The Grand Design

by John Marco

  Is this what it means to be special?

  Time was ticking away, and the voices grew ever louder, compelling her to move the angel. The tiny figurine flew over the cathedral's gates, beckoning to her with its trumpet. She could almost hear its diabolical music. And whose voice was calling to her? Was it the Master's? Or was it the midget whose name she didn't know?

  Time moved still faster. Lorla knew Father Herrith was finishing up his address. Soon he would go into the square and absolve sins. Lorla took a step forward.

  "Do it," urged the voices. "The Master needs you."

  Duke Enli needed her. And Nina. Lokken and Kareena, too. She reasoned that she was part of something bigger than herself, something vast and important.

  "The Master loves me," she said, desperate to believe it. "He wouldn't hurt me. He needs me to be strong."

  "Be strong and finish the mission," agreed the voice.

  Darago wasn't looking. Carefully, her hand shaking, Lorla reached out and touched the angel.

  "Side-to-side," the thing reminded her. "Move me side-to-side."

  Lorla's hand was as still as stone. Whatever she did here today would change her world forever. Everyone had told her that her mission was good. And important. Now she wasn't sure. Herrith was good. He wasn't the beast she had been led to believe.

  Was he?

  I don't know!

  Yet despite the battle within her, Lorla moved the angel from left to right. She moved it barely an inch, but it snapped into its new place with a mechanical click, startling her. She stepped back, staring at the thing, certain something dreadful would happen. Almost imperceptibly, she heard a purring drone.

  "Lorla," called a voice from across the chamber. She jumped. On the other side of the great hall stood Father Todos. The priest had tears in his eyes and wore a huge, uncharacteristic smile. "Archbishop Herrith is done with his address," he said. "He's going into the square now, to perform Absolution. He wants you with him, Lorla."

  Lorla stood frozen for a long moment, then stepped away from the dollhouse. A foggy pall settled over her brain. She had done what the Master had required her to do. It had all been over in an instant. Suddenly the voices in her brain fell silent, giving her peace for the first time in days. Exhausted and confused, she nodded at the priest.

  "Coming," she said wearily, then followed him out of the chamber.

  Inside the walls of Lorla's birthday gift, Bovadin's machine awoke. The hoses that had been dormant for so long now filled with rushing air, and the pressure within the silver cylinder gradually began to build. The combustible fuel within the housing swam through the mechanisms, chilled by scalelike cooling vanes. The pressure would build for an hour more.

  Out in Martyr's Square, Archbishop Herrith sat on a dais surrounded by priests, doling out forgiveness from his golden chair. The gigantic crowd that had listened to his address now lined up in the cold to receive the sacrament of Absolution. For nearly an hour the bishop worked ceaselessly, his face alight as the countless pilgrims from around the Empire knelt before him and asked for God's forgiveness. And the bishop met each request the same way--by touching the penitent's forehead and mouthing the same small prayer over and over.

  "God forgive you, my child."

  From her place near Herrith on the dais, Lorla watched the bishop work, enthralled by his patience and devotion. He still looked weak, but his eyes jumped with life. His smile was brighter than the sun. Lorla loved the bishop, she realized now. And as she waited with him on the dais she kept looking over her shoulder toward the cathedral, certain that something dreadful would soon happen.

  Father Herrith had wanted her here. He had hugged her when he'd seen her, kissing her firmly on both cheeks and giving her a place of honor next to him on the dais, completely oblivious to the thing she had done to him.

  As the minutes ticked by, Lorla grew more anxious. She fidgeted in her seat on the dais, not far from Father Todos. The priest kept a careful eye on Herrith, like a mother worried about a sick child. Herrith himself seemed not to notice his ailments. Lorla looked out over the crowd. Some of the same faces she had seen in the great hall were now waiting for their turn at Absolution. And then she saw another face, vaguely familiar. Lorla puzzled over him for a moment before realizing it was the toymaker.

  Redric Bobs stood in the line, his face ashen. Next, it would be his turn to kneel before Herrith. The toy-maker kept his head bowed, and he looked as if he'd been crying. Lorla studied him hard, terrified he might expose her. But the toymaker apparently had other things on his mind. Herrith dismissed the young woman he was absolving and looked up to see his next patron--Redric Bobs.

