The Grand Design

by John Marco

  Dyana stared at the count in bemusement. It was like looking at two different people, two sides of a broken mirror. He had gone to the ends of the earth to steal her daughter, and now was promising her safety. At last, unable to decipher him, Dyana merely shrugged, resigned to his mystery.

  "Do not expect me to come to you anymore," she said. "I will not speak to you again."

  Then she turned and left the brooding count, heading back to the mansion.

  Eris lay awake in her bed, caught in a narcotic embrace. The simples Bethia had given her had done a surprising job of deadening the pain in her butchered foot, but they did nothing to ease her loss. She had trained all her life to perform; it had given her meaning and dimension. She wasn't just a slave; she was a performer, sought after and respected.

  Now she was nothing.

  She didn't understand why the Master had done this to her. She knew only that it had been done, and that she would never walk again like a normal person, much less grace a dance floor or perform in the Black City to crowds of adoring nobles. Those girlhood dreams were gone. Now she was looking forward into an endless void of obscurity.

  I am nothing now, she told herself. Her voice was loud and rang in her head, amplified by the feeling of drunkenness. And I don't want to be here.

  Eris climbed painfully out of her bed and pulled off one of the sheets. This she coiled into a long rope, tying one end of it around a sturdy sconce high on the wall. She kept the shades drawn as she worked. With great effort she pushed a chair against the wall, climbed onto it unsteadily, and tied the other end of the sheet around her neck.

  No one knew she had killed herself until later that night--when Dyana discovered her.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eestrii

  Lorla stared up at Darago's masterpiece. For more than an hour, the faithful of Nar City had been streaming into the cathedral's great hall to be awestruck by Darago's ceiling, which the painter himself had unveiled in a storm of fanfare. Dorians and Highlanders, pilgrims from Casarhoon and families from far-north Criisia, had all come to see the result of the artist's long toil. They filled the cathedral and the grounds outside by the thousands. Priests and bodyguards moved through the crowds, keeping order, and wailing children stopped their cries when they looked up, baffled by the beautiful thing above them. The hall was swelled to capacity. A long line queued up just beyond the chamber, snaking through the cathedral and spilling out onto its grounds, where thousands more milled in the cold sunlight, patiently awaiting their turn to see the ceiling of the great Darago, the gift Archbishop Herrith had bestowed on them.

  Lorla waited in the great hall, admiring the artwork with the other spectators. Today was Eestrii, the highest of the Naren holy days. It was also her birthday. Or was it the day Master Biagio simply called her birthday? She wasn't sure anymore. All that she knew for certain was her mission.

  The angel had told it to her.

  It spoke to her with a disembodied voice, something that came from inside her own brain. Every time she saw the angel it reminded her of her duty. Her memories were clearer now. She recalled the war labs and the strange potions they had given her, and the shiny needles and cold rooms. All those fractured faces that for so long had been gray ghosts were now evident. She saw Biagio. He had a golden face and a compelling smile. And she saw a midget, too, but she didn't know his name. Lorla felt like a different person. And it frightened her.

  Not far away, Darago was standing on the side of the crowds, calling to them as they admired his masterpiece. He wore a proud smile on his face. Occasionally he would turn to Lorla and wink. His assistants were gone now, and only Darago remained to show off his accomplishment. The crowds adored him. They loved what he had done for them, and the most faithful among them wept when they saw his vision of the holy books, stretched out in a marvelous fresco overhead. All the characters Darago had shown Lorla were fully alive now in vibrant colors. The orphan girl Elioes received her touch from God. Adan was betrayed and thrown out of Heaven, while on another panel his children slew each other. Lorla saw the great battles and the creation of souls, and laughed like the rest of them at the comical rendition of Judik, the saint who had betrayed God. Father Herrith had explained these things to Lorla. He had set her on a path to righteousness and unfolded the mysteries of the holy books. As she stared up at the painting of Elioes, she didn't feel like an orphan anymore. She felt loved.

