Percepliquis

CHAPTER 27

Trumpets announced the gray light of the predawn.

The elves had transformed the top of Amberton Lee overnight. Where once only the desolate remains of ancient walls and half-buried pillars stood, the crest of the hill now displayed seven great tents marked by shimmering banners. In the misty haze of melting snow, a low wall of intertwined brambles created an arena marked by torches that burned blue flames. Drums followed a loud fanfare and beat to an ominous rhythm-the heartbeat of an ancient people.

Degan shivered in the cold, looking even worse than the night before. Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin fed him coffee that steamed like some magical draft. Gaunt clutched the mug with both hands and still the liquid threatened to spill from his shaking. Arista stood with her feet in the cold dew, every muscle in her body tense as she waited. Everyone waited. Aside from the three whispering last-minute instructions into Gaunt’s ear, no one else spoke. They all stood like stones on the Lee, unwilling witnesses.

Modina waited with the girls, prepared to face what could be their last sunrise. The boys stood only a few feet from her with Magnus and Myron. The lot of them formed a straight line, uniformly standing with their arms folded across their chests-all eyes on Degan.

Mawyndule appeared relaxed as he sat in his chair, his legs outstretched and crossed, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The rest of the elves milled about in small groups, speaking in hushed, reverent tones. Arista guessed this was a sacred religious event for them. For those in her party, it was just terrifying.

She turned when she heard Monsignor Merton say, “I know you have a good reason.” At first, she thought he was speaking to her, but when she saw him, his eyes were looking up. “But you have to understand I’m but the ignorant fool you made. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. Perish the thought. Who am I to pass judgment on your creation? Still, I hope you have enjoyed our talks. I am entertaining at least, aren’t I, Lord? You wouldn’t want to lose that, would you? Many of us are entertaining and it would be a shame if we disappeared altogether. Have you considered how you might miss us?” He paused as if listening, then nodded.

“What did he say?” Arista asked.

Merton looked up, startled. “Oh? What he always says.”

She waited, but the monsignor never explained further.

The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. The sky began to lighten and birds, newly returned to the north, began to sing. The faces of the men and elves grew more serious as the priest of Ferrol entered the ring with a thurible burning Agarwood incense. He began singing softly in elvish.

Gaunt placed a hand to his chest, rubbed his shirt, and whispered to himself. Arista cringed and Hadrian said something sharply but quietly and Gaunt pulled his hand away. Arista glanced at Mawyndule and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.

Mawyndule rose from his seat and walked toward Gaunt. He glanced to the eastern horizon. “Not long now,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

The once Patriarch held out his hand. Gaunt looked at it hesitantly but reached out to shake. Mawyndule was quick and nimble and he tore Gaunt’s collar wide, revealing the medallion hanging there. He staggered backward as Hadrian and Royce quickly pulled Gaunt away. Mawyndule sneered and glanced at Arista, then Hadrian, and lastly Myron. He looked about quickly, nervously.

“Not long now,” Royce reminded him. “And how will you fare when your magic is useless?”

Mawyndule smiled and with clenched teeth he began to laugh.

“ Muer wir ahran dulwyer! ” Mawyndule shouted suddenly. All the elves turned to face him. Everyone else looked at Myron.

“He evokes the Right of Champion,” Myron said.

“What does that mean?” Royce asked.

“It means he asks for someone else to fight in his stead.”

“Can he do that?” Arista asked.

“Yes,” Myron replied. “Remember the inscription on the horn: Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all, and champion from all-save one-from peril.

“If the champion wins, Mawyndule will be king.”

“ Byrinith con duylar ben lar Irawondona! ” Mawyndule shouted and there was a loud murmur among the elves as they all turned to face the elven lord.

“Oh damn,” Hadrian said. “He had to pick the big guy. I’m pretty sure he knows how to fight.”

Lord Irawondona stepped forward in his shimmering armor. He said something that none of them could hear. Mawyndule replied by nodding and Lord Irawondona raised his hands and shouted, “ Duylar e finis dan iskabareth ben Mawyndule! ”

“He just accepted,” Myron reported.

Gaunt, who had been shaking his head, erupted, “I’m not fighting him. I’m supposed to fight the old guy, not this guy.”

