by John Marco
Soon a maid arrived and set down a teakettle on the table next to Lorla. Noticing the pile of wet clothes on the floor, the woman assured Lorla she would bring some dry garments. Cheerily she poured Lorla a cup of tea and placed it in her small hands, then waved a plate of sweet-smelling biscuits beneath her nose. Lorla chose the biggest one and put it in her mouth, holding it between her teeth as she warmed her hands on the teacup. The maid left with a smile, leaving Lorla once again to puzzle over the portrait. She was getting warm quickly, and it felt good. A drowsy mood fell over her, making her eyelids droop. She watched the portrait as her eyes fell closed . . .
‘You like that picture?’ boomed a voice.
Lorla snapped awake, so suddenly the cup in her hands jostled tea over the rim. She looked down at the stained blanket sheepishly, then up at the man in the threshold. It wasn’t Faren, but a much broader man, big through the shoulders, with jet hair and a shiny black beard. He had a stern face and eyes that smoldered when he stared. Now he stared at Lorla.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lorla offered. She set down the cup and jumped out of the chair, keeping the blanket wrapped about her naked body. Suddenly she was embarrassed. ‘I ruined the blanket.’
‘It’s just a blanket,’ said the man. He stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. All at once a strange silence enveloped them. Lorla inspected the man.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I am Duke Enli, Master of Red Tower.’ He tried to smile but managed only a crooked grin. ‘Your host. For now.’
Duke Enli came closer, looking over Lorla. His beard glowed in the hearth’s orange light and the many rings on his fingers twinkled. Like Faren, he wore a cape to shield him from the cold, a long garment trimmed in crimson and fastened around his throat with a golden broach – a shiny, fanged dragon’s head. The duke had big hands that he spread toward Lorla in welcome.
‘Little Lorla,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you made it safely. I’ve been waiting for you. And this weather had me concerned.’
Lorla nodded. ‘It was cold.’
‘Cold?’ laughed the duke. ‘This is not cold, girl. To me, this is like summer. But yes, you look wretched. Faren has ordered clothes for you, and there’s a warm bed waiting.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The duke looked down at her, his eyes glinting with curiosity. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. ‘Seven? Eight?’
‘Almost sixteen,’ said Lorla indignantly. The duke’s eyes widened.
‘Sixteen? God almighty, you don’t look a day over eight. I swear, not a day.’ He dropped down to inspect her more closely, running one of his big fingers over her cheek as if she were a house pet. ‘Remarkable,’ he chuckled. ‘Truly remarkable.’
‘Duke Enli, where is Daevn?’ asked Lorla.
‘Ah, well . . .’ Enli retracted his finger and attempted another smile. ‘Daevn is resting now, Lorla. I actually wanted to speak to you alone.’
‘Alone? But Faren said—’
‘I know,’ interrupted the duke. He gestured toward the chair. ‘Sit down, Lorla.’
Lorla did as the duke asked, keeping a cautious eye on him. He was quiet for a long time, contemplative, and sighed as he took his pipe from the table. He stuck it between his teeth and took a seat in one of the other chairs. As he chewed on his pipe he watched her, fascinated. Lorla could read his incredulity.
Something special, she told herself.
‘I don’t want you to worry about Daevn,’ said Enli finally. ‘He brought you here, and for that I’m grateful. But his business is done; I’ll be sending him away.’
Lorla grimaced. ‘Duke Enli, I’m not sure I trust you.’
Enli laughed. ‘Great God, you don’t talk like an eight-year-old, do you? You’re as suspicious as your master.’ He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at her. ‘I see now why Biagio wants you. You’re a beauty, aren’t you? And smart.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Lorla dryly. She wasn’t sure it was a compliment.
‘What about your eyes? Why aren’t they blue?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lorla. ‘Should they be?’
‘How much do you know about yourself, girl? How much have they told you?’
The question vexed Lorla. She didn’t really have memories, just fractured bits. Ghosts mostly, and feelings.
