The Grand Design (26 page)

Richius went to Lucyler’s chambers, a group of rooms on Falindar’s ground floor. Once they had been the offices of Tharn, the citadel’s former master. Lucyler hadn’t done much to the chambers. Tharn’s many books still collected dust on shelves, and piles of Naren manuscripts lay huddled in the corners. The only personal touch Lucyler had added was a ceremonial jiiktar. He had placed the weapon on the wall, and when the sunlight came through the windows its twin blades gleamed. Richius arrived at Lucyler’s rooms expecting to find them empty. Instead he found a Triin warrior at the threshold, the same one he had left with Simon the night before. The door to Lucyler’s room was open. Richius peered inside and found to his great dismay that the master of Falindar was not alone.

Simon was with him.

The two were talking amicably. Richius stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. Simon’s broken nose was dressed with a clean white bandage. It made him seem comical and unthreatening. As ordered, he had been given new clothing—traditional Triin garb, completely inappropriate. Lucyler looked up at Richius and flashed a smile.

“Richius, greetings. I expected you.”

“Did you?” said Richius. “How nice.”

“Sit,” said Lucyler, waving him toward a chair. Richius shot Simon a barbed glare. The Naren merely grinned.

“Lucyler, how did he get in here?” Richius asked.

“I sent for him. I would have sent for you, too, but I knew you would be on your way. Do not look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I have betrayed you. I wanted to see this
Naren for myself, without you around to make up my mind for me. Please, sit down.”

Reluctantly, Richius pulled up one of the room’s wooden chairs and sat down next to Simon. The Naren gave him a ragged smile.

“Good morning,” he said innocently. “Sleep well?”

“Stop,” Richius warned. “Just stop right now. Don’t start with your games.” He looked at Lucyler caustically. “This was supposed to be an interrogation, Lucyler. Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting with him?”

Lucyler raised his eyebrows. “An interrogation? Richius, I am not the Daegog. What would you have me do? Put him in the catacombs?”

“Maybe,” Richius said. “A few days down there might loosen his tongue. Lord, Lucyler, why didn’t you talk to me first? I have things to tell you.”

“I am sure you do. No offense, old friend, but you see too many phantoms.”

Richius struggled to control himself. For months Lucyler had been accusing him of paranoia, and he didn’t want to play the part, not in front of Simon. But Lucyler had never been to Nar. He didn’t know the genesis of Richius’ fears.

“Lucyler, listen to me, please,” he said, trying to stay calm. “I don’t know who this man is. He might be what he claims, or he might not. But I brought him here because I didn’t want him running free in Lucel-Lor. If he is one of Biagio’s men, he’s dangerous.”

The Triin seemed insulted. “I have no intention of being foolish. I brought him here so I could talk to him. Alone. But you are right, I think. I cannot tell who he is. Maybe he is telling the truth, or maybe—”

“I am telling the truth,” Simon insisted, exasperated. “What’s with you bloody people? Look at me!”

“I have looked, Simon Darquis,” said Lucyler. “I have looked and listened. But I still do not trust you.
To be truthful, the only Naren I trust is in this room, and it is not you. I know what your Empire is capable of, their deceit. And Richius has told me about Biagio’s grudge. You may simply be one of his dogs.”

Simon shook his head, laughing mirthlessly. “You’re all insane. Truly, you are. If I wanted to kill Vantran he’d be dead by now. Lord, the fool breaks my nose, then lets me ride his bloody horse! You think it would take a Roshann agent to assassinate him? A baby could do it with a sharp toy!”

“I let you ride because you looked so damned feeble,” said Richius. “And because I wanted to get you here sometime before spring. Don’t mistake our talks for trust, Simon. I don’t trust you, and neither does Lucyler.” He looked to his friend for support. “Right, Lucyler?”

The Triin shrugged. “You think I know? You are the Naren, Richius. You tell me. I have talked with him for nearly an hour. What he tells me sounds possible at least.” Lucyler turned to Simon. “You are a deserter, yes?”

“Oh, for God’s sake …”

“Answer me,” ordered the Triin.

“Yes, for the last bloody time, I’m a god-damned deserter.”

“And how did you get here?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “From the south.”

“And who saw you?”

“A lot of people saw me,” said Simon. “Don’t be stupid, I couldn’t hide forever. I needed food, water. But I didn’t talk to anyone, not if I could help it. I don’t speak the language, now do I?”

“Where did you get food?”

