Percepliquis Part 6

"That's just it-I don't want to! I've always survived. Life is like a bully that gets laughs by seeing how much humiliation you'll put up with. It threatens to kill you if you don't eat mud. It takes everything you care about-not because it wants what you have, or needs it. It does it just to see if you'll take it. I let it push me around ever since I was a kid. I did everything it demanded just to survive. But as I've gotten older, I realize there are limits. You showed me that. There's only so far I can go, only so much I can put up with. I'm not going to take it anymore. I won't eat mud just to survive."

"So it's my fault?" Hadrian slumped down on the mattress once more. He sat there running his hand through his hair for a moment, then said, "Just so you know, you're not the only one who misses her. I loved her too."

Royce looked up.

"Not like that. You know what I mean. The worst part is..." His voice cracked. "It really is my fault, and that's what I will be left with. Did you think of that? You were right and I was wrong. You said not to take the job from DeWitt, but I talked you into it. 'Let's leave Dahlgren; this isn't our fight,' you said, but I got you to stay. 'You can't win against Merrick,' you said, so you went to protect me. You told me Degan Gaunt would be an a.s.s, and you were right about that too. You didn't do what you knew was right because of me. I pulled you along while trying to redeem myself to the memory of a dead father. Gwen is gone because of me. I destroyed what little good there was in your life trying to accomplish something that in the end means nothing.

"I'm not the hero who saves the kingdom and wins the girl. Life isn't like that." Hadrian laughed bitterly. "You finally taught me that one, pal. Yep. Life isn't a fairy tale. Heroes don't ride white horses, and the good don't always win. I just-I guess I just wanted it to be that way. I didn't think there was any harm in believing it. I never knew it would be you and Gwen that would pay."

"It's not your fault," Royce told him.

"You tell me that a few million more times and I might actually start believing it. Only that's not going to happen, now is it? You're not going to be around to remind me, are you? You're going to give up. You're going to walk out on me and that will be my fault too. d.a.m.n it, Royce! You have a choice. I know it doesn't seem like it, and I know I'm a fool that believes in a fantasy world where good things can happen to good people, but I do know this. You can either head into darkness and despair or into virtue and light. It's up to you."

Royce jerked his head up and looked at Hadrian, a shocked expression on his face. Shock turned quickly to suspicion.

"What?" Hadrian asked, concerned.

"How are you doing that?" Royce demanded, and for the first time since Hadrian had entered the cell, he saw the old Royce-cold, dark, and angry.

"How am I doing what?"

"That's the second time you've quoted Gwen, once on the bridge and now-this. She said that same thing to me once, those exact words."

"Huh?"

"She read my palm and told me there was a fork-a point of decision. I had to choose to head into darkness and despair or into virtue and light. She told me this would be precipitated by a traumatic event-the death of the one I loved the most."

"Gwen?"

He nodded. "But you weren't there. You couldn't have heard her say that. We were alone in her office at the House. It was a year ago. I only remember because it was the night Arista came to The Rose and Thorn, and you were getting drunk and ranting about being a parasite. So how did you know?"

Hadrian shrugged. "I didn't, but..." He felt a chill run up his spine. "What if she did? What if I'm not quoting her-what if she was quoting me?"

"What?"

"Gwen was a seer," Hadrian said. "What if she saw your future, bits and pieces like Fan Irlanu did in that Tenkin village?" Now he was staring at the wall, his eyes wandering aimlessly as he thought. "She could have seen us on the bridge, and here in this cell. She knew what I would say, and she also knew you wouldn't listen to me. She must have known you wouldn't listen to me at the bridge either. That's why she said those things." He was speaking quickly now, seeing it all before him. "She knew you would ignore me, but you can't ignore her. Royce, Gwen doesn't want you to die. She agrees with me. I may have been wrong in the past, but not this time. This time I'm right, and I know I'm right because Gwen saw the future and she's backing me up." He sat against the wall, folding his hands behind his head in victory. "You can't kill yourself," he said jubilantly, as if he had just won some unspoken bet. "You can't do it without betraying her wishes!"

Royce looked confused. "But if she knew, why didn't she stop it? Why did she let me go with you? Why didn't she tell me?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? She wanted us to go, and either she couldn't avoid her death, or-"

"Or what? She wanted to die?" he said sarcastically.

"No, I was going to say, she knew she had to die."

"Why?"

"I don't know-something else she saw, maybe, something that hasn't happened yet. Something so important it was worth dying on the bridge for, but whatever it is, it doesn't include you killing yourself. She made that pretty clear, I think."

Royce threw his head back against the stone wall hard enough to make an audible thud and clenched his eyes shut. "d.a.m.n it."

Mauvin Pickering stood on the fourth-floor balcony, looking out at the palace courtyard. It was snowing again, thick wet flakes. They fell on the muddy earth, slowly filling in where carts had left deep ruts. One after another, the flakes. .h.i.t the ground and melted, but somehow, they managed to overcome. The puddles receded; the dirt disappeared; the world turned white and pure once more.

