by John Marco
"Lucyler--"
"No," snapped the Triin. "Stop it now. Stop it and get on with your life."
It was Lucyler who sped off this time, hastening toward the waiting citadel. Richius bit back a curse, but did not pursue his friend. Instead, he lingered until Lucyler vanished into the citadel. These had been difficult days for Lucyler, and they had changed him. He had never been jovial, but now the pressures of his unwanted position had evaporated what little good humor he had. Richius missed his old friend. He missed the man Lucyler had been. In Aramoor, Richius had known how crushing the responsibilities of kingship could be. It was the one thing about his usurped homeland he didn't miss.
When he was certain he would not encounter Lucyler in the courtyard, Richius made his own way up the winding road toward the citadel. There he saw Tresh, Dyana's friend and nurse, sitting under an immense oak tree, a pile of knitting in her lap. She was an older woman of at least forty, but her eyes were bright and youthful. Lost in her needlework, she did not see Richius ride up to her until the shadow of his horse crossed her face.
"Richius!" she said with relief. "You are home!" Like many of the Triin in Falindar, Tresh spoke the Naren tongue fluently. She was a holdover from the days when Lucel-Lor had believed the words of Nar's manipulative emperor, when Narens and Triin had crossed into each other's lands under the guise of friendship. The former ruler of the citadel had made all his servants learn the Naren tongue, supposedly to make his Naren guests feel welcome. Whatever the reason, Richius was grateful for the dead Triin's insight. He spoke the Triin tongue well these days, but not perfectly. He got off his horse and smiled down at Tresh, who put her knitting aside and patted the ground next to her.
"You look tired," she remarked. "Sit. Rest." "I can't, Tresh," said Richius. "I'm looking for Dyana. Do you know where she is?"
"She is with the child. They are playing." Tresh grimaced. "Behind the north tower."
Richius blanched. "Outside? Tresh!"
"I know," said the nurse miserably. "But she would not listen to me, Richius. She never does. I told her you would be angry. . . ."
"Look after my horse," Richius snapped. He raced toward the north tower. A few friends waved and called to him, but he ignored them as he crossed the courtyard and soon found himself near the back of the citadel.
Here the north tower rose out of the earth, dwarfed only by the endless sea beyond it. It was a secluded part of the castle, and Dyana liked to come here and think while their daughter played. Sometimes she would sit Shani on her lap and they would watch the ocean together, and Dyana would relate long stories. This happy recollection did nothing to soften Richius' mood, however. Even when he saw them his rage did not diminish. They were walking along the cliff, Shani's little hand in her mother's as she toddled shakily alongside. The warm breeze stirred Dyana's hair, making her look beautiful. Richius bit his lip. He did not want to love her just now. He wanted to be angry.
"Dyana," he called out. Dyana lifted her face and peered through the sunshine. She waved back happily when she recognized him, pulling the little girl's hand and making her laugh. They met halfway to the cliff, and Richius bent down and picked up his daughter and held her close.
"Richius," said Dyana innocently. "When did you get home?"
"Just now," replied Richius stiffly. She offered him a kiss but he turned away, storming off with his daughter toward the citadel. Behind him he heard his wife sigh.
"Richius, please . . ."
"I don't want to talk, Dyana," he said as he walked.
"Did you find the lion?"
"Yes."
Dyana hurried up to him and seized his sleeve. "Tell me," she insisted. "Are you all right?"
"Everyone's fine," said Richius. Shani had her hands on his face and was tracing his nose with her tiny fingers. She giggled when her father put her on his shoulders.
"Why are you angry?" Dyana asked.
At last Richius stopped and faced her. "You know why," he said. "Lord almighty, Dyana, what were you thinking? Don't you hear anything I say? It's dangerous out here."
"It is not," said Dyana. She touched his arm again but he shrugged her off.
"Don't," he warned.
"You are angry," replied Dyana, "but for no good reason. We were safe out here, Richius. Look . . ." She pointed up to the tower where a pair of Falindar's blue-garbed warriors paced a watch. "They would see any trouble before it got to us. There is nothing here. There is nothing anywhere."
