by John Marco
"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."
TWENTY
Awakenings
Lorla 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 Cretans, 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 midday 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 shoul
ders. 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.
"What?" hissed Darago. He dropped his knife, sending it clanging down the scaffold to hit the floor, splattering red paint along the cloth-covered marble. As he spoke his body shook. "You little waterhead, how dare you judge me? What do you know of art or the great Darago? I am without peer!"
"What's that?" asked Lorla, pointing toward one of the ceiling's panels. "They look like elves. Are they supposed to be elves?"
"They are the angels of Forio," said Darago. He slid down the scaffold, almost tumbling, and crossed the hallway to Lorla where he towered over her, glaring down. "Don't you know anything? They are the spirits that ferried Forio the Divine to Heaven."
Lorla blinked.
"From the book of Gallion!"
"Oh."
Darago's eyes bulged. "Open your eyes, for God's sake! It's all up there."
"Yes," Lorla relented. She enjoyed teasing Darago. He was very vain. "It's pretty."
"It's more than pretty. It's--"
Darago looked over at his assistants. They were all staring at him.
"Get back to work!" he snarled. Instantly they returned to their paints and brushes, pretending not to be listening. Darago frowned at Lorla. "You're a very stupid little girl not to know the story of Forio."
"I'm not from around here."
"Then where are you from? The moon? Everyone knows the story of Forio. It's the first of the holy books!"
"I suppose."
This infuriated the artist. "Who are you? And why are you disturbing me? The hall is not for public eyes, not until I am finished and satisfied."
"I'm Lorla Lon, the bishop's ward," Lorla explained. "And I was just curious, Master Darago. I meant no insult to your ceiling. It's very beautiful." She gave the man her finest smile. "Really."
Darago's countenance softened. "Really?"
"Oh yes," Lorla said. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Archbishop Herrith showed me some of it when I first came here. Most of it was covered, though. But I could see that panel and that one." She laughed as she pointed at the ceiling. "Beautiful!"
"Yes," Darago agreed, folding his arms over his chest. "I have spent the last five years working on it. Emperor Arkus was alive then, but he never saw what I was doing. He was very feeble. The bishop has an eye for art, though."
"And you will be done soon," added Lorla. "That's what Father Herrith told me."
"Father Herrith?"
Lorla blanched, embarrassed. "That's what I call him. He takes care of me now. I'm an orphan."
The painter's eyebrows went up. "An orphan! Then you must know the story of Elioes."
"Elioes? No, I don't think so."
Darago directed her eyes upward. "There," he said, pointing to an unfinished panel in the eastern corner of the great hall. "That's Elioes. The crippled orphan that our Lord healed. She was lame from birth, until God's miracle."
Lorla stared at the ceiling. Captured in dry plaster was the figure of a girl, dressed in rags, her legs bent uselessly, her hair a mess of blond strings. But on her face was the most serene expression, and in her eyes glowed the light of Heaven. There was aura about her, painted in gold and fire, and a single, ethereal hand reaching out translucent fingers to transform her. She was beautiful. Like all of Darago's masterpiece, she bespoke something more than paint and plaster. When Lorla looked at Elioes, she thought she was seeing God.
"She looks like me," Lorla observed. "Look. She's got blond hair. And she's as tall as me, too. How old was she, Master Darago?"
Darago shrugged. "I confess, I don't know. Ten, perhaps? How old are you, little Lorla Lon?"
Lorla hated the idea of lying to the man, but she answered, "Eight. I'll be nine very soon. In just a few days, really."
"Ah, then you will share your birthday with the ceiling," said Darago. "I have only a month or so to finish her. Herrith wants to unveil my creation at the end of Kren."
"Kren?"
Darago gave her a disapproving scowl. "You don't know about Kren, either? Are you sure you're the bishop's ward?"
"I'm an orphan," said Lorla again, as if it explained away everything. "What's Kren?"
"High holy month," said Darago. "It begins in three days." He rose to his feet and took Lorla's hand, leading her to the scaffold. "Kren is the month of penance. We fast and beg God to forgive our sins." He frowned at Lorla. "You know what sin is, yes?"
