The Grand Design (14 page)

“And you chose me?” This intrigued the warlord enough so that he turned his head. There was a curious smile on his face. “I am not the village wise-woman. Why me?”

“I am not sure,” said Richius with a shrug. “Maybe because I have no one else who would listen. Or understand. I am—”

“Troubled. Yes, so you have said. Come.” Karlaz patted the wet ground next to him. “Sit with me.”

Richius grimaced. “In the mud?”

Again the warlord beckoned Richius forward. “I have been watching you, Kalak. You live among us, but you are not Triin yet. I will teach you something. Come.”

Reluctantly, Richius picked his way over the rocky ground toward Karlaz. At the warlord’s insistence he knelt down beside him. Immediately his knees disappeared with a sucking sound, the water soaking through his trousers to the skin.

“Now what?”

“Shhh,” Karlaz directed. “This will calm your mind. But you must be quiet. You of Nar, you are never quiet enough. You cannot hear the silence.” Karlaz made a cup of his hands again. “Do this,” he said. “Yes, that is good. Now …” He dipped his hands into the water until his hands filled, watching as Richius did the same. But when Karlaz dropped the cold water over his face and chest, Richius balked.

“Karlaz, I am not very religious. I do not want to pray.”

“Shhh,” said Karlaz. “This is not prayer. No. This is for you, not the Gods. When we do this thing,
we
are the center of the world.”

It was all cryptic nonsense, but Richius did as the warlord asked, raising his hands to his face and letting the water slowly dribble out. Not surprisingly, he felt no different, but he dipped his hands in the water again and repeated the process three more times along with Karlaz. Richius stole a glance at the lion rider, whose eyes were closed in contemplation.

“What are we doing?” he whispered.

“We are becoming part of the earth,” said Karlaz. “Part of the soil, part of the water. Part of the sky if you look at it. Look at the sky, Kalak. Keep your eyes open and look.”

Richius looked. He poured the water over his face, straining not to blink, and watched the blueness of the
heavens blur in the waterfall. He felt giddy suddenly and he laughed.

“Good!” Karlaz encouraged. “You see? You are part of the earth now. Part of nature. Now sing with me.”

Again Karlaz began to chant, elbowing Richius to join him. Richius joined in, shyly at first, then stronger as the mood swept him. It was still nonsense, but he loved it. He loved being part of nature, and he imagined the water washing him clean, carrying away his sins and his past. He chanted with the warlord for long minutes, and when Karlaz stopped singing Richius went on alone, louder until the birds flew from the trees and his song wasn’t a chant suddenly but a pained, cathartic cry.…

Richius let all the frustration blow out of him, and when he was done he opened his eyes and glanced at Karlaz, horrified. The lion-master stared at him.

“Troubled,” murmured Karlaz.

Richius was breathing hard. “Yes. Oh, yes …”

He had no other words. He was a prisoner of his memories. Aramoor flashed before him, perfect and green, and the shattering sight of Sabrina’s head in a box, staring. A gift from Biagio. He had never truly loved her but he loved her now, and he feared suddenly that she would never be silent, that her screams would echo endlessly. He brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes, willing the images away, but they remained, just as they had always remained.

“Karlaz,” he said shakily. “I am alone here. I am like you. A stranger in Falindar.”

The warlord took Richius’ chin in his hand and pulled him closer. “You are not alone, Kalak. Hear me? Kalak can never be alone here. You have a wife, and a daughter. I have seen them with you.” He smiled, and the expression was surprisingly gentle. “Kalak is not alone.”

“Dyana,” Richius nodded. “Yes, she is wonderful. I
love her, but she does not understand. She does not know what I am going through.”

The warlord’s grin broadened. “Always men talk about the wife that does not understand. Triin men are the same. They should listen to their wives more. The females know more than we think.”

Richius nodded, somewhat ruefully. “Yes. But I have tried to speak to her, and she will not hear me. She does not want to listen to what I have to tell her. To her, it is just bad news.”