  "Piper Bobs?" asked Herrith incredulously. "Is that you?"

  The old man stepped onto the dais in front of ten thousand onlookers, kneeling before the bishop. He looked up at Herrith with his wild, pain-filled eyes. Lorla's breath caught in her throat.

  "Holiness," rasped Redric Bobs. "Forgive me. Forgive me for what I've done."

  Father Herrith smiled at him. Lorla's heart raced. Slowly the voices came back into her head.

  "Be at ease, Piper," said Herrith, obviously confused. "This is a day of joy. Do not look so forlorn."

  The Piper shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "And I can't explain it to you. It's too late. Forgive me, Holiness." He reached out and grabbed Herrith's hand, then buried his face in it, sobbing.

  Lorla got out of her chair. The voices commanded her to sit, but she ignored them. Seeing the toymaker's tears had fractured something deep inside her.

  "Father Herrith," she blurted, unable to control herself. "I . . . I'm sorry!"

  "What?" sputtered Herrith, looking between her and Bobs. He pulled his hand free of the toymaker. "Lorla, what's wrong? What's the matter?"

  Lorla couldn't speak. She could hardly breathe. The voices clamored in her head.

  "No!" she cried, putting her hands to her head. "Stop yelling at me!"

  "Lorla," cried Herrith, getting to his feet. Piper Bobs looked at her, dumbfounded. From out of the crowd a midget was climbing onto the dais. Memories hammered into Lorla's mind. She backed away from the midget, sure he was coming for her, but noticed instead that he grabbed Redric Bobs.

  "Bovadin!" shouted Herrith.

  There was an uproar from the crowd. The midget pulled hard on Bobs' coat, trying to hurry him away. Herrith stared at them, stricken. The priests on the dais rose and drew daggers. The midget cursed and threw himself off the dais, vanishing into the crowd. Lorla watched it all in a blur. Time was ticking madly away.

  She had to do something.

  So she ran. She bolted from the dais, scrambling through the crowds and clawing her way back to the cathedral. Off in the distance she heard Herrith call after her, desperate and confused. It was bedlam suddenly and the crowds around the dais erupted with shouts. Lorla tried to ignore them all. She blocked out everything, focusing all her energies on reaching the great hall. Again she heard the Master's voice roaring at her angrily. Once more she squashed it. She hated the Master suddenly. Father Herrith had been good to her. And Redric Bobs knew that. He'd been crying and she'd seen it!

  "Let me pass!" she cried, shouldering her way through the crowds. Somehow she would reach the cathedral and stop what she had done. A group of families waiting at the cathedral gates blocked her way. She threaded through them like a running dog, skirting past their legs and racing into the empty cathedral. Her little heart thumped madly as she moved.

  Almost there . . .

  The great hall loomed before her. Lorla hurried into it and found Darago there, admiring his amazing ceiling.

  "Go, Master Darago!" Lorla shouted as she ran to the cathedral model. "Leave!"

  "What?" sputtered Darago. "Why?"

  "Just go!"

  Lorla reached for the archangel and tried to move it. But the angel wouldn't budge. She heard the relentless drone of something inside the model.

  "Move!" she screamed at the angel. "Please!
"

  "Lorla, what are you doing?" flared Darago, rushing up to her. Lorla burst into frustrated tears.

  "Leave!" she cried. "I can't stop it!"

  Darago grabbed hold of her, dragging her away from the model. Lorla fought him off with a furious scream.

  "Stop!"

  Breaking free, she lunged one more time toward her birthday gift. Then, barely an inch from the angel, she saw a dazzling light.

  The force of the explosion roared through Martyr's Square, deafening the crowd. Herrith put his hands to his ears and watched a rolling fireball consume his cathedral. A sudden shockwave blew by with a vengeful wind, tearing at his garments. All around him priests and patrons screamed as bits of burning metal rained down around them. Fire poured from the cathedral's gates, and the great metal steeple groaned as its foundation weakened, threatening to topple. Giant plumes of inky smoke belched from the shattered stained glass. Martyr's Square filled with a chorus of screams.

