The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  Simon nodded angrily. ‘Very sure. Water.’ He pointed weakly toward the roadway in the distance. ‘We should have brought some water.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Richius. He dropped his axe and made his way back to where they had left their horses. The water skins they had brought with them were fat and cool. Richius retrieved them, along with the food they had brought along. He was more than just thirsty. The hard work had famished him. And there was still so much more to do. First they had to fell the big tree, then start chopping it, then drag the pieces into the wagon. Richius cursed a little under his breath, berating himself for letting Simon choose the tree. But then he remembered the Naren’s determined glare and the violent way he swung his axe, and he decided that he was glad Simon had chosen the tree. Whatever anger he was feeling was being directed straight through his axe and into the old oak, and it was like they were truly countrymen, maybe even friends.

  Richius hurried back with the water and food. He found Simon back at work, hacking at the tree trunk. He waved to the older man to stop, holding up the water skin. Simon dropped his axe gratefully and took the water, drinking down a healthy swig and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘That’s good,’ he sighed. ‘Thanks. What’s that? Food?’

  ‘My wife packed some for us. Hungry?’

  ‘Always.’ Simon grinned. He cast a look at the tree. ‘But we’ve got a lot of work to do. Maybe we should wait.’

  Richius sat down cross-legged on the ground and began rummaging through the pack. ‘You can wait if you like. I’ll just sit here and watch you work. All right?’

  ‘Not hardly,’ said Simon, dropping his axe. He craned his neck to peek inside the pack. ‘What’ve you got in there?’

  Richius started pulling food out of the package. Two rounds of flat-bread, some vegetables, some dried meat, fruit shaped like apples. It was all Triin food, but Richius had long since grown accustomed to it, and Simon, who would seemingly eat anything, sat down greedily in front of the feast. He snatched up one of the fruits and took a deep bite of it, sighing with satisfaction at the taste.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘The Triin call that a shibo,’ said Richius. ‘A love fruit. It comes from a tree that grows not far from here. They harvest them in the autumn like apples.’

  Simon pulled his dagger out of his belt and began slicing off pieces of the fruit. He offered one of the slices to Richius. This was the time of year for the shibo. Richius tore off a hunk of the Triin bread and gave it to Simon. The Naren put it up to his nose and took a whiff. His nostrils were still swollen, but he could smell it.

  ‘Lord, it’s bloody good to see food again,’ he said. ‘And so much of it. I don’t know why you’re not contented here, Vantran. A man could do worse for himself.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Richius shrugged. ‘But life is more than food, you know. Sometimes a man needs different things besides a solid roof and full stomach.’ He raised his eyes to examine Simon’s reaction. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘A man needs precious little,’ said Simon. ‘You’re royalty. You don’t know what it’s like to have nothing. I do. And when I eat good bread, I think I taste more than you do. You’re used to having everything handed to you, aren’t you? No insult, really. It’s just the truth. Am I right?’

  ‘You’re wrong. When I fought in the Dring Valley we had nothing, not even provisions from the Empire. And I never wanted to be made a king, either. That happened when my father died and I had no say in it. And no one gave me Dyana or Shani. I had to fight to get them back. My exile from Nar is the price I paid. I lost Aramoor in the bargain. So don’t go thinking I have so much, Simon, because I don’t. Not anymore.’

  Simon was unimpressed. Deliberately, he cut another section of fruit with his dagger, sliding it off the blade and onto his tongue. There was a sly smile on his face as he chewed. ‘You want to trade sad stories, Jackal? I don’t recommend it. You’d lose.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t want you getting ideas about me. Whatever you learned about me in Nar or from Blackwood Gayle is false. I’m not some spoiled brat-prince. I fought hard here in Lucel-Lor. I saw my share of horrors. And I lost friends. Don’t make me defend their memories, Simon. You’dlose.’

  Simon held up a hand in mock surrender. ‘All right. Like I said, no offense. But you go moping around the castle like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Richius softly.

  ‘Maybe not. Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘No thanks. It’s a bit personal’

  ‘We might be together a long time,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve already told you some things about me, why I deserted. It’s your turn now.’