“Myron.” Arista spun the monk to face her. “Can Gaunt do the same? Can he pick a champion?”

“Ah-yes. I believe so. It would only make sense, as the entire competition is designed for a fair contest between the opponents.”

She watched Lord Irawondona remove his cloak. The elf looked imposing even from across the field. “Hadrian is the only one who has any chance of winning. Name him your champion. Myron, tell Gaunt the words he needs to say.”

“They weren’t on the horn.”

“You just heard him,” Royce reminded him. “Just repeat what you heard Mawyndule say, and quickly.”

“Oh, right. Muer wir ahran dulwyer,” Myron said.

“Degan, say it! Say it loud!”

“ Muer wir- ah- ahran- ah-” Gaunt stumbled and hesitated.

“ Dulwyer,” Myron whispered.

“ Dulwyer! ” Gaunt shouted.

The heads of the elves turned.

“Now the next line and substitute my name for Irawondona,” Hadrian said.

Myron fed him the words and Gaunt recited them. The elves looked confused for a moment, until Gaunt pointed at Hadrian. Myron gave Hadrian the next line and Arista stood shaking as she heard him recite it aloud, accepting the role of Gaunt’s champion.

“Degan,” she said, “give Hadrian the medallion back.”

“But he said-”

“I know what he said, and he’ll let you have it after the fight, but right now he needs all the help he can get. Give it to him now!” Degan tore the chain off his neck and handed it to her.

“Boys!” Hadrian shouted. “Fetch me that bundle near my blanket and the shield!”

The four boys sprinted down the slope to the camp.

“You can beat him, can’t you?” Arista asked while slipping the chain over his head. She was trembling. “You will beat him for me, won’t you? You can’t leave me like Emery and Hilfred. You know I couldn’t take that, right? You know that-you have to win.”

“For you? Anything,” he said, and kissed her hard, pulling her to him.

The boys returned and threw open the bundle, revealing the brilliant armor of Jerish Grelad. “Help me on with this,” Hadrian said, and everyone, including Degan and Myron, looked for ways to assist.

An elf appeared before them, holding one of the strange halberd weapons they had seen images of in Percepliquis. He held it out to Hadrian.

“You know how to use this?” Arista asked.

“Never touched one before.”

“Something tells me he has,” she said as across the field Lord Irawondona lifted his own halberd with both hands spread apart, holding it like a double-bladed quarterstaff. He spun it with remarkable speed such that the blades hummed.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Hadrian took a breath and turned to her. Their eyes met just at the moment the sun broke over the trees and shone on their faces. Hadrian looked beautiful, glimmering in his golden armor. He appeared like an ancient god reborn onto the world of man.

The priest of Ferrol shouted something and neither needed Myron to translate.

It was time.

Arista found it hard to breathe and her legs grew weak as she watched Hadrian enter the ring of torches. He stepped to the center and waited, planting his feet in the packed snow and shifting his grip on the strange weapon.

She looked at Mawyndule and saw he was no longer smiling; his face showed concern as Irawondona entered the ring. The blue torches flared with his passing and the elven lord strode about the space casually, confidently.

“Hadrian’s the best in the world, Arista,” Mauvin whispered to her. “Better than any Pickering, better than Braga, better than-”

“Better than an elven lord?” she asked sharply. “He’s probably played with that weapon since he was a child-some fifteen hundred years ago!”

The drums rolled and the horns blared once more in a sharply definitive sound that hurt her ears. She tried to swallow but found her throat tight. In her chest, her heart hammered, and her hands rose to her breast in an attempt to contain it.

Hadrian waited awkwardly as if uncertain whether the fight had begun. Irawondona walked around the circle of blue burning torches, spinning his spear, rolling it across his shoulders, down his arm, and around his wrist, grinning at the crowd. He threw the weapon up, where it rotated above his head, and whirled it such that it made the sound of birds in flight. He caught it again and laughed.

“How good is he?” Arista asked Mauvin. “Can you tell by the way he moves?”

“Oh, he’s good.”

“How good? You’ve fought Hadrian. Can he beat him?”

“He’s real good.”

“Stop saying that and answer the damn question!”

“I don’t know, okay?” Mauvin admitted. “I can only say that he’s really fast, faster than Hadrian, I think.”

