Percepliquis Part 37

"In the kitchen, playing with Red."

Modina raised an eyebrow. "With Mr. Rings?"

"They get along fine," Mercy said. "Although..."

"What?"

Mercy hesitated to speak, so Allie stepped forward. "Mercy is trying to get Red to let Mr. Rings ride on his back. It's not going so well. Mr. Thinly chased us out after Red knocked over a stack of pans."

Modina rolled her eyes. "You are a pair of monsters, aren't you?"

Lena began to cry and put her arms around Russell, who held her.

"What?" Modina asked, going to Lena.

"Oh, it's nothing." Russell spoke for her. "The girls-you know-she misses the twins. We almost lost Tad too, didn't we, boy?"

Tad, who was still looking out the window, turned and nodded. He had not said a word, and the Thaddeus Bothwick Modina remembered had never been quiet.

"We survived all those terrible nights in Dahlgren," Lena said, sobbing. "But living in Alburn killed my little girls and now-and now..."

"You're going to be all right," Modina told her. "I'll see to that."

Russell looked at her, nodding appraisingly. "d.a.m.ned if you ain't your father's daughter. Theron would be real proud of you, Thrace. Real proud."

Renwick had no idea what to do. For the third day in a row, he was confused and uncomfortable. He wanted to return to Amberton Lee, but the empress forbade him. The elven army would be between them now. He tried to resume his castle page duties only to discover he was not wanted, once more due to an edict from the empress. Apparently he had no a.s.signed duties.

He wore a new tunic, far nicer than any he had ever had before. He ate wonderful meals and slept right under Sir Elgar and across from Sir Gilbert of Lyle, in a berth in the knights' dormitories.

"You'll get work plenty soon enough, lad," Elgar told him. He and Sir Gilbert were at the table, engaged in a game of chess that Gilbert was winning easily. "When those elves arrive, you'll be earning your keep."

"Hauling buckets of water to the gate for the soldiers," Renwick said dismally.

"Hauling water?" Elgar questioned. "That's page work."

"I am a page."

"Hah! Is that a page's bed you sleep in? Is that a page's tunic? Are you eating page meals? Slopping out the stables? You were a page, but the empress has her eye on you now."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you are in her favor, and you won't be hauling no water."

"But what-"

"Can you handle a blade, boy?" Gilbert asked while sliding a p.a.w.n forward and making Elgar shift uneasily in his seat.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"Sir Malness never let me-"

"Malness? Malness was an idiot," Elgar growled.

"Probably why he broke his neck falling off his horse," Gilbert said.

"He was drinking," Renwick pointed out.

"He was an idiot," Elgar repeated.

"It doesn't matter," Gilbert said. "When the fight begins, we'll need every man who can hold a blade. You might have been a page yesterday, but tomorrow you will be a soldier. And with the eye of the empress on you-fight well, and you may find yourself a knight."

"Don't fill his head with too much nonsense," Elgar said. "He's not even a squire."

"I squired for Sir Hadrian."

"Hadrian isn't a knight."

A horn sounded and all three scrambled out of the dormitory and raced past the droves of refugees to the front hall. They pushed out into the courtyard, looking to the guards at the towers.

"What is it?" Elgar called to Benton.

The tower guard heard his voice and turned. "Sir Breckton and the army have returned. The empress has gone to welcome them home."

"Breckton," Gilbert said miserably. "Com'on, Elgar, we have a game to finish."

The two turned their backs on the courtyard and returned inside, but Renwick ran out past the courtyard and through the city toward the southern gate. The portcullis was already up by the time he arrived, and the legion bearing Breckton's blue-and-gold-checkered standard entered.

Drums sounded, keeping beat with the footfalls of men. As the knight-marshal rode at the head of his army, the sun shone off his brilliant armor. At his side rode the lady Amilia, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, which draped across the side and back of her mount. Renwick recognized other faces: King Armand, Queen Adeline, Prince Rudolf and his younger brother Hector, along with Leo, Duke of Roch.e.l.le, and his wife, Genevieve, who composed the last of the Alburn n.o.bility. With their arrival it was official-the eastern provinces were lost. Sir Murthas, Sir Brent, Sir Andiers, and several others he knew from the rosters formed ranks in the armored cavalry. Behind them, neat rows of foot soldiers marched. These were followed by wagons of supplies and people-more refugees.

Modina ran to embrace Amilia the moment she climbed off her horse. "You made it!" she said, squeezing her. "And your family?"

"They are on the wagons," Amilia told her.

"Bring them to the great hall. Are you hungry?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Then I will meet them and we will eat. I have people for you to meet as well. Nimbus!" Modina called.

"Your Eminence." The chancellor trotted to her side and Amilia hugged the beanpole of a man.

Renwick could not see anymore as the army filled the street. He moved to the wall and climbed steps to the top of the gate, where Captain Everton was once more on duty, watching the progress of the army's return below him.

"Impressive, isn't he?" Everton said to him as they watched the column from the battlements. "I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing Sir Breckton is here, and none too soon, I suspect."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't like the sky."

Renwick looked up. Overhead a dark haze swirled a strange mix of brown and yellow, a sickly soup of dense clouds that churned and folded like the contents of some witch's brew.

"That doesn't look natural to me."

"It's warmer too," Renwick said, having just realized that he was outside without a cloak and not shivering. He breathed out and could not see his breath.

He rushed to the edge of the battlement and looked southeast. In the distance, the clouds were darker still and he noticed an eerie green hue to the sky. "They are coming."

"Blow the horn," Everton ordered as the last of the troops and wagons pa.s.sed through. "Seal the gate."

CHAPTER 20.

THE VAULT OF DAYS.

Running through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the swords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor-ten Teshlor Knights-screamed as their bodies ripped apart.

She fell to her knees.

"Emperor!" she cried. "I am here!"

Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.

"We must go," she urged.

The emperor shook his head. "The horn?"

"I placed it in the tomb."

"My son?"

"He is with Jerish. They have left the city."

"Then we will end this here." Nareion drew his sword. "Enchant it with the weaving-letters."

She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to a.s.sure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.

"Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb." The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. "I will make certain no one else will."

She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.

"He is dead, then." She heard the voice-so familiar. "And you are here to kill me?"

"Yes," she replied.

She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.

"And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you-you are the youngest of the council, a pup-you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art-my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support."

"That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are-murderer. You will not succeed."

"I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?"

"I will die before telling you that."

"There are worse things than dying."

"I know," she told him. "That's why I choose death. Death for me, death for you..." She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. "Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last."

She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. "Maribor take us both," she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.

"He did it."

Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.

She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with bra.s.s lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.

Hadrian's was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. "You're awake at last," he said. "I was getting worried."

Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.

"You're all right?" Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.

"Just exhausted." She wiped her eyes and sighed. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Five hours," Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.

"Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten," she said, yawning.

Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man-pale and withered-like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.

"Who's he?"

"Sentinel Thranic," Hadrian told her. "The last living member of the previous team. I'd introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall-nearly killed him."

"And he's still alive?" Arista asked.

"Don't look at me. I haven't stopped him," Hadrian told her. "Hungry?"

"I hate to say it, given the circ.u.mstances, but I'm famished."