The Grand Design (35 page)

“Beautiful?” chuckled Simon. “On the surface, maybe. But not deep down beneath the skin. No. It’s lived too bloody long to be anything but a graceless pig. You said I could pick the tree. Well I pick this old wretch. Help if you want. Or don’t. Whatever.”

And without another word Simon swung his axe against the ancient oak, slamming the blade into its bark and slicing a deep wound. He took another blow and then another, and soon the chips were flying out of the enormous trunk, little dents in a suit of armor ten feet wide. Richius watched Simon work, wondering at the hatred that had so suddenly engulfed him. Simon kept swinging his axe without pause. Finally, inexplicably, Richius took up position on the other side of the great tree trunk and began hacking away at it. Simon stopped. His eyes lifted to look at Richius, and a smile crossed his lips. He waited for Richius to complete his swing before swinging his own axe again, and within
two strokes they had the rhythm—Richius then Simon then Richius then Simon, and slowly, very slowly, they chipped away at the ancient oak.

It was a monumental task. Within minutes Richius’ forehead beaded with sweat. Simon was already breathing hard. But they shared encouraging glances as they fought against the stubborn bark and stony flesh, grunting as they pushed their muscles to the maximum. They worked for an hour or more, and when they had finally cleaved a deep crevice in the trunk, Simon held up a hand in surrender.

“God, I’m tired,” he wheezed, laughing. He leaned against his axe, his face and shirt doused with sweat. They had only dug a fraction into the massive tree, and had many more hours of work ahead of them.

“You’re sure this was a good idea?” quipped Richius. He, too, was exhausted.

Simon nodded angrily. “Very sure. Water.” He pointed weakly toward the roadway in the distance. “We should have brought some water.”

“I’ll get it,” said Richius. He dropped his axe and made his way back to where they had left their horses. The water skins they had brought with them were fat and cool. Richius retrieved them, along with the food they had brought along. He was more than just thirsty. The hard work had famished him. And there was still so much more to do. First they had to fell the big tree, then start chopping it, then drag the pieces into the wagon. Richius cursed a little under his breath, berating himself for letting Simon choose the tree. But then he remembered the Naren’s determined glare and the violent way he swung his axe, and he decided that he was glad Simon had chosen the tree. Whatever anger he was feeling was being directed straight through his axe and into the old oak, and it was like they were truly countrymen, maybe even friends.

Richius hurried back with the water and food. He
found Simon back at work, hacking at the tree trunk. He waved to the older man to stop, holding up the water skin. Simon dropped his axe gratefully and took the water, drinking down a healthy swig and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“That’s good,” he sighed. “Thanks. What’s that? Food?”

“My wife packed some for us. Hungry?”

“Always.” Simon grinned. He cast a look at the tree. “But we’ve got a lot of work to do. Maybe we should wait.”

Richius sat down cross-legged on the ground and began rummaging through the pack. “You can wait if you like. I’ll just sit here and watch you work. All right?”

“Not hardly,” said Simon, dropping his axe. He craned his neck to peek inside the pack. “What’ve you got in there?”

Richius started pulling food out of the package. Two rounds of flatbread, some vegetables, some dried meat, fruit shaped like apples. It was all Triin food, but Richius had long since grown accustomed to it, and Simon, who would seemingly eat anything, sat down greedily in front of the feast. He snatched up one of the fruits and took a deep bite of it, sighing with satisfaction at the taste.

“What is this?” he asked. “It’s good.”

“The Triin call that a
shibo
,” said Richius. “A love fruit. It comes from a tree that grows not far from here. They harvest them in the autumn like apples.”

Simon pulled his dagger out of his belt and began slicing off pieces of the fruit. He offered one of the slices to Richius. This was the time of year for the shibo. Richius tore off a hunk of the Triin bread and gave it to Simon. The Naren put it up to his nose and took a whiff. His nostrils were still swollen, but he could smell it.

“Lord, it’s bloody good to see food again,” he said. “And so much of it. I don’t know why you’re not contented here, Vantran. A man could do worse for himself.”

“I suppose,” Richius shrugged. “But life is more than food, you know. Sometimes a man needs different things besides a solid roof and full stomach.” He raised his eyes to examine Simon’s reaction. “Don’t you think?”

“A man needs precious little,” said Simon. “You’re royalty. You don’t know what it’s like to have nothing. I do. And when I eat good bread, I think I taste more than you do. You’re used to having everything handed to you, aren’t you? No insult, really. It’s just the truth. Am I right?”

“You’re wrong. When I fought in the Dring Valley we had nothing, not even provisions from the Empire. And I never wanted to be made a king, either. That happened when my father died and I had no say in it. And no one gave me Dyana or Shani. I had to fight to get them back. My exile from Nar is the price I paid. I lost Aramoor in the bargain. So don’t go thinking I have so much, Simon, because I don’t. Not anymore.”