  Herrith collapsed to his knees. The hot light of the dying cathedral burned his blue eyes. He looked away, covering his face with his hands, and knew with dreadful certainty that Lorla was dead. And all that came to him was one word, a name that had haunted him for the past year. Defeated, Herrith sobbed his nemesis' name.

  "Biagio . . ."

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Company of the Queen

  The day before he was to set out for Crote, Queen Jelena summoned Richius back to Haran Island. Prakna was with him, as were Simon and Shii, too, for she was Richius' lieutenant now and would be an integral part of their invasion. Prakna piloted them to the queen's island aboard a catboat. It had been the first time Richius had left Karalon since his arrival, and stepping foot on Haran Island felt strange to him.

  Since sending Shani back to Dyana aboard one of Prakna's vessels, Richius had felt profoundly alone. He had Simon and his work kept him busy, but he missed his daughter. And his wife. Part of him looked forward to Jelena's company. She was young, like Dyana, and she reminded him of his wife sometimes. As he walked quietly toward the queen's palace, Richius remembered what Marus had said to him weeks ago, that Jelena was a remarkable woman.

  The queen wanted to know what her subjects had planned. Tomorrow, they would set sail on the long journey to Crote, and Prakna had told Richius that the queen was nervous. With good reason, Richius knew. His army had trained hard, but they were still unseasoned. Richius wasn't sure how they would perform in battle, though he wouldn't tell that to the queen. Nonetheless, and to his great surprise, Richius was looking forward to the campaign against Crote.

  While he would have liked more time to plan the invasion, Prakna's raiders were getting tired. They needed a port close to the Empire from which to launch their attacks; Crote would serve that purpose. It was warm and very near the Black City. And it didn't have a large army; at least, not according to Simon. Richius glanced over at the Naren who was walking beside him. Simon held several rolled-up parchments in his hand, a collection of maps he had been working on for days. At Richius' insistence he had drawn up all that he knew about Crote's coast and waterways, as well as the layout of Biagio's mansion. Richius had been impressed with Simon's knowledge of the terrain. And the spy had been remarkably forthcoming with details, a fact that eased everyone's suspicions.

  Everyone except Prakna. The fleet commander did nothing to hide his disdain for Simon. To Prakna, Simon was not only a Naren pig, but now he was also a traitor. The Lissen commander kept a close eye on Simon whenever he was near, and when they argued, which was often, Prakna was vocal. But Simon had the hide of a greegan; insults bounced off him like a summer rain. And Simon had changed. He had stopped apologizing for his colored past and looked toward the future with a single-minded purpose. Only one goal drove Simon now--to save Eris from Biagio.

  As the foursome approached the palace, Simon slowed his pace, staring up at Jelena's home and marveling at the gate. The great, gushing arch greeted them like a warm smile. Behind the palace, the sun was beginning to dip. Its red rays made the water jump with color.

  "That's beautiful," Simon said. "Like something from a dream."

  "That's what you pigs have been trying to destroy," quipped Prakna. He breezed past Simon and headed toward the arch.

  When the rest of them reached the spouting entrance, a pair of Jelena's guards came out to greet them. Prakna did the talking. The sentries gave them all polite bows and led them into a room Richius had never seen, a council chamber near the western gates. Queen Jelena was already there, sitting at the head of a long table. Goblets of wine had been set out for each of them, along with a few plates of food. A bank of windows offered a perfect view of the setting sun. The young queen rose when they entered.

  "Hello, my friends," she said brightly, embracing Prakna first, then Richius, whom she favored with a warm kiss. Richius flushed at her affection, embarrassed but enjoying it.

  "Jelena," he said, smiling. "I'm glad to see you again."

  Her eyes flashed with poorly hidden affection. "And I you," she said. She waved to dismiss the sentries who'd led her guests inside. The pair left the council chamber and closed the doors behind them. Jelena took Richius' hand and led him to the table. "Sit, all of you, please," she told the group. She guided Richius to a chair beside her own; Prakna quickly grabbed the seat on her other side. Shii sat down dutifully beside the commander, but Simon remained standing.

  "Queen Jelena," he said. "I'm Simon Darquis." He gave her a perfect bow. "I'm honored to meet you."

