by John Marco
When she reached the hall to Herrith's chambers, Lorla slowed. The imperial-sized corridor swallowed her whole. The statues and portraits glared at her, but the hall was otherwise empty. Herrith had no need for guards, and his priests were always busy elsewhere. Even Father Todos was nowhere to be found. Lorla was glad for that. She liked Todos but she wanted to be alone with Herrith for a while and pick his brain without being disturbed. Herrith's chambers were at the end of the hall, barricaded by a pair of tall doors with bronze hinges and gargoyle reliefs. Lorla approached slowly, tiptoeing so not to be heard. She put her ear up to the doors and listened. Inside, she heard breathing, labored and unsteady.
For a moment she stood outside his door, wondering what to do. Finally curiosity overcame her and she gave the doorknob a slow, silent turn. It was unlocked and opened easily. The brass hinges moved smoothly, letting her crack the door open. With one eye she peered inside. The opulent living chamber spread out before her, dark in a shade-drawn room. The volume of the weird breathing grew. Lorla nervously widened the crack, trying to see inside. She noticed Herrith's ceremonial shoulder wrap strewn carelessly on the floor. Next to that was his white collar. And next to that was Herrith.
The Archbishop of Nar knelt on the floor, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed and sunken in his chest. He was clothed but for a single arm that was naked, the sleeve rolled up to his armpit. He held the arm fast against his chest, groaning as he rocked slowly back and forth. A tiny silver needle sprouted from his wrist, feeding him blue liquid from a tube. As he breathed he hummed a little, moaning tune, a hymn of sorts broken by erratic breathing.
Lorla stopped at the sight of him.
Cautiously she opened the door, then less cautiously as she realized he wasn't listening. She shut the door behind her. Herrith continued rocking, and it looked to Lorla as if he were crying.
"Father Herrith?"
The sound of her voice made Herrith turn. His mouth dropped open in shock.
"Lorla!" he rasped.
"What is this?" asked Lorla, not daring to go near him. "What's wrong with you?"
The needle in Herrith's arm caught the light and flashed. Lorla felt a rush of sickness, the hammer-blow of an unwanted memory. She stumbled backward, falling against the door, unable to take her eyes off the apparatus feeding Herrith's arm. The bishop reached out a clawlike hand.
"No," he groaned. "I'm all right. Don't be afraid."
But Lorla was afraid. An unknown terror had seized her. The sight of the needle and the potion had stirred her stomach and bowels, making her want to retch. She closed her eyes to banish the nausea, letting the wall support her as her knees turned to water.
"What is this?" she shrieked. "What are you doing to yourself?"
"Lorla, please," insisted Herrith. "Don't be afraid. This is just me. I'm taking care of myself. I'm helping myself."
"How?"
"Open your eyes and look at me!" the bishop demanded.
Lorla did as ordered. She saw Herrith still kneeling on the floor with the needle in his arm. His face was wide with worry and slick with sweat. His outstretched arm begged her to come closer.
"It's me, little one," he whispered. "It's only me. Don't be afraid. Nothing will hurt you."
Unable to move, Lorla stood her ground. Something once-forgotten flashed through her brain, a memory of pain and droning voices. She was cold suddenly, surrounded in a room without windows. Hands grabbed for her little body, holding her down. And she was screaming. Her mouth opened to wail but no sound emerged. Herrith watched her, horrified.
"Lorla!" he called. She heard his voice as if from a great distance. "What is it, child?"
"I don't know," Lorla sobbed. "I don't know! What are you doing? What is this thing?"
She staggered over to Herrith and rattled the apparatus holding the tubes. Herrith's free arm seized hold of her, pulling her away.
"Don't! "he hissed.
His touch was ice on fire. Lorla leapt back, astonished by the sensation. Still he held her fast, drawing her close, down to her knees before him. He was weeping and laughing as the blue liquid dripped into his veins.
"Be not afraid, girl," he bade. "I am the Herrith you know."
"You're not," said Lorla. "You're different!"
"Not different. The same and getting better. Believe me, child. Believe me."