“What about all the whirling? What can you tell from that?”

“That’s nothing, he’s just trying to intimidate.”

“Well, it’s working on me.”

Hadrian stood still, waiting.

Irawondona continued to spin the spear with his hands. “I must commend you on at least knowing how to hold the ule-da-var,” Irawondona told him.

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to do all that fancy spinning stuff,” Hadrian replied. “Does that help? Or is it just needlessly tiring your muscles?”

Irawondona closed the distance between them with brilliant speed and slashed at Hadrian. One stroke aimed down and across with the top blade and another up with the bottom blade. Hadrian dodged the first strike and parried the second with a last-minute swing.

“That was good,” Mauvin whispered. “I’d be dead right now.”

“In the first exchange?” Arista asked.

“Yeah, contrary to popular belief, sword fights don’t last long, a few minutes at best. I watched his feet and they fooled me-he’s very good.”

Irawondona jabbed-Hadrian slapped the blade aside. He jabbed again, and again; each time Hadrian caught the stroke.

“Very nice,” Irawondona said. “Now let’s see how good you really are.”

The elf slapped the shaft of his spear, causing it to hum and the blade to quiver. He jabbed again, this time too fast for Arista to see. Hadrian blocked, caught, and slapped but then Irawondona swung.

“Duck!” Mauvin shouted. “Oh no!”

Hadrian did duck, stabbing his lower blade into the snow. Irawondona’s first stroke passed over Hadrian’s head, but then the second came down. Before it landed, Hadrian pulled on his planted pole and slid himself across the snow on his knees, leaving Irawondona to strike nothing but the bare ground.

Both combatants paused, breathing hard.

“Whoa!” Mauvin said. “That was really good.”

“You don’t move like a human,” Irawondona said.

“And you fight surprisingly well for a talking brideeth.”

The reaction on Irawondona’s face was immediate. His happy grin vanished.

Arista looked to Myron.

“I don’t know that word,” the monk replied.

“I wouldn’t think you would,” Royce said. “I taught him that one.”

Irawondona lashed out again. He moved with blinding speed, spinning forward so that the dual blades flashed in the growing sunlight, their movement visible only by the streaks of light they left. She could hear the sound of the humming knives vibrating the air.

Hadrian leapt back, looking uncertain how to deal with the oncoming whirlwind of metal. He dodged and dodged again as the blades swept close to his head and legs equally. The elf lord drove him back to the edge of the thicket wall. Once there, he flicked the bottom blade, slashing out at Hadrian’s chest. With an agile spin, Hadrian traded places and slammed the elf lord with his elbow while tripping him with the pole. Lord Irawondona quickly somersaulted to his feet with a look of shock on his face.

“You fight like…” Lord Irawondona stopped. He was breathing hard and eyeing Hadrian with concern.

Hadrian now advanced.

This time the blades collided. Staccato strikes sounded across the hilltop. Poles spun up against each other, striking, crossing, clipping. Again there were the hum of bees and then more strikes. Irawondona pushed Hadrian back, jamming him, driving him off balance, his whirling pole streaking in the golden light. Hadrian stumbled and staggered off balance, and the elf lord flashed a grin. He pressed his attack but then Hadrian made an unexpected twist and raked Irawondona across the side with his long blade. A clean stroke-Hadrian’s blade sliced from neck to leg.

The elven lord fell back, shocked. He felt along his side with fear on his face, at the same time Hadrian looked at his weapon-neither found blood. They looked bewildered for a moment; then Irawondona shook it off and regained his stance. He no longer made an effort at exhibitionism.

They circled each other, more hesitant than before, each feinting and falling back, reaching, searching for a weakness in the other. Irawondona charged again; once more the blades clamored, ringing with a sound horrible to hear. One blow after another the metal collided edge to edge, razors striking razors. Just listening to the noise made Arista weak.

Once more Hadrian fell and again Irawondona stabbed, this time faster, forcing Hadrian to log roll away. Irawondona chased but was not fast enough and Hadrian was able to get back on his feet and caught the elf in mid-stride. The elf lord was too late to pull back and Hadrian’s short blade sliced down the back of Irawondona’s exposed calf.

