The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  ‘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 this 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.

  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 tha
t 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 toymaker 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 cat boat. It had been the first time Richius had left Karalon since his arrival, and setting 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 wa
s 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 Parkna. 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.