‘I am sixteen and I look eight,’ she said. ‘I get cold even when it’s warm. I remember Duke Lokken perfectly. I liked it in Goth. More than that, I can’t speak of. The labs were a secret place.’
Enli’s smile was evil. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard about Bovadin’s war labs. And your parents? What were they like?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Is this important?’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ said Enli. ‘What is important is what you and I are about to do, little Lorla. What we’re going to do will shape the destiny of the Empire forever.’ He leaned forward in his chair and his voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘How does that make you feel?’
‘All right,’ replied Lorla. She didn’t feel anything, and wondered why. She wanted to please the Master. That was all. ‘I’m here to do the Master’s bidding,’ she said. ‘I was told you would help me. You will explain it to me, won’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the duke. ‘Tell me something, Lorla. Have you ever met Biagio?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And yet he is your master? You don’t doubt that?’
‘No, sir,’ said Lorla, surprised by the question. ‘He is the Master.’
‘Yes,’ Enli sighed. ‘Of course.’ He seemed to withdraw into himself. ‘You’re perfect,’ he murmured. ‘Purely perfect . . .’
‘Duke Enli, will I be able to read these books? I mean, may I?’
‘If you wish,’ said Enli. ‘You will be staying here for a little while. You should make yourself at home. I have things to do before I take you to Nar.’
‘Nar? I’m going to Nar?’
‘Not right away. There are things I need to work out first. It will be a few weeks yet. But yes, you will be going to Nar with me.’
Lorla leaned back in her chair, astounded at the news. She hadn’t seen the Black City in over a year, not since leaving the lab to go live with Lokken. And she had never really experienced Nar. There had been few windows in the labs. Windows were for the older people, the workers. Lorla’s mind raced. What great things did the Master want from her?
‘I haven’t been to Nar in a long time,’ she said dreamily. ‘Not since going to Goth. I will like this.’
Duke Enli scowled. ‘It will be difficult, Lorla. What Biagio wants of you is no trifle. You must be absolutely dedicated. Do you understand that?’
‘Of course I do,’ Lorla shot back. ‘I know what I am, Duke Enli. I’m something very special’
‘You certainly are,’ said Enli. ‘I saw you looking at the painting when I came in. Do you know who those two men are?’
‘Yes,’ replied Lorla. She looked again at the portrait, searching for a resemblance. ‘Which one is you?’
‘On the left. Not that it really matters. My brother is still my perfect twin, even today.’ Enli’s lips twisted in disgust as he examined the portrait. ‘Eneas has a scar on his cheek. Look closely, you’ll see it. That’s the only difference between us. That and the Renaissance.’
‘Your brother lives in a castle too; that’s what Duke Lokken told me. Is it red, like this one?’
‘No,’ said Enli. ‘Eneas lives in the Gray Tower, just across the channel. You can see it from some of the other rooms. We rule the forks of Dragon’s Beak separately. We always have, really, even when Arkus was alive.’ The duke looked at Lorla sharply. ‘You know who Arkus is, don’t you?’
It was a silly question. Lorla cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Arkus of Nar, Arkus the Great. Arkus, founder of the Black Renaissance. The Beast of Goss, the Plague of Criisia. The Conqueror—’
‘All right,’ Enli barked, putting his hands to hi
s ears. ‘I meant no insult, girl. Just wondering who – or what – I’m dealing with in you. But you must get a lot of that, eh? People underestimating you?’
‘I suppose,’ said Lorla. ‘I’m not what I seem.’ She looked again at the painting. ‘How old are you there, you and your brother?’
‘Twenty,’ said Enli. ‘I remember because our mother had that picture commissioned for her birthday. She wanted something of us together.’ The duke sighed. ‘We didn’t hate each other then.’
‘You hate your brother?’ asked Lorla. ‘Really?’
‘Hell, yes,’ said Enli. ‘For a girl who knows so much you astound me with ignorance. Everyone in Nar knows about the twin dukes of Dragon’s Beak.’
Lorla frowned. ‘I don’t.’