  But Herrith was the Master's enemy. She didn't know why, but it was so. And the Master was her true father. He had rescued her from some horrible life with her terrible parents, and had chosen her for this because she was special. Even the angel told her she was special. She glanced at it now from across the hall. The fantastic model had been put on display as well, and it drew almost as many raves as Darago's ceiling, a fact that made the Cretan painter simmer. Like his masterwork, the cathedral model was meticulous, and all who saw it commented on its perfection and design, and the obvious love that went into its construction. All except Lorla. When she saw the model, she hated it. It was beautiful and perfect and devilishly clever, and though she didn't know its exact purpose, she knew that something bad lurked within its walls.

  Bad? she corrected herself. No, that couldn't be right. It was the Master's will, and the Master always had a purpose. Angrily she shook her head, hating the voices inside her. She had been arguing with them and they had been scolding her, and part of her knew that they were right to be angry.

  "Master Biagio has given you life," they would tell her. "Why would you betray him?"

  Guiltily, Lorla always acquiesced to the voices. Biagio was her master. He had given her life. Hadn't he? But Herrith had given her love. She cared for the old man now, and didn't want to hurt him. She had come to his cathedral expecting a devil, and had found a gentle, troubled patron instead. More, he had not seen past her ruse. To him, she was just a perfect little girl of eight.

  I'm a freak, she told herself bitterly. Not a woman or a child.

  Duke Lokken and Kareena, Duke Enli and Nina; they had all tried to tell her what she was, but not Herrith. He had merely accepted her. He alone had let her be what God would have made if the labs hadn't interrupted Him.

  "Master Biagio," she whispered desperately. "Don't make me do this. I don't want to."

  The voices screamed back at her. Lorla began to cry. A man with his family, who had been admiring the ceiling, saw her tears and turned to comfort her.

  "Child?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

  Lorla looked up at him. He was very tall, and she realized suddenly how unnaturally short she was. His clothes were plain, not rich like a nobleman's, and his family was big and plain-looking too, with a girl and a boy and a weary-faced wife, all staring up and marveling dumbly. Lorla glanced down at her expensive dress, suddenly ashamed of herself.

  "I'm all right," she said. "It's the ceiling. It's very pretty."

  The lies came too easily to her.

  "Yes, it is," said the man. "Today we see what God has made for us. It's so beautiful. He wants the whole world to be beautiful. But since it can't be perfect, He sends us men like Darago to show us Heaven."

  Lorla blinked, fascinated by the bit of wisdom. "Really? Do you believe that?"

  "Oh, yes," the man declared. "There is so much evil in the world. But sometimes we get to see a glimpse of Heaven." He looked back up at the towering ceiling and melted with awe. "God has a plan bigger than the plans of man, child. No man can stand against God or nature. Not even a great man like Herrith."

  "No?" asked Lorla.

  "No," said the man serenely. "There is an order to things. God has set them. It's not the place of any man to undo those things."

  With those remarkable words hanging in the air, he left Lorla alone to ponder. She watched him return to his family and shuffle out of sight, getting lost in the crowd. Once more she glanced at the cathedral model across the hall. A crowd of children had gathered around it, giddy with astonishment.

  Lorla trembl
ed when she saw them. Soon Father Herrith would give his address to the faithful. When he was done, he would leave the cathedral to perform the rite of Absolution.

  Time was running out.

  On a little balcony room overlooking Martyr's Square, Archbishop Herrith sat with his forehead in his hands. Father Todos and a handful of other priests stood close by, staring out the glass doors to the thousands of people below, the throngs of faithful that had come to hear the bishop's yearly address. Herrith heard their collective din, like the sound of the ocean. He knew they expected much of him this year.

  But he had nothing for them.

  This Eestrii, for the first time in decades, the bishop had no plans for his speech. He had spent the last two days brooding over Vorto's death and the slippage of his own body, deeper every day into the clutches of withdrawal. He had not even attended the unveiling of his beloved ceiling, an event he had anticipated for years. It was an awful day and Herrith was profoundly troubled.

  Suspicions were already spreading through the Black City. Nicabar's dreadnoughts waited on the horizon, visible by all in the streets. People were afraid. They wondered where Vorto was and why Herrith hadn't sent the Black Fleet away. They looked to the Cathedral of the Martyrs for guidance, and their needs were heavy on Herrith's shoulders. The bishop closed his eyes and prayed.