“Ha-ha!” Hadrian laughed. “Not fast enough! Now you’re-”

No blood.

Once more the two looked at the clean blade and the unscarred flesh and slowly Irawondona began to smile.

“Oh dear Maribor!” Arista cried. “Not again, oh please god, not again.”

“What is it?” Mauvin asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Hadrian can’t harm him. I don’t understand. Did we make a mistake when naming him as champion?”

The elf lord, grinning with confidence, attacked again, this time more openly. Hadrian dodged and counterattacked and his strike found Irawondona’s neck. The long blade came slicing across from under the exposed throat from the bottom up. Irawondona’s head jerked up, but once more, the blade did not bite.

The elf lord laughed. “I am a god,” he said, and began to strike out at Hadrian without fear.

“No!” Arista screamed. She looked to the others desperately, tears filling her eyes. “Oh god, Royce, do something. Save him! Please, you have to save him!”

Royce looked at Hadrian as he retreated under the constant bombardment from Irawondona. The elven lord was not letting him rest. It was all Hadrian could do to dodge or glance aside the blows. It would not be long now.

He pulled Alverstone from its sheath. He had never found anything that the blade could not cut. Hadrian had even used it to blind the Gilarabrywn and that was supposed to be impervious to all weapons except the one bearing its name.

In the ring, Irawondona struck wildly from high over his head. Hadrian lifted his pole to block and the long blade struck it. The crack was tremendous as the pole broke in two. The blade struck Hadrian in the chest. The armor prevented the blade from penetrating, but Royce heard something snap and Hadrian cried out. Still, he managed to trip Irawondona to the ground. Hadrian was breathing hard, his face clenched in pain. He spat blood and staggered. “I’m sorry, Arista-I’m so sorry.”

“Say goodbye to your champion, Gaunt,” Mawyndule declared. “I will be king now, as it was meant to be.”

Royce sprinted for the old elf.

Mawyndule looked amused for a moment, then shocked. His guard stepped out but at the last minute Royce sidestepped and dove for Mawyndule. He drove the dagger at the old man’s chest. The chair toppled, with both of them falling over and sprawling across the snow.

They got to their feet simultaneously.

Mawyndule remained unharmed.

“The blessing of Ferrol is upon me, fool! You can’t harm me-but no such protection defends you!”

With a wave of his hand, a column of flame formed around Royce. Fire coursed up his body and engulfed him.

“ Royce! ” Arista shouted. She raised her hands to counter the spell, but before she could, the thief stepped out of the flames.

Everyone stopped.

Even Irawondona paused.

When the flames abated and died away, Royce remained unharmed.

“That can’t be,” Mawyndule said.

Then the old elf’s eyes widened. “Irawondona!” he shouted. “Forget that one! Kill this one. Kill Royce Melborn!”

The elf lord looked puzzled, glancing back at Hadrian, who had collapsed to his knees and was struggling to breathe, his arm and legs drenched in blood.

“Gaunt isn’t the heir; Hadrian is worthless,” Mawyndule shouted. “It’s this one. Royce Melborn is the Heir of Novron. Kill him. Kill him now!”

Royce looked as stunned as anyone.

Irawondona left Hadrian and walked toward Royce and Mawyndule.

“Myron! Mauvin!” Arista shouted. “Water-bandages-now!”

She entered the ring and threw her arms around Hadrian, lying him down. “Royce?” Hadrian asked. “ Royce is the heir?”

“Yes!” Arista told him as she poured water over his wounds and began binding them tightly with linen. “Why didn’t I see it? Arcadius didn’t just happen to bring you two together. Somehow he knew. He was reuniting the heir and the guardian. Esrahaddon must have known too. Gaunt was just a diversion. When he begged me to help find the heir, he never said Degan Gaunt, he just said the heir! He’s why we were able to reach the horn. Esrahaddon knew that only the true heir could get past the Gilarabrywn. All this time the heir and the guardian were together.”

“But why didn’t Esrahaddon tell us?”

“To keep him safe. That’s why he led everyone to Gaunt. Can Royce defeat Irawondona?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Then we have to hurry. You still have a fight to win.”

“But I can’t hurt him.”