There was so much pain in his voice Lorla couldn't help but relent. She leaned in closer, inspecting his grooved face. The lines ran deep like red welts and his eyes burned a brilliant sapphire. It all reminded Lorla of something very long ago, a thing forgotten and buried, never meant to resurface. She tried to summon up the frightening memory but couldn't. All she felt was rage and pain.
"Father Herrith, I'm afraid."
"Oh, Lorla." He was fighting to control himself, to even form the words. "What are you doing here?"
It took a moment for Lorla to remember. "I came to talk to you," she said. "To ask you questions about the ceiling."
"And now you've found me," said Herrith. "And found me out." He shook his head regretfully. "God save me for showing you this horror."
"Father . . ."
"I look wretched, I know. But this is . . . a treatment, Lorla. It's something I need to do. Please, come sit with me. I need you. You can help me."
Lorla did as the bishop asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. He put his head back and took a deep breath, then tried a crooked smile on her.
"It hurts, sometimes, this thing I do. This drug is very strong. But I need it, Lorla. I would die without it, and I wouldn't be strong. These days I need my strength. There is wise work to do. Can you understand that?"
Lorla nodded. "But what is it? Where does it come from?"
"That's not something I can tell you. It's a very special drug, very precious, and that's all I can say. But I don't have a lot of it, and I can't waste it. That's why I grabbed you when you reached for it." He looked at her sheepishly. "I didn't mean to harm you. Forgive me."
"Holy Father--"
"Father," he corrected.
"Yes. Father. What is it doing to you? Why are you so . . ." She struggled with the words, scanning him up and down. "Weak?"
Herrith reached out his hand and brushed her cheek. "Dear Lorla, there is too much to explain to you. You must trust me, that is all. And trust in God. I have asked Heaven for guidance, and the angels have told me to be strong. They have delivered this drug to me. I thought at first it had come from a demon, but now I know the truth. God gave it to me, because He needs to ready me for a final battle."
"Against Biagio?" Lorla queried. She had heard the bishop speak of the Master often.
"Yes. Biagio and his whole Black Renaissance." Herrith struggled to catch his breath. "They are a cancer, Lorla. They will ruin the Empire, drag us back into Hell. I alone can stop them. I will stop them, by Heaven. I will."
Lorla hid her feelings behind a placid mask. Every time Herrith mentioned her master, she gave him an encouraging smile. "You are strong," she said. "No one can stop you."
"No one can stop God," said Herrith. "I am guided by His mighty hand."
"Like Darago," Lorla said brightly. "He is like that, too."
"Yes," agreed Herrith. "How do you know this?"
"I have been to see the ceiling. I know I shouldn't have, but don't be angry. I've spoken to Darago. He's shown me things."
Herrith laughed. "Darago has spoken to you? A little girl? I can't believe it."
"It's true," Lorla insisted. "He took me up on his ladder to show me the ceiling. I touched it, Father!"
Herrith seemed to forget his pain. "Remarkable," he whispered. "You have touched the ceiling? That is a holy thing, little one. You are truly blessed."
"I saw the picture of Elioes," Lorla went on. "Darago said she was an orphan, like me. Is that true?"
"It is."
Herrith glanced at the tube in his arm. It was empty now. He shut his eyes in relief and popped the needle out.
Lorla swallowed a recurring nausea.
"Tell me about her," Lorla pressed. "I want to know all about Elioes."
"Another time," declined Herrith. He put out his arm. "Help me up, please, child. These treatments weaken me."
Lorla offered her hand and helped with all her might to pull the portly bishop to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, then quickly gained his balance.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, I'll be all right now. Thank you, child. Now . . ." He puzzled over her. "What is it you're asking me?"
"About Elioes. Darago said you could tell me about her."
"I can," said Herrith. He walked out of the chamber and into a room with an extravagant bed. The shades were open wide, sending sunlight streaming in. The bishop collapsed onto the thick mattress. After he caught his breath he patted the bed for Lorla to sit beside him. Lorla did so, sitting close to him, and gave him her full attention.
"I will teach you all about Elioes, and everything else I know about the holy book. You will learn and grow strong, little one. But first, tell me about the ceiling. You have seen it all?"
