by John Marco
The weight of the statement weakened Lorla’s knees. ‘I will do my best, Duke Enli. Thank you.’
‘You know what to do, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Lorla. They had gone over it a dozen times. She was Lorla Lon, an orphan from the war in Dragon’s Beak. Duke Eneas had attacked them. Her parents had been killed by Eneas’ men. And now she needed Herrith’s help to survive. He would, if Enli’s estimation was correct, be unable to resist her.
‘How long until your birthday?’ he drilled her.
‘Two weeks.’
‘And the name of the street with the toymaker?’
‘High Street,’ she answered. ‘On a corner near a candle shop.’
Enli sighed. ‘Good.’ He let go of her hand slowly, letting it fall away, and stared up at the sky. ‘All you have to do is play your part,’ he continued. ‘Herrith will love you. Biagio is right. He knows the bishop better than any of us, and he has spies. Earn Herrith’s confidence. Get him to take you to the toymaker. Biagio will do the rest.’
‘I will,’ Lorla promised.
‘I believe you,’ said the duke. ‘Truly.’ He sighed again, and this time it was loud, almost painful to hear. He dropped to one knee in the dirt and took hold of Lorla’s shoulders. His giant hands ensnared her like a python, but his touch was soft and gentle. ‘I want to tell you something,’ he said. ‘And I want you to listen carefully. It’s something you deserve to hear.’
Lorla braced herself. ‘Yes, Duke Enli?’
‘I want you to hear the truth,’ said the duke. ‘My truth. I want you to listen. Will you do that for me?’
‘Of course,’ said Lorla. ‘You can tell me anything. I’m good with secrets.’
‘Yes, you are. Then listen well, because it will serve you. You need to know I killed my brother.’
‘I had guessed that,’ Lorla said. ‘You had reason, I’m sure.’
‘I had good reason,’ said Enli. ‘Or I thought I did. But what matters now is that Eneas is dead, and that I am fighting for Dragon’s Beak. Biagio is helping me. But I won’t be able to win this war if you don’t help me, Lorla. If you fail, I’ll lose Dragon’s Beak and the war there will go on. Many people will die. Do you understand that?’
‘No,’ Lorla answered honestly. ‘I don’t understand anything. I never have. I just do what I’m told.’ She looked down to avoid the duke’s eyes. ‘And I hate it. I hate being this thing I am. I hate being used by you and the Master. I’m . . .’
She stopped herself. How could she tell the duke she was lonely? He would laugh at her.
‘What, Lorla?’ asked the duke. ‘Tell me.’
Lorla looked up at him. ‘Duke Enli, I will do what I am asked to do, because I want what is best for you and the Master. And because I can’t do anything else. Something inside me stops me even from thinking of it.’ She felt emotion rising in her, tears threatening to burst. ‘I will go to Herrith and make him love me. If that’s what the Master wants, I’ll do it for him.’
‘Lorla, I promise you, this is more than something Biagio wants. And it’s more than something I want. The Empire is depending on you.’
Lorla nodded, hoping she wouldn’t cry. ‘Yes. I know all this.’
‘Oh, child . . .’
‘I am not a child!’ she flared, yanking herself away from him. ‘I’m sixteen. Almost a woman.’
‘A woman in a child’s body,’ the duke corrected. ‘You’ve been bred for this moment. It’s like they told you in the war labs – you’re something special’ He reached out to stroke her fine hair. It was all the contact Lorla needed to start the tears flowing. ‘Don’t forget that,’ sighed the duke. ‘Don’t forget your mission or who you are. The Master needs you. Nar needs you.’
‘It’s a lot,’ Lorla sniffled. ‘Maybe too much.’
‘Small shoulders, but strong,’ the duke joked with a smile. ‘I know you can do it.’
‘I’m afraid.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Enli. His voice became a whisper. ‘To tell you the truth, I get frightened, too. It doesn’t make us less brave, though. We do what we must.’ He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Lorla closed her eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. All the faces came flooding over her; Duke Lokken’s gentle smile and the lips of his wife, Kareena. She thought of Goth, destroyed by Herrith, and of her new friend Nina, whom she missed like a long-gone sister. She wanted them all to be proud of her, even the ghosts.