  ‘It’s not a game we’re playing, Simon. I don’t have to tell you anything.’

  Simon grinned. ‘You know what I see when I look at you, Vantran?’

  ‘What?’

  Simon leaned back, making himself comfortable. ‘You’re really tired of living with the Triin. I can tell. You want to be back in Nar, with your own kind. And you can’t stop wondering what’s going on back in Aramoor, can you? I know because I have the same kind of thoughts. I wonder what’s going on in the Empire too, especially back in Doria. But I left it behind. You haven’t. You won’t.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Richius corrected. ‘You’re not the king of Doria, Simon. You didn’t leave folks behind to get slaughtered.’

  The most probing light came on in Simon’s eyes. ‘Did you?’

  It was a horrible question. Richius turned from it, staring at the ground and his half-eaten bread.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I left my wife behind. You already know that. Blackwood Gayle killed her. Gayle and Biagio.’ He closed his eyes and her face came into his mind. ‘Her name was Sabrina.’

  ‘She was very beautiful,’ said Simon. ‘All of us who served with Gayle had heard that. It was barbaric what he did to her. I’m very sorry for you.’

  ‘Gayle did the killing. Now he’s dead. And by my hand, thank God. But not that other devil, Biagio. He was the one who gave the order. He and Arkus both handed Aramoor over to Talistan.’ Richius looked up at Simon and found that the older man was staring at him, his face full of sorrow. ‘And I can’t live with that. That’s what you see when you look at me, Simon. It’s not sadness. It’s revenge.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry for you,’ said Simon. Oddly, he glanced at the tree. ‘Revenge is a horrible thing. It consumes men. And it will consume you if you let it.’

  ‘It already has,’ said Richius. ‘I can think of nothing else but going after Biagio. And then Aramoor. I’ve vowed to free it someday, to make it my own again.’

  Simon let out a mocking chuckle. ‘That’s a big boast, boy. You should be careful what you vow. Make them small so you won’t die with them still on your head.’

  ‘I will do it,’ said Richius seriously. ‘I know it sounds impossible, but I will. Someday.’ He shrugged. ‘Somehow.’

  ‘You’ll go to your grave with that one,’ Simon promised. ‘you don’t know what you’re trying to fight. You ever been to Nar?’

  ‘I was made king there,’ said Richius. ‘I met the emperor.’

  ‘Did you? Well then you should have the common sense to figure out what you’re up against. Nar isn’t just an army or a nation. Nar isn’t even the legions. It’s a way of life. That’s what the Black Renaissance is, Vantran. It’s like a living thing. And no one can stop it. Especially not you.’ Simon’s face grew dark. ‘One man just can’t make that kind of difference.’

  ‘They brainwash you legionnaires. They make you think you’re nothing without them. But you’re wrong. One man can make a difference. I’ve proven that already. And I’m going to keep being a thorn in the Empire’s side, and I’m going to free Aramoor someday. You just watch me.’

  ‘One man is like a dead leaf against Nar, Vantran. You’re just too young and naive to see that. Maybe someday you’ll understand
.’

  It was a lost argument, Richius knew, so he merely tore off another piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth, washing it down with a gulp from the water skin. He noticed then that Simon had stopped eating. The Naren stared pensively at the tree, at the giant gash in the oak’s trunk, and his eyes were distant, as if he were looking through the thing to something invisible beyond.

  ‘Simon?’ Richius asked. ‘Eat.’

  Simon got up. He walked over to where he had left his axe and retrieved the tool, glancing between its sharp head and the exposed belly of the tree.

  ‘You go ahead and eat,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a tree to chop down.’

  Fifteen

  The Orphan

  They were called the hills of Locwala, and they were splendid. Tall and green, lush and quiet, they were legendary throughout the Empire, not only for their verdancy and their peaceful music, but also because they hid the greatest city ever constructed. It was not possible to reach the capital of the Empire without first crossing the hills of Locwala, unless you were a sea traveller and could pay the exorbitant sums to hire a ship. All others who made the pilgrimage to Nar City – the Black City – did so by crossing Locwala. And they did so at their peril, for no one could see the hills without being changed forever.

