The Grand Design (95 page)

“You lie,” Simon roared. His whole body began to shake. “Don’t tell me that. Eris …”

Kyla finally tore free of him. She raced away, desperate to be gone. Simon’s brain descended into a fog.

“Eris,” he moaned. “Eris!”

He broke into a run, dashing through the corridors to Eris’ rooms, screaming her name all the way.

Prakna prowled quickly through the corridors, searching for Richius. He had promised his queen he would protect the Jackal, and he knew that Richius had entered the mansion in search of Biagio. Prakna had left behind the protection of his army. Most of his soldiers were in the west wing, fighting their way through a barricade of Naren soldiers. There had been more guards on the island than they’d thought, but Prakna was confident his troops could best them.

“Richius!” he called, scanning every opulent crevice.

No one came out to challenge the commander. He had seen some slaves race around corners, but they hadn’t threatened him. Suddenly, Prakna felt invincible. Liss the Raped was a quickly fading memory. Today, Liss the Glorious was reborn. They were unstoppable, just as he’d always known they’d be. But he had to find Vantran. Vantran was alone, questing for Biagio in this dangerous place. Prakna stumbled through the halls until at last he heard a weeping voice in a room up ahead. He cocked his head to listen.

“Eris,” said the voice miserably. “My beautiful dancer …”

Prakna stopped, recognizing the voice. “Darquis.”

Carefully, he inched forward, approaching the chamber. He peered inside and saw Simon Darquis huddled on the floor, weeping. The Naren held a pair of small shoes in his hands. The sight appalled Prakna. For one brief moment, his hate-filled heart softened. The Naren
didn’t hear him enter the chamber, so lost was he in grief. Prakna hefted up his sword.

“Darquis,” said Prakna softly. “Look at me.”

Simon looked up at Prakna. He noticed the sword in the Lissen’s hand and the terrible expression on his face, full of madness. Simon didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He held Eris’ dancing shoes against his chest.

“Eris is dead,” he said weakly.

Prakna said nothing.

“I tried to save her,” Simon choked. “I truly did. Damn me to Hell for failing.”

He knew what Prakna intended. Surprisingly, he didn’t care. He could have exploded up and saved himself, he could have wrestled the scimitar from Prakna’s hand, but he did nothing but wait, weeping like a child while the Lissen hovered over him, blinded by his own enormous wrath. Simon smiled sadly, yearning to be dead.

Prakna held the scimitar, unable to strike. He stared down at the thing at his feet, and the only emotion that came to him was pity. He had never seen anything as broken as Simon Darquis. Not even his ghost-like J’lari seemed so frail.

“Do it,” Simon whispered. “Kill me.”

He wanted to die, and his longing frightened Prakna. The fleet commander lowered his weapon.

“I’ll not be your executioner, dog.”

“Oh, you god-damn coward,” spat Simon. Tears ran down his face. Angrily he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Kill me!”

Prakna sheathed his scimitar. All the hatred had gone out of him, replaced by a brooding sympathy. “Get up,” he directed. “Get out of here.”

Simon clutched the shoes closer to his breast. “Go where? I have nothing now.”

“You have your life, Roshann. Be glad for it. Now hurry. Run now, or I will not be able to save you.”

Darquis rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked confused, staring at the world through bleary eyes. The shoes in his hands caught his falling tears. He gave Prakna a vacant glance, wondering what to do.

“You are not safe here,” said Prakna. “Go as quickly as you can. Find a boat and get off Crote. I will tell Vantran what has happened.”

“Richius …”

“Go!”

The order shattered Simon’s stupor. Still clutching the shoes, he darted out of the room.

Richius hadn’t been able to stop the slaughter. He hadn’t even tried. The west wing of the mansion clamored with battle as the army of Liss swarmed over the defenders barricaded inside. It would be a massacre. The Lissens certainly outnumbered the Narens. And Prakna had whipped his troops into a frenzy, filling them with blood-lust. It was just a matter of time before the melee was over and the mansion was reduced to rubble. Time was the enemy now, and Richius felt it slipping through his fingers.