Exasperated, Richius started back to the castle. "Don't argue about this anymore, Dyana. When I'm not around, you stay in the citadel. Understand? Don't go outside again without me. Especially not with Shani."
This time Dyana hurried to block his path. "I will not be a prisoner in my own home, Richius. Not anymore. It has been over a year. Nothing is going to happen to us."
"You just don't get it, do you? You don't know what he's like. A year is nothing to him. He's the head of the Roshann, Dyana. If you were a Naren you'd know what that means." He shook his head. "But you're not Naren. None of you are. Just me. So why won't any of you listen to me, damn it?"
"Easy," urged Dyana. She brought up a hand to caress his cheek, and this time he did not pull away. "You look tired."
She hefted Shani from his back and set her down. Shani teetered but did not fall. Richius smiled. He hadn't wanted to come home like this. All through the ride back he had dreamed of seeing them, and now he had shattered the moment with his rage.
"Oh, lord, you're right," he groaned, dropping to the ground. "I am tired." He reached up and pulled his wife down next to him. Her hand felt small and insubstantial in his own. "Sit with me, and let me tell you what a bastard I am."
Dyana chuckled. "An ogre," she agreed. But then her face became serious and she rested her head against his shoulder. "I am glad you are home. I was worried about you." She hesitated before asking the expected question. "What happened?"
"We found it, near a cave," said Richius. "It's dead. Karlaz killed it." "Good."
"It got a farmer this morning near the river bed. We found him in the cave. He was dead, too." Dyana curled closer to him. "My love . . ." "No, I'm all right." Richius was watching Shani toddle around them, picking up sticks and tasting them. He had already given up trying to break her of this habit. Now he simply watched out for what she ate. "Karlaz stayed behind to bury it. You should have seen him, Dyana. I swear he was heartbroken. I remembered losing a horse when I came home to Aramoor after the first war. My father had already died, and I was lost and afraid. But my father had given me Thunder, and he meant everything to me." "What happened?" asked Dyana. "We went out riding one morning. It had snowed the night before and we were going through the forest when a pack of wolves attacked." Richius' voice trailed off. "They killed Thunder. They dragged him out from under me and killed him."
"Richius . . ."
"That horse meant everything to me," Richius continued. "He was one of my best friends. That's how it was for Karlaz, I think. Like losing a friend." He tightened his arm around Dyana; she smelled of the sea. "We have both lost a lot, Dyana," he said. "I don't want to lose any more. I don't want anything to happen to you. Can you understand that?"
"Of course."
"I'm sorry I was angry, but if anything ever happened . . ."
She hushed him. "We are fine. We are all safe here, Richius. Nothing can happen to us."
"You're wrong," said Richius. "Biagio is not a man. He is a devil, and he's still powerful, no matter what we hear. In Nar, everyone fears him. And his Roshann."
"He is nothing now, my love," said Dyana. "He is broken, an outcast."
"If only," chuckled Richius. "No, not him. He'll never give up the throne that easily. And his agents will always be loyal to him. In Nar there's an expression--'the Roshann is everywhere.' It's said that Arkus had Biagio place a Roshann agent in every Naren court, to keep an eye on them and make them afraid. They are everywhere, and they can reach us even here."
"Richiu
s, it has been too long. And if he is fighting for the throne, why would he bother with us? I think you worry too much. I doubt we are so important to him."
"But Arkus was important to him. He loved the old man, and he blames me for his death. I was sent here to find magic to save Arkus. Biagio will never forgive me for betraying that trust."
"He is too busy with that bishop," insisted Dyana. "It is the bishop, yes?"
Richius shrugged. "I don't know," he said bitterly.
"God, we're so blind here! I've heard nothing since the Lissens left to fight Nar."
The mere mention of Liss made Dyana stiffen. "Let us not speak of them," she implored. "Please. Not today."
"Not today? And not tomorrow? Then when?"
Dyana closed her eyes. "Never."
"Dyana . . ."
"Please, Richius. I cannot bear it. I know you want to join them, but I hope they never come back for you."