“Only because the true heir never named you as champion. Once Royce does, you’ll be able to hurt him. You’ll have to fight and this time you must win.”

She stood up and shouted, “Royce! Don’t fight. Just give me some time and then name Hadrian as your champion.” She knelt back down to tend to his wounds.

“Arista, I can’t.” Hadrian lay on his back, his chest heaving for air, blood smeared on his cheek and pooling around him.

“You can beat him,” Myron said as he tore more bandages.

“No, I can’t-”

“You don’t understand,” the monk interrupted. “I speak not from faith in you, but from fact. You are a Teshlor Knight. Techylor was the best warrior in the world and the leader of the Instarya warrior tribe. Irawondona is from the hunters’ tribe, he doesn’t know how to fight.”

“Believe me, he does.”

“Not like you do.”

“Okay, fine, but you fail to take into account that I can’t move. My ribs are broken. I can’t even stand up.”

“Leave that to me,” Arista told him, and began to hum.

Irawondona spoke briefly to Mawyndule in elvish as Royce slowly retreated from them, backing away between the tents and down the snowy hill.

“ Just kill him! ” Mawyndule demanded as his guards helped right his chair.

Royce stopped his retreat and crouched, digging his feet in the snow and feeling the weight of Alverstone in his hand. He had heard what Arista had shouted and he looked over to where Hadrian lay. His friend was in bad shape, but Arista was going into one of her trances.

“Come here, little prince,” Irawondona jeered, walking toward him. Royce was surprised that the elf could speak Apelanese. “It is our turn to dance.” He waved the halberd, spinning it like he had when fighting Hadrian.

Royce looked at Arista once more, then tossed Alverstone away.

Irawondona smiled. “So you’re going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Not really,” Royce replied. “I just don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”

“I don’t think you understand how this works, little prince.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s you who is confused.”

“Just kill him and get it over with, you idiot!” Mawyndule ordered.

Irawondona advanced, racing down the slope, and lunged. Royce dodged, backing farther away.

“You’re quick,” Irawondona told him. “But then, you are the descendant of one of us.”

The elf lord spun his pole once more and advanced. Irawondona attacked and with each swipe Royce dodged and withdrew farther down the slope on the east side of the Lee, nearing the place where Arista had killed two Seret Knights.

“Stop running, little prince, accept your fate. We are done with human rule. I would prefer to wear the crown, of course, but even a Miralyith is better than a mixed blood. It is time that mankind left Elan for good.”

“And then you’ll live happily ever after?”

“Indeed we will. We will roam the world as we once did. We will destroy the goblins and then it will be just the dwarves and us again, and eventually… just us. Then Erivan will rule Elan again. When that day comes, Ferrol will walk among us once more.”

“Do you really think Mawyndule will honor any agreement he made with you? He hates you more than he does us. It was your people that betrayed him. They convinced him to kill his own father. He wants to be your king so he can enact his revenge on those who hurt him the most.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? For three thousand years he’s sought his revenge. Kill me and you will place a tyrant on your throne and his first order will be your death.”

“He is still an elf. Better that he rule than a half-breed like you.”

“Whatever bonds of kinship he had, he lost long ago.”

“Even so, even if he kills me, if my death and the death of every clan leader is the cost, so be it. We will be rid of your kind-of your blood.”

He struck out and once more Royce dodged. But this time he realized too late his own mistake. Irawondona had anticipated the move; he saw the feint and compensated, swinging around with the long blade. Royce was caught. The metal entered him with a surprisingly quiet hiss. Looking down, he saw the blood-coated tip as Irawondona pulled the blade free.

Royce collapsed.

“Royce!” he heard Hadrian cry. “Do it, do it now!”

The elf lord raised his blade once more. “Farewell, Son of Nyphron.”

Royce took a breath. “ Byrinith con-duylar ben-Hadrian Blackwater,” he said as loud as he could manage.

“ Duylar e finis dan iskabareth ben Royce Melborn! ” Hadrian replied quickly even as Irawondona’s stroke came down.

The tip of the long blade slammed against Royce’s chest but he barely felt it. A bright spark flashed and a loud crack echoed as the blade shattered and sent bits of metal skipping down the hillside.

Irawondona stood above him, stunned.

