The Grand Design (47 page)

“Now,” replied N’Dek. “We’re pulling up anchor.”

Simon departed quickly, determined never to see Lucel-Lor again.

What seemed like a hundred miles passed to Dyana in a fugue.

Richius’ horse Lightning, accustomed to hard riding, had galloped like a surefooted blur in the moonlight. Time raced by as they ran through the valley and the woodlands and the rocky crags of the shoreline. Lightning had lathered up to the point of exhaustion, but the stout-hearted horse never faltered. Dyana, exhausted herself, fought to focus on the narrow roads and forest paths. Falindar was far away and she felt the uncertain fear of being lost, but she was sure she knew the way to the tower. Her eyes blurred. Her hands had gone raw with cold. Lightning’s hot body warmed her legs and she leaned down into him as she rode, trying to shield her wind-lashed face.

And then at last, when she felt she would fall from the saddle, she saw the first hint of the tower. Dawn was very near. The sun began its first stirrings, swatting back the night. Dyana slowed the horse, drawing him down to a circumspect trot. The tower emerged in her vision, murky and foreboding. Just past the tower, barely visible on the ocean, was a ship. Hope rose in her. Simon was still here. He would be at the tower, she surmised, waiting for the light.

“There is not much time,” she told the horse. She urged Lightning closer to the tower, keeping to the shadows. With eagle eyes she spied the clearing for
movement, but all she saw were tumbling leaves. The dawn would bring light, and the light would expose her, and the realization quickened her pace. Lightning seemed to sense her caution. He picked his way along quietly, bearing her toward the tower like a hunting jaguar. When they reached the thinning trees bordering the clearing, Dyana brought the horse to a stop.

“Here,” she whispered. “No farther.”

She would have to go alone, and leave the exhausted horse to rest. She spied the tower entrance, black and vacant. Inside the structure a pinpoint of light flickered. Dyana bit her lip, sure that Simon had lit the flame. Sliding off Lightning’s back, she gave the weary creature a thankful pat. He would wait for her, like he always waited for Richius. If she returned. If Simon didn’t kill her. If Shani was still alive.

Enough!

Dyana made a fist. It hadn’t occurred to her to bring a weapon, but now she wished she had. A dagger or an axe, anything to put in Simon’s back. If Shani was harmed, she would use her fingernails to scratch out Simon’s heart. He would pay.

She moved through the clearing to the tower arch, reaching it swiftly. There at the entrance she paused by the crumbling wall and peered inside. The little flame she had seen before was now clearly visible, glowing on the far side of the circular chamber. Simon wasn’t inside. No one was, or so it appeared. It was a large room with a thousand black places. Dyana listened, and a startling sound reached her ears—the shuffling of footsteps. Her eyes darted to a spiral stairway leading up into nothingness. Someone was coming. Dyana steeled herself and stepped into the chamber.

“Simon!” she called. “Come down here!”

There was a blur of movement at her side. A figure
darted from the blackness, startled by her shout. Down the stairs raced another man, shocked at the sight of her. The one behind her wrapped strong arms around her torso, pinning her arms. Dyana cursed and writhed to get free, but she was too weak and exhausted to break the hold. She felt hot breath on her neck, the unpleasant smell of sour spirits. The dark-haired man at the staircase came forward to stare at her.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, pulling a dagger from his belt. Dyana kicked at him like a wildcat. He came at her again, carefully this time, and put the tip of the dagger to her chin. “Answer me, girl. Who are you?”

“Where is Simon?” Dyana hissed. “Where is my baby?”

The man holding her squeezed tighter, driving the air from her lungs. Dyana howled in anger, managing to spit at the one with the dagger. He reared back, laughing insanely.

“Your baby?” he chirped. “Are you the mother of the whelp? The Jackal’s wife?”

“Where is she? Monster! Where is my daughter?”

The dark-haired man stared incredulously. “Donhedris, I think we’ve gotten ourselves a prize! This little beauty is Vantran’s wife!”

