The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  ‘Too damn long,’ he whispered.

  The jarl driver heard his words and turned puzzled eyes towards him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Prakna said. The man shrugged and returned to poling through the water. Prakna sighed heavily. In the pocket of his coat were all the letters he had written J’lari while on patrol in Nar. He had never sent them, hoping to one day return and deliver them himself. When she read them she would be happy, briefly, and they would rejoice in his homecoming until the grief overcame her and she drifted back into her ghostly fugue. Once, J’lari had been a strong woman. Proud. Life had taken its toll.

  He had already visited the cenotaph on the way home. The huge monument, erected to honor the dead of the Naren war, wasn’t far from Prakna’s apartments. The cenotaph had an island all to itself, and when it snowed, like it had today, the hush was remarkable. Even the youngest children seemed to sense the sanctity of the place. Prakna had purchased two small flowers and laid them down next to the granite monolith, along with all the others that had been dropped there this day, to honor Liss’ fallen. They didn’t harvest bodies in Liss. There was too little land to waste on graves. When a man or woman died, they were thrown into the ocean. That’s why the cenotaph had so much meaning. It was the only place for Lissens to grieve. Some had wanted to write all the names of all the men and women that had died on the monument, but then the monument would have been colossal. Ten years was a long time to fight. And too many of the dead were nameless. So the statue was nothing but a tall, granite rectangle, something like a giant headstone, carved with Lissen prayers and ornamented with flowers. The cenotaph was strangely beautiful in the snow. Prakna worshipped it. Besides the mementos his wife kept of their sons, it was the only thing Prakna had to remember them by.

  Prakna had one more flower in his hand, a hearty, red dahlia he had purchased for J’lari. It had been very expensive, but the fleet commander’s face had earned him a discount, leaving enough in his pockets to pay the pilot of the jarl. Prakna shielded the flower from the cold, hiding it beneath his open coat. He was sure it would brighten J’lari’s day. When they reached the dock of Prakna’s apartments, the pilot expertly guided his little boat to a stop, barely grazing the pier. He retracted his long, muddy pole and smiled at Prakna.

  ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said cheerily. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Prakna. He dug into his pocket for his last few coins, but the driver held up his hands in protest.

  ‘No, sir,’ he insisted. ‘No money. This was my pleasure.’

  Prakna didn’t argue. He paid his fare with a handshake and departed the vessel, stepping onto the dock of his home for the first time in months. Up near the bridge he saw a single candle burning in the window. The tiny lights served as beacons for returning sailors. During the war, the whole village had glowed. And on those horrible days when a soldier didn’t return, when he died or was simply missing, the candle was extinguished, replaced by a black star. Prakna looked around at the windows of the apartments. A galaxy of faded, black stars winked back at him.

  The jarl slowly sipped away from the dock, leaving Prakna alone in the lightly falling snow. He heard a chorus of voices in the buildings above him, smelled the familiar scents of good, home cooking, and his mind skipped backward to a time when those voices were of his family, and those aromas came from J’lari’s kitchen. Saddened, he pulled the dahlia out of his coat and looked at it. It was beautiful, the biggest the merchant had for sale, but a meager gift to a woman who’d lost two sons. Prakna loved J’lari very much. It pained him how little he could do to ease her loss. But he was just a man, and often he was gone, leaving her alone in the old, vacant home.

  Ahead of him was a narrow stairway of quarried stone, zig-zagging up to his apartments. Prakna looked at it, suddenly afraid. When he had last seen his wife, she was pale like the snow.

  ‘Time to be a man,’ he reminded himself.

  He stuck his nose into the flower, took a whiff for strength, and quickly galloped up the stairs. Determined to look happy, he plastered a smile onto his face. Whenever he returned, the fleet commander always got a rousing welcome, but today his friends knew enough to spare his privacy. When at last Prakna reached the bridge leading to his home, he noticed that the door across the span was slightly open. He paused in the middle of the bridge. The door opened wider. Prakna steeled himself.

  ‘J’lari,’ he called softly. ‘Come out, love. It’s me.’