Royce muttered and coughed. “My friend is going to kill you.”

Irawondona looked down at him, confused, but Royce took little notice now. He lay staring up at the blue sky. “You were right, Gwen. You were right.”

The elven lord looked over his shoulder and saw Hadrian, bandaged and standing in the ringed arena. With what sounded like an elvish curse, Irawondona spat on Royce, glared at Mawyndule, and walked back toward the ring.

Irawondona entered. “Your weapon is destroyed,” the elf said in a pitying voice as he gestured at the halberd, lying in two pieces.

“No, it’s not.” Hadrian reached behind him and drew out the great spadone blade.

Irawondona hesitated but then threw aside his broken pole and drew his own sword, which gleamed much the same way as Mauvin’s. The two moved to the center of the ring.

Irawondona attacked first, spinning and swinging. Hadrian took hold of the advance guard of his sword with his off hand, gripping his blade up to the flanges, and caught the attack with two hands much the same as if he had still wielded the pole. He pivoted and spun the sword around but the elf slipped away. He riposted instantly, but Hadrian was there with the hilt guard again. There was a spark and the two separated once more; this time they both panted for breath.

Irawondona attacked again and feinted. Hadrian saw the ruse and moved to cut-but then the elf leapt in the air and spun. Irawondona flew from the ground so nimbly that he appeared to fly, leaving Hadrian’s sword nothing but air. Irawondona flipped, and as he touched down, he struck Hadrian across the back with a hammer punch from his sword’s pommel. The blow drove Hadrian to the dirt once more.

Hadrian was down as Irawondona attacked. Once more, reflex saved him. Hadrian rolled aside and kicked Irawondona in the knee, causing the elf to stagger back long enough for Hadrian to gain his footing.

Arista, Mauvin, Magnus, and Myron rushed to Royce where he lay on the hillside, struggling to breathe. Arista was not a doctor, but Royce looked bad. Already the earth around him was dark with blood. His chest and sides were slick and shiny, violently thrusting to breathe; both eyes were rolled up, exposing only whites.

“Stay alive, Royce,” Arista told him. “Do you hear me? You need to stay alive!”

Royce muttered something and drew in air with a horrid gurgle. “I saved-I saved him.”

“Not yet you haven’t. It’s not over! Royce, listen to me.” Arista took his hands. “You can’t die, do you understand? Do you hear me?”

He jerked, his head twitching.

“Damn it!” she said, and placing her hands on his chest, she closed her eyes and began the chant. Immediately she felt the resistance, a solid separation, as if a wall stood between them. The Hand of Ferrol left no cracks or seams. The shield was perfect and impervious.

She opened her eyes. “I can’t help him,” she told the others. “Hadrian! Hurry! He’s dying!”

At the sound of her voice Irawondona smiled. “I don’t even have to fight to win. I’m faster than you are. I can avoid you until he dies. Then Mawyndule will be king. But rest assured I will kill you then. You will be the first; then I will kill your woman, and that empress of yours, then every last man, woman, and child on the face of Elan.”

Hadrian nodded. “You could do that. And when your son and grandson ask about this day, you can tell them how in the fight that decided everything, you did nothing. You chose to run until time ran out, because you were afraid of being killed in a fair fight by a human-a fight ordained by your god, Ferrol. Then they will know that your race gained their dominance through cowardice and that mankind was truly the greater race.”

Irawondona glared.

“Go on, you can admit it. You’re afraid of me.” Hadrian raised his voice. “You’re afraid of me, and I’m only a human. I’m not even a noble or a knight. Do you know what I am? I’m a thief. Both of us are, Royce and I.” Hadrian pointed down the hill. “We’re nothing but a pair of common thieves. My father was a lowly blacksmith. He worked in a pathetic village not far from here.” Hadrian let himself laugh. “An orphan and a blacksmith’s son-two human thieves who terrify the invincible elven lords. It’s so pathetic.”

“I’m afraid of no human.”

“Then prove it. Don’t wait for him to die. Don’t be a coward. Have at me.”

Irawondona did not move.

“I thought as much,” Hadrian said, and turned his back on the elf.

There was no sound. Hadrian knew there would not be. Years with Royce had taught him so. It was the look on the faces of those who watched that let him know Irawondona had moved.