‘I will do what you and the Master have asked of me,’ she resolved. ‘I won’t disappoint you, Duke Enli.’
‘I know you won’t. I have great faith in you, as does your master.’ Duke Enli replaced his hands on her shoulders, firmly now so she couldn’t pull away. ‘I haven’t been a very good host to you. I’m sorry for that. You deserved better. But there are so many matters that plague me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I will miss you, Lorla.’
‘You will?’
Enli nodded. ‘I’m not such an evil man, am I? Please tell me I’m not.’
‘You’re not,’ laughed Lorla. ‘You do the Master’s work. How can you be evil?’
Enli’s face turned gray. His hands dropped from Lorla’s shoulder, stopping to dangle deathly still at his sides. ‘Of course,’ he said blackly. ‘The Master’s work . . .’
And then the night enveloped them as a cloud crossed the moon. ‘Herrith is a devil,’ said Enli as he contemplated the sky. ‘Remember that. No matter how kindly he acts toward you, remember what he is. That advice is the only protection I can give you.’
‘I will remember it,’ said Lorla. ‘Thank you.’
She watched the duke pensively, and he did not seem to mind her stare or even notice it. He was lost in the stars above. Tomorrow they would go to Nar and she would meet this strange bishop at last, and if she could she would corrupt him and steal his heart away. But that was hours away yet, and the night and moon had conspired to attenuate time so that her mission seemed a lifetime away. Tonight, she would sleep and remember what she could of her old life. And in the morning, she would die and be reborn.
In the Cathedral of the Martyrs, in a high tower overlooking the city streets, Archbishop Herrith lay in his bed, unmov-ing, his eyes locked on the ceiling. Morning sunlight streamed through the big window, warming his satin sheets. A holy book lay open on his chest, unread, rising and falling slowly with the rhythm of his breathing. The archbishop gasped, straining to bring air into his lungs. At his bedside stood a tall and twisted apparatus of silver metal, a rack holding an upside-down bottle of blue liquid. From the bottle came a hose that snaked away from the rack toward the bed. The hose terminated in a shiny needle. The needle terminated in Herrith’s arm.
The bishop kept very still as the liquid dripped into his vein. Occasionally he flexed his fist to coax it along. His eyes burned as if scalding water was flowing over them. His body felt torn, cleaved down the center as the potent mixture moved through his vessels. But even in his pain the Archbishop of Nar did not cry out. It was a glorious agony, easily endurable. And it was, very slowly, returning him to life.
Biagio’s devilish gift had not been poison as Herrith had feared. It was what Nicabar had promised, a very potent distillation of Bovadin’s drug. At Nicabar’s warning Herrith had mixed the solution himself, diluting it with water into manageable dosages. It would be a weekly ritual now. Like it had been before he’d conquered the habit. But it was so delicious to be vital again. Herrith closed his eyes, hating himself. Biagio was a clever devil. In all the years they had served together under Arkus, Biagio had never once spoken openly against Herrith, even as the bishop whispered curses in the emperor’s ear. But the hatred between the two of them had grown into a mighty thing. Herrith had thought he had gained the upper hand. Now, as he sat in his bed sampling the count’s malevolent gift, he wasn’t so certain.
But he had time. Time to think. And plan. The little bottle Nicabar had delivered wasn’t a third empty yet. He could get more. Biagio was eager to talk. He would barg
ain with the beast, Herrith told himself. By the time the vial was empty, he would have more. If Biagio ever wanted to be part of Nar again, he would give up more of the precious drug.
‘You’re not the only one that’s clever,’ Herrith hissed. ‘I can play, too.’
It was a vast and dangerous game for Herrith. He wasn’t a tactician or spy. But Herrith had lived a long time in the Black City and he knew the pulse of the place. He wasn’t entirely without influence of his own. The bishop’s lips twisted into a slight smile. The drug burned inside him. Yet he endured it, loving it, feeling the potion work its magic on his joints and teeth and muscles, tightening and strengthening them, making him young again and halting the march of time. Already his eyes had regained their brightness. When he looked in a mirror now he saw two azure gems staring back at him.
I’m strong, the bishop told himself. Strong enough, and getting stronger.
