The Grand Design (48 page)

“What?” hissed Darago. He dropped his knife, sending it clanging down the scaffold to hit the floor, splattering red paint along the cloth-covered marble. As he spoke his body shook. “You little waterhead, how dare you judge me? What do you know of art or the great Darago? I am without peer!”

“What’s that?” asked Lorla, pointing toward one of the ceiling’s panels. “They look like elves. Are they supposed to be elves?”

“They are the angels of Forio,” said Darago. He slid down the scaffold, almost tumbling, and crossed the hallway to Lorla where he towered over her, glaring down. “Don’t you know anything? They are the spirits that ferried Forio the Divine to Heaven.”

Lorla blinked.

“From the book of Gallion!”

“Oh.”

Darago’s eyes bulged. “Open your eyes, for God’s sake! It’s all up there.”

“Yes,” Lorla relented. She enjoyed teasing Darago. He was very vain. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s more than pretty. It’s—”

Darago looked over at his assistants. They were all staring at him.

“Get back to work!” he snarled. Instantly they returned to their paints and brushes, pretending not to be listening. Darago frowned at Lorla. “You’re a very stupid little girl not to know the story of Forio.”

“I’m not from around here.”

“Then where are you from? The moon? Everyone knows the story of Forio. It’s the first of the holy books!”

“I suppose.”

This infuriated the artist. “Who are you? And why are you disturbing me? The hall is not for public eyes, not until I am finished and satisfied.”

“I’m Lorla Lon, the bishop’s ward,” Lorla explained. “And I was just curious, Master Darago. I meant no insult to your ceiling. It’s very beautiful.” She gave the man her finest smile. “Really.”

Darago’s countenance softened. “Really?”

“Oh yes,” Lorla said. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Archbishop Herrith showed me some of it when I first came here. Most of it was covered, though. But I could see that panel and that one.” She laughed as she pointed at the ceiling. “Beautiful!”

“Yes,” Darago agreed, folding his arms over his chest. “I have spent the last five years working on it. Emperor Arkus was alive then, but he never saw what I was doing. He was very feeble. The bishop has an eye for art, though.”

“And you will be done soon,” added Lorla. “That’s what Father Herrith told me.”

“Father Herrith?”

Lorla blanched, embarrassed. “That’s what I call him. He takes care of me now. I’m an orphan.”

The painter’s eyebrows went up. “An orphan! Then you must know the story of Elioes.”

“Elioes? No, I don’t think so.”

Darago directed her eyes upward. “There,” he said, pointing to an unfinished panel in the eastern corner of the great hall. “That’s Elioes. The crippled orphan that our Lord healed. She was lame from birth, until God’s miracle.”

Lorla stared at the ceiling. Captured in dry plaster was the figure of a girl, dressed in rags, her legs bent
uselessly, her hair a mess of blond strings. But on her face was the most serene expression, and in her eyes glowed the light of Heaven. There was aura about her, painted in gold and fire, and a single, ethereal hand reaching out translucent fingers to transform her. She was beautiful. Like all of Darago’s masterpiece, she bespoke something more than paint and plaster. When Lorla looked at Elioes, she thought she was seeing God.

“She looks like me,” Lorla observed. “Look. She’s got blond hair. And she’s as tall as me, too. How old was she, Master Darago?”

Darago shrugged. “I confess, I don’t know. Ten, perhaps? How old are you, little Lorla Lon?”

Lorla hated the idea of lying to the man, but she answered, “Eight. I’ll be nine very soon. In just a few days, really.”

“Ah, then you will share your birthday with the ceiling,” said Darago. “I have only a month or so to finish her. Herrith wants to unveil my creation at the end of Kren.”

“Kren?”

Darago gave her a disapproving scowl. “You don’t know about Kren, either? Are you sure you’re the bishop’s ward?”

“I’m an orphan,” said Lorla again, as if it explained away everything. “What’s Kren?”

“High holy month,” said Darago. “It begins in three days.” He rose to his feet and took Lorla’s hand, leading her to the scaffold. “Kren is the month of penance. We fast and beg God to forgive our sins.” He frowned at Lorla. “You know what sin is, yes?”

Lorla nodded. “Bad things.”

“Things against the word and will of Heaven. Bad things, yes. In Kren we prepare for the feast of Eestrii. That’s thirty-three days from now. I must have my ceiling done for the great unveiling. Herrith has made
promises to the city. They clamor to see my work. And with good reason.”