“I stole it when I could. Hunted some.” Simon turned to Richius. “You still have my dagger? I want it back.”

“You’ll get it back when I’m ready to give it to you,” said Richius.

“The south, you say?” pressed Lucyler. “South where?”

“How the hell should I know? I came through Dring with the rest of Gayle’s men. After that I left them. This isn’t my land, Triin. I don’t have any maps. I just walked. I wandered for a year, and then I ran into Vantran. Now here I am.”

Richius listened, searching for a gaff and finding none. It was all as Simon had already claimed, flawlessly unchanged. Despite the cautious inner voice warning him otherwise, he began to believe the Naren’s tale. Or maybe he simply wanted to believe. He missed the company of Narens. The long ride back with Simon had proved that to him. Simon was one of his own kind. Being with him was something like being back in Aramoor.…

Richius scolded himself suddenly, angry for such thoughts. Simon might still be a danger—not only to him but to Dyana and Shani. Biagio was just evil enough to plan something so elaborate. But then Richius found himself looking at Simon and his emaciated face. Maybe he was merely what he claimed.…

“Simon,” he said carefully. “I want to believe you. I think you know that. But I just can’t. Not yet.”

Simon shrugged. “Jackal, I don’t really care what you believe. If you want to think I’m some demon or ghost, go ahead. But I won’t be held prisoner here.” He glared suddenly at Lucyler. “You hear me? I’m a legionnaire of Nar. So if you’re going to kill me, do it now and get it over with, because I’m tired of being threatened. But I won’t be thrown into some stinking cage.”

“First of all,” bristled Lucyler, “you do not give orders here. I do. I am Lucyler of Falindar, master of this citadel. That makes me
your
master. I could kill you in an instant, Simon Darquis, do not doubt that. And I will if you give me cause. So do not tempt me.”

Simon seethed. “So I’m your prisoner then? For
what crime?” He pointed at Richius accusingly. “Because he sees ghosts?”

Lucyler’s eyes flicked to Richius. “You brought him here, Richius. What do you want me to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Richius. It seemed an impossible decision. He wondered why he had even bothered dragging the Naren to Falindar. With his broken nose and pale complexion, Simon looked no more a threat than a child or some crippled beggar. And when he looked at Richius with his bewildered eyes, Richius thought he glimpsed something innocent there, something confused and afraid. If this was an act, it went beyond clever.

“I’ve done nothing, Jackal,” said Simon. “Not to you or anyone else. I just want to be left alone. That’s why I deserted, to be free. I won’t be thrown in some Triin dungeon. I’d die first.”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” said Richius. “I’m not the Jackal. Call me Kalak if you have to, that’s my Triin name. Or call me Richius or Vantran. But if you call me Jackal one more time …”

“What? You’ll have one of your Triin followers murder me? Yes, I’ve seen the way they bow and scrape around you, Jackal. No wonder you deserted. You’re like a bloody king here.”

Richius laughed. “You see, Lucyler? We should shackle him up just for talking so much.”

“I do not care what you decide,” said Lucyler sternly. “I am leaving this in your hands, Richius. Simon, until then you are confined to your rooms. You are not to move out of them, do you understand? There will be a warrior guarding you. Step out of your chamber, and he will kill you. I promise that.”

Richius wasn’t satisfied. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Yes,” snapped Lucyler. “Lorris and Pris, you brought him here, Richius. He did not follow you home like some stray cat. He is your problem, not mine.” The
Triin frowned. “I have enough of my own problems to deal with.”

“Well then?” pressed Simon. “What do you say, Vantran? What will you do with me?”

Richius got out of his chair, glaring at Lucyler. “Come on,” he said to Simon. “Obviously coming to the master of Falindar was a bad idea. I’ll take you back to your room.”

“Am I free?” asked Simon, unwilling to leave the chamber.

“Not yet,” said Richius. He moved toward the door. The warrior positioned outside the room stepped inside to escort Simon. Simon blanched at the sight of him.

“Master Lucyler,” he urged. “Please help me. I’m not a criminal. I swear it.”

“Then you should not have deserted,” said Lucyler. “I leave this with Richius.” He looked up at his old friend. “Richius, stay please. Simon, you go with the warrior.” Lucyler spoke in quick Triin to the warrior, who nodded and grabbed hold of Simon’s sleeve, dragging him from the room.