Donhedris lifted her off the floor. “Well!” he declared, booming in her ear. “So you’re the biddy Vantran betrayed the Empire for! Oooh, a pretty thing.” His tongue darted out and licked her neck. The grotesque sensation made Dyana scream.

“Bastards!” She was frantic, roiling with dread. “God, where is she? Where …?”

“Your daughter is gone,” said the man with the dagger. He twirled the weapon between his fingers. “So is Dark-Heart, the one you call Simon. He has taken her away.”

“No!”

“He has, and there’s nothing to be done about it.” The man’s face wrinkled with thought. “The question now is what to do with you. Does your husband know you’re here, woman?”

“Richius is gone!” Dyana spat. “He has gone to Liss to—”

In her anger she had spit it out, but now she clamped her mouth closed, cursing her stupidity. The dark one drifted up to her.

“Now that was interesting,” he said. He brought a hand to Dyana’s jaw and squeezed tightly. “Keep talking, or I will pull out your teeth.”

Dyana shut her eyes against the viselike grip. “I will not tell you,” she rasped.

“There are thirty-two teeth in a human mouth. How many in a Triin’s, I wonder?”

“Don’t,” cautioned Donhedris. “Biagio wouldn’t want her harmed. We should take her back to Crote for the Mind Bender.”

“Yes!” declared the man, brightening. He released Dyana’s jaw. “There’s nothing here for us with the Jackal gone, and the Master would welcome this additional prize. We’ve done very well, Donhedris.” He took the flat of his dagger and brushed it across Dyana’s cheek. “You’ll get to see that whelp of yours,” he taunted. “And there’s someone else who’d love to meet you. Someone far better at making people talk than I am.”

L
orla Lon, fully immersed in her new identity, had spent the day wandering the halls and chapels of the great cathedral, marveling at the ingenuity of human engineers. Goth had stunned her, Dragon’s Beak had captivated her, but the soaring Cathedral of the Martyrs had burned itself into her soul. The Holy Father Herrith, who she simply called “Father” now, had been good to her, buying her trinkets and expensive clothing, and giving her full run of his splendid home. Except for a few sacred areas, Lorla was able to go wherever she wished, touch whatever artifact seized her fancy, and she explored all the cathedral’s mysteries with a child’s curiosity. She didn’t miss Enli or Dragon’s Beak anymore. She missed Nina a little, because Nina was a girl and there were no young women in the cathedral. There were nuns, but Lorla didn’t like them because they were old and sour-tempered and always looked at her disapprovingly. But no one dared scold Lorla. She was the Holy Father’s favorite, and she exploited her newfound status to the fullest. Each night she ate a sumptuous meal with Herrith, sometimes in the company of priests, sometimes alone to talk and laugh together. And each day was a new adventure. She would watch the pilgrims come to the cathedral, the white-skinned Dorians and the amber Crotans, the poor and the wealthy, and the beggars
imploring handouts. There were ceremonies and posh, elaborate prayer meetings, where Herrith himself would summon God to touch the assembly and they would faint from the power of His invisible finger. On Seventh Day, the holiest day of the week, the main chapel of the cathedral swelled with Naren nobles and the grounds were packed with curious lay-folk. Too common to get a seat inside, they would wait in the rain for Herrith to appear on his balcony and dispense the word of Heaven. It was a spectacle, this great cathedral, a circus of pageantry and pomp, and Lorla adored it.

But of all the things the cathedral offered, Lorla liked weddings the best. Each day, a parade of Naren ladies came to the cathedral, their white gowns flowing and meticulous, theirs eyes wide and wet with tears. They were beautiful to Lorla, and their handsome husbands, all decked out in royal finery, made her wistful. They reminded Lorla of her true age, not the stunted midget she appeared to be, and they called up something carnal in her, something yearning to be loosed. Father Herrith rarely performed the ceremonies, usually leaving it to underlings, but sometimes, when it was a particularly influential couple or when he was simply in a giving mood, he graced the chapel himself and joined the two together, and when he did the congregation cheered and wept and threw golden coins onto the altar. They were gifts to God, Herrith had explained, and that was why the priests scooped them up.