The warlord’s eyes narrowed to scrutinize him. “I have been watching you, Kalak. I have seen you at work, and I have heard the way the others talk about you. I know that you were married before; that Dyana is not your first wife. The guards, they talk. They say that you are unhappy here, and that your heart is full of vengeance. And you walk alone at night, in the courtyard. I have seen you.”

It was all true, so Richius didn’t deny it. Those nighttime walks had been his only means to exorcise the demons that always came to him in sleep. But suddenly the warlord’s perception made him uneasy. He got up from the ground, brushing the mud from his knees and wiping his filthy hands on his trousers. Karlaz looked up at him, but did not rise.

“I have disturbed you,” said Richius. “I am sorry. I will go now.”

He turned to go, making it halfway to his horse before Karlaz called after him.

“Now Kalak runs,” said the warlord. “And he still has no answers.”

Richius turned. “Karlaz, I …”

“Yes?”

“Talking about this is hard for me.”

Still Karlaz stared at him. “If you go, you will only be frustrated. And then you will tell your wife that you are frustrated, and you will both be angry. You came to talk. So talk. I will listen.”

It was an odd invitation, but of all the Triin warlords Richius had known, only Karlaz had seemed like kindred. Perhaps it was why the other warlords had always shunned him; he was nothing like them at all. Richius lingered between his horse and the stream, contemplating what to say. He could think of no tangible reason for coming to Karlaz. He just wanted a companion. Amazingly, Karlaz seemed to read his mind. The man rose from his knees and strode over to him.

“Lucyler is a good man,” he said. “I trust him. But he is busy these days with great matters. The other warlords, they look to him for answers to their silly feuds. They eat up his time with nonsense. He has no time for you. And this discourages you.”

Richius laughed. Perhaps Karlaz was a magician. “Yes,” he admitted. “That is right, I think. I feel alone here. I am not Triin, and I am out of place. And …” He stopped himself, wondering if he should go further. The warlord cocked his head inquisitively.

“And?”

“I have dreams,” said Richius. “Bad dreams. Of home. Of my first wife, Sabrina. It is all inside me, in here, crying to get out. I do not belong here. Since the war with Nar ended, I have done nothing for my people in Aramoor. They think I have betrayed them, and they are right. Sabrina died because of me.” He looked away, horrified at what he was admitting. “I am cursed, Karlaz. Everyone who trusts me dies, but I always live. That is my curse—to live while everyone else dies.”

Karlaz’s brow wrinkled. “Narens are superstitious. Curses and portents—they are nonsense. It does you ill to speak so. I know of your wife, Kalak, the cruel thing they did to her. Your vengeance must be great. It is right to feel your anger. It is what a man should feel.”

“It screams at me, Karlaz. Sometimes it is all I think
about. I need to be doing something for Aramoor, something to avenge what they did to Sabrina.”

“But you have avenged her,” said Karlaz. “I have heard the story of the man with the metal face, the one called Gayle. You battled and killed him. She
is
avenged, Kalak. You cannot slay a man twice.”

“Would that I could,” spat Richius. He would love to have that pleasure again. Often he remembered his sword cutting through Gayle’s skull and the look of astonishment on the baron’s face. But Blackwood Gayle had only been a pawn, a puppet on Biagio’s strings. Gayle was dead but Biagio lived on, and had yet to answer for his crimes.

“There is another man,” Richius explained. “The one who ordered her death. I know you do not know much about Nar, but this one is a devil. He is a Naren nobleman. He was the emperor’s closest advisor before the old man died. His name is Biagio.”

Karlaz tried to wrap his tongue around the name. “Beeagyo,” he managed to say. “A bad man?”

“Oh, worse than bad. Evil. Do Triin believe in Hell? Because he is from Hell, I swear it. He ordered my homeland overrun, and he gave it to Talistan to rule.”

Karlaz folded his arms over his chest. “Where is this Beeagyo?” he growled. “In the Empire?”