Beyond the wall he could see the roofs of the city. Aquesta stretched out below him, hundreds of snow-covered thatched peaks cl.u.s.tered together, huddling against the winter storm. The buildings ran to the sea and up the hill north. His gaze rose to the gap he knew was Imperial Square, and farther out to Bingham Square, where he could see the top of the Tradesmen's Tower marking the artisan district. He continued to look up, his gaze reaching out beyond the open patches of farm fields to the forested hills-a hazy gray line in the distance, and the suggestion of higher hills beyond-masked by the snowy curtain. He imagined he could see Glouston, and beyond it, across the river, Melengar, the kingdom of the falcon-crested kings, the land of his birth, his home. Drondil Fields would be blanketed in snow, the orchard frosted, the moat frozen. Vern would be out breaking the ice on the well, dropping his heavy hammer tied to the end of a rope. He would be fearful the knot would come loose like it had five years earlier, leaving his favorite tool at the bottom of the well. It was still there, Mauvin thought, still lying in the water, waiting for Vern to claim it, but now he never would.

"You'll catch your death out there," his mother said.

He turned to see her standing in the doorway in her dark blue gown-the closest thing she had to black. Around her shoulders was the burgundy shawl Fanen had given her for Wintertide three years before-the year he died. It became a permanent part of her attire that she wore year-round, explaining how it kept the chill away in the winter and the sun off her shoulders in the summer. That morning he noticed she was also wearing the necklace. The awkward thick chain weighed down by the huge pendant was hard to miss. It was supposed to look like the sun. A big emerald pressed into the gold setting, and lines of rubies forming the rays of light. It was an ugly, gaudy thing. He had seen it only a few times before in the bottom of her jewelry box. It had been a gift from his father.

Even after bearing four children, Belinda Pickering still turned heads. Too many for his father's comfort, if the stories were true. Rumors had circulated for decades of the numerous duels fought over her honor. Legend a.s.serted there were as many as twenty, all sparked by some man looking at her too long. They all ended the same, with the death of the offender via Count Pickering's magic sword. That was the legend, but Mauvin knew of only two actual incidents.

The first had occurred before he was born. His father had told him the story on his thirteenth birthday, the day he had mastered the first tier of the Tek'chin. His father explained that he and Mauvin's mother had been traveling home alone and were waylaid by highwaymen. There had been four bandits and his father was willing to give up their horses, his purse, and even Belinda's jewelry to escape without incident. But his father had seen the way the thieves looked at Belinda. As they whispered back and forth, he saw the hunger in their eyes. His father killed two, wounded one, and sent the last one running. They had given his father a scar nearly a foot long.

The second had happened when Mauvin was just ten. They had come to Aquesta for Wintertide and the Earl of Tremore became angry when Count Pickering refused to enter the sword compet.i.tion. The earl knew that even if he had won the tournament, he would still be considered second best, so he challenged Pickering to a duel. Mauvin's father refused. The Earl of Tremore had grabbed Belinda and kissed her before the entire court. She slapped him and pulled away. When he made a grab for her, he tore free the neckline of her gown, exposing her. She fell to the floor, crying, struggling to cover herself. Mauvin remembered with perfect clarity his father drawing his sword and telling him to help his mother back to their room. He did not kill the Earl of Tremore, but the man lost a hand in the battle.

Still, it was easy to see how the stories spread. Even he could see how lovely his mother was. Only now, for the first time, did he notice the gray in her hair and the lines on her face. She had always stood so straight and tall, but now she leaned forward, bowed as if by an invisible weight.

"I haven't seen you much," she said. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere."

He waited for her to press, to demand more information. He expected it-but she just nodded. His mother had been acting this way since arriving and it unnerved him.

"Chancellor Nimbus was by earlier. He wanted to let you know that the empress is calling a meeting this evening and you are requested to attend."

"I know. Alric already told me."

"Did he say what it was to be about?"

"It'll be about the invasion, I'm sure. She will want to mount a full-scale retaliation. Alric expects she will use this crisis to demand Melengar join the empire."

"What will Alric do?"

"What can he do? Alric isn't a king without a kingdom. I should warn you that I intend to join him. I will gather what men Alric still has, form a troop, and volunteer to fight."

Once more the quiet, submissive nod.

"Why do you do that? Why must you give in to me without even a protest? If I had said I was going off to war a month ago, I would have never heard the end of it."

"A month ago you were my son; today you are Count Pickering."

He watched her clutch the shawl with a white-knuckled fist, her mouth set, her other hand holding the doorframe.

"Maybe he survived," Mauvin said. "He's gotten through tough situations before. There's a chance he could have fought his way out. With his sword no one could ever beat him-not even Braga."

Her lips trembled; her eyes grew gla.s.sy. "Come," she said, and disappeared back into the castle. He followed as she led the way to her chambers. There were three beds in the room. With all the refugees, s.p.a.ce was tight in the palace these days. The chamberlain did his best to accommodate them according to rank, but there was only so much he could do. Mauvin bunked with Alric and now his brother Denek as well. Mauvin knew his mother shared her room with his sister, Lenare, and the lady Alenda Lanaklin of Glouston, neither of whom was there at that moment.