“God damn it, Vantran,” spat Simon. He shrugged off the warrior’s grip and stood firm in the doorway. “Let me go!”

The warrior regained Simon’s sleeve and pulled him roughly out of the room. All the while Simon glared at Richius, until at last he had disappeared down the hallway. He was a wildcat, this Simon Darquis, and Richius liked him. He smiled in spite of himself as he listened to Simon’s lingering curses.

“Close the door, Richius,” said Lucyler softly.

Richius did as his friend asked, then hovered over him, refusing to sit. Lucyler’s face was drawn and haggard, like a father who’s spent too much time with bickering children. “Please,” he said, “sit down.”

Richius glared at him.

“No? You will not sit? Fine, you stubborn fool.
Then just stand there and listen to me. I am very tired, Richius. You think I do nothing all day, but you are wrong. And then you bring this Naren to me and ask for justice. What should I do? You want me to kill him for you?”

“Of course not,” scoffed Richius. “But I could have used a little more support, Lucyler.”

“I have given you support!” Lucyler railed. “Ever since you came here with Dyana. And all you do is complain. You sulk like a child because you feel out of place.”

“Are you a mind-reader now, Lucyler?”

“I do not have to be. What you are thinking is obvious. But that is not my fault or Dyana’s, and it is not right for you to blame us.”

“I don’t,” said Richius.

“You do. I see it in your eyes. And now this Simon Darquis, what should I do with him? He is
your
problem, Richius. I resent you trying to make him mine.”

“All right, I’m sorry,” said Richius. “But I didn’t know what I should do.”

Lucyler shrugged. “You broke his nose. Maybe that is enough.”

They both laughed, and Richius pulled up a chair, sitting close to his Triin friend. These were rare moments now, when they could both get together and laugh, and Richius wanted to savor it. In these days of politics and power, getting a laugh from Lucyler was like getting a golden coin.

“What’s the matter, Lucyler?” Richius asked. “Something’s wrong, I can tell.”

“How was your trip?” Lucyler countered, evading the question. “Did you find your answers?”

“No,” Richius sighed. “I was about to come home anyway when I found Simon. Really, I don’t know why I went. To think, I suppose.”

“And what did you discover?”

“Lucyler, why are you asking me this? I’m all right.”

“You are not,” said Lucyler. “Do not lie to me, Richius. You are troubled and it is obvious. But I do not think I can help you. Whatever you need can only come from inside.”

Richius grinned. It sounded like more of Karlaz’s supernatural nonsense. “You’re avoiding the subject,” he said playfully. “Tell me what happened with Ishia.”

“Oh, that one,” groaned Lucyler. The master of Falindar leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “He says Praxtin-Tar is massing troops west of Kes. Over two hundred warriors, maybe more.”

“Ishia sees ghosts the way I do,” joked Richius. “And he’s always insulting Praxtin-Tar. Do you believe him?”

“Believe him? I have to. I am lord of Tatterak now.” Lucyler closed his eyes. “He wants me to go and talk to Praxtin-Tar, to mediate a new truce between them. He thinks that by seeing me and the flag of Falindar, Praxtin-Tar will know he cannot invade Kes. Not without a fight.”

“Will you go?”

“Yes,” said Lucyler. “I have no choice.” He opened his eyes and looked at Richius sadly. “I have worked too hard keeping the peace to let it crumble. And I am weary, my friend. All this is too much for me sometimes.”

Richius nodded. “I know, Lucyler.”

“Do you? I wonder. You want me to use my armies to get Aramoor back for you, but I cannot. You want me to help the Lissens against Nar, but I cannot do that either. What do you really think of me, Richius? Do you hate what I have become?”

“Not at all,” said Richius. “God, don’t ever say that. You’re like my brother, Lucyler. I’ll always support you. And those other things; don’t explain yourself. What I want wouldn’t help Lucel-Lor, and that’s where your loyalty has to lie; I know that.”

Lucyler smiled feebly. “This is hard for you, living
here with us. I am sorry for that. I did not want you to be unhappy here.”

“Stop,” Richius insisted. “I’m not unhappy.”

“You have something else to worry about now,” said Lucyler. “I was not joking about this Naren being your responsibility, Richius. You must decide what is to be done with him.”

“But I don’t know what to do with him,” said Richius. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him here, but I didn’t think I had a choice. If he is who he claims, he needs our help. I can’t explain this, Lucyler, but I was actually glad to see him.” Richius grimaced. “I must be losing my mind.”