The scaffold was on wheels. He let go of Lorla and started pushing the metal monster toward the eastern corner of the hall, where the unfinished panel of Elioes stared down at them. An assistant hurried over to help the Master, but Darago shooed him away.

“Can you climb?” Darago asked Lorla.

Lorla nodded eagerly. “That’s what I do best.” Not waiting for Darago, she began shimmying up the squeaking silver ladder. Darago followed, and when they were fifty feet in the air, they stood atop the scaffold’s platform, face-to-face with the orphan. Lorla felt exhilarated by the height and the blazing colors. She stretched out her hand, knowing she couldn’t reach the roof overhead, and sighed.

“I wish I could touch her,” she said sadly. “She’s so beautiful.”

Without a thought, Darago wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her into the air, until she was nose-to-nose with Elioes. Lorla squealed with delight. Far below, the Master’s assistants were staring up in disbelief.

“She is dry,” said Darago. “Touch her.”

Very gently, Lorla put her fingers to the ceiling. Elioes seemed to smile at her touch. Lorla dragged her fingertips along the girl’s neck, barely brushing it, and down the perfectly realized fabric of her collar. Her flesh was pink and vital. She looked alive, as though Darago had encased a real girl in plaster.

“Ohhh … It’s wonderful.”

“She is my pride,” Darago whispered. “I think she came alive more than any other figure I’ve done here. When she is revealed to Nar, she will melt this city’s heart.”

“Has Father Herrith seen her?”

“No. Not yet.”

“He will love her. More than any picture on the ceiling, this will be his favorite. I know it.” Lorla looked away from the image. “Put me down now. Please.”

Darago complied, setting her down gently on the platform. “You like my painted daughter, yes?”

“Yes,” said Lorla. “I want to know more about her. Tell me all you know about Elioes.”

“I know only what I painted here,” confessed Darago, laughing. “She is a girl. I bring her back from the dead. She was touched by God and now God touches me to give her life again. It is that way for me.” He held out his hands for Lorla to inspect. They were callused and rough, caked with dried pigments. “These are the hands of God. When I paint or sculpt, they do not belong to me. Heaven possesses me. I am the instrument of angels.”

Lorla nodded as if she understood. “Did God tell you to paint Elioes?”

“In His way, yes. None of this is me alone, Lorla Lon.” He made a sweeping gesture at the ceiling, and all the angels seemed to listen. “Those trolls you see down there, the ones assisting me, they are nothing. They are like ants to God. Maybe someday they will do something great on their own, but not until God moves them. Like He moves me.”

“I like Elioes,” sighed Lorla. She looked back at the orphan’s tranquil face, so peaceful now that God was healing her. “I want to know more about her. Tell me, Master Darago, please.”

“You are asking the wrong man. Ask me about paints and stone. Ask the Holy Father about the child.”

“Yes,” Lorla agreed. “Yes, I will.” She leaned over and surprised Darago with a kiss. “Thank you, Master Darago. Thank you very much.”

Without waiting for the artist she began descending the scaffold, shaking it in her eagerness to get down.
That old desire for knowledge was on her again. She hurried from the great hall, passing the tiny confession booths where cowled acolytes listened to Naren atrocities, and finally to the wide and magnificent stairway that would lead her up to the chambers of Father Herrith. She hadn’t seen Herrith since breakfast, and it occurred to her that she rarely saw him in the middle of the day. Lorla would surprise him, she decided. He would be pleased to see her. He was always pleased to see her. Her mind raced with questions about the orphan, Elioes. Had she really been as beautiful as Darago had depicted? Was she really an orphan? And if she was a saint, then Lorla knew she had found her patron.

The Saint of Orphans
, thought Lorla with a smile.

When she reached the hall to Herrith’s chambers, Lorla slowed. The imperial-sized corridor swallowed her whole. The statues and portraits glared at her, but the hall was otherwise empty. Herrith had no need for guards, and his priests were always busy elsewhere. Even Father Todos was nowhere to be found. Lorla was glad for that. She liked Todos but she wanted to be alone with Herrith for a while and pick his brain without being disturbed. Herrith’s chambers were at the end of the hall, barricaded by a pair of tall doors with bronze hinges and gargoyle reliefs. Lorla approached slowly, tiptoeing so not to be heard. She put her ear up to the doors and listened. Inside, she heard breathing, labored and unsteady.