  There was a trembling sigh before the door opened fully. J’lari stood in the threshold, her eyes wet and opened wide, her cheeks flushed. In her hair was a bronze braid, pulling back her golden locks, and a fine, lacy dress clung to her body, stirring in the breeze. The dahlia dropped to his side as Prakna stood on the bridge, unable to move. When J’lari tilted her head and smiled at him, it was as if the sun had come again and burned off all the haze.

  ‘Prakna,’ she choked. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. ‘Oh, Prakna . . .’

  Prakna flew across the bridge and swept his wife up in a strong embrace. Staccato sobs overcame her and she melted in his arms, small and insubstantial. He put his nose in her hair and it was sweet; her breasts were warm against him. Fleet Commander Prakna closed his eyes and stroked J’lari’s hair, thanking God he was home again.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I was so afraid.’

  ‘I’m home now,’ he replied. ‘I told you I’d be back.’ He pulled himself free, then presented his gift. ‘For you.’

  J’lari blushed like a child at the offering. She was over forty now, but when she smiled she looked like a woman half her age. She reached for the flower, twirling it. A cold breeze blew on the bridge, but she seemed not to notice it at all, so taken was she by the dahlia.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Very beautiful’ Her hand brushed his cheek. ‘Like you, Prakna.’

  Prakna took her hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips for a very long time. J’lari broke into sobbing laughter.

  ‘Prakna . . .’

  ‘Inside, J’lari,’ he said with a smile. He gestured to the windows good-naturedly. ‘There are eyes out here.’

  J’lari nodded and giggled. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  The curious eyes belonged to neighbors and friends, but neither wanted the moment spoiled. J’lari, her prize flower proudly in hand, led her husband into their home, the home he hadn’t seen for months. Prakna followed willingly. He had dreamt of this reunion, had pined for it and the touch of his wife, and though she still seemed a ghost to him, she was substantial and warm and he craved her greatly. Tonight, if seaman’s luck were with him, he would take her to his bed and love her.

  Hours passed. Prakna reveled in his homecoming as J’lari moved about the house, making him comfortable. She was flawless, chatty like she was before the terrible occurrence, and Prakna wondered if his absence had given her time to recuperate, and to appreciate what she had left in life. They lingered over a perfect meal, drank good wine she had purchased for the occasion, and took the candle from the window to light their dinner table. The dahlia Prakna had brought for his wife was never far from her reach, and as they talked J’lari clung to it, admiring it constantly as she listened to him speak. Prakna had many things to tell her. And J’lari listened raptly, watching her husband as he cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and enjoyed his wine with a starving man’s pleasure. Prakna ate until his stomach was stuffed and his belt groaned, and while J’lari cleared the table he spoke to her more, telling her about Nar and their plans for the Empire, and about Richius Vantran and his devouring revenge. And as Prakna talked to her he watched his wife, attuned to any signs of sadness. To his great relief, J’lari never broke into sobs. She misted a little when he gave her his letters, but those were good tears and Prakna brushed them away lovingly. J’lari sat and read them for a time. The candle had burned down to a nub, so Prakna got another and put it in the dish so she could read. Embarra
ssed, he laughed when she read aloud the most personal parts. But he was also a little drunk and tired, and though his stomach was full there was still a hunger in him. He watched her in the candlelight, wanting her.

  It was very late when at last they retired. Prakna had deliberately avoided their bedchamber, but when she led him into it he saw that she had prepared it for them. The bed was fitted with their best lace coverings. There was a scent of perfume on the sheets and in the air, and the window shades were open wide, letting moonlight spill inside. Prakna shuddered when he saw the room. Since the deaths of their boys, they had made love only once, a disgusting episode that had been more like rape. J’lari couldn’t bear the act anymore. But the look of the room seemed to herald a change in her, and Prakna fought hard to still his thundering passion. She was fragile, still, he reminded himself. And marriage was more than just the bedroom.

  ‘Prakna,’ she said softly, leading him into the room. ‘Welcome home.’