Since coming to the cathedral, Lorla had only seen the orphanage from a carriage window. She had no need of friends, and she was afraid of what she might find there. Herrith had offered to take her to the orphanage so that she might meet some children her own age, but Lorla had steadfastly refused, playing on the bishop’s weaknesses and telling him that she needed only him. His weird blue eyes had melted at that news,
and Lorla knew she already had Herrith in her control. It was just as Duke Enli had predicted—he had not been able to resist her. But it wasn’t for the reasons Enli claimed. It was because Herrith was sad and lonely and troubled by big things. He wasn’t the lecherous demon Lorla had feared. He had been kind to her. And he had given her things without want of reward, simply out of the generosity of his heart. It pained Lorla to think of him sometimes, because she knew unflinchingly what she must do. He was, despite outward appearances, the Master’s enemy, and that meant she would destroy him.

The afternoon of her ninth day in the cathedral was just like any other, uneventful but full of things to discover. At Herrith’s suggestion, Lorla had avoided the great hall where the artist Darago was toiling, but today she felt particularly rebellious, and so skirted downstairs after the mid-day meal to see what astonishing work the legendary painter was producing. She had never seen Darago, but Herrith had warned her that he was a stern man who hated disturbances. Determined not to be detected, Lorla crept toward the great hall, wincing as her shoes squeaked on the marble floor. She could see the hall in front of her, well lit with a dozen torches and natural light pouring in through a stained-glass window. The sound of assistants hard at work echoed forth. There were voices too, mostly young, but one abrasive bellow that pulverized the rest.

“God-damn it, no!” cursed the voice. “I said dry, you fool. Not wet!”

Lorla froze, but the smell of paint was too tempting. She advanced, unable to contain her curiosity. Leading to the hall was a gentle bend in the corridor. She reached the bend, stopped at the rounded corner, and peered inside. The ceiling was fully exposed now, divested of the canvas covers that had hidden most of it before. Though unfinished, the fresco was nonetheless breathtaking. Lorla simply stared at it, forgetting her stealth.
Fat cherubs and red-winged demons stared down at her, while saints and crucified martyrs battled serpents. As she looked she recalled the stories that Herrith had told her, about Keven the Baptizer and about the golden grail that had fed the Mother of God. It was all up there, he had claimed, the whole story of creation. Lorla felt wonderfully insignificant, as if nothing mattered but the roof above her. She would have climbed up to touch it if she could, just to feel its awesome power.

“Who is
that
?” rasped the truculent voice.

Lorla snapped out of her daydream and stared into the hall. In the center of a scaffold forty feet off the ground was a wild-eyed man with a painter’s knife in his hand, splattered with color and plaster, his black hair falling like water around his stocky shoulders. He was on his way down from the scaffold, but when he saw Lorla he stopped, dumbfounded and choleric.

“You there!” he called. The young assistants around him jumped at his shout. But they breathed a universal sigh when they saw whom he was addressing. “Yes, you! What are you doing here?”

“Just looking,” said Lorla as innocently as she could. She wasn’t sure that her little girl act would work on the artist, but she tried it anyway. “I meant no harm, sir. I just wanted to see.”

“There’s nothing to see! Get out of here!”

“Are you Darago?” Lorla asked. “Yes, you must be. Right?”

The artist sputtered in disbelief. “Of course I am Darago! Who else would paint this masterpiece?” He waved his knife at her irately. “You are a very stupid little girl, not to know who I am. Shoo, now. I have work to do.”

“Can I watch?” asked Lorla, daring a step closer. “I won’t bother anyone, I promise. I just want to see you work.”

“This is not a circus,” boomed Darago. “And I’m
not an acrobat. Go somewhere else to see clowns, little girl. I am an artist.”

Lorla surveyed the ceiling with a shrug. “I don’t understand half of what’s going on up there. You’re not so great.”

Darago’s round face reddened. Each of his assistants lowered their tools, their eyes darting between the girl and their enraged mentor.