Her love was unendurable. He put his lips to her forehead and deposited a gentle kiss, caressing her shoulders and trying to comfort her. Liss was a subject that always drove them apart, and the recent rumors that the island kingdom had at last begun its assault on Nar had made Dyana even more skittish. She called them pirates now, much the way Biagio had. She hated them, forgetting all they had done for Lucel-Lor in its struggle against the Empire. Dyana had stopped seeing them as allies. To her, they were warmongers who only wanted to take her husband away.
"It's been a long time, Dyana," Richius said. "Longer even than I'd hoped. I told you I would have to go eventually."
"Eventually," she said. "It sounded so distant then." But it was how it had to be. For Richius, there was no alternative. He had tried and failed to convince her, and knew now that he never would. It changed nothing. His heart still yearned for vengeance--for his trampled homeland, and for Sabrina, who still came to him sometimes in dreams, screaming. They had murdered her, his first wife, simply out of hatred for him. Biagio had ordered it. Arkus was dead, as was Blackwood Gayle. But the golden man of Nar still lived. And while he existed, they could never be safe.
"You are not happy here," Dyana said. "I have tried. I thought Shani and I would be enough. I thought time would help you. But you do not want peace."
It was a miserable thing to say, but Richius recognized the truth of it. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "It is just the way of things."
"No," countered Dyana. "Things are the way you make them. If Prakna comes back for you and you go, it is your decision. Do not call it fate, Richius. You want this vengeance. You are letting it destroy you . . . and us."
"What would you have me do?" he flared. "Let Aramoor stay under Nar's heel forever? Live like a coward while the Lissens do my fighting? I am the king of Aramoor."
Very slowly, Dyana released herself from his embrace. "There is no more Aramoor. It is part of Talistan now. And you can never change that. Liss cannot help you get it back."
"But they fight," argued Richius. "They stand up for their honor."
"They fight only for revenge," said Dyana. "Nar no longer threatens them, so why must they attack? Because their hearts are full of poison, as is yours. They go to avenge the deaths of loved ones, yet they can never make them live again. And if you join them you leave me and Shani behind, to be alone." She looked away. "It makes me wonder when you say you love us."
This brought Richius to his feet. "Never doubt that. I gave up everything to be with you. I love you, Dyana. Shani, too. More than anything."
"Except revenge." She got up, dusted the dirt from her dress, and went over to where Shani was fixedly examining a cricket. "We will go inside now," she told her husband over her shoulder. "We will lock ourselves in the bedchamber for you."
There was so much ice in her voice, Richius could only let them leave. When they were gone he turned his attention to the ocean. Somewhere, the navy of Liss was under sail, their schooners armed and eager to exact their toll on the Black Empire. Maybe Prakna was on one of those ships. And maybe the Lissen commander was thinking about the Jackal of Nar.
FOUR
The Iron Circle
There were portents enough, Biagio supposed. He simply hadn't heeded them.
Biagio's Roshann--his "Order"--had warned him for months before the emperor's death. Blinded by his mission to save Arkus from old age, Biagio hadn't seen Herrith's rise until it was too late. Even before the emperor had slipped into dementia, Herrith had been laying plans with Vorto and convincing Naren noblemen to join him. Sure that Arkus could never die, Biagio had let the bishop play his dangerous game. For this he blamed himself, and no one else. Nar had fallen into the hands of a zealot, and the Black Renaissance was being erased.
Biagio liked being home again. He adored Crote almost as much as Nar City. Since overthrowing his father, he had spent precious little time on his island, and this forced exile from Nar had made him see the place differently. He valued it more, as his father had, and even the olives and grapes seemed sweeter somehow. The winds off the sea were warm and good for his condition, and the recent weeks of sunshine had returned his skin to its natural bronze. More, the tranquility of Crote had eased his knotted mind. It had given him time to think. Count Renato Biagio moved with feline grace through the marble corridors of his villa, his heels clicking loudly on the ornately tiled floor. The sculpted eyes of masterpieces watched him pass, a dozen priceless sentinels purchased or looted from around the Empire. At the end of the corridor was a staircase twisting down into darkness. Biagio was in that part of his mansion forbidden to guests, a wing that was his alone and more splendid than any other. Except for the slaves and servants who occasionally disturbed him, only one other person now shared this space with the count.