  Prakna said nothing. He didn’t want to talk, or hear anything that wasn’t her breath. Outside the window, the snow had stopped. Purple moonlight lit the town, giving the canals a romantic twinkle. J’lari slipped off her shoes, then padded to the bedroom door and silently shut it. Prakna drifted to the bed. He sat down on the mattress and watched his wife, who stood before him, her lace dress clinging to her inviting curves. With her smooth shoulders and white skin, she looked like an angel, pure and breakable, too innocent for a cruel world. Prakna’s eyes narrowed, drinking her in. He counted up the months since he had laid with a woman and found a giant deficit.

  ‘My love,’ he whispered. ‘You’re so beautiful’

  The compliment made J’lari smile. Yet she didn’t dare to speak, to spoil the perfect silence. Prakna saw the faint fever of worry in her eyes, but only for a moment. Her hand went up and pulled the braid from her hair, sending it tumbling around her shoulders. She drifted across the floor to her husband. Prakna held his breath. Their eyes met before the hunger overcame him, and he put his head to her belly, feeling her heat through the silk of her dress. He pressed his lips against her, kissing her and pulling her near, and J’lari’s head fell back with a shuddering sigh.

  Down he drew her, closer until she was on her knees before the bed. His fingers rummaged under her shoulder strap and pulled it down, and when he kissed her neck she trembled. She was a confection, sweet and irresistible, and the taste of her skin roiled through him, lighting him on fire. His mouth opened to suckle her nape and his hand cupped her head, holding it to him. J’lari’s body shook. Prakna ignored the tremors. Both hands were on her shoulders now, stripping down her dress, exposing her to him. He opened his eyes to watch himself work, saw her naked back reflect the moonlight.

  Slowly. Slowly . . .

  She was almost nude now. Beneath his palms he felt her fear. She was a child again, a fearful virgin. He tried to catch himself but couldn’t, and when his hand slipped over her breast he heard the most appalling cry. J’lari froze. Prakna stopped his skating hands, holding his breath. In his ear rang a whispered prayer, barely audible.

  ‘Oh, God, help me. Please . . .’

  Prakna held his wife against him.

  On and on she cried, as if he weren’t there at all, as if she were in a church on her knees before God. He didn’t dare look at her. He didn’t need to see her face. The wetness of her tears already stained his shirt. J’lari’s shaking voice was all he heard, drowning all his pleasure. The lust that had seized him vanished in a flash, and all he felt was pity for the woman on her knees. Across the bedroom stood a mirror. He could see her nakedness reflected there, and the wretched astonishment of his own expression. He looked old. J’lari shivered. Prakna stooped and scooped his wife up in his arms, easily lifting her feather-weight, and placed her gently on the bed. She wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said weakly. She wrapped her arms around her breasts to hide them. ‘Prakna, forgive me . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ cooed Prakna. Carefully he pulled up the sheets and covered her. Afraid to touch her, he hovered over the bed. ‘Rest now, J’lari. Just rest. I’m home.’

  J’lari quickly nodded. ‘Yes, home. You’re with me. You’ll stay with me.’ Still she wouldn’t open her eyes. She brought the sheets up around her face, ashamed of herself, burying her painted mouth beneath the lace. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Prakna easily. ‘I’ll sit with you. We’ll just sit, all right?’

  ‘Don’t leave me. Not now or ever.’

  ‘Never is a long time, my love.’

  ‘The Jackal is here now. He’ll deal with Nar for you. We can be together. Finally.’

  Prakna looked away, not wanting J’lari to see him. It had all been over too quickly – her buoyant mood, the perfect meal, the perfume. All too soon the wife he’d left behind had re-emerged. He loved her for her valiant effort, but inwardly he cursed her and her wounded heart. It wasn’t grief anymore. It was more like dementia, and Prakna knew his wife could never be the woman he’d married.

  ‘Don’t talk, love,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day for us both. You just sleep. I’ll watch over you. We’ll talk more in the morning, if you like. I’ll take you for a walk.’

  J’lari opened her eyes, and in a moment of clarity smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered. ‘Truly. I’m not a woman fit for you.’

  ‘You have always been more than enough woman for me,’ said Prakna. ‘It’s what makes me return to you always. You draw me from across the world, J’lari.’

  His wife laughed lightly. ‘You always do come back. Sometimes I wonder why.’