For a moment she stood outside his door, wondering what to do. Finally curiosity overcame her and she gave the doorknob a slow, silent turn. It was unlocked and opened easily. The brass hinges moved smoothly, letting her crack the door open. With one eye she peered inside. The opulent living chamber spread out before her, dark in a shade-drawn room. The volume of the weird breathing grew. Lorla nervously widened
the crack, trying to see inside. She noticed Herrith’s ceremonial shoulder wrap strewn carelessly on the floor. Next to that was his white collar. And next to that was Herrith.

The Archbishop of Nar knelt on the floor, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed and sunken in his chest. He was clothed but for a single arm that was naked, the sleeve rolled up to his armpit. He held the arm fast against his chest, groaning as he rocked slowly back and forth. A tiny silver needle sprouted from his wrist, feeding him blue liquid from a tube. As he breathed he hummed a little, moaning tune, a hymn of sorts broken by erratic breathing.

Lorla stopped at the sight of him.

Cautiously she opened the door, then less cautiously as she realized he wasn’t listening. She shut the door behind her. Herrith continued rocking, and it looked to Lorla as if he were crying.

“Father Herrith?”

The sound of her voice made Herrith turn. His mouth dropped open in shock.

“Lorla!” he rasped.

“What is this?” asked Lorla, not daring to go near him. “What’s wrong with you?”

The needle in Herrith’s arm caught the light and flashed. Lorla felt a rush of sickness, the hammer-blow of an unwanted memory. She stumbled backward, falling against the door, unable to take her eyes off the apparatus feeding Herrith’s arm. The bishop reached out a clawlike hand.

“No,” he groaned. “I’m all right. Don’t be afraid.”

But Lorla was afraid. An unknown terror had seized her. The sight of the needle and the potion had stirred her stomach and bowels, making her want to retch. She closed her eyes to banish the nausea, letting the wall support her as her knees turned to water.

“What is this?” she shrieked. “What are you doing to yourself?”

“Lorla, please,” insisted Herrith. “Don’t be afraid. This is just me. I’m taking care of myself. I’m helping myself.”

“How?”

“Open your eyes and look at me!” the bishop demanded.

Lorla did as ordered. She saw Herrith still kneeling on the floor with the needle in his arm. His face was wide with worry and slick with sweat. His outstretched arm begged her to come closer.

“It’s me, little one,” he whispered. “It’s only me. Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.”

Unable to move, Lorla stood her ground. Something once-forgotten flashed through her brain, a memory of pain and droning voices. She was cold suddenly, surrounded in a room without windows. Hands grabbed for her little body, holding her down. And she was screaming. Her mouth opened to wail but no sound emerged. Herrith watched her, horrified.

“Lorla!” he called. She heard his voice as if from a great distance. “What is it, child?”

“I don’t know,” Lorla sobbed. “I don’t know! What are you doing? What is this thing?”

She staggered over to Herrith and rattled the apparatus holding the tubes. Herrith’s free arm seized hold of her, pulling her away.

“Don’t!” he hissed.

His touch was ice on fire. Lorla leapt back, astonished by the sensation. Still he held her fast, drawing her close, down to her knees before him. He was weeping and laughing as the blue liquid dripped into his veins.

“Be not afraid, girl,” he bade. “I am the Herrith you know.”

“You’re not,” said Lorla. “You’re different!”

“Not different. The same and getting better. Believe me, child. Believe me.”

There was so much pain in his voice Lorla couldn’t help but relent. She leaned in closer, inspecting his
grooved face. The lines ran deep like red welts and his eyes burned a brilliant sapphire. It all reminded Lorla of something very long ago, a thing forgotten and buried, never meant to resurface. She tried to summon up the frightening memory but couldn’t. All she felt was rage and pain.

“Father Herrith, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Lorla.” He was fighting to control himself, to even form the words. “What are you doing here?”

It took a moment for Lorla to remember. “I came to talk to you,” she said. “To ask you questions about the ceiling.”

“And now you’ve found me,” said Herrith. “And found me out.” He shook his head regretfully. “God save me for showing you this horror.”

“Father …”

“I look wretched, I know. But this is … a treatment, Lorla. It’s something I need to do. Please, come sit with me. I need you. You can help me.”

Lorla did as the bishop asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. He put his head back and took a deep breath, then tried a crooked smile on her.