  The hills of Locwala were paradise. They were what the artists and laureates of Nar called its most splendid place, an oasis of nature left untouched by the metal city just beyond. In the hills of Locwala, one could barely detect the acrid stench of the capital or hear the drone of the foundries as they smelted copper and iron. It was a perfect place, unpolluted, made so by decree of Nar’s last emperor, the one who called himself ‘Arkus the Great’. He was an emperor with a fondness for roses and a voracious appetite for beauty, and though he had loved the mechanical behemoth he had built on the shores of the Dhoon Sea, he had been a pragmatic man, too, and knew that the Naren nobles who dwelt in the Black City would grow tired of the towers and the beggars in the streets and would long for a place of clean air and tall trees. The hills of Locwala had been untouched for generations, and to cut down one of its trees or improperly dispose of something on its roads was still a crime, punishable by death. Even Archbishop Herrith, de facto ruler of Nar in the wake of Arkus’ death, upheld those laws. It was said that Herrith considered Locwala a secret place, a place that God Himself had told Arkus to set aside, and no one in the Black City, faithful or loyalist, had a mind to question the decree. Locwala belonged to them all, and they were content just to know it existed.

  Lorla reached out from the back of her pony and snatched a dried leaf from a branch. She knew all about the rules of Locwala, but didn’t think a single leaf would matter. It was a dead leaf, anyway, like all the leaves this time of year, and it crackled in her hand, providing little entertainment. Locwala was beautiful, but she had been riding through it for a full day now and had grown tired of the hills and tree-lined avenues. Phantom, the pony she had ridden out of Goth, trotted quietly beneath her, following the caravan. Ahead of them, Enli sat sternly atop his black warhorse. He had grown very distant in the last weeks, and Lorla wasn’t sure about him anymore. He was still kind to her in his own brusque way, but he hardly spoke at all anymore. Since leaving Dragon’s Beak, Enli had changed. He was agitated now, distant and snappish with his men, the ones with the crossbows who stayed very close to him.

  Lorla missed Dragon’s Beak. She missed Nina and all the books and having a room of her own to sleep in. She missed exploring Red Tower and her brief friendship with the duke’s daughter, but most of all she missed having some place – any place – to call home. It had been a long ride from Dragon’s Beak. Enli had paid for inns and beds when they were available, and they had been well fed, but even the good roads to Nar were treacherous and tedious, and not at all restful for a such a small girl. And that’s exactly how Lorla saw herself these days – a small girl. Despite her nearly adult years, she was a child really, just a pawn in the game the Master was playing. Enli had already told her what to say and do when they reached Nar, and he had scolded her when she asked if she could see the war labs again.

  ‘You are not to mention the war labs,’ he had insisted. ‘Forget what you know about them. You are Lorla Lon now, from Dragon’s Beak. An orphan. Remember the Master, Lorla. He is depending on you.’

  They were all depending on her now, and it was like a great weight crushing her. Even Nina was depending on her. The duke’s daughter had kissed her goodbye and hugged her, but not before warning her that she had to succeed. There was war in Dragon’s Beak now. And the Master was counting on her.

  The Master. Always the Master.

  Lorla had never met Count Renato Biagio, but she had never had a truer father. It was his voice she heard when she wondered about herself, his decrees that rang in her head like church bells. She had been taught in the war labs that Biagio was the source of all knowledge and goodness, and that he loved her very much. It surprised Lorla that she loved Biagio as well. Or at least she supposed it was love she felt. Truly, she didn’t know precisely what love felt like. But when she thought of the Master she felt fear and a kind of gratitude at having been made special according to his orders, and that was love, surely.

