The room lacked a window and fireplace, leaving it dark as well as cold. Only a plain green drape covering one wall interrupted the drab space. Myron did not mind; he liked the room.

  He took his meals in the kitchen. Breakfast was early and supper late, working on abbey time. He visited Red, the elkhound, daily and said his prayers alone. In many ways, it reminded him of the abbey. He had expected he would be homesick by now, but the feeling never came. This surprised him at first, but home, he realized, was not so much a place as an idea that, like everything else, grew and blossomed along with the person. Being away gave him a new insight that the abbey was no longer his home—he carried his home with him now, and his family was not just a handful of monks.

  He forced his eyes to focus on the book before him. Lord Amberlin of Gaston Loo had just discovered that he was descended from the Earl of Gast, who had defeated the invading Lumbertons at the Battle of Primiton Tor. He had no idea who Lord Amberlin was nor who the Lumbertons might be, but it was fascinating just the same. Everything he read still fascinated him.

  A knock at the door caused him nearly to spill the candle. He put the book away and, opening up, was greeted by a familiar page.

  “My lord.”

  Myron smiled. The boy always called
him that, and Myron found each instance funny. “The lady Alenda requests an audience with you in the small east parlor. She is there now. Will you see her or shall I respond with a message?”

  Myron stood puzzled for a moment. “Lady who?”

  “The lady Alenda of Glouston.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Ah, I’ll go, but… ah, could you show me the way? I don’t know where the east parlor is.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  The page turned and began walking, leaving Myron to quickly close the door and trot after him. “What is Lady Alenda like?” Myron asked.

  The page glanced at him, surprised. “She’s your sister, my lord. At least, that is what she said.”

  “Yes, she is, but… Do you know what she wants?”

  “No, my lord. The lady Alenda did not say.”

  “Did she sound angry?”

  “No, my lord.”

  They reached the small parlor, with its hearty fire’s warm glow. The room was filled with many soft upholstered chairs and couches, lending the chamber a friendly feel. Rich tapestries depicting a hunt, a battle, and a spring festival covered the walls.

  Two women jumped to their feet the moment he entered. The foremost was dressed in a beautiful black gown of brocade with a high collar and tight bodice composed of many buttons, lace, and trimming. The second wore a much simpler, but nonetheless rich, black gown of kersey.

  Having spent almost his entire life in a monastery on top of a remote hill, Myron had met few people, and even fewer women—and none like these two. They were both as beautiful as a pair of deer.

  They promptly curtsied and Myron was not sure what that meant.

  Am I supposed to curtsy as well?

  Before he could decide, one of them spoke. “My lord,” the nearest woman said while still bent down. “I am your sister, Alenda, and with me is my maid Emily.”

  “Hello,” he said awkwardly. “I’m Myron.”

  He held out his hand. Alenda, still in full curtsy, looked up, confused. She spotted his outstretched arm and gave an odd glance to the other woman before taking it. She kissed the back of his hand.