The Grand Design (94 page)

“No talk,” spat Shii angrily. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

Richius regarded her icily. “We will listen,” he said sharply. “I don’t want anyone dying who doesn’t have to.”

“Lord Jackal, please …”

“Quiet, Shii,” Richius snapped. “Just follow my orders.”

Shii shrank back like a wounded child. Richius ignored her, focusing instead on the mansion. He didn’t have time for an argument, and he didn’t want his orders questioned. Not now, when so much was at stake.

“Simon,” he whispered. “If Biagio sees you …”

Simon nodded. “I know. But I have to get her out of there, Richius. Somehow.”

“Then go,” urged Richius. “Try and find her. Bring her out if you can, before the fighting starts.”

Simon looked at Richius. “You’ll need me,” he warned.

“Eris needs you,” Richius replied. “Go.” He gave Simon a sad smile. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Simon didn’t say another word. He slithered away through the graying darkness, shooting toward the south face of the mansion, ducking behind sculptures and huge urns of plants. He tested a window by peeking inside, broke it with his gloved fist, and quickly went through it, disappearing from view. It all passed in the space of seconds. Richius stared at the place where Simon had been, marveling at the man’s speed. He turned to make a remark to Shii …

… and saw Prakna coming toward him.

The fleet commander was flanked by two of Richius’ soldiers, a man and a woman he had assigned to Delf. They looked afraid, as if they had done something stupendously wrong. But Prakna’s expression was resolute.
He held a scimitar out before him as he walked, and Richius noticed that he had doffed his naval coat and wore fighting mail like the rest of them.

“What the hell …?”

Prakna waved at Richius. “Don’t be alarmed, Jackal; I’ve come to help.” He stepped up to Richius and offered out a hand. When Richius didn’t take it, the commander retracted it with a grin. “I know you’re angry,” he said. “I caution you, do not be.”

“Prakna, what are you doing here?” asked Richius desperately. “Go back to the
Prince.
We don’t need you!”

Prakna shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m here to make sure you do the right thing.”

“What?” sputtered Richius. “What are you talking about? I’m trying to—”

“Lord Jackal,” interrupted Shii. She stepped forward with an agonized expression. “Don’t stop us. Please …”

“Shii, what the hell is going on here?” Richius demanded. “Do you know about this?”

“They all do,” said Prakna. “And they’ll do as I say. Don’t stand in our way, Jackal.” His jaw tightened. “Please.”

“Is that a warning, Prakna?” asked Richius angrily. “After all I’ve done for you?”

Prakna sighed. “You don’t understand.”

“Yes, I do,” spat Richius. “You’re planning on massacring everyone inside. I didn’t want that!”

“They deserve it!” roared Prakna. He towered over Richius, staring down at him irately. “You know they do. We’re not going to stop you from butchering Biagio. So don’t you try and stop us from taking our revenge!”

Richius whirled on Shii. “God damn it, Shii, how could you?”

Shii’s face collapsed. “Lord Jackal, please,” she gasped. “It’s the way it must be.”

“No!” Richius cried. He stepped out of Prakna’s shadow so all the troops could see him, waving his sword to get their attention. “It doesn’t have to be this way. You can be men and women of honor today. Fight them ’til they surrender. Don’t butcher them, please!”

The troops looked away, unable to face him. Richius lowered his sword. They weren’t listening. They were unreachable, full of the same poison that had polluted Shii and Prakna. Richius turned to growl at the commander.

“You’re a bastard,” he said. “You used me to make an army of murderers. Well, I won’t lead them.” He tossed his sword down into the dirt. “You want a massacre, Prakna?
You
lead them.”

Prakna stooped and retrieved Richius’ weapon, handing it back to him. “Biagio’s in there, my friend,” he said mildly. “Don’t throw away this chance. You’ve come too far. And if you don’t do it, I will.”

Richius stared at his sword, then up at Prakna. There was no malice on the commander’s face, just the vast emptiness of the driven. Richius knew he would never dissuade him. In a sense, it was something he’d known all along.

