Michael Sullivan: Percepliquis

Everything appeared so different in the light, so quiet, so still. The previous night had been a terror of fire, screams, and a flight along the Westfield road. They had paused only briefly to take a head count before pushing on. Alenda had been so exhausted that she barely recalled the camp being set.

“Good morning, my lady,” Emily greeted her from beneath a blanket, which was wrapped over her cloak. Her words lacked their normal cheerfulness. Alenda’s maid had always been bright and playful in the morning. Now she stood with somber diligence, her reddened hands quivering, her jaw shaking with the chill.

“Is it, Emmy?” Alenda cast another look around. “How can you tell?”

“Let’s find you some breakfast. Something warm will make you feel better.”

“My father and brothers are dead,” Alenda replied. “The world is ending. How can breakfast possibly help?”

“I don’t know, my lady, but we must try. It’s what your father wanted-for you to survive, I mean. It’s why he stayed behind, isn’t it?”

A loud boom, like a crack of thunder, echoed from the north. Every head turned to look out across the snowy fields. Every face terrified that the end had arrived at last.

Reaching the center of the camp, Alenda found Belinda Pickering; her daughter, Lenare; old Julian, Melengar’s lord high chamberlain; and Lord Valin, the party’s sole protector. The elderly knight had led them through the chaos the night before. Among them, they composed the last vestiges of the royal court, at least those still in Melengar. King Alric was in Aquesta lending a hand in the brief civil war and saving his sister, Arista, from execution. It was to him they now fled.

“We have no idea, but it is foolish to stay any longer,” Lord Valin was saying.

“Yes, I agree,” Belinda replied.

Lord Valin turned to a young boy. “Send word to rouse everyone. We will break camp immediately.”

“Emmy,” Alenda said, turning to her maid. “Run back and pack our things.”

“Of course, my lady.” Emily curtsied and headed toward their tent.

“What was that sound?” Alenda asked Lenare, who only shrugged, her face frightened.

Lenare Pickering was lovely, as always. Despite the horrors, the flight, and the primitive condition of the camp, she was radiant. Even disheveled in a hastily grabbed cloak, with her blonde hair spilling out of her hood, she remained stunning, just as a sleeping baby is always precious. She had gotten this blessing from her mother. Just as the Pickering men were renowned for their swordsmanship, so too were the Pickering women celebrated for their beauty. Lenare’s mother, Belinda, was famous for it.

All that was over now. What had been constants only the day before were now lost beyond a gulf too wide to clearly see across, although at times it appeared that Lenare tried. Alenda often had seen her staring north at the horizon with a look somewhere between desperation and remorse, searching for ghosts.

In her arms, Lenare still held her father’s legendary sword. The count had handed it to her, begging that she deliver it safely to her brother Mauvin. Then he had kissed each member of his family before returning to the line where Alenda’s own father and brothers waited with the rest of the army. Since then, Lenare had never set the burden down. She had wrapped it in a dark wool blanket and bound it with a silk ribbon. Throughout the harrowing escape, she had hugged the long bundle to her breast, at times using it to wipe away tears.

“If we push hard today, we might make Colnora by sunset,” Lord Valin told them. “Assuming the weather improves.” The old knight glared up at the sky as if it alone were their adversary.

“Lord Julian,” Belinda said. “The relics… the scepter and seal-”

“They are all safe, my lady,” the ancient chamberlain replied. “Loaded in the wagons. The kingdom is intact, save for the land itself.” The old man looked back in the direction of the strange sound, toward the banks of the Galewyr River and the bridge they had crossed the night before.

“Will they help us in Colnora?” Belinda asked. “We haven’t much food.”

“If news has reached them of King Alric’s part in freeing the empress, they should be willing,” Lord Valin said. “Even if it has not, Colnora is a merchant city, and merchants thrive on profit, not chivalry.”

“I have some jewelry,” Belinda informed him. “If needs be, you can sell what I have for…” The countess paused as she noticed Julian still staring back at the bridge.

Others soon lifted their gazes, and finally Alenda looked up to see the approach of a rider.

“Is it…?” Lenare began.

“It’s a child,” Belinda said.

Alenda quickly realized she was right. A little girl raced at them, clutching to the back of the sweat-soaked horse. Her hood had blown back, revealing long dark hair and rosy cheeks. She was about six years old, and just as she clutched the horse, a raccoon held fast to her. They were an odd pair to be alone on the road, but Alenda reminded herself that “normal” no longer existed. If she should see a bear in a feather cap riding a chicken, that too might be normal now.

The horse entered the camp and Lord Valin grabbed the bit, forcing the animal and rider to a stop.

“Are you all right, honey?” Belinda asked.

“There’s blood on the saddle,” Lord Valin noted.

“Are you hurt?” the countess asked the child. “Where are your parents?”

The girl shivered and blinked but said nothing. Her little fists still clutched the horse’s reins.

“She’s cold as ice,” Belinda said, touching the child’s cheek. “Help me get her down.”

“What’s your name?” Alenda asked.

The girl remained mute. Deprived of her horse, she turned to hugging the raccoon.

“Another rider,” Lord Valin announced.

Alenda looked up to see a man crossing the bridge and wheeling toward them.

The rider charged into the camp and threw back his hood, revealing long black hair, pale skin, and intense eyes. He bore a narrow mustache and a short beard trimmed to a fine point. He glared at them until he spotted the girl.

“There!” he said, pointing. “Give her to me at once.”

The child cried out in fear, shaking her head.

“No!” Belinda shouted, and pressed the girl into Alenda’s hands.

“My lady,” Lord Valin said. “If the child is his-”

“This child does not belong to him,” the countess declared, her tone hateful.

“I am a Sentinel of Nyphron,” the man shouted so all could hear. “This child is claimed for the church. You will hand her over now. Any who oppose me will die.”

“I know very well who you are, Luis Guy,” Belinda said, seething. “I will not provide you with any more children to murder.”

The sentinel peered at her. “Countess Pickering?” He studied the camp with renewed interest. “Where is your husband? Where is your fugitive son?”

“I am no fugitive,” Denek said as he came forward. Belinda’s youngest had recently turned thirteen and was growing tall and lanky. He was well on his way to imitating his older brothers.

“He means Mauvin,” Belinda explained. “This is the man who murdered Fanen.”

“Again I ask you,” Guy pressed. “Where is your husband?”

“He is dead and Mauvin is well beyond your reach.”

The sentinel looked out over the crowd and then down at Lord Valin. “And he has left you poor protection. Now, hand over the child.”

“I will not,” Belinda said.

Guy dismounted and stepped forward to face Lord Valin. “Hand over the child or I will be forced to take her.”

The old knight looked to Belinda, whose face remained hateful. “My lady does not wish it, and I shall defend her decision.” The old man drew his sword. “You will leave now.”