  "Dear Father in Heaven, help me. Help me tame this demon inside me, just for today. I have sinned. I am weak. Forgive me."

  It was Absolution day, the day Herrith was to go among the people and grant them God's forgiveness. He laughed at the notion. How could he, a sinner without peer, grant absolution to anyone?

  "There is so much blood on my hands, Father," he continued. "So many wrongs. But I did it all for you. I . . ."

  He paused, unable to go on. The Black Renaissance was a cancer. Biagio was a devil. And God had a plan for Nar. Weren't all these things true? Herrith simply didn't know anymore.

  "Herrith?" nudged Todos gently. "It's almost time. They're waiting for you."

  Herrith opened his eyes and looked at his associate. The priest seemed nervous. Do I look so bad? Herrith wondered. By nightfall, he would be in the cold grip of withdrawal again, sick with fever and barely able to care for himself. Food would make him vomit and music would make him scream. But Herrith didn't care about that now. He wanted only to get through the day. And if he died in bed tonight, then he would go to God and answer for his sins, and God would judge him good or evil, and reward or punish him.

  "Waiting? Yes, I suppose they are," he said, managing a crooked smile.

  Todos offered a hand. "Can you stand?"

  "I'm strong enough," said Herrith, declining the aid. "For now." He got to his feet and faced the balcony. Through the glass he could see an ocean of people in Martyr's Square, waiting patiently for their spiritual leader. Some said Narens had no God but themselves, but they were wrong, Herrith knew. They feared for the future like all men, and looked to the sky for answers. And to Herrith.

  The bishop braced himself with a deep breath, then gave a nod to his waiting priests, who opened the doors. With a final, silent prayer for strength, Herrith stepped out onto the balcony to the cacophonous cheers of ten thousand Narens.

  Amid the crowds in Martyr's Square, Redric Bobs stood with his back to the sea and his eyes lifted to the balcony above. Around him milled a vast assortment of people, loyal Narens all, who had come to this place to hear the words of their leader, Herrith, and to gain wisdom from him. A thrill of anticipation moved through the toymaker. He had arrived at the square early and waited patiently for the bishop to appear. Cheers rose up all around him as the venerable Herrith stepped out onto the balcony. But the Piper didn't cheer. When he saw Herrith, he gasped.

  "My God," he exclaimed. "He looks terrible."

  The small, shadowy figure at his side looked up. Minister Bovadin peeked at the balcony from beneath the thick folds of his hood and gave a twisted laugh.

  "The drug," he whispered over the noise. "It's eating at him."

  The Piper nodded as if he understood. Bovadin was a furtive man with only his blue eyes to betray his secrets. But like most in Nar City, Redric Bobs knew something about the life-sustaining drugs of the high nobility. The sight of the bishop above made him wince. Herrith looked horrid. And Bobs, who hated the bishop and his church, took a small measure of glee in his misery.

  Around him the cheers went on as Herrith lifted a shaking hand to try and still the crowd. The toymaker smirked, folding his arms across his chest.

  "Listen to these fools," he remarked acidly.

  Next to him, Bovadin's hidden head shook. "Herrith is a persuasive speaker, Redric Bobs. He knows much about the ways of Heaven."

  "I'm not interested," the toymaker scoffed. "I'm only here to watch the . . . festivities."

  "Not too much longer," counseled Bovadin. "And believe me, you'll be dazzled."

  There was real pride in the scientist's voice. But Redric Bobs felt no such pride. He wasn't really glad he had built the dollhouse, or that he had gotten it into the cathedral so clandestinely. These were mere necessities. What he was doing today, he did for his own good reasons. He knew that with certainty. Yet he felt no pride.

  "So?" he whispered, bending down so Bovadin could hear him. "When will it happen?"

  "Not until the girl sets the device," replied the midget. "And that won't happen until Herrith is done with his address. During Absolution, however, I'd advise you to stand back."