“Do what you must,” he said finally. “I can’t stop you.” He turned to Shii sadly. “Shii, I expected more from you. You’re not a murderer. You know you’re not.”

“Lord Jackal,” Shii whispered. “There’s no choice for me.”

Richius shook his head. “You’re wrong. You just can’t see that yet.”

“Lissens!” came a call from across the yard. They all turned toward the gate. In the morning light stood a figure dressed in robes, an old man with outstretched
hands and a fearless look in his eyes. Richius gasped, vaguely recalling the face. Nearly two years ago, this very man had married him to Sabrina.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Richius. “That’s Herrith.”

“Who?” asked Prakna, stunned at the interruption.

Richius was too flabbergasted to explain. Herrith waved at them, within plain shot of a crossbow, beckoning them to listen. The young army broke into a concerned murmur. Prakna swore as he finally realized who had appeared.

“Herrith!” he said breathlessly. “How?”

The impossible question went unanswered. Richius’ first instinct was that they had blundered into a gigantic trap. But Biagio and Herrith were enemies. Weren’t they?

“What is this?” he asked blankly. He took a step toward Herrith. Shii immediately jumped in front of him.

“No, Jackal,” she cried. “Get back!”

Prakna grabbed Richius’ shoulder, pulling him into the safety of the fold. “Easy, boy,” he cautioned. “Shii’s right. You stay back.”

“Lissens, listen to me,” cried Herrith. “Let me come forward. I want to talk.”

“No talk, holy man!” Prakna roared. “Today we fight you!”

“No,” Richius insisted, pressing past Shii and the others who had gathered to guard him. Akal and Wyle stood by with their crossbows, loading them quickly and beading on Herrith. Prakna held on to Richius’ sleeve as he tried to struggle forward.

“Let me talk to him,” Richius pleaded. “He knows me.”

“I want to make arrangements,” Herrith cried, oblivious to his danger. He held up his hands in a show of peace. “Let me come forward.” He took one careful step toward the army.

“Not another move, butcher,” Prakna warned. “One more step and you die.”

“Herrith, it’s me,” Richius cried. “Richius Vantran!”

The bishop paused for a moment, clearly confused. “Vantran?” he called back. “King Vantran?”

“Don’t move!” demanded Prakna. He let go of Richius and ripped the crossbow from Akal’s hands, aiming it at Herrith. “Or I swear to Heaven, I’ll kill you!”

“Stop, Prakna,” Richius seethed. “Don’t you dare fire!”

“I will, Richius,” said Prakna evenly. “I’m warning you.…”

Richius reached out for Prakna’s crossbow, grabbing at it desperately. Prakna howled in anger, bringing up a boot and slamming it into Richius’ belly. The blow knocked the breath from Richius and sent him tumbling backward. He struggled to rise as Prakna took aim. Herrith held up his hands and took one more fateful step.

“No!” Richius bellowed.

Prakna shot the bow, putting the bolt into Herrith’s heart. The bishop’s white tunic exploded with crimson. He staggered back, looked down at his punctured chest, then collapsed in a heap. Richius got to his feet and stared at Herrith’s body. He glanced at Prakna, who lowered his crossbow with a resolute nod.

“A trap,” he said gravely. “It’s a trap.”

“You fool,” Richius hissed. “You murdering fool!”

Prakna exploded. He grabbed Richius by the lapels and shook him, spittle spraying from his mouth. “
They
murder!” he hollered. “Not me!” He tossed Richius aside. Turning on his troops, he screamed at them to attack.

“Take them!” he cried. “Drag this god-damn mansion down to Hell!”

Richius watched, horror-stricken, as all the young
men and women he had worked so hard to mold reverted instantly back to the mob he had first met on Karalon. The cry was picked up by the forces on the east and west sides, and all at once they started running toward the mansion, swarming toward the gates in a great, unstoppable torrent. Prakna led the charge to the south gate. He had his scimitar in his hand and he was howling with lust, his blond head shining terribly above the army as they rushed inward. Everyone followed the Lissen hero, leaving Richius standing alone in the garden.

Except for Shii.