  Duke Enli had only told her snippets about what was happening in Dragon’s Beak, but Lorla had been able to guess the rest. It was a simple matter to put things together, and Nina’s evasiveness had helped Lorla to fill the gaps. The duke hated his brother. The duke had soldiers all over his castle and grounds. And now they were travelling to Nar to ask the bishop’s aid and to beg soldiers from the Black City. Whatever elaborate plan the Master had set into motion, Lorla knew Dragon’s Beak would never be the same. The two forks were at war now. She had even overheard some of Enli’s own men saying that Eneas was dead. She wondered if Enli felt sorry for his brother. But Enli was tight-lipped. He had given her Biagio’s orders, and had volunteered no further information.

  Lorla’s expression soured as she rode. Enli’s back was turned toward her, the way it always was now. She had tried to be a good houseguest, yet he had spurned her. It hurt her to wonder what he really thought of her. Still, she did not speak or try to get the duke’s attention. That had always been a useless ploy. Duke Enli was lost in his own grim world. Even his men couldn’t speak to him. He seemed remarkably sad.

  Alone with only her pony for company, Lorla rode behind the rest of the column, studying the trees. Soon they would be in Nar City. It had been many, many months since she had left her room in the war labs to live in Goth. Lorla craned her neck to try and peer over the hills, but she could not even sense the first inkling of Nar’s skyline.

  Still, knowing it was there kept her going. She was eager to be off the road, and Duke Enli had told her that Herrith would pamper her. He was not going to be able to resist her, he had promised. The claim had made her uneasy. Was she so beautiful? Or had Biagio’s servants in the labs created her especially for Herrith? Lorla trembled a little, afraid for herself. Herrith was said to be an insatiable monster. She wondered how young girls figured in his appetites.

  At the end of the day, when the sun began to dip and the air grew cool, Duke Enli spoke the first words he had in hours, bringing his small caravan to a halt. It would be dark soon. Time to make camp. The duke helped his soldiers unload the provisions from the backs of the horses while others made a fire not far from the road, spying a clearing in which they could spend the night. Lorla, who was accustomed to the routine now, undid her own bed roll and laid it by the fire, then went into the forest to help gather sticks to keep the flame alive. Faren, the duke’s aide, made them dinner and told off-color jokes as they ate. Faren was a simple man, and Lorla liked him. He was also dangerous and handsome and even a bit arrogant. But he was kind to her and generous with water and food, enough so that Lorla trusted sleeping near him. She never slept near the duke, for Enli kept to himself even at sleep time, never getting too near the others. That night the duke ate his supper alone,
taking his tin plate with him and sitting under a dark and brooding tree, absently listening to the laughter of his men. Lorla stole glances at him as she ate, feeling sorry for him. How quickly he had lost the mirthful glint in his eyes that had been there when they’d met. Now his eyes were dead. He was dropping weight, too, hardly touching his food. And in the morning he was always the first to rise, glad to be free of his restless slumber. His men dared not whisper behind his back, but Lorla knew they sensed the change in him.

  After eating, the men stayed around the fire and talked. Lorla remained with them, listening without speaking, wondering about the Black City and her new home with Herrith. Enli strolled off by himself and was missing for an hour before he returned. His face was ashen in the firelight. Lorla looked up at him through the smoke.

  ‘Lorla,’ he said softly. ‘Come here.’

  Lorla did as the duke asked, getting up and wiping the dirt from her clothes. Faren and the others watched her go, then quickly resumed their conversation. The duke stretched out his hand for Lorla. It was big and cold and she took it warily.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said, pulling her away from the light. Lorla tried to smile but couldn’t. They went to a dark place in a grove of birch trees. Enli paused and looked skyward toward the blood-red moon. His red beard and red lips glowed with lunar fire. He squeezed Lorla’s hand tightly.

  ‘Tomorrow we will reach the city,’ he said. ‘I will be giving you over to Herrith and we won’t see each other anymore.’

  Lorla nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s a very important thing you’re doing. You must not forget that.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’

  The duke smiled down at her. ‘I know you won’t. It’s true, everything I had heard about you. You are a very remarkable girl, Lorla. And now you’re going to do a very remarkable thing. You may not understand everything the Master asks of you, but it’s a great task you’ve been given. History will be made by what you do these next few weeks.’