  "Yes," said the queen. "The Naren spy. Welcome, Simon Darquis. I thank you, especially, for coming."

  They regarded each other awkwardly. Richius felt the invisible wall between them. In her own way, Jelena hated Narens almost as much as Prakna. She did a far better job of hiding her contempt, however, and when she offered Simon her hand, he kissed it like a nobleman.

  "Sit down, Darquis," grumbled Prakna. "We've business to discuss."

  "That's why I'm here," said Simon. He ignored Prakna and spoke directly to the queen. "Thank you, my lady, for letting me help you."

  Jelena blanched. "It is on the suggestion of Lord Jackal that I trust you, sir. When word of your arrival reached me, I confess I was troubled. But Richius speaks well of you." Her gaze narrowed. "Please don't make a fool out of him."

  Simon took the implied threat genteelly. "I've given my word, and I will give it again to you now. I'm here to help." He laid his maps out on the table, spreading them wide for all to see. "I know Biagio's island better than almost anyone. I was born and raised on Crote, and I've spent time with him in his mansion. These maps contain all the details I know."

  Jelena nodded. "Good," she said, taking her seat. She leaned back, regarding each of them in turn. To Richius she seemed like an ice sculpture, glistening with beauty yet hard and cold to the touch. She was every bit the queen, suddenly. At last Simon took a seat beside Richius, keeping his sharp eyes on the young ruler.

  "You'll all be leaving tomorrow," said Jelena. "And it will be weeks before I see any of you again. I brought you here because I wanted to know what you're feeling, what you think of your chances against Crote. Karalon is remote, even for me. So, a simple question. Are you ready?"

  "We are," Prakna declared. "The Prince of Liss is ready to sail, as are the other ships. We're taking four schooners with us. That will be enough to get the troops to Crote. I'd prefer more but the others are still engaged in Nar. I plan to send word to my armada as soon as Crote is secure. Other ships can rendezvous with us then."

  Jelena's gaze flicked toward Richius. "And you, Lord Jackal? What do you think? Are your people ready?"

  It was a difficult question, and Richius didn't really know how to answer. But across the table he noticed Shii straighten proudly in her seat, and knew that he could have only one reply.

  "They're a good bunch," he said. "Shii has helped me work with them, and I know they won't disappoint us. They haven't had much time to prepare, but they've trained hard and they
follow my orders. I think we're ready, Jelena."

  "We are ready, my Queen," added Shii earnestly. "I know we are. Lord Jackal speaks truly. We have trained hard, and we're eager for this mission. We won't fail. I promise you that, on the soul of my son."

  "Richius makes good choices, no doubt," said Jelena. "He must think highly of you to make you his second, Shii."

  Shii looked down at the table modestly. "I will try my best."

  "And lastly, you," said Jelena, staring pointedly at Simon. "Tell me, Naren. What do you think of our chances for success?"

  "I think they're far better with my involvement," said Simon. He was never shy, and the queen's iciness didn't frighten him. "Without me, you'd be going in blind. Richius practically admitted that to me. But I've got everything you need right in here." He tapped his skull. "Don't worry, Queen Jelena. We'll take the island for you. And get Biagio in the bargain."

  "You seem remarkably sure of that," quipped the queen. "Why?"

  "Because Biagio's not a god," replied Simon, "no matter what he thinks. And his mansion isn't protected by many guards. He's got a handful, maybe forty in all, but Crote doesn't have an army. They've never needed one."

  "They've always had the protection of the Empire," Richius added.

  Simon nodded. "That's right. So nine hundred men and women armed with swords can overrun the mansion easily. And once that is taken, Crote will be ours."

  "What about the populace?" argued Prakna. "Won't they fight us?"

  "No," said Simon. "I'm Cretan, remember; I know what they're like. Without Biagio, they won't lift a finger against us, not if we secure the mansion and make our presence known. They'll see the Lissen ships in their waters, and they'll know they've been beaten. They won't fight back."

  "What about other countries?" asked the queen. "Do you think they'll come to Crote's aid?"

  "How can they?" asked Simon. "Other countries have armies, but the Black Fleet would have to take them to Crote, and the fleet isn't anywhere near Crote anymore." He glanced at Richius. "That's right, isn't it?"