He would not lose Nar to Biagio. Not now, after all he had been through.
Slowly the drug dripped into the tube, making the long voyage to his bloodstream. Herrith opened his eyes to stare at the vial. It was almost empty. He shuddered, trying to control himself. Treatments like these could be insufferable, and he had only just recently started them again. His cravings were gone now and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He could clear a table like an athlete and have room left for dessert. In old Nar, he had been famous for his girth, but the withdrawal had slimmed him. He was older now and not pretty, not like Biagio, but it was strength he needed to conquer the Black Renaissance, not beauty. Strength was flowing into him. Wicked vitality, created in a bottle by Bovadin.
Outside his window the sun was rising. Soon his skin would turn to ice again and he would yearn for sunlight like a flower. Along with the changing of his eyes his flesh would freeze and no man or woman would be able to endure his touch. Not that it mattered. It was the one great sacrifice he had made for Heaven, never to lie with another person. He was a man of yearnings, yet he was a powerhouse at keeping them chained, and though the pretty painted ladies of Nar quickened his pulse, he had a gift for squashing his desires. He did the work of the Lord. He cared for children in his orphanage and spread the Word. He didn’t need the comfort of flesh, so weak and fleeting. In his youth, before he had heard the call of Heaven, he had prowled the city for women, sating his appetite with slave girls and whores, but God had rescued him from that. His body was clean now, undiseased. As was his mind.
Mostly.
He still thought of Goth, especially when the burn of the treatments was its deepest. And God still taunted him with half-answers. He thought of Kye, too, and the colonel’s enormous grief, crushing him like an anvil. God’s ways were meant to be a mystery. And the clues from Heaven had been so clear. Herrith knew with his heart that the work he did was necessary. But his conscience still screamed at him, so loudly sometimes that even the embrace of the narcotic could not silence it.
Almost done, he mused, watching the remains of the pale potion drain from the bottle. It would be another week or so before he needed another treatment. Bovadin had indeed mixed the drug strong. Herrith flexed his fingers. They seemed thicker than they had just days ago, more muscular.
A knock at the door startled Herrith out of his daydream. He held his breath, angered at the interruption. He was still in his bed clothes and always left strict orders not to be disturbed. If it was Vorto . . .
‘What?’ Herrith bellowed at the door. Very slowly the portal pushed open. Father Todos peeked his head into the bedchamber apologetically, trying to avert his eyes from the gruesome sight on the bed.
‘Forgive me, Holiness,’ he stammered. ‘But . . . there are visitors.’
‘Visitors? So?’
‘From Dragon’s Beak, Holiness. Duke Enli. He says he must speak to you at once. He insisted—’
‘Look at me, you fool! I’m in no condition for this!’
Todos stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Herrith was astonished at his gall. The priest kept his head bowed as he explained himself.
‘I’m sorry, Holiness, but Duke Enli is very insistent. He begs an audience with you immediately. There is war in his land.’
The word war made Herrith sit up. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘What war?’
Todos shrugged. ‘Holiness, I don’t know. The duke says he will speak only to you. But it’s very urgent.’
Herrith sat back on his soft pillows, forcing himself to relax. War in Dragon’s Beak had been brewing for years. That it should erupt now, when the Empire was in chaos, was hardly a surprise. And Enli and his brother had both been thorns in the emperor’s side. Herrith always knew something catastrophic would happen between them.
‘Whatever it is can wait until I’m done,’ he said. With his free hand he shooed Todos away. ‘Go and tell the duke I’m indisposed. I will see him as soon as I am able.’
The priest frowned nervously. ‘How soon might that be? So that I may tell the duke, I mean.’
‘You are worse than a mother, Todos! Give me a few moments, please!’
‘Yes, Holiness, forgive me. I will tell the duke to wait for you.’
‘Get out!’
The priest scurried from the room, closing the door behind him. Herrith laid in his bed and cursed.
It took Herrith less than half an hour to finish his treatment and regain his strength. By the close of the hour, he was fully dressed and ready to greet the Duke of Dragon’s Beak. Father Todos met Herrith outside his chambers, telling the bishop that the duke was waiting for him down on the main floor of the cathedral, in one of the church’s many offices. Todos eyed Herrith bleakly as he spoke, plainly astonished at the change in him. Herrith smiled and apologized to his friend. He felt invigorated, strangely buoyant. The remarkable drug had once again worked its mysteries on him.