The room was a fraction of the size of her bedchamber back home. The beds themselves were small single bunks. The plain headboards were dressed with quilts adorned with patterns of roses. Leaded gla.s.s windows let the light in, but sheer white curtains turned the brilliance into a muted fog, which felt heavy and oppressive. The room had the air of a funeral. On the dresser he spotted the familiar statuette of Novron that used to be in their chapel. The demiG.o.d sat upon his throne, one hand upraised in a gesture of authority. Beside it was a single salifan candle, still burning. On the floor before it lay her bed pillow, two dents side by side where she had knelt.

His mother walked to the wardrobe and withdrew a long blanket-wrapped bundle. She turned and held it out. There was a formality in her movement, a solemnness in her eyes. He looked at the bundle-long and thin, tied with a green silk ribbon, the kind she and Lenare used to bind their hair. The blanket it held was like a shroud over a dead body. Mauvin did not want to touch it.

"No," he said without meaning to, and took a step backward.

"Take it," she told him.

The door opened abruptly.

"I don't want to go alone," Alenda Lanaklin said as she and his sister, Lenare, entered. The two women were also dressed in dark conservative gowns. Lenare carried a plate of food, and Alenda a cup. "It's awkward. I don't even know him. Oh-" They both stopped.

Mauvin hastily took the bundle from his mother. He did not look at it and quickly moved toward the door.

"I'm sorry," Alenda said. She was staring at him, her face troubled.

"Excuse me, ladies," Mauvin muttered, and walked past them. He kept his eyes focused on the floor as he went.

"Mauvin?" Alenda called down the hallway.

He heard her steps behind him and stopped, but he did not turn.

He felt her touch his hand. "I'm sorry."

"You said that."

"That was for interrupting."

He felt her press against him, and she kissed his cheek.

"Thank you." He watched as she worked hard to force a smile even as a tear slipped down her cheek.

"Your mother hasn't eaten. She hardly even leaves the room. Lenare and I went to get her something."

"That's very kind."

"Are you all right?"

"I should be asking you that. I lost a father, but you lost a father and two brothers as well."

She nodded and sniffled. "I've been trying not to think about it. There's so much-too much. Everyone has lost someone. You can't have a conversation anymore without people crying their eyes out." She half laughed, half cried. "See?"

He reached up and wiped her tears. Her cheeks were amazingly soft; the wetness made them shine.

"What were you and Lenare talking about?" he asked.

"Oh, that?" she said, sounding embarra.s.sed. "It will sound foolish."

"Perhaps foolishness is needed right now." He made a face and winked at her.

She smiled, this time more easily.

"Com'on," he said, taking her hand and pulling her with him down the hall. "Tell me this terrible secret."

"It's not a secret. I just wanted Lenare to come with me when I meet my brother."

"Myron?"

She nodded. "I'm a little nervous about it-frightened, actually. How do I explain why I never bothered to see him?"

"Why didn't you?"

She shrugged self-consciously. "I should have. I just-He was a stranger. If only my father had taken me, but he didn't. He seemed like he wanted to forget Myron existed. I think he was ashamed of him and some of that rubbed off on me, I guess."

"And now?"

"Now I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Of him."

"You're scared of Myron?" He started to chuckle, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the seriousness in her eyes.

"I knew you'd think me foolish!"

"It's just that we're talking about Myron and-"

"He's the marquis now!" she exclaimed. "He's the head of my house. By law, I have to do as he says, go where he orders, marry whom he chooses. What if he hates me? What if he decides to punish me for the hardships he has had to endure? I've lived in a castle with servants who dressed, fed, and bathed me. I've attended feasts and tournaments, galas and picnics. I've worn silk, lace, finely embroidered gowns, and jewelry. While he-" She stopped. "Since the age of four, Myron has been sequestered at the Winds Abbey. He has been forced to work with his hands in the dirt, worn coa.r.s.e wool, and never gone anywhere or seen anyone-not even his family. Now they are all dead, except for me. Of course he hates me. Why wouldn't he? He'll curse me and I'll be the target of all his pain and frustration. He'll deny me, just as we denied him. He'll send me away, strip me of my t.i.tle, and leave me penniless. And... and... I can't even blame him."

She looked up at Mauvin's face, confused. "What? What?"

CHAPTER 4.

FALL THE WALL.

How is Royce?" Arista asked Hadrian as they took seats next to each other near the end of the table. There were no place cards, and Hadrian had no clue where they might want him to sit. He looked to the princess for guidance, but all she offered was a shrug.

"Not great, but who is these days?" He glanced at Alric, who was taking a seat across from Arista, then at Mauvin, who sat next to his king. "I was sorry to hear about your father," he offered.

Mauvin replied with an almost imperceptible nod. Arista stood, reached across the table, and took Mauvin's hand. She did not say a word but merely looked into his eyes, offering a weak smile.

"See, that's the difference," Mauvin said. "I suffer a loss and people console me. Royce suffers a loss and whole towns evacuate." He offered a sad smile. "I'm fine, really. My father led a good life, married the most beautiful woman in the realm, raised four children, outlived one, and died in battle defending his home. I should hope to do half as well."