‘Well, I’m not going to explain it to you. It’s a private matter, and it has no bearing on your mission with Herrith.’ Enli stopped himself. ‘Herrith, the bishop. You know of him, don’t you?’
Lorla nodded. ‘The bishop is why the Master sent me to Goth,’ she answered. ‘When Emperor Arkus died, I had to flee the labs. The Master sent me to Duke Lokken for protection. But he flew the flag of old Nar and was killed.’ Lorla regarded Enli sharply. ‘He didn’t fly the Light of God. Like you do.’
‘The Light of God is an abomination,’ said the duke. ‘And I don’t fly it out of loyalty. It is all part of something greater, Lorla.’
‘What?’
‘I will tell you. Soon. And you will have your revenge against the bishop for chasing you from Nar. You more than any of us will have a hand in Herrith’s comeuppance. Believe what I tell you and do as I say, and you will make your master very proud. But you have to be patient, all right? I have business with my brother first.’
‘Your brother?’ Lorla asked, puzzled. ‘But Duke Lokken said you would help me. Your business with your brother; will it interfere with the Master’s plans for me?’
‘Not even a wee bit,’ the duke assured her. ‘For you see, the plans are really one and the same.’ Enli got out of his chair and went over to Lorla. Kneeling down beside her, he took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘Lorla, you have to trust me. What we’re going to do together will be the marvel of the Empire. And when your master returns to Nar, we will both be rewarded. The Master might make you a queen! Would you like that, Lorla?’
He was talking to her like a little child, and it irked her. Still, she rolled the idea over in her mind. Being a queen might be wonderful. Maybe it would make her desirable to men, even. And maybe she could have a family of her own.
‘A queen,’ she sighed. ‘Yes, if the Master lets me. I would like that.’
Enli squeezed her hand and smiled. ‘Then you shall have it, little Lorla. You and I, we shall take back the Empire for Biagio. You and I will resurrect the Black Renaissance, and not even Herrith’s foul God will stop us.’
Daevn waited in the castle’s library for nearly an hour, assured by Faren that the duke was ‘on his way’. He rested on one of the library’s soft chairs and enjoyed a meal of hot soup and freshly baked bread, and flirted with the maid who had brought it. His request for dry clothes went unheeded, although he was assured by Faren that the maids were trying to find him something suitable. To Daevn, suitable would have been anything dry. It didn’t even have to be clean. But they had set a fire for him in the library and that felt good, and he gorged himself on the soup and bread while he waited for Enli.
After almost an hour had passed, Faren came back into the chamber. The man spread his hands apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he offered. ‘But Duke Enli is feeling very poorly tonight. A bad fish from the kitchen, perhaps. He won’t be able to see you now. In the morning maybe.’
Daevn dropped his spoon into the empty soup bowl. ‘Where’s Lorla?’
‘I assure you the girl is unharmed,’ said the ever-smiling man. ‘She has been given a room of her own. I think she’s already asleep. I’ve made arrangements for you to have a room next to hers. You can see her if you like.’
Daevn picked up what was left of the bread and got to his feet. ‘Show her to me,’ he said, trying and failing to sound polite. It wouldn’t do to upset his hosts too much. With Goth destroyed, he had nowhere else to go. ‘And Faren, those clothes?’
‘Waiting for you in your bedchamber,’ said Faren. He stood aside and gestured toward the threshold. ‘If you care to go . . .?’
‘Now, yes,’ said Daevn. He walked past the servant toward the door, and was almost out of the room when he felt a sharp tug at his throat. Daevn’s hands shot to his neck. He was being dragged backward. A wire, or a rope . . . Faren was grunting, pulling him off his feet. Daevn tried to scream and couldn’t. His throat muscles strained, gasping, but the wire was there, cutting into his flesh, making the smallest gulp of air impossible. He fought to dig his fingers under the garrote, but Faren was thrashing like a shark, dragging and pulling, making the wire dig deeper until it cut the flesh.
