Michael Sullivan - Percepliquis

A rustle in the thickets announced the approach of two figures from the mouth of the hole. Degan shuffled forward with Royce behind him. Gaunt looked sick, pale and sweaty such that his bangs stuck to his forehead.

Mawyndule turned to Lord Irawondona and announced in elvish, “ This is the heir of Nyphron. ” He then motioned toward Gaunt.

The elven lords and an old owl-helmed elf looked skeptically at Gaunt. They appraised him for several minutes, then spoke at length with Mawyndule. When they were finished, the elves, along with Mawyndule, returned up the hillside, leaving the party in the snow.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked.

“The challenge will begin at sunrise tomorrow,” Myron explained.

The elves made camp on the crest of the hill. The rest of them gathered outside the Hovel, which hid in the shelter of holly trees partway up the slope. Hadrian built a fire and asked the boys to gather more wood, which they did, restricting their search toward the bottom of the hill. The process was slow, as the boys continued to look over their shoulders toward the top of the hill.

Modina and the girls were permitted to join their own kind and she found a place for the girls near the fire before approaching Arista. She was dressed in a dark lavish gown and raised the hem to pick her way around the others.

“What’s going on?” the empress asked.

Arista reached out and took her hand the moment she was near. “It will be fine. Degan, as Novron’s last descendant, will fight tomorrow. If he wins, he’ll become ruler of the elves and they must obey him.”

Modina’s face was creased with worry. She looked at those circled around the fire. “If Degan loses, we have no hope. You have no idea what the elves are capable of. Aquesta was destroyed in just a few minutes. The walls fell and every building not made of stone has been burned. I’m afraid to even consider the number of dead. I tried, I tried everything, but… they walked through us with so little effort. If Degan fails…”

“He won’t fail,” Hadrian said. “Arista has a plan.”

“I can’t take the credit,” she said. “It was Esrahaddon’s idea. I think this was his intent from the moment he escaped Gutaria.”

“What is it?” the empress asked.

Arista and Hadrian exchanged looks before Arista said, “I can’t tell you.”

Modina raised her eyebrows.

“The Patriarch is really an elf and a very powerful wizard. He’s the one who challenged Degan. Apparently he has the ability to eavesdrop on conversations like this one.”

Modina nodded. “Then don’t say a word. I trust you. You haven’t let me down yet.”

“How are the girls?” Arista asked.

“Frightened. Allie has been asking about her father and Elden. I assume they are…”

“Yes, they were killed. As was my brother.”

Modina nodded. “I’m sorry. If there is anything I…” The empress choked up and paused. She wiped her eyes. “Dear, sweet Maribor, I swear Gaunt can have the throne and I will go back to farming for the rest of my life and be content with an empty stomach if only he can win. I want you to know that we are all in your debt for what you have done, for the sacrifices of Alric, Wyatt, and Elden. Whatever happens tomorrow, you are all heroes today.”

Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin took Gaunt aside for some last-minute sparring tips. Arista focused her attention on the hilltop, where multicolored tents rose to the sounds of alien voices singing ancient songs. The tension around the fire was palpable. Out of everyone, except perhaps Gaunt, Monsignor Merton showed the greatest anxiety. He sat on an upturned bucket, staring into the fire. Before long Myron sat beside him and the two had a lengthy talk.

Myron was the only one who showed no signs of concern. After speaking to Merton, he spent his time with the boys, discovering how they had built the Hovel and asking numerous questions about how the horses had fared while they were gone. They told him how the cold cracked their spit and the monk marveled at their tales. He helped them cook a fine dinner and generally kept the boys busy with chores both in preparation and cleanup.

The sun set and darkness enveloped them save for the light of the campfire. It was not unlike the one Arista had sat beside less than a year earlier and very close to the same spot. A little farther up the slope, perhaps. So much had happened, so much had changed since the night she had ridden with Etcher. Amberton Lee was a different place now. With him she had felt lost in the wilderness. Now she was at the center of the world. Ancient stones upon the Lee Dusts of memories gone we see Once the center, once the all Lost forever, fall the wall.

She too was different. Perhaps they all were.

“Why don’t you and the girls bed down in the shelter there?” Hadrian said to Modina, seeing the girls yawning. “You don’t mind, do you, boys?”

They all shook their heads, staring, as they had been for some time, at the empress.

“Where will Degan sleep?” Modina asked, looking across the fire to where Degan was repeating the girls’ yawns.

“Near the fire with the rest of us, I suppose,” Hadrian responded.

The empress lifted her voice and said, “Degan, you will sleep with me in the shelter tonight.”

Degan rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the offer-I do-but really this isn’t the night for-”

“I need you rested. The fate of our race depends on your victory tomorrow. The shelter is the most comfortable place. You will sleep there, do you understand?”

He nodded with an expression that showed no will to argue.

Modina stood, looked at Arista, and then embraced and kissed her. “Again, thank you.”

She went around the fire, thanking, embracing, and kissing each. Then, wiping her face, Modina returned to the shelter of the Hovel.

“Do you think it will work?” Arista asked Hadrian, who smirked. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. This was my idea, after all.”

“And a damn fine one at that. Have I mentioned how smart you are?”

She scowled at him. “I’m not that smart-you’re just blinded by love.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Her expression softened. “No.”

He sat propped against one of the trees and she lay down in his arms. When he squeezed her, she felt a weight lifted and she reveled in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Her eyes drifted to the stars. She wanted to tell them not to leave, to order the sun never to rise, because for this one moment everything was perfect. She could stay as she was, stay in Hadrian’s arms, and forget about what was to come.

“One of the great disappointments about living so long is that when the moment of triumph comes, there is no one to share it with,” Mawyndule said as he stepped into the ring of firelight, looking at them with a pleasant smile. His guards followed and placed his chair for him. Mawyndule sat, showing no disappointment with their glares.

Arista closed her eyes and reached out delicately. She sensed Mawyndule’s power. In her mind, magic appeared as a light in darkness. The oberdaza flickered like torches but Mawyndule burned like the sun. She avoided him and focused on his guards. They were not men or even elves. They were the same as the Gilarabrywn-pure magic.

“It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?” the old elf said. “And what a pitiful excuse for a fire.”

Mawyndule clapped his hands and the flames grew tall and bright. The boys jerked back in fear. Monsignor Merton got up and took several steps back, his eyes wide.

The old man held his hands out to the licking flames and rubbed them together. “Ah, much better. My old bones can’t take the cold like they used to.”

“Magic,” Merton whispered, “is forbidden by the church.”