Michael Sullivan: Percepliquis

Mercy came to an abrupt halt, tugging on Miranda’s arm.

“Honey, we need to…” She stopped upon seeing the girl’s face. The faint light of an early dawn revealed fear as Mercy stared ahead to where the road dipped toward a large stone bridge.

“There’s a light up ahead,” Arcadius said.

“Is it…?” Miranda asked.

The old teacher shook his head. “It’s a campfire-several, it looks like. More refugees, I suspect. We can join with them and the going will be easier. If I’m not mistaken, they are camped on the far bank of the Galewyr. I had no idea we’d come so far. No wonder I’m puffing.”

“There now,” Miranda said to the girl as they once more started forward. “See? Our troubles are already over. Maybe they will even have a wagon that an old man can ride in.”

Arcadius gave her a smirk but allowed himself a smile. “Things may be looking up at that.”

“We’ll be-”

The girl squeezed Miranda’s hand and stopped once more. Up the road, figures on horseback trotted toward them. The animals snorted white fog as their hooves drove through the iced tracks. The riders sat enveloped in dark cloaks. With hoods drawn up and scarves wrapped, it was difficult to determine much, but one thing was certain-they were just men. Miranda counted three. They came from the south but not from the direction of the campfires. These were not refugees.

“Who do you think?” Miranda asked. “Highwaymen?”

The professor shook his head.

“What do we do?”

“Hopefully nothing. With luck they are just good men coming to our aid. If not…” He patted his satchel grimly. “Get to those campfires and ask for shelter and protection. Then see to it that Mercy reaches Aquesta. Avoid the regents and try to tell the empress Mercy’s story. Tell her the truth.”

“But what if-”

The horses approached and slowed.

“What do we have here?” one rider asked.

Miranda could not tell who spoke, but guessed it was the foremost. He studied them while they stood still, listening to the deep throaty pant of the horses.

“Isn’t this convenient?” he said, and dismounted. “Of all the people in the world-I was just coming to see you, old man.”

The leader was tall and held his side gingerly, moving stiffly. His piercing eyes glared out from under his hood, his nose and mouth shrouded by a crimson scarf.

“Out for an early stroll in a snowstorm?” he asked, closing the distance between them.

“Hardly,” Arcadius replied. “We’re in flight.”

“I’m sure you are. Clearly if I had waited even a day, I would have missed you, and you might have slipped away. Coming to the palace was a foolish mistake. You exposed too much. And for what? You should have known better. But age must bring with it a degree of desperation.” He looked at Mercy. “Is this the girl?”

“Guy,” Arcadius said, “Sheridan is burning. The elves have crossed the Nidwalden. The elves have attacked!”

Guy! Miranda knew him, or at least his reputation. Arcadius had taught her the names of all the church sentinels. From the professor’s viewpoint, Luis Guy was the most dangerous. All sentinels were obsessed, all chosen for their rabid orthodoxy, but Guy had a legacy. His mother’s maiden name was Evone. She had been a pious girl who had married Lord Jarred Seret, a direct descendant of the original Lord Darius Seret, who had been charged by Patriarch Venlin to find the heir of the Old Empire. In the realm of heir hunters, Luis Guy was a fanatic among fanatics.

“Don’t play me for a fool. This is the girl-child you spoke to Saldur and Ethelred about, isn’t it? The one you wanted to groom as the next empress. Why would you do that, old man? Why pick this girl? Is this another ruse? Or were you actually trying to slip her past us? To atone for your mistake.” Guy crouched down to get a better look at Mercy’s face. “Come here, child.”

“No!” Miranda snapped, pulling Mercy close.

Guy stood up slowly. “Let go of the child,” he ordered.

“No.”

“Sentinel Guy!” Arcadius shouted. “She’s just a peasant girl. An orphan I took in.”

“Is she?” He drew his sword.

“Be reasonable. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I think I do. Everyone was so focused on Esrahaddon that you went by unnoticed. Who could have imagined that you would point the way to the heir not just once, but twice?”

“The heir? The Heir of Novron? Are you insane? Is that why you think I spoke to the regents?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He shook his head, an amused smile on his face. “I came because I suspected they hadn’t thought about the question of succession, and I wanted to help educate the next imperial leader.”

“But you insisted on this girl-only this girl. Why would you do that unless she really is the heir?”

“That makes no sense. How could I know who the heir is? Or even if an heir still lives?”

“How indeed. That was the missing piece. You are actually the only one who could know. Tell me, Arcadius Latimer, what did your father do for a living?”

“He was a weaver, but I fail to see-”

“Yes, so how did the poor son of a weaver from a small village become the master of lore at Sheridan University? I doubt your father even knew how to read, and yet his son is one of the most renowned scholars in the world? How does that happen?”

“Really, Guy, I would not think I would need to explain the merits of ambition and hard work to someone such as you.”

Guy sneered back. “You disappeared for ten years, and when you came back, you knew a lot more than when you left.”

“You’re just making things up.”

Guy smirked. “The church doesn’t let just anyone teach at their university. Did you think they didn’t keep records?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t think you’d see them.” The old man smiled.

“I’m a sentinel, you idiot! I have access to every archive in the church.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think my scholastic examination would be of any interest. I was a rebel in my youth-handsome too. Did the records indicate that?”

“It said you found the tomb of Yolric. Who was Yolric?”

“And here I thought you knew everything.”

“I didn’t have time to linger in libraries. I was in a hurry to catch you.”

“But why? Why are you after me? Why is your sword out?”

“Because the Heir of Novron must die.”

“She’s not the heir. Why do you think she is? How could I even know who the heir was?”

“Because that is one of the secrets you brought back. You discovered how to locate the heir.”

“Bah! Really, Guy, you have quite an imagination.”

“There were other records. The church called you in for questioning. They thought you might have gone to Percepliquis like that Edmund Hall fellow. And then, only days after that meeting, there was a fight in the city of Ratibor. A pregnant mother and her husband were killed. Identified as Linitha and Naron Brown, they and their child were executed by Seret Knights. After centuries of looking, I find it interesting that my predecessor managed to locate the Heir of Novron just days after the church interrogated you.” Guy glared at the professor. “Did you make a deal with the church? Did you trade information in exchange for freedom? I’m sure they told you they wanted to find the heir so they could make him king again. When you discovered what they really did, I imagine you felt used-the guilt must be awful.”

Guy paused for Arcadius to respond but the professor said nothing.

“After that everyone thought the bloodline had ended, didn’t they? Even the Patriarch had no idea another heir still lived. Then Esrahaddon escapes and he goes straight to Degan Gaunt. Only Degan isn’t the heir. I was fooled for a long time too, but imagine my shock when he failed the blood test that he previously passed. No doubt the result of the same potion Esrahaddon used on King Amrath and Arista that made Braga suspect the Essendons. I suppose, looking back on it, we should have guessed a wizard of the Old Empire wasn’t a fool and would never lead us to the real heir.