The young woman had dropped her weapon and was weeping, her arms folded over her chest, her head slung helplessly low. She didn’t dare look at Richius.

“Lord Jackal,” she said desperately. “Forgive me.”

The morning erupted in a melee of cries and shattering glass. The Lissens stormed through the gates and the broken windows, their weapons eager for the feast. Richius went to Shii. He wanted to strike her.

“Shii,” he gasped, shaking. “I could kill you for this.”

“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Forgive me.…”

“You knew,” said Richius. “Why?”

At last Shii lifted her tear-stained face. She had the same unreachable madness in her eyes as Prakna. “Because I want to kill them,” she said. Then she stooped, retrieved her weapon from the ground, and stalked off after her comrades.

Richius watched her go, utterly appalled. “Fool,” he scolded himself. “This is my fault.”

But he wasn’t done. There was one criminal on the island, one man who truly deserved to die. Richius had come this far to find Biagio, and still couldn’t let the count slip away. Like Shii, he picked up his weapon and went in search of his quarry.

Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords had looked out the windows of the west wing and had seen the Lissen army in the growing light. The numbers had stunned them. Gago quickly tabulated the figures and knew they were vastly outnumbered. He called his guardians to surround him and took a sword from one of the suits of armor in the hall. They would make a stand here, they had all decided, and would hold the wing as long as they could. Baron Ricter and his troop of red-caped soldiers lined the windows facing westward. Oridian’s men barricaded one side of the hall, while Claudi Vos’ men took the other, backed up by the troops of Tepas Talshiir. Gago’s own men stayed in the center, readying to aid whoever needed it. And as he waited for the Lissens to descend on them, Kivis Gago’s only thoughts were of Biagio, and how the count had bested them.

“If I live through this I will kill him,” the minister muttered. “I will make it my life’s work to punish him.”

But Kivis Gago didn’t expect to live, or even to last more than another hour. There were hundreds of Lissens waiting for him, all full of hate from the decade-long war his ministry had overseen. Kivis Gago resigned himself to die with a sword in his hand.

He didn’t have a very long wait.

The windows along the western wall shattered in a violent implosion. Lissen soldiers swarmed inside. Ricter’s men hacked at them, trying desperately to push them back. But the wave kept coming. Kivis Gago ordered his own men into the melee, sure that they’d be shredded.

Simon hurried through the familiar corridors with his sword in his hand, trying to reach Eris’ quarters. He could hear the battle ringing through the halls and knew that Richius’ efforts at peace had failed. That
didn’t give him much time. But Simon had expected more resistance. Instead he found the halls empty. Guessing that Biagio had ordered all his sentries against the Lissens, Simon started running. He was in a headlong dash now, very near Eris’ chambers. She would be frightened by the fighting. She might even be hiding.

I’m coming
, thought Simon desperately.
Hold on, my love.

Near the slave quarters he saw his first group of familiar faces. A gang of servants were huddled together, peering around the corner. They pointed at him as he raced forward.

“Where’s Eris?” he cried, coming up to them. “Tell me, quickly!”

The slaves were thunderstruck at his appearance.

“Simon Darquis!” they said. “You’re back!”

“Tell me where Eris is!” Simon thundered. He recognized Kyla, one of Biagio’s slaves. Simon grabbed her arm and shook her.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Where is she?”

Kyla shrieked, trying to pull free. “She’s dead!” cried the girl. “Please, let me go!”

Simon’s iron grip turned to water. He stood in horror, unable to move. “What?” he gasped. “What did you say?”

“They’re close,” cried one of the slaves. “I can hear them.”

“Dead?” asked Simon. “That’s impossible. Eris …”

“She’s dead,” cried Kyla desperately. She was about to run when Simon seized her again. The rest of the slaves scrambled, dashing for cover. Simon heard the din of fighting in the distance. He ignored it all, sick with dread.

“Tell me!” he demanded. “Tell me you’re lying! Eris is alive!”

Kyla shrieked hysterically, breaking into sobs. “Please, let me go!”

“Tell me!”

“She’s dead! She killed herself! Please …”