Biagio took the stairs two at a time, his mood buoyant. Torchlight quickly enveloped him. The chirping of birds fell away in the distance. Near the bottom of the stairs were a pair of tiny shoes, discarded haphazardly in the corner. Biagio could hear the sounds of tinkering up ahead. He took the last step softly and peered through the smoky light. The hallway opened into a cavernous workroom lined with tall bookcases and shelves stuffed with curiosities. The floor was littered with tools and bits of junk: spools of rope; metal fasteners; a small, dirty anvil. The torches on the wall tossed up flames and shadows, giving the place a sense of gloom, and the ceiling was high and stained with soot. In the center of the room stood a stout oak table, and on the table was a bizarre apparatus, a vaguely cylindrical thing of metal and hoses, almost organic in complexity. Its shiny tubes hung limply off the tabletop, and its domed head bore a spring-loaded lever that looked to Biagio like a door handle.
Crouched beneath the table was Bovadin, his eyes gazing up through a cutout in the wood. The scientist's naked toes balanced a long, saw-toothed cutting tool, while his small hands worked on the hoses burgeoning from his creation. He squinted in frustration as he peered up into the center of the apparatus, both hands working to stuff in metal hoses. When he heard Biagio arrive, he let out a frustrated curse and barked, "What is it?"
Biagio took a wary step forward. He didn't like bothering the scientist, especially during such important work. The room was cool and the count rubbed his hands together.
"I need to speak to you," said Biagio.
"Now?"
"Yes."
Bovadin sighed. The foot with the cutting tool started sawing away at a length of hose. Biagio watched, fascinated at the freakish precision. It was like watching an ape work.
"Well?" pressed Bovadin sourly.
"I have news," said Biagio, striding toward Bovadin. When he reached the table he studied the bizarre machine, running his hands over its smooth surface. With its appendage-like hoses, it seemed like a silver octopus. "It's good news," Biagio continued as he examined the thing. "You'll be happy."
Bovadin's squeaky voice rang from beneath the table. "Happy? Does that mean we can all go home?"
"Your fuel is here. Nicabar just arrived."
There was no more tinkering under t
he table. Biagio smiled and dropped down to see Bovadin's face. The scientist stared at him in relief.
"Did he get it all?" asked Bovadin. "Three shipments, like I asked?"
"Three shipments," agreed the count. "Just like you asked."
Bovadin beamed. "Oh, thank Heaven."
"Thank me," Biagio corrected. "And Nicabar. He could have blown up his whole damn ship carrying that cargo so far south for you. He didn't run into any Lissens, though. I suppose that's some good fortune."
Bovadin nodded. "Your duke in Dragon's Beak has done well, Renato. I'm sorry I doubted you."
Biagio's smile widened. "I'm often underestimated. Duke Enli has strings just like any other man. I just needed to pull the right ones. I knew he still had the fuel you needed. I remember when your war labs agreed to his order."
"So do I," said the scientist. "But I would have thought it long gone by now. Even so far north the fuel breaks down, becomes dangerous. Duke Enli was taking a chance keeping it so long."
"Duke Enli's kept every weapon ever shipped to him, my friend. Fear of his brother, I suppose. I knew he'd still have the fuel. I just needed Nicabar to persuade him."
"He hasn't unloaded it yet, has he? I should be there for that."
"Be as close as you like," said Biagio, grinning. "I will be nowhere near you at the time."
The count rose to study the device again, marveling at its intricacy. The little genius had outdone himself this time. The thing was heavy and the table bowed slightly under its weight. Loaded with fuel, it would certainly be heavier yet. And such unstable fuel; how would he keep it cool?
"How does it work?" asked Biagio. "Show me."
"Renato, I'm busy right now."
"What are these hoses for?"
"Later."
"Take a break, little man," insisted the count. "I want an explanation of this thing. It intrigues me."
Bovadin groaned but rose, brushing his knees of dust and metal filings. Once again playing the monkey, he climbed onto the table and stood over his invention, proudly walking around it. He was not much taller than the device and the scene was oddly comical, but Biagio had vast respect for Bovadin. The little scientist had created the war labs; he had invented the flame cannon and the acid launcher and, most importantly, he had created the drug that kept them all from aging.
