Michael Sullivan - Percepliquis

“I used to sit for hours too,” the monk said, his voice soft, just a tad above a whisper. “I used to remember things… times and places, both good and bad. I would see something that reminded me of my past and wish I could go back. I wished I could be the way I used to be, even if that meant pain. Only I could never find my way around the wall. Do you know what I mean by the wall?”

Royce refused to answer. Myron did not seem to mind.

“After the burning of the abbey, I never felt whole again. Half of me was missing-gone-more than half. What was left was lost, like I didn’t know where I was or how to get back.”

Royce stared. He was breathing faster without knowing why.

“I tried to find a way to go on. I could see familiar traces of the path that was my life, but there was always the wall behind me. Do you know what I mean? First you try and climb, pretending it never happened, but it’s too tall. Then you try to go around, thinking you can fix it, but it is too far. Then, in frustration, you beat on it with your hands, but it does nothing, so you tire and sit down and just stare at it. You stare because you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Walking away means that you’re giving up, abandoning them.

“There is no way back. There is only forward. It’s impossible to imagine there’s any reason to move ahead, but that isn’t the real reason you give up. The real fear-the terror that keeps you rooted-is that you might be wrong.”

Royce reeled. It was as if Myron were rifling through his heart, opening sealed closets and exploring locked drawers. Royce gave Myron a withering look. If he were a dog, Royce would be growling, yet Myron seemed not to notice.

The little monk went on.

“Instead of passion, you have regret. In place of effort, you are mired in memory. You sink in nothingness and your heart drowns in despair. At times-usually at night-it’s a physical pain, both sharp and dull. The anguish is unbearable.”

Royce reached out and grabbed Myron by the wrist. He wanted him to stop-needed him to stop.

“You feel you have no choices. Your love for those who have gone makes you hold tight to their memory and the pain of their loss. You feel to do anything else would be disloyal to them,” Myron went on, placing his free hand on top of Royce’s and patting it gently.

“While the idea of leaving is at first impossible to contemplate, the question you need to ask is, how would they feel knowing that you are torturing yourself because of them? Is this what they would want? Is that what you would want them to do if the situation was reversed? If you love them, you need to let go of your pain and live your life. To do otherwise is a selfish cruelty.”

Hadrian opened the door and nearly dropped the plate of lamb. He stepped in hesitantly. “Everything all right here?” he asked.

“Get him away from me, before I kill him,” Royce growled between gritted teeth, his voice unsteady, his eyes hard.

“You can’t kill Myron, Royce,” Hadrian said, rapidly pulling the monk away as if he had found a child playing with a wild bear. “It would be like killing a puppy.”

Royce did not want to kill Myron. He honestly did not know what he wanted, except for him to stop. Everything the monk had said hurt, because it was all true. The monk’s words were not close. They were not worrisomely accurate. What he said was dead-on, as if he were reading Royce’s mind and speaking his innermost thoughts aloud-holding his terrors to the light and exposing them.

“Are you all right, Royce?” Hadrian asked, still holding Myron close. His tone was cautious, nervous.

“He’ll be fine,” Myron replied for him.

The five boys and Myron had left the dinner table, followed shortly by Hadrian and Wyatt, who took plates up to Royce and Elden respectively. Alric, who had eaten his fill, loosened his belt but made no move to leave. He sat back, smiling, as Ayers brought out another bottle of wine and set it on the table before them. For the first time since they had started this trip, Alric was feeling good. This was more like it. He could see the same expression in Mauvin’s eyes. This was the dream of their youth: riding hard, exploring, seeing strange new sights, and in the evening settling in at a local inn for a fine meal and a night of drinking, laughing, and singing. At last, the carefree days of his boyhood-once stolen-now returned. This was an adventure at last. This was a man’s aspiration, a chance to live life to the fullest.

“My finest stock,” Ayers told them with pride.

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Arista said. “But we need to be getting up early tomorrow.”

“It’s not polite to insult a host like that, Arista,” Alric said, feeling her hands trying to strangle his dream.

“I didn’t-Alric, you can’t stay up all night drinking and expect to get an early start in the morning.”

He frowned at her. This was why she had never been included in his and Mauvin’s plans. “The man wants to honor us, all right? If you’re tired, go to bed and leave us be.”

Arista huffed loudly and threw her napkin on the table before walking out.

“Your sister isn’t pleased with you,” Gaunt observed.

“Are you just discovering that now?” Alric replied.

“Shall I open it?” Ayers asked.

“I don’t know,” Alric muttered.

“It would be best to do as she tells you,” Gaunt said.

“What’s that?”

“I only meant her being in charge and all. You don’t want to become the nail sticking out. I can see why you’re afraid of her and I sympathize, believe me. You saw the way she treated me when we left-but what can we do? She holds all the power.”

“She’s not in charge,” Alric growled. “I am.” He looked at Ayers. “Open that bottle, my good man, and pour liberally.”

Gaunt smiled. “I guess I misjudged you, Your Majesty. I’ve actually been doing too much of that. Take Magnus here, for example.”

Alric preferred not to. The idea that he had just finished a meal with-and was about to drink at the same table with-his father’s killer sickened him.

“I was offended that I had to ride with a dwarf, but it turns out he’s not a bad companion. True, he’s not exactly a big talker, but he’s interesting just the same. Did you know he’s held here by the hairs of his beard-literally? He’s another member of our exclusive club who your sister controls and forces to do her bidding.”

“My sister doesn’t control me,” Alric snapped.

“And you had best watch your tongue, my friend,” Mauvin advised Gaunt. “You are treading on dangerous ground.”

“My apologies. Perhaps I am mistaken. Please forgive me. It’s just that I’ve never seen a woman lead a mission like this before. It’s shocking to me, but then again, you come from the north, and I come from the south, where women are expected to stay behind while their men go off to fight. Allow me to toast her.” He raised his glass. “To the princess Arista, our lovely leader.”

“I told you, she’s not in charge. I am,” Alric said with more force.

Gaunt smiled and raised his other hand defensively. “I meant no offense.” He raised his glass again. “To you, then, to King Alric, the true leader of this mission.”

“Hear! Hear!” Alric joined him and drank.

People were singing in the streets. They danced and it did not seem to matter with whom. Streamers flew through the air and explosions of light illuminated the sky like magic. Bands played and every face reflected their joy. The doors to all the shops were open, their wares free to the people on the street-free bread, free cakes, free meats, free drinks. People took whatever they liked and the owners smiled and waved.