He needed to find Biagio.

Instead he found himself in a magnificent hallway, facing down a curious little man with a retiring smile. The man was dressed in silk and gold, and he stood at the end of the hall, watching Richius approach. All around them the sounds of battle rang out, threatening to come nearer. But the man stood unwavering at his post, blocking Richius’ path.

Richius pointed his sword out at him. “Stand aside,” he warned. “I won’t let you stop me.”

“I recognize you, young Vantran,” said the man. “From the Black City.”

“You’re one of Biagio’s servants,” guessed Richius. “Get out of the way. I mean to find your master.”

“You won’t find him,” said the man. “He isn’t here. But he left me behind to tell you that he’s waiting for you.”

“What?” spat Richius. “Where is that monster?”

“Gone,” said the man. “I am Leraio, Count Biagio’s manservant. The count has left for the Black City. You will not find him on Crote, King Vantran.”

The news was staggering. Richius lowered his sword. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, not certain if he should believe the slave. “Why? Why has he left you here, then?”

Leraio frowned as he considered the question. “I suppose it suits his purposes. But I am not done with my message yet. There is more.”

“Tell me,” Richius demanded.

“Count Biagio wanted me to give you this.” The slave reached into his vest and pulled out something white and unremarkable. Richius squinted to see it better.

“What is that?” he asked angrily.

Leraio came closer, dropping the item into Richius’s hand. It was a lock of white hair, soft and short. Triin hair.

Richius puzzled over it for a moment. “Explain this,” he said. “Whose hair is this?”

“Count Biagio has your wife, King Vantran. He has taken her back to Nar City. He requests that you—”

“No!” Richius grabbed the little man and pinned him against the wall. “That’s impossible.”

Leraio was remarkably calm, even with Richius strangling him. “It is true. She went searching for your child, the one called Shani. She was captured by Naren ships and brought here. I promise you, she is unharmed. For now.”

Richius let go of the slave, staggering backward. “You’re lying!” he spat.

“I am not,” corrected Leraio.

The world around Richius swam with doubts. Was it possible? He rummaged over the floor, picking up the bits of hair where he’d dropped them. A quick run through his fingertips revealed the same silky softness as Dyana’s hair. Hardly proof. But with Biagio, anything could have happened.

“He has her,” Leraio promised. “He left last night aboard the
Fearless.
And he wants you to follow.”

“My God,” Richius groaned. As impossible as the tale sounded, Biagio was capable of anything. He turned and bolted out of the hall, screaming for help.

Prakna was racing back to the west wing when he heard Richius’ cry. Vantran was in a panic, and when he saw Prakna the young man came to a skidding halt, hardly able to breathe. They were not far from the battle and the sounds were deafening. Prakna heard shattering glass and human screams, and the unmistakable din of metal on metal. He wondered desperately how his troops were faring.

“Richius!” Prakna shouted. “What’s wrong?”

Richius was flushed with sweat. He took great panting breaths as he struggled to speak. “Dyana,” he gasped. “He has her.…”

“Dyana?” blurted Prakna. “Your wife?”

“Biagio. He’s taken her.”

Prakna couldn’t understand. “Take it easy, boy,” he directed. “Breathe. And tell me what happened.”

Richius struggled with every word, but Prakna managed to glean that Biagio had somehow taken Richius’ wife to the Black City.

“God, Prakna, help me,” begged Richius. “He’ll kill her. I have to get to her.”

Prakna listened to the fighting; he wanted to join
the battle. “Richius, listen to me,” he implored. “You go outside and stay safe. Hide yourself. When this is done, we’ll find a way to get your wife.”

“No!” Richius begged. “That’s too late. We can catch them if we leave now. Biagio left aboard the
Fearless
, just last night.”

Prakna felt himself turn white. The
Fearless.
Suddenly, all the noise in the world fell away. “How do you know that?” the Lissen asked. “Are you sure it’s the
Fearless
?”

