Michael Sullivan: Percepliquis

Alenda jumped at the sound of steel as Guy drew his own sword and lunged. In less than an instant, Lord Valin was clutching his bleeding side, his sword arm wavering. With a shake of his head, the sentinel slapped the old man’s blade away and stabbed him through the neck.

Guy advanced toward the girl with a terrifying fire in his eyes. Before he could cross the distance, Belinda stepped between them.

“I do not make a habit of killing women,” Guy told her. “But nothing will keep me from this prize.”

“What do you want her for?”

“As you said, to kill her. I will take the child to the Patriarch and then she must die, by my hands.”

“Never.”

“You cannot stop me. Look around. You have only women and children. You have no one to fight for you. Give me the child!”

“Mother?” Lenare said softly. “He is right. There is no one else. Please.”

“Mother, let me,” Denek pleaded.

“No. You are still too young. Your sister is right. There is no one else.” The countess nodded toward her daughter.

“I am pleased to see someone who-” Guy stopped as Lenare stepped forward. She slipped off her cloak and untied the bundle, revealing the sword of her father, which she drew forth and held before her. The blade caught the hazy winter light, pulling it in and casting it back in a sharp brilliance.

Puzzled, Guy looked at her for a moment. “What is this?”

“You killed my brother,” Lenare said.

Guy looked to Belinda. “You’re not serious.”

“Just this once, Lenare,” Belinda told her daughter.

“You would have your daughter die for this child? If I must kill all your children, I will.”

Alenda watched, terrified, as everyone backed away, leaving a circle around Sentinel Guy and Lenare. A ripping wind shuddered the canvas of the tents and threw Lenare’s golden hair back. Standing alone in the snow, dressed in her white traveling clothes and holding the rapier, she appeared as a mythical creature, a fairy queen or goddess-beautiful in her elegance.

With a scowl, Luis Guy lunged, and with surprising speed and grace, Lenare slapped the attack away. Her father’s sword sang with the contact.

“You’ve handled a blade before,” Guy said, surprised.

“I am a Pickering.”

He swung at her. She blocked. He swiped. She parried. Then Lenare slashed and cut Guy across the cheek.

“ Lenare,” her mother said with a stern tone. “Don’t play games.”

Guy paused, holding a hand to his bleeding face.

“He killed Fanen, Mother,” Lenare said coldly. “He should be made to suffer. He should be made an example.”

“No,” Belinda said. “It’s not our way. Your father wouldn’t approve. You know that. Just finish it.”

“What is this?” Guy demanded, but there was a hesitation in his voice. “You’re a woman.”

“I told you-I am a Pickering and you killed my brother.”

Guy began to raise his sword.

Lenare stepped and lunged. The thin rapier pierced the man’s heart and was withdrawn before he finished his stroke.

Luis Guy fell dead, facedown in the blood-soaked snow.

Arista woke up screaming. Her body trembled; her stomach suffered from a sinking sensation-the remaining residue of a dream she could not remember. She sat up, her left hand crawling to her chest, where she felt the thundering of her heart. It was pounding so hard, so fast, beating against her ribs as if needing to escape. She tried to remember. She could only recall brief snippets, tiny bits that appeared to be disjointed and unrelated. The one constant was Esrahaddon, his voice so distant and weak she could never hear what he said.

Her thin linen nightgown clung to her skin, soaked with sweat. Her bedsheets, stripped from the mattress, spilled to the floor. The quilt, embroidered with designs of spring flowers, lay waded up nearly on the other side of the room. Esrahaddon’s robe, however, rested neatly next to her, giving off a faint blue radiance. The garment appeared as if a maid had prepared it for her morning dressing. Arista’s hand was touching it.

How is it on the bed? Arista looked at the wardrobe. The door she remembered closing hung open, and a chill ran through her. She was alone.

A soft knock at the door startled her.

“Arista?” Alric’s voice came from the other side.

She threw the robe around her shoulders and immediately felt warmer, safer. “Come in,” she called.

Her brother opened the door and peered in, holding a candle a bit above his head. Dressed in a burgundy robe, he had a thick baldric buckled around his waist, the Sword of Essendon hanging at his side. The weapon was huge, and as he entered, Alric used one hand to tilt it up to keep the tip from dragging on the floor. The sight reminded her of the night their father was murdered-the night Alric became king.

“I heard you cry out. Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching the room and settling on the glowing robe.

“I’m fine-just a nightmare.”

“Another one?” He sighed. “You know, it might help if you didn’t sleep in that thing.” He gestured toward the robe. “Sleeping in a dead man’s clothes… it’s creepy-sort of sick, really. Don’t forget he was a wizard. That thing could be-well, I’ll just say it-it is enchanted. I’m sure it is responsible. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“I don’t remember much. Like all the others, I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. There’s this sense of urgency that’s overwhelming. I feel this need to find something-that if I don’t, I’ll die. I always wake up terrified, like I am walking off a cliff and don’t see it.”

“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Water? Tea? Soup?”

“Soup? Where will you get soup in the middle of the night?”

He shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to beat me up for it. I hear you scream, I jump out of bed and rush to your door, I offer to play servant for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry.” She frowned playfully but meant what she said. Having him there did chase the shadows away and took her mind off the wardrobe. She patted her bed. “Sit down.”

Alric hesitated, then set the candle on her nightstand and took a seat beside her. “What happened to the sheets and quilt? Looks like you were wrestling.”

“Maybe I was. I can’t remember.”

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you’re still my little brother and this new protective side of yours is hard to get used to. Remember when I fell off Tamarisk and broke my ankle? It hurt so bad that I couldn’t see straight. When I asked you to get help, you just stood there laughing and pointing.”

“I was twelve.”

“You were a brat.”

He frowned at her.

“But you’re not anymore.” She took his hand and cupped it in both of hers. “Thank you for checking on me. You even wore your sword.”

Alric looked down. “I didn’t know what beast or scoundrel might be attacking the princess. I had to come prepared to do battle.”

“Can you even draw that thing?”

He frowned at her again. “Oh, quit it, will you? They say I fought masterfully in the Battle of Medford.”

“Masterfully?”

He struggled to stop himself from smiling. “Yes, some might even say heroically. In fact, I believe some did say heroically.”

“You’ve watched that silly play too many times.”

“It’s good theater, and I like to support the arts.”

“ The arts. ” She rolled her eyes. “You just like it because it makes all the girls swoon and you love all the attention.”