Hadrian had already shifted his grip on the two-handed pommel of the spadone. His fingers spread in the fashion his father had taught him. His knees bent as his back bowed and his arm moved. One minute he was on the hill at Amberton Lee and the next he was in Hintindar behind the forge as his father shouted instructions.

Don’t look! Danbury ordered, tying on the blindfold. Trust your instincts. Don’t guess; know what he is doing. Believe it. Act on it!

Hadrian swung outward to his right. The great sword of Jerish Grelad caught the morning sun on its worn blade and glinted, shining for one brief moment.

It’s more than fighting, Haddy, Danbury said. It’s what you are. It’s what you will be-what you must be. Trust in it.

Hadrian’s knees hit the snow, sending up a burst of ice crystals. He could see the shadow now, the rushing darkness of Irawondona running at him from behind. Pulling against the weight of the spadone, he started the pivot, the collapsing rotation.

It was a blind attack.

You don’t have to see your opponent to kill him, his father had explained. You just have to know where he will be. That’s the key to everything. And if you know, what good are eyes? What good is seeing? Trust in what I’ve taught you and you’ll hit him.

Hadrian continued the spin, one knee coming up, his shoulder twisting his waist as he put his full weight into the arc. He did not look. He did not need to. He knew. He knew exactly where Irawondona was and where he would be.

He felt metal kiss metal as Irawondona tried to parry. The force of the spadone, the weight behind it, was too much to deflect. The metal sang, but there was hardly a quiver to the stroke as it carried through the weak defense, driving the sword from Irawondona’s grip. The spadone continued in its stroke and Hadrian hardly felt the impact as it cut into the elf’s side. Irawondona’s body offered even less resistance than his blade, and Hadrian completed the swing as if he were performing it alone behind the blacksmith’s shop. The only difference was the splash of blood.

The blue torches flared brilliantly white, then went out with a loud snap.

“ Ir a wondon,” the priest of Ferrol announced, and then, looking at Hadrian, added, “It is done.”

“ No! ” Mawyndule cried, raising his arms. He looked as if he was trying to speak when he coughed and blood sprayed the front of his robes. To either side, his guards started to draw their weapons but disappeared with a loud pop.

Mawyndule collapsed face-first. Behind him, Monsignor Merton stood holding the bloodstained Alverstone in both hands.

The elves did not move or react. Instead they stood silently, their faces solemn, their eyes downcast. No one looked at Irawondona and none bothered with Mawyndule; instead they started down the hill toward Royce.

“ Hadrian! ” Arista screamed.

He pushed his way through the elves, then finally past Modina, the girls, and the boys to find Arista kneeling on the ground clutching Royce. The ground was soaked and his friend’s eyes were closed.

“Help him!” Hadrian told her.

“I can’t! I tried!” she cried, her eyes frightened.

“But I won,” he said, and looked to Myron. “The blessing is gone now, right?”

The monk nodded.

“There-see? Do it, do it now! Pull him back!”

“I tried!” she shouted at him. “Don’t you think I tried! I was waiting, and the second the wall was gone, I went in. But I still can’t reach him. Hadrian… he doesn’t want to be saved. I think he wants to die.”

Hadrian felt the strength at last go out of his legs and he collapsed to his knees.

“He sees her, Hadrian,” Arista cried, cradling Royce’s head on her lap. “He sees her in the light. He doesn’t even hear me. All he sees is her and he keeps saying he did it, he saved you.”

Hadrian nodded. Tears filled his eyes and he reached out and brushed the hair away from Royce’s face. “Damn it, Royce! Don’t leave me, pal. Com’on, buddy, you have to come back. I finally did it. I killed the bad guy, saved the kingdom, won the girl, and you’re ruining it all for me. You don’t want to do that, do you? Please, we still need you.”

“What happens if he dies?” Gaunt asked from above him.

“The elves will be without a king,” Myron said in a shaking voice. “The next elf to blow the horn will be king, unless there is another challenger and a fight. But either way, an elf will be crowned.”

“Do you hear that, Royce? It isn’t over. You have to live or we all die. You won’t have saved me after all. Com’on, pal.” He lifted him, cradling Royce in his arms. “You can’t leave now.”