“I am not sure,” said Richius with a shrug. “The news I hear from Nar is not very reliable or recent, but I have heard he is in exile. After the emperor died, there was chaos in Nar. Biagio had to flee, probably to his island. There is a bishop in power now, a holy man you might call him. Not a friend of Biagio’s. But not a friend of mine, either.” He sighed. “I cannot really explain this to you. It is something you have to see to believe, but Nar is run by evil men. Not just bad or cruel, but truly evil. Their souls are black, you see? Black like death. They have to be stopped.”

The warlord looked at him suspiciously. “By you?”

“Maybe,” said Richius. “Why not?”

“One man alone against an empire. That sounds like a fool’s crusade, Kalak. And you are an outlaw in Nar, yes? Show your face, and you are dead. Your wife is widowed, your daughter fatherless. That is not being a hero.”

“But I would not be alone. I would go with the Lissens. I would join in their fight.”

“The Lissens have left our waters. They do not come to Lucel-Lor anymore.”

“But they might be back. Their commander told me so. He said I could join them if I wanted.”

“And what did you say?” asked Karlaz, looking like he already knew the answer.

“I told him that I would help if I was needed. Can you understand that, Karlaz? You helped the other Triin to fight Nar because they invaded your land. You were willing to die. Should I not be at least as brave as that?”

“It is different, Kalak.”

“Why?” asked Richius hotly. “Why is defending Aramoor any different from defending your village?”

“It
is
different,” repeated the warlord firmly, “and I will not argue this with you.” Then he sighed and his face became mournful. “You have much to think on, Kalak. You should talk to the sky.”

For a moment Richius thought that his Triin had failed him. Talk to the sky? “What does that mean?”

“In Chandakkar, when a man is troubled, he talks to the sky. He goes away from all others, like I have been doing here. I have had things to think on. I have been talking to the sky.”

And to the mud and water and trees
, thought Richius wryly. “Karlaz, I am not understanding you. You want me to go away? Leave Falindar?”

“For a time, yes. Talk to the sky. Listen to what it tells you.” The big man poked his finger into Richius’ chest. “Listen to what
this
tells you. Your heart, Kalak. Your heart.”

Dyana Vantran was barely twenty years old, but she had seen a lot in her brief lifetime. The daughter of wealthy Triin parents, she had been bred as an aristocrat, had learned the tongue of the Naren Empire, and had been married to a man who slew her father. She had been a refugee, a prostitute, a symbol of derision, and the object of more than one man’s madness. She had survived two devastating wars. Yet in all the roles she had played, she was only happy in her current incarnation—the wife of Richius and the mother of their small daughter, Shani. She was satisfied in Falindar, and despite her best attempts to understand her husband’s moods, she could not understand why Richius wasn’t.

Dyana remembered empty stomachs, and her bitter past made her grateful for the bounty of Falindar. No one in the citadel ever hungered—especially not Shani—and they were sheltered here from the violent whims of the warlords. Lucyler had done an admirable job as Falindar’s master, and because of his friendship with Richius, he had made sure they wanted for nothing. And they enjoyed the respect of the people in the region; Richius was a hero here. But he never saw it that way, and it irritated Dyana. In the last few months he had grown distant and moody, his eyes always drifting toward the sea, where Dyana knew he searched for Lissen ships. He was still a good father and attentive to their child, but something had changed. She had fallen in love with a man with boyish charm, and she missed his eagerness, his innocence. He was somehow diminished. These days, Richius was quiet. He shared precious little with her, leaving her to wonder what went on in his head. When they had first married, she could read his expressions easily, but no longer. He had erected a wall around himself that even she couldn’t scale. They made love in perfect silence.

That night, Dyana was asleep when Richius finally returned to the citadel. It was very late, and she had gone to bed alone, as had become her custom. Shani was in a nearby room, also sleeping. Dyana heard the door to her bed chamber open. She cracked one eye to glimpse Richius in the threshold, moving furtively in the moonlight. He peered at her through the darkness, checking to see if he had awoken her. Dyana didn’t move. She listened as Richius stripped off his clothes, then washed quietly from the basin by the window. After pulling on a nightshirt, he very carefully slid into bed next to her.