Todos accompanied the bishop down the spire to the office where the duke was waiting. It was an elaborate room, bigger than necessary, with a typically oversized window and tiny sculptures of holy things arranged on shelves and bookcases. There was a desk in the office that Herrith hardly used and an assortment of austere chairs. The treacly smell of leather wafted from the office as Todos opened the door. The duke was standing anxiously in the center of the room, looking tired and haggard. He had no soldiers with him but he was not alone. Beside him, sitting with her legs dangling from the chair, was a bright-faced girl. Both of them turned their eyes on Herrith as he entered the office.
‘Duke Enli,’ said Father Todos. ‘Archbishop Herrith.’
Duke Enli went to his knees before the bishop, bowed his head deeply, then took Herrith’s hand and placed a reverent kiss on his ring.
‘Your Grace,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you for honoring me with your presence. I am your servant.’
Herrith heard the words as if from a distance. His eyes were on the exquisite girl in the chair. She smiled at him but did not move from her seat.
‘Rise, Duke Enli,’ said the bishop. ‘And sit. Please . . .’ He gestured to one of the chairs near the desk. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘I am, Holiness,’ the duke admitted. He took a chair and seemed to fall into it. ‘Thank you.’
‘Todos, have you offered our guests anything to eat or drink?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said the priest.
‘The Father has been very gracious, Holiness,’ explained the duke. ‘But I’m afraid my mind isn’t on food. It’s very urgent that I speak with you.’
‘And I am here, Duke,’ said the bishop. He went to his own chair behind the ornate desk, a giant seat of red velvet that looked more like a throne. ‘Todos, please leave us. I think the duke might be more comfortable speaking in private.’
Ever compliant, Todos left. In his wake the duke took a deep breath and spread his hands out in surrender.
‘Your Holiness, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion. But I simply didn’t know where else to turn. We’ve traveled all the way from Dragon’s Beak to plead
your help.’
‘I am listening, dear friend,’ said Herrith. ‘You have always been a loyal lord. You may ask anything of me. But first . . .’ Herrith turned his attention toward the girl. ‘Please tell me who this beautiful child is.’
‘Her name is Lorla,’ said Enli. ‘Lorla Lon. She’s from Dragon’s Beak, the south fork. Her parents were killed in the attack.’
‘Attack?’ asked Herrith.
‘It’s why I’ve come, Holiness. Dragon’s Beak is at war with itself. My brother Eneas has attacked my southern fork. He flies the Black Flag.’ The duke turned a sad smile on the girl. ‘Lorla was orphaned in the fighting. I brought her here to you because I hoped you would help her. I know how generous you are to orphans. I thought you might help me find a place for her.’
She was lovely, with platinum hair cut in bangs and bright eyes to rival Herrith’s own, and the bishop took pains to smile at her carefully, not too boldly, not too weakly.
‘Hello, Lorla,’ he said softly, as if speaking to a bird he didn’t want to frighten. She smiled back at him, wonderfully shy.
‘Hello, Your Holiness,’ she said, inclining her head.
‘Are you well?’ he asked. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am tired,’ said the girl. ‘Very.’ A look of sadness crossed her face. ‘And afraid.’
‘There’s nothing for you to be afraid of here, I promise. No one is going to hurt you. This is the house of God. All are safe here.’
‘Don’t be afraid, Lorla,’ echoed the duke. ‘His Holiness is a great and good man. He’ll help you.’ Enli turned to the bishop. ‘Won’t you, Your Grace?’
‘Of course I will,’ beamed Herrith. ‘You’re very pretty, Lorla. You remind me of an angel. And your eyes. They’re almost as bright as my own!’
Lorla smiled demurely. ‘Thank you, Holiness.’
The bishop leaned forward in his chair. ‘How old are you, child? Do you know?’
‘I am eight,’ replied the girl. ‘Almost nine.’
‘That’s a wonderful age,’ said Herrith. ‘We have many children in the orphanage your age. You can meet some of them if you like, make some new friends. Would you like that?’