Richius nodded, still struggling to catch his breath. “Yes, I’m sure. Biagio’s slave told me. They’re not far, they couldn’t be. Not yet. We can catch them, Prakna, aboard the
Prince.
”

Prakna shook his head. “I can’t. The others …”

“They can fight for themselves,” roared Richius. “They don’t need me or you. Please, Prakna, I’m begging you. Help me.”

“Richius …”

“God-damn it, you owe me! You got me into this, you arrogant bastard! Now help me save my wife!”

“All right,” said Prakna. “I’ll take you.”

Richius glanced around. “I want Simon,” he said desperately. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s gone,” said Prakna. “I’ll explain later.” He spun Richius around, facing him in the opposite direction of the murdered Naren. “Come on, we have to move.”

Together they raced out of Biagio’s embattled mansion, abandoning their bloodthirsty comrades and hurrying to reach the
Prince of Liss.
Prakna’s heart soared. Finally, his chance had come to battle Nicabar. And as he ran, Prakna saw the faces of his two dead sons. Very soon, he would avenge them.

T
en nautical miles off the coast of Crote, Admiral Nicabar ordered the
Fearless
and her escorts to slow, beginning a long circling pattern that took them absolutely nowhere. They raised their sails halfway on the yards, catching less of the winter wind, and turned their rudders against the tide, tacking back and forth. A beautiful sun had risen on the watery horizon, painting the sea a glowing green. Biagio stood on the warship’s forecastle, contemplating the dawn. To starboard and port, the
Black City
and the
Intruder
waited with the flagship, drifting aimlessly over the waves. The count liked the way the dreadnoughts looked in the morning sun. They were powerful, invincible. They would herald his return to the Empire. He kept his arms folded over his chest, huddling in his crimson cape. The wind was strong on deck and made his sensitive skin shiver. But he didn’t want to go below. He wanted to see the
Prince
when she arrived.

It had taken Renato Biagio a long time to reach this moment. It had been a long and arduous climb, and it had taxed him dearly, requiring all his faculties. The strings he had pulled were long and treacherous. Not everything had gone perfectly. He had been betrayed by Simon and had resorted to the most violent methods to get Herrith to Crote, and his grand design had cost him his beloved homeland, at least for a while. He
wouldn’t be returning to Nar as a hero, either. He would have the politics of the army to deal with and assassinations to guard against.

And, of course, there was the Vantran woman. She was aboard, unwillingly, in her cabin below deck. Since she couldn’t escape without going overboard, Biagio had left her unguarded. The count considered her for a moment, and the picture of her face brought a little smile to his face. She was very beautiful. He understood now why the Jackal had abandoned the Empire for her. Some women had that effect on men.

And some men, too.

Biagio’s smile vanished. It made no sense that Simon had betrayed him. More, it pained him. At times he wanted to kill Simon—but he knew he never would. He wouldn’t even hunt for him, or try to find out where he had gone. Perhaps Simon would go to Lucel-Lor with the Jackal. Or perhaps he would simply stay in the Empire, constantly looking over his shoulder. Roshann agents were good at hiding. Biagio sighed forlornly. If he’d had a flower, he would have thrown it into the ocean.

“Why the disappointment, Renato?” asked Nicabar suddenly. The admiral had appeared out of nowhere, shattering Biagio’s mood. He had a smile splashed across his face, anticipating the coming battle.

“Just thinking, my friend,” replied Biagio. “And waiting.”

“Thinking about Herrith?”

Biagio smirked. “As little as possible.”

“He beat the drug, you know,” Nicabar observed. The admiral’s brow furrowed. “He was stronger than I thought.”

Stronger than me?
Biagio wondered. For the first time, it seemed plausible. Originally, Biagio had thought the withdrawal would kill Herrith. Yet in the end, it seemed to have made him stronger. The fact that withdrawing was even possible intrigued the count.

“I do not want to speak of Herrith anymore,” he said. “And we have the Lissens to deal with yet, don’t forget.”