The Grand Design (16 page)

“Daevn?” she asked nervously. “How far are we from the castle?”

Daevn shrugged. “Dunno.”

“It’s going to rain. Hard.”

A moment later the sky exploded with rain. The road quickly filled with water, turning to mud beneath the horses’ hooves. Lorla peered through the downpour for Daevn.

“Come on,” he shouted. “It can’t be much farther.”

Lorla shivered beneath her garments, already soaked through. The fingers in her mittens had turned to icicles. Phantom moved sure-footed through the storm, following Daevn’s horse. A flash of lightning cracked the sky, followed by a rumbling detonation of thunder. Lorla closed her eyes and wished the storm away, but only got another bolt of lightning for her troubles. She hurried Phantom to Daevn’s side.

“Should we stop?” she asked.

The big man shook his head. “It won’t last.” He glanced at her through the rain and smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s only thunder.”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied, not wanting him to think her a coward. “I’m just wet. And cold, and tired of this ride. Find the castle, Daevn.”

Daevn bowed sarcastically at her. “Oh, yes, my lady. What do you think I’m trying to do?”

They rode on in silence, sloshing down the narrow lane, until at last the rain slackened.

“There,” Daevn declared. “Look.”

Lorla followed Daevn’s finger toward the horizon. Atop a hill and shrouded in mist was a castle of red stone. Lorla peered through the rain. It was tall and dark and it frightened her, and she knew from her melancholy feeling that the dismal sight was Enli’s home. The Duke of Dragon’s Beak did not dwell in the fairy-tale house she had imagined, but rather in a dreary nightmare of cold brick and dark windows, a single, monolithic tower jutting from the earth. Even against the beauty of the sea it was a cruel vision, as if it meant to mock the ocean with its own vast ugliness. Lorla bit her lower lip, then noticed the flag flying atop the castle.

“Daevn, look. He flies the Light of God. Do you see?”

Daevn was circumspect. “I see it,” he said. Clearly he had expected the Black Flag to be waving in Dragon’s Beak. “But I trust Lokken even now, girl. If this is where he wants you, then it’s no mistake.”

“But—”

“Trust him, Lorla,” he said. Then he laughed and added, “You’ll be warm again soon. And tonight I might sleep with a real woman!”

The insult struck Lorla like an icy slap. A
real
woman? What did that mean? She scowled at the soldier but he seemed not to take her meaning. Instead Daevn rode off, his horse trotting through the mud toward the castle on the hill. When he noticed Lorla wasn’t following, he turned around and waved to her.

“Coming? Or do you want to drown out here?”

“Drown,” she mumbled. Suddenly anything seemed better than the castle. But she was frozen and exhausted, and that made her snap the reins. Phantom jumped forward at her command. The little pony seemed as eager as Daevn to be out of the damp. The road widened some as they approached, and they passed by small houses and storefronts, all quiet and shuttered. A few candles burned dimly in the windows. Lorla felt invisible eyes staring at her, but each time she turned to face them they had vanished.

When they reached the hill, she noticed the pine trees lining the roadway, great guardians that loomed over them and cast crooked shadows in the feeble light. Beneath them the gray gravel of the path crunched under the steady pressure of horses’ hooves, and the rain was cold and steady. Lorla glimpsed the castle gates through the mist. They were high up on the hill now, with the fitful ocean far below. Two sentries stood at the entrance, their bodies encased in ugly black armor, their faces hidden behind reptilian helmets. In their fists were bladed halberds. Lorla looked up at the towering castle. There was a distinct list to the structure, as if it were waiting to topple. Gargoyles perched on the high ledges, spouting rain water, and a bloom of rubbery lichens grew from the mortar, turning the red brick yellow. The riveted wooden gates were closed up tight. Both guardians fixed their stern gazes at the riders. Daevn rode forward, his hand raised in friendship.

“We are from Goth,” he called to the men. “I am Daevn of the Walled City, here to see your duke.”

The sentries nodded. “Dismount,” one of them ordered. He stepped forward while his brother opened the gate. Daevn got down from his horse, bidding Lorla to do the same. The guardian took the reins of his mount and stared at Lorla, who wasn’t sure yet if she trusted him.

“Come on, Lorla,” urged Daevn. “Get down so we can go inside.”

