Michael Sullivan - Percepliquis

“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.

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“Do not quote me text from your cultish scriptures,” Mawyndule said.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

Mawyndule’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?” Mawyndule asked, and leaned forward. “You’re about to become a slave while I am about to be crowned 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!” Mawyndule 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?” Mawyndule 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, Mawyndule 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.”

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.

Mawyndule 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 Mawyndule and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.