"It was uncovered," said Lorla. "Darago and the others were working on it. Yes, I saw all of it."
"Was it very beautiful? Is it almost done?"
"Very beautiful," melted Lorla. "More beautiful than anything. And yes, I think it's almost done. Darago says he must unveil it for you soon. For your holiday. Kren?"
"Eestrii. Kren is the month of penance. But yes, you are almost right." He frowned. "You know of Kren, don't you, Lorla? Or have I been so neglectful?"
"I have seen the priests decorating the cathedral. But no, I don't know about Kren. I'm sorry."
"Do not be. I've been remiss for not explaining these things to you. I forget how isolated you were in Dragon's Beak." Already he was stronger. With each breath his skin cooled and the lines in his face seemed to evaporate. Herrith put an arm around her shoulders. "Before Kren begins, there's a big festival called Sethkin. All the Black City will celebrate to prepare themselves for the month of deprivation. There will be music and dancers, food and acrobats." He laughed, full of delight. "I will take you myself! The streets will be beautiful. Would you like that?"
"Yes," said Lorla, excited by the prospect. "It will be one big birthday party for me!"
"Birthday?" asked the bishop. "Lorla, is your birthday coming up?"
Pretending she had let something slip, Lorla looked away. "Yes, Father. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that."
"But why? This is joyous, little one. I'm so pleased. Now we can celebrate Eestrii and your birthday together. How wonderful!"
That old guilt started gnawing at Lorla again. Each day she deceived the bishop, she hated herself a little more. "It's nothing special, Father. I want to see the celebration. That's all."
"You will, dear child, you will." Herrith flashed her an adoring smile. "We will celebrate Eestrii and your birthday together, and I will treat you like a princess that day. There will be vendors in the streets and beautiful things to buy. And the shops will all have their doors open." He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the head. "Think hard on this. You must choose a gift for yourself. Something very special!"
Lorla smiled back at him. She already had the perfect present in mind.
TWENTY-ONE
The Ghosts of Gray Tower
Nina trotted her horse through a field of bodies, astonished at the carnage her father had wrought. It was another frozen day on the north fork of Dragon's Beak--Eneas' fork. A terrible wind tore at Nina's cloak, slicing through it like fangs. Snow blanketed the roadway and the abandoned buildings, all shuttered closed, and the rigored bodies in the avenues stared in endless horror, their eyes turned to ice by the cold. Somewhere up in a fog of clouds, the afternoon sun fought to warm the earth. Slicks of frozen blood in the roadway reflected the light and snow. Nina's horse moved without purpose through the town, as aimless as its stunned rider, its vacant footfalls the only sound breaking the dreadful day. Ahead loomed Gray Tower, tall and shadowy, its hundred windows vacant of life. The home of Duke Eneas cast a pall on the ruined town, a gloomy headstone for all the icy dead.
Duke Enli's vengeance was awful and deep. Just how deep, Nina had never known--until today. All the rage that he'd suppressed, all the hatred for his brother, had gushed out of him in a violent torrent, a tidal wave without mercy. Nina looked about her, and realized with horrible certainty that she knew nothing about the man she called Father.
"My God, Grath," she whispered above the wind. "Did you do all this?"
Grath of Doria trotted up beside her with his entourage, a dozen mercenaries from his homeland.
"I had my orders, girl," he said without flinching. Nothing seemed to bother Grath--not the ferocious cold, and not the terrible deed he'd done.
"Whose orders?" Nina asked. "My father's?"
"Yes. And my employer's," replied the mercenary. All around him, his men nodded, as though such a claim could absolve them of the genocide. "Biagio was very specific," Grath went on. "I did what I was paid to do."
Nina couldn't look at him anymore, so she turned her eyes back to the remnants of men and women--even children. Crushed helmets encased the faceless skulls of raven soldiers, guardians of Duke Eneas. Their slaughtered remains were everywhere, stiff with cold, their clutching fingers reaching heavenward in death. This was the north fork's largest village, surrounded by farms and once populated by hardy peasants. It had been wiped clean. Other villages had been spared the ravages of Grath and his mercenaries, but not Westwind. The battle had taken place here, at the foot of Gray Tower. Eneas' troops had defended the memory of their duke, and had paid with their lives. Without their army of the air to protect them, the raven troops were slaughtered. The strange count from Crote had purchased a fortune in mercenaries to overwhelm the north fork, for Grath commanded a force of nearly three hundred. Nina wasn't an expert on military affairs, but she had heard her father, Duke Enli, speak of it often, for he was war-minded and constantly preoccupied with his brother across the channel. Now, it seemed, his obsession had erupted--with disastrous consequences.