Lorla got down from Phantom’s back and handed the pony over to the armored man, who looked at her questioningly. She hurried to Daevn’s side. The other guardian had opened the gates, letting loose a flood of orange torchlight. It was all the encouragement Lorla needed. She entered and found herself in a huge chamber of gray stone, where armored men strutted with sidearms and laughed amongst themselves. A few women moved through the halls in the distance. When they noticed Lorla they paused to regard her, apparently struck to have a child in their midst.

“Wait here,” ordered the guardian. “I will tell Duke Enli you’ve arrived.”

“He’s expecting us, I think,” said Daevn. He looked around the vast chamber. “We could use a place to sit and rest.”

“The duke will be down quickly, I’m sure,” said the soldier. “He’ll see to your needs himself. Just wait here.”

Daevn and Lorla watched the soldier go, stung by his gruffness but grateful to be out of the rain. Lorla gravitated toward one of the giant torches on the wall, reaching high to warm her hands. She pulled off her drenched mittens and massaged her fingers. Her joints were stiff, her fingertips blue. She felt cold water drip from her hair and trickle down her neck, and hoped that the duke could get her fresh clothes. She slid her soiled cloak off her small shoulders and felt its surprising, water-logged weight. Daevn was nearby, talking to the soldiers. They were peculiar-looking men, she decided, but she liked their fancy helmets. Forged into the likenesses of dragon heads, each bore engravings like scales and two obsidian gems for eyes. Their armor was spiked and black, like the legionnaires of Nar, but bulkier and more noisy. Lorla watched them clank around, fascinated by the sound.

“Lorla?”

Lorla jumped when she heard her name. Coming
down the hallway was a tall, thin man with dirty hair and a wide smile. He wasn’t dressed like a soldier but instead wore a warm cape of wolf’s fur around his shoulders. He headed toward her, one hand outstretched. Daevn stepped between them.

“Are you the duke?” he asked rudely.

The man grinned at Daevn but did not answer. He craned to look over Daevn’s shoulder at Lorla. “Lorla, yes?” he asked. “How are you, child?”

“Fine, sir,” said Lorla. She looked him up and down. He had a nice face. Daevn cleared his throat noisily. The man regarded him.

“Yes, the bodyguard. Welcome, both of you.”

“The name’s Daevn,” said Daevn coldly. “From Goth. Are you Duke Enli?”

“No, I’m not,” said the man. “My name is Faren. I’m one of the duke’s servants. I’ve come to collect you both. The duke is very pleased you’re here. He would like to see you both at once.”

“Can we have something to drink?” asked Lorla anxiously. “Some hot tea?”

“What are all the soldiers for?” asked Daevn. “Is there some trouble?”

Faren walked past Daevn, ignoring him. He bent down to one knee to be at Lorla’s level. “Tea we have aplenty, dear Lorla. And fresh milk, too. I can have the maids bring you some if you want.”

Lorla tried not to cringe. Milk was for babies. “Just the tea, please,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Whatever you want,” said Faren. His smile was impossibly broad. “Come. Let’s get you out of those wet things and into something warm.” He put out his hand for Lorla. When she didn’t take it, his smile dimmed.

“Where is the duke?” asked Daevn.

“I will take you to him. This way, please.”

Lorla shot Daevn a questioning glance, but the big man only shrugged. They followed Faren out of the
great chamber, past kitchens filled with fine odors. Another grand hall greeted them, this one with many doors of dull oak. One of the doors was open. Through the entrance Lorla saw the dancing shadows of a burning fire. The smell of crackling alder drew her forward. Faren stopped at the threshold, bidding Lorla to enter.

“This is the duke’s sitting room. Please go in. The duke will be joining you very soon.”

Lorla walked inside, drawn like an insect to the blazing hearth. It was the most comfortable room she’d ever seen, with bookcases full of manuscripts and big, cushy chairs of worn leather. The room smelled of age and expensive tobacco. On one of the small tables a pipe rested, its bowl full of ashes. But the most dominant feature of all was the portrait over the hearth, a huge oil painting of two young men, each the mirror image of the other. They were on horseback, both dressed in resplendent armor, their heads naked and their swords dangling at their sides. It was a magnificent painting.

“Wait here please, Lorla,” said Faren. “The duke will be here shortly. Meanwhile I’ll have a maid bring you that tea you wanted, and some biscuits, eh?”

“Thank you,” said Lorla.

“I’d like some tea too,” said Daevn sourly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Faren said, “Actually, Sir Daevn, the duke would like to speak to you alone first. If you would follow me, please?”