Hadrian studied his face-no change.

“There’s just nothing keeping you here anymore, is there?” Tears ran down Hadrian’s cheeks. “I love you, buddy,” he said, and laid him back down.

Those watching fell silent as they listened to Royce’s breathing. It grew shallower and slower, fainter with each rasping in and out. Somewhere a bird sang, and the wind blew across the hilltop.

“Who is he?”

Hadrian heard a small voice disturb the silence.

“Mercy, shush,” the empress Modina said. “His name is Royce, now be quiet.”

Hadrian looked up suddenly.

“What?” Arista asked.

“Gwen,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Gwen told me how to save him.”

“She did?”

“Yes, something about… It was the last time I saw her-one of the last things she ever told me. I–I didn’t realize…”

“Realize what?” Arista asked.

“She knew.”

“Knew what?”

“She knew everything,” Hadrian replied. “I remember she told me what to do to save him but at the time I didn’t understand. Damn, I wish I had Myron’s brain!”

Hadrian took a breath and tried to calm down. “I was with her in The Rose and Thorn, at the table. Royce was there-no-no, he wasn’t-he was in the kitchen doing something. He was happy-happy about… about… the wedding! Yes, we were talking about the wedding and about how Royce had changed over the years. I felt bad taking him away from her and she said that he had to go or I would die.” He looked back toward the arena, where Irawondona’s body still lay. “She meant this. She saw this! But then she said something else. She said… Oh, what did she say?”

He struggled to remember her voice, her words: He’s seen too much cruelty and betrayal. He’s never known mercy. That was what she had said but then there was something else, something she wanted him to do. You have to do this, Hadrian. You have to be the one to show him mercy. If you can do that, I know it will save him.

“No,” he said, stunned. “Not show him mercy-oh god! She wanted me to show him Mercy!”

He leapt to his feet and grabbed the little girl standing beside Modina. She pulled back, frightened.

“Relax, honey. Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “Just tell me your name.”

The girl looked at Modina, who nodded.

“Mercy.”

“No-no, what’s your full name?”

“Mercedes, but no one calls me that except my mother-at least, she used to.”

“What’s your mother’s name, honey?” Hadrian asked, his hands trembling as he held her.

“My mother is dead.”

“Yes, dear, but what was her name?”

The little girl smiled. “Gwendolyn DeLancy.”

“Did you hear that, Royce!” Hadrian shouted. “Her name is Mercedes.”

He kept shouting at him. “Elias or Sterling if a boy, right? But there was only one name for the girl, Mercedes. There was only one name because Gwen had already named her! This is your daughter, Royce! This is your and Gwen’s daughter! How old are you, sweetie? Five? Six?”

“Six,” she said proudly.

“She’s six, Royce. That would have been the year we spent locked up in Alburn, remember? Gwen took her baby to Arcadius. She probably didn’t want you to feel trapped, or maybe she didn’t want her growing up in a whorehouse. In any case, she knew she would die before introducing you to your daughter. That’s why she told me to. Royce, you have a daughter, you old bastard!” He reached out and took hold of Royce’s face. “Part of Gwen is still here! Do you hear me?”

“Is he my father?” Mercy asked, drawing closer. “My mother told me that one day I would meet my father and that he would take me to live in a beautiful place and I would become a fairy princess and a queen of the forest.”

Royce’s eyelids twitched.

“Now!” Hadrian told Arista, but it was not necessary. She was already chanting. The chanting quieted to a hum and then Arista went silent. She jerked abruptly and violently. Hadrian took hold of her. He had one hand on each of them as he prayed to Maribor. Every muscle in Arista’s body was taut and her head hitched as if she were being slapped. Then suddenly she shook and her breath shortened to gasps. The time between gasps grew until she stopped breathing entirely.

All around them the crowd stopped breathing as well.

“Royce!” Hadrian screamed at him. “She’s your daughter, and if you die, she’ll be an orphan, just like you! Are you going to abandon her and leave her alone like your parents did? Royce! ”

Both bodies lurched in unison and they gasped for air. Arista, damp with sweat, laid her head against Hadrian. Royce breathed deeply, and slowly his eyes fluttered open. He did not speak, but his eyes focused on the little girl.