Nina closed her eyes in disgust. These were her own people. To see them slaughtered made her wonder about her father's sanity.
"Good God, he left nothing," said Nina shakily.
The sight overwhelmed her. "How could you, Father? How?"
There was no answer to such a question. Never had she imagined him capable of such an atrocity. Nina looked at the abandoned tower in the distance, now occupied only by corpses and angry ghosts. More than a decade had passed since she'd been there. In those days, she had run freely through her uncle's keep, happy to be with him and his ravens. Happy, as they all were, to live in a land of peace.
Times had changed remarkably.
"Grath, you are a monster. You and all your men."
Grath blinked without emotion. "I told you what you would see here, Nina. But you're as stubborn as your father." He started to rein his horse around. "Come. Let's be gone. If this were summer, the stink would kill us."
"Stay," Nina ordered. "I'm not done."
There was enough iron in her voice to keep the Dorian from going. It was true that he had warned her, begged her in fact not to come to this place. But Nina had been too long in the confines of Red Tower, wondering what had gone on in the frozen world outside. Since her father had gone to Nar City with Lorla, Grath and his mercenaries had been hard at work. It hadn't been difficult for Nina to guess at their activities, but she hadn't imagined anything so ghastly. She had even held out the vain hope that her uncle might still be alive.
Grath had explained things to her.
Upon returning from his black crusade, the Dorian had told her everything. About her father. About the murder of her uncle. And the news had shattered Nina. Like a sheltered child she had hidden herself, walled up in Red Tower, denying that her father could be launching a war against his brother even as it raged across the channel. She had even told Lorla that e
verything would be all right. Nina cursed herself now, hating her timidity. If she had stood up to her father, she might have convinced him to stop. She was the one thing he still cared about, and she knew it. She was his last link to Angel.
I should have tried, she thought.
Could she have reached into his mind and soothed the insanity there? God, was this her fault? Nina shook her head, banishing the idea.
No! Don't even think it.
"There's nothing else to see here," growled Grath. As the minutes ticked by, he grew more impatient. And maybe a bit fearful. No one had challenged them during the ride through the north fork, but that didn't mean no one would, and Grath kept a watchful eye on the vacant homes and dead bodies, half expecting them to come alive. His men seemed to share their leader's nervousness, wary of their gloomy surroundings. They had followed Grath this far because Nina had demanded it, but a mercenary's loyalty was only so good. Nina gave a mirthless grin. Her father had taught her that as well.
You got your wish, Father, she thought. All of Dragon's Beak is yours now.
Enli even had the ravens, his brother's vaunted "army of the air." Cackle, her pet, sat perched on her shoulder, clicking at the cold. Before he had gone to Nar City with Lorla, her father had warned her not to let the raven out of her sight.
"He is lead raven now," Enli had said.
Nina knew what the term meant. Cackle wore the gold chain around his neck now, symbol of lead raven. Nina remembered the story. Eneas had been very proud of his ravens, and had happily bragged to her about them. She knew all about lead raven status. No doubt Eneas' own lead raven was as dead as its master. Nina turned toward the bird on her shoulder, grateful he was with her. As far as any of them knew, the army of the air was still around Gray Tower, waiting for Eneas to return. Without a lead raven to follow, they had simply let Grath and his mercenaries slaughter the tower's defenders.
"Stay with me, Cackle," said Nina. "I might need you."
She didn't know what to expect when she reached Gray Tower. She hadn't even told Grath that the tower was her true destination. She wondered what his reaction would be. Though she was the duke's daughter and he was paid to protect her, he might easily abandon her. He had only come this far at Nina's insistence. She had needed to see the carnage for herself, to understand the depth of her father's madness.