“Daevn?” asked Lorla, alarmed.

“It’s all right, girl,” said Daevn. “Stay here; I’ll be back with the duke. Enjoy your tea and biscuits.” Daevn looked at Faren. “You got some clothes for the girl? She’s soaked to the bone.”

“Of course,” said Faren. “Lorla, make yourself at home. I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

Lorla said a soft good-bye, then turned her attention to the marvelous room. There were trinkets on
the tables, some old rings with clouded gems, and dozens of dusty books, enough to occupy a hundred years. Lorla loved to read. She had gone through all the books and manuscripts in the labs—at least the ones she had been allowed to read—and she had devoured Lokken’s library. She wondered if Duke Enli would let her read his books, or if he’d be stingy and keep them to himself. On one of the large chairs she found a small scarlet blanket. When she touched it the fabric sang of warmth. It was supple, like the leather of the chair, and Lorla put it to her face, burying her nose and sniffing it. The blanket held all the perfumes of the room. Shivering, Lorla stripped off her drenched clothes and dropped them to the floor. Quickly she jumped into the chair, and her small body seemed to vanish in its embrace. The leather cushion creaked as she sank into it. She covered herself with the blanket and surveyed the room from her new vantage. Once again the painting over the hearth seized her attention. Lorla stared at it for a long time. She liked the horses, but she wasn’t sure about the men.

Soon a maid arrived and set down a teakettle on the table next to Lorla. Noticing the pile of wet clothes on the floor, the woman assured Lorla she would bring some dry garments. Cheerily she poured Lorla a cup of tea and placed it in her small hands, then waved a plate of sweet-smelling biscuits beneath her nose. Lorla chose the biggest one and put it in her mouth, holding it between her teeth as she warmed her hands on the teacup. The maid left with a smile, leaving Lorla once again to puzzle over the portrait. She was getting warm quickly, and it felt good. A drowsy mood fell over her, making her eyelids droop. She watched the portrait as her eyes fell closed.…

“You like that picture?” boomed a voice.

Lorla snapped awake, so suddenly the cup in her hands jostled tea over the rim. She looked down at the stained blanket sheepishly, then up at the man in the
threshold. It wasn’t Faren, but a much broader man, big through the shoulders, with jet hair and a shiny black beard. He had a stern face and eyes that smoldered when he stared. Now he stared at Lorla.

“I’m sorry,” Lorla offered. She set down the cup and jumped out of the chair, keeping the blanket wrapped about her naked body. Suddenly she was embarrassed. “I ruined the blanket.”

“It’s just a blanket,” said the man. He stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. All at once a strange silence enveloped them. Lorla inspected the man.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am Duke Enli, Master of Red Tower.” He tried to smile but managed only a crooked grin. “Your host. For now.”

Duke Enli came closer, looking over Lorla. His beard glowed in the hearth’s orange light and the many rings on his fingers twinkled. Like Faren, he wore a cape to shield him from the cold, a long garment trimmed in crimson and fastened around his throat with a golden broach—a shiny, fanged dragon’s head. The duke had big hands that he spread toward Lorla in welcome.

“Little Lorla,” he said. “I’m glad you made it safely. I’ve been waiting for you. And this weather had me concerned.”

Lorla nodded. “It was cold.”

“Cold?” laughed the duke. “This is not cold, girl. To me, this is like summer. But yes, you look wretched. Faren has ordered clothes for you, and there’s a warm bed waiting.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The duke looked down at her, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “How old are you?” he asked. “Seven? Eight?”

“Almost sixteen,” said Lorla indignantly. The duke’s eyes widened.

“Sixteen? God almighty, you don’t look a day over
eight. I swear, not a day.” He dropped down to inspect her more closely, running one of his big fingers over her cheek as if she were a house pet. “Remarkable,” he chuckled. “Truly remarkable.”

“Duke Enli, where is Daevn?” asked Lorla.

“Ah, well …” Enli retracted his finger and attempted another smile. “Daevn is resting now, Lorla. I actually wanted to speak to you alone.”

“Alone? But Faren said—”

“I know,” interrupted the duke. He gestured toward the chair. “Sit down, Lorla.”

Lorla did as the duke asked, keeping a cautious eye on him. He was quiet for a long time, contemplative, and sighed as he took his pipe from the table. He stuck it between his teeth and took a seat in one of the other chairs. As he chewed on his pipe he watched her, fascinated. Lorla could read his incredulity.