  ‘Don’t wonder,’ he said gently. He took the risk of touching her hand. ‘I’ll always come back for you.’

  ‘You needn’t go anymore. The Jackal can do the work for you.’ Her tone was earnest and imploring. ‘Let the young men do the fighting now, husband. Let’s just stay together. Would that be so impossible?’

  Prakna couldn’t find his voice. ‘J’lari . . .’

  ‘The Jackal has enough hate for all of us,’ she reminded him. ‘You told me so yourself. He doesn’t need you, Prakna. Not like I do.’

  ‘The memory of our sons needs me,’ said Prakna. ‘I can’t let a stranger avenge them. That’s my duty. And my honor.’

  J’lari nodded. It was an impossible argument and she knew it. ‘I love you,’ she said simply. ‘You’re all that I have.’

  Prakna grimaced. It was true for both of them. J’lari truly was his better half. The other half was rigid and dead, animated only by revenge. He didn’t want to leave her, not precisely. He wanted to return to Liss with Naren heads on his belt, and spend the rest of his life with her, satisfied that he had done his best. Liss called him a hero, but in his mind there was still much to prove. His sons demanded action.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he bade his wife. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Will you stay with me?’ asked J’lari.

  ‘If you like.’

  J’lari nodded, then closed her eyes. Prakna sat down beside her on the bed, watching her in the moonlight. Her breath was short at first, but soon it steadied and grew placid, and the muscles in her face relaxed, making her beautiful again. In a few short minutes she was asleep, gone into some troubled dream-land. Prakna slowly lifted himself from the bed. She stirred at his movements but did not awaken, so he padded to the door and opened it. On the table in their living area was the dahlia he had brought her. He picked it up, admired it for a moment, then returned silently to the bedchamber. J’lari’s head was turned away from him. He stared at her, then put the fragrant gift beside her on the pillow. When he did, the familiar chant of the cenotaph entered his mind. It was a bleak chant, a prayer that was always spoken whenever placing offerings at the monument. Somehow it seemed fitting when he looked at his wife.

  ‘Flowers for the dead,’ he whispered, then turned and left the room.

  Twenty-Five

  The Intimidator

  Li
ke her mother and father, Shani Vantran was an independent thinker. She didn’t eat when Simon gave her food, she didn’t sleep when it got dark. The constant rocking of the ship didn’t make her sick, but she vomited whenever Simon tried to feed her. Not only did she have Richius’ round eyes, she shared his moody temperament as well. She was, in Simon’s opinion, a demonic one-year-old, and more of a handful than he had ever imagined.

  Since leaving Falindar, Shani had shared Simon’s cramped cabin, and the two had become less than genial to each other. Simon had done his best to make the child happy, but she was homesick and in shock over the loss of her parents, and the Naren warship frightened her and made her irritable. She ate sparingly, pushing most of her food onto the floor, and drank only enough to keep her little body from withering. Her color was good but her mood was irascible, and Simon knew she resented him. In that strange way children have of reading minds, she seemed to know Simon’s crimes, and held him accountable.

  Simon himself was no less choleric. The guilt that he wanted to leave behind in Lucel-Lor had followed him across the sea, sometimes waking him at night, and always suppressing his appetite. He ate even less than Shani did, and had spent a good deal of the voyage with his head in a bucket or hanging over the rails above deck. Rough seas had turned his legs to water and made his bowels diarrhetic. After two weeks at sea, he no longer dreamed of women or fresh food. Now his dreams were nightmares, populated with sea monsters and Biagio’s golden face, taunting him. He dreamed of solid land that melted into quicksand and great gales that dragged the Intimidator beneath the waves, and he often awoke in his own sweat, stinking of the sea.

  Three days ago, they had passed Liss, swinging wide around the Hundred Isles so that none of the schooners would sight them. They were in deep, dangerous waters, far from land and approaching the Cape of Casarhoon. Another week, maybe more, and they would be in Crote. Biagio would have his prize. And Simon would have Eris, a thought that gave him little solace. He thought of Eris often during the long hours of the journey, but they were always fractured memories, tainted by the evil thing he was doing.