‘You’re a strong one, eh?’ growled Faren. ‘Like reeling in a big fish!’
Daevn gulped for breath. Faren pulled harder still. Daevn’s knees buckled.
‘No one must ever know this thing we do!’
Daevn heard the words without understanding. And then there was oblivion. He felt the distant sensation of the wire slicing his windpipe. Remarkably, it was hardly painful at all . . .
Seven
The Prince of Liss
On the oceans of Nar, the days were short and the nights were long. Here in the north of the world, autumn had all but perished, and the white caps on the water grew taller as winter crawled closer. The Black Empire, that vast and criminal place, spread out in an endless sprawl on the horizon, but for the sailors of Liss the sight of so much land was far from comforting. They had put to sea months ago, leaving behind the ruins of their homeland and their sad wives, and had only their bright memories to comfort them in the cold quarters of the schooners. It was a bold and heartless mission, and many of them, barely boys, were untested. But battle was making men of them.
Fleet Commander Prakna had a single porthole in his cabin. It was a cramped room in the forecastle, and the round pane of glass was hardly the size of his head. But for Prakna, the porthole was a looking glass into another world. On quiet nights like this, when the lateness of the hour had hushed the sailors on deck, Prakna would stare out his window at the hazy glow of Nar, and wonder about its inhabitants. After ten years of war, he still found his enemies inscrutable. He would lose himself in the sight, lulled by the constant rocking of his ship, and recall his memories. And sometimes he would dream; of food and fresh fruit, of the warmth of the Hundred Isles, of the friendship of his wife and their lost lovemaking.
Prakna was weary. Like pirates he and his fleet patrolled the coasts of Nar, a great wolf-pack sharpening their teeth on imperial shipping. Prakna had been making good on his pledge to bring his enemy to its knees. Without the Black Fleet to protect them, the shores of Nar were his for the raiding. But only the shores, for the land was still dominated by Nar’s army. In time, Prakna hoped, the strife inside the Empire would crack it in two, but until then they would sail the Naren waters and take what they wished, and make the Narens pay for what they had done.
Tonight was like any other for the fleet commander. His ship, the Prince of Liss, drifted lazily over the ocean. His tiny cabin was cold. A single candle burned in a hurricane glass on his desk. Above his head, the shallow ceiling creaked with the slow motion of the vessel, and a salty spray had opaqued his window. The blankets on Prakna’s bunk were disheveled, the symptoms of another restless night, and Prakna sat at his desk, his pale face lit by candlelight, waiting for another dawn. A sheet of yellow paper lay on the desk in front of him. Prakna stared at it. Quite possibly, the letter would never reach its intended recipient. Yet Prakna had written it anyway. When he wrote, it was like she was here with him. He looked it over, then dipped his pen in the ink well to continue.
I will come back when I can. The Narens
are not so strong without their navy, and I don’t believe the Black Fleet will abandon them forever. Nar is still their home. And I know the pull of home, my love. When we have lured the fleet away from Crote, I will come back.
Prakna frowned at the last line. Bold promise. But one he wanted desperately to keep. J’lari would be needing him. Since the deaths of their sons, she had become like a ghost. He thought of writing about the Narens he’d killed, the vengeance he had taken, but then thought better of it. J’lari didn’t like war. She had begged him to stay home. But he was the fleet commander, and there was no way the armada could sail without him. So he had left her. Long months ago.
When I return I will have gifts for you. I have a ring and other jewelry I’ve taken from the Naren women. You should see the women here, my love. They are not at all like the fine-boned girls of Liss. They are all big here and hard. The sight of them makes me miss you even more. And when they see us, they are horrified. They wonder why their navy won’t protect them, and they scream at the sight of our ships.
Prakna loved their screams. He loved the terror the sight of his armada engendered in the Narens.
We have taken few losses. We are strong, so do not worry about me.
A lie, but Prakna wrote it anyway. Each time they raided a town their numbers diminished. They were not soldiers, his men of Liss. They were sailors. It was why they needed Vantran.