  Absolution. Piper Bobs bit his lip. He was still a devout man, despite all. No one knew that, of course, because he hadn't attended a service in years, but he kept the holy days in his own way, and as the clock ticked toward its fateful hour and Herrith kept his arms outstretched, the toymaker wondered about his place in the scheme of things, and about his place in Heaven.

  "It has to be done, you know," he said absently. "Really, there's no choice."

  Bovadin smiled. "You don't have to convince me."

  "No, really," insisted the toy-smith. "He's an evil man. He doesn't know it, but he is. He's hurt a lot of people. He hurt me and my wife."

  Bovadin turned to look at him. "Steady, Bobs," he warned. "Don't get weak on me."

  "I'm not," snapped Bobs. "I know exactly what I'm doing. And what I've done. Now be quiet, he's talking."

  Up on the balcony, hovering over the adoring crowd, Archbishop Herrith began to speak. His voice was weak and shaky. Redric Bobs could hardly hear him. Frustrated, he snapped at the people around him to be silent, all of whom were only breathing but whose rasping breath annoyed the toymaker nonetheless.

  "What's he saying?" Bobs asked peevishly.

  "Shut up, you idiot," rumbled Bovadin.

  Slowly, Herrith's voice grew in volume. Redric Bobs leaned closer, as though the few inches would help him hear. All around him, thousands did the same, staring up in confusion at the leader of their church. Bobs felt a sudden wave of nausea. Herrith looked about to collapse. And the blotches on his face--were they tears?

  ". . . forgiveness," said the bishop. He put his hands on the balcony to steady himself. "None of us here is without sin. Even my own soul is clouded."

  Bobs jerked back, stunned by the admission. He stared at Herrith, thunderstruck, and watched as the feeble man grew in strength with the conviction of his words, until at last his voice rang through the square, like the voice of God Himself.

  "And just as all of you ask God for Absolution today," Herrith roared, "so too do I bend my knee to Heaven, and ask the Lord for forgiveness of my sins. I have led the Empire down a terrible path. I have killed and maimed in the name of God. I thought it was His will. But I was wrong."

  The bishop paused, and when he did there was an awesome silence. He had them all in the palm of his hand. Even Redric Bobs. The toymaker's hard heart softened with every unexpected word, and as the bishop wept, openly and without shame, Piper felt his own throat constrict with emotion.

  "Oh, no," he whispered. "Don't do thi
s to me, you bastard."

  "You have seen the warships over our shoulders," Herrith proclaimed. "They would bring war back to our land. I have tried my best to give Nar peace. But I have murdered and maimed to earn that peace, and my soul is soaked in blood. I beg God to forgive me." Again he stretched out his arms. "I beg you all."

  Another silence ensued, and then the silence ebbed with the first cry from the crowd, a cry of love that was picked up by another and then a hundred more, until at last all of the thousands in the square were roaring their approval. Redric Bobs felt the life drain out of him.

  "What's he saying?" spat Bovadin. The scientist pulled his hood back, glaring up at Herrith. "What is this?"

  Redric Bobs sighed heavily. "He's asking us to forgive him, midget."

  "A ruse," snarled Bovadin. "Another of his tricks. Don't listen to him, any of you!"

  But it didn't look like a trick, and Redric Bobs knew the truth of Herrith's tears, for no man could be such an actor. The toymaker shook his head ruefully. Too late. Everything was too late. They had all pushed the bishop over the edge, and now the weapon they had in their pockets was about to go off needlessly.

  "God help me," he groaned. "Oh, my God . . ."

  "Stop saying that, you fool," hissed Bovadin. "We've done nothing wrong."

  Redric Bobs looked down at him. "We have," he said gravely. "And there's nothing we can do to stop it."

  Lorla didn't join the others out in the square to hear Father Herrith's address. Instead she waited in the great hall and stared endlessly at the model of the cathedral. She was alone in the vast chamber, except for Darago. The painter still couldn't take his eyes off his masterpiece, and seemed to be in prayer as he admired it. High above Lorla, Elioes and the other paintings stared down, almost alive. Lorla wished that they could speak, to drown out the voices screaming in her head. There was a great weight pressing down on her chest. She wondered what they had done to her in the labs, and why the pain was so sudden and so strong.