Lorla nodded. "Bad things."
"Things against the word and will of Heaven. Bad things, yes. In Kren we prepare for the feast of Eestrii. That's thirty-three days from now. I must have my ceiling done for the great unveiling. Herrith has made promises to the city. They clamor to see my work. And with good reason."
The scaffold was on wheels. He let go of Lorla and started pushing the metal monster toward the eastern corner of the hall, where the unfinished panel of Elioes stared down at them. An assistant hurried over to help the Master, but Darago shooed him away.
"Can you climb?" Darago asked Lorla.
Lorla nodded eagerly. "That's what I do best." Not waiting for Darago, she began shimmying up the squeaking silver ladder. Darago followed, and when they were fifty feet in the air, they stood atop the scaffold's platform, face-to-face with the orphan. Lorla felt exhilarated by the height and the blazing colors. She stretched out her hand, knowing she couldn't reach the roof overhead, and sighed.
"I wish I could touch her," she said sadly. "She's so beautiful."
Without a thought, Darago wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her into the air, until she was nose-to-nose with Elioes. Lorla squealed with delight. Far below, the Master's assistants were staring up in disbelief.
"She is dry," said Darago. "Touch her."
Very gently, Lorla put her fingers to the ceiling. Elioes seemed to smile at her touch. Lorla dragged her fingertips along the girl's neck, barely brushing it, and down the perfectly realized fabric of her collar. Her flesh was pink and vital. She looked alive, as though Darago had encased a real girl in plaster.
"Ohhh . . . It's wonderful."
"She is my pride," Darago whispered. "I think she came alive more than any other figure I've done here. When she is revealed to Nar, she will melt this city's heart."
"Has Father Herrith seen her?"
"No. Not yet."
"He will love her. More than any picture on the ceiling, this will be his favorite. I know it." Lorla looked away from the image. "Put me down now. Please."
Darago complied, setting her down gently on the platform. "You like my painted daughter, yes?"
"Yes," said Lorla. "I want to know more about her. Tell me all you know about Elioes."
"I know only what I painted here," confessed Darago,
laughing. "She is a girl. I bring her back from the dead. She was touched by God and now God touches me to give her life again. It is that way for me." He held out his hands for Lorla to inspect. They were callused and rough, caked with dried pigments. "These are the hands of God. When I paint or sculpt, they do not belong to me. Heaven possesses me. I am the instrument of angels."
Lorla nodded as if she understood. "Did God tell you to paint Elioes?"
"In His way, yes. None of this is me alone, Lorla Lon." He made a sweeping gesture at the ceiling, and all the angels seemed to listen. "Those trolls you see down there, the ones assisting me, they are nothing. They are like ants to God. Maybe someday they will do something great on their own, but not until God moves them. Like He moves me."
"I like Elioes," sighed Lorla. She looked back at the orphan's tranquil face, so peaceful now that God was healing her. "I want to know more about her. Tell me, Master Darago, please."
"You are asking the wrong man. Ask me about paints and stone. Ask the Holy Father about the child."
"Yes," Lorla agreed. "Yes, I will." She leaned over and surprised Darago with a kiss. "Thank you, Master Darago. Thank you very much."
Without waiting for the artist she began descending the scaffold, shaking it in her eagerness to get down.
That old desire for knowledge was on her again. She hurried from the great hall, passing the tiny confession booths where cowled acolytes listened to Naren atrocities, and finally to the wide and magnificent stairway that would lead her up to the chambers of Father Herrith. She hadn't seen Herrith since breakfast, and it occurred to her that she rarely saw him in the middle of the day. Lorla would surprise him, she decided. He would be pleased to see her. He was always pleased to see her. Her mind raced with questions about the orphan, Elioes. Had she really been as beautiful as Darago had depicted? Was she really an orphan? And if she was a saint, then Lorla knew she had found her patron.
The Saint of Orphans, thought Lorla with a smile.