Simon was unimpressed. Deliberately, he cut another section of fruit with his dagger, sliding it off the blade and onto his tongue. There was a sly smile on his face as he chewed. “You want to trade sad stories, Jackal? I don’t recommend it. You’d lose.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want you getting ideas about me. Whatever you learned about me in Nar or from Blackwood Gayle is false. I’m not some spoiled brat-prince. I fought hard here in Lucel-Lor. I saw my share of horrors. And I lost friends. Don’t make me defend their memories, Simon.
You’d
lose.”

Simon held up a hand in mock surrender. “All right. Like I said, no offense. But you go moping around the castle like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”

“You have no idea,” said Richius softly.

“Maybe not. Why don’t you tell me?”

“No thanks. It’s a bit personal.”

“We might be together a long time,” said Simon. “I’ve already told you some things about me, why I deserted. It’s your turn now.”

“It’s not a game we’re playing, Simon. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Simon grinned. “You know what I see when I look at you, Vantran?”

“What?”

Simon leaned back, making himself comfortable. “You’re really tired of living with the Triin. I can tell. You want to be back in Nar, with your own kind. And you can’t stop wondering what’s going on back in Aramoor, can you? I know because I have the same kind of thoughts. I wonder what’s going on in the Empire too, especially back in Doria. But I left it behind. You haven’t. You won’t.”

“I can’t,” Richius corrected. “You’re not the king of Doria, Simon. You didn’t leave folks behind to get slaughtered.”

The most probing light came on in Simon’s eyes. “Did you?”

It was a horrible question. Richius turned from it, staring at the ground and his half-eaten bread.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I left my wife behind. You already know that. Blackwood Gayle killed her. Gayle and Biagio.” He closed his eyes and her face came into his mind. “Her name was Sabrina.”

“She was very beautiful,” said Simon. “All of us who served with Gayle had heard that. It was barbaric what he did to her. I’m very sorry for you.”

“Gayle did the killing. Now he’s dead. And by my hand, thank God. But not that other devil, Biagio. He was the one who gave the order. He and Arkus both handed Aramoor over to Talistan.” Richius looked up at Simon and found that the older man was staring at
him, his face full of sorrow. “And I can’t live with that. That’s what you see when you look at me, Simon. It’s not sadness. It’s revenge.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry for you,” said Simon. Oddly, he glanced at the tree. “Revenge is a horrible thing. It consumes men. And it will consume you if you let it.”

“It already has,” said Richius. “I can think of nothing else but going after Biagio. And then Aramoor. I’ve vowed to free it someday, to make it my own again.”

Simon let out a mocking chuckle. “That’s a big boast, boy. You should be careful what you vow. Make them small so you won’t die with them still on your head.”

“I will do it,” said Richius seriously. “I know it sounds impossible, but I will. Someday.” He shrugged. “Somehow.”

“You’ll go to your grave with that one,” Simon promised. “You don’t know what you’re trying to fight. You ever been to Nar?”

“I was made king there,” said Richius. “I met the emperor.”

“Did you? Well then you should have the common sense to figure out what you’re up against. Nar isn’t just an army or a nation. Nar isn’t even the legions. It’s a way of life. That’s what the Black Renaissance is, Vantran. It’s like a living thing. And no one can stop it. Especially not you.” Simon’s face grew dark. “One man just can’t make that kind of difference.”

“They brainwash you legionnaires. They make you think you’re nothing without them. But you’re wrong. One man
can
make a difference. I’ve proven that already. And I’m going to keep being a thorn in the Empire’s side, and I’m going to free Aramoor someday. You just watch me.”

“One man is like a dead leaf against Nar, Vantran. You’re just too young and naive to see that. Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

It was a lost argument, Richius knew, so he merely
tore off another piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth, washing it down with a gulp from the water skin. He noticed then that Simon had stopped eating. The Naren stared pensively at the tree, at the giant gash in the oak’s trunk, and his eyes were distant, as if he were looking through the thing to something invisible beyond.

“Simon?” Richius asked. “Eat.”

Simon got up. He walked over to where he had left his axe and retrieved the tool, glancing between its sharp head and the exposed belly of the tree.

“You go ahead and eat,” he said. “I’ve got a tree to chop down.”

T
hey were called the hills of Locwala, and they were splendid. Tall and green, lush and quiet, they were legendary throughout the Empire, not only for their verdancy and their peaceful music, but also because they hid the greatest city ever constructed. It was not possible to reach the capital of the Empire without first crossing the hills of Locwala, unless you were a sea traveller and could pay the exorbitant sums to hire a ship. All others who made the pilgrimage to Nar City—the Black City—did so by crossing Locwala. And they did so at their peril,
for no one could see the hills without being changed forever.

The hills of Locwala were paradise. They were what the artists and laureates of Nar called its most splendid place, an oasis of nature left untouched by the metal city just beyond. In the hills of Locwala, one could barely detect the acrid stench of the capital or hear the drone of the foundries as they smelted copper and iron. It was a perfect place, unpolluted, made so by decree of Nar’s last emperor, the one who called himself “Arkus the Great.” He was an emperor with a fondness for roses and a voracious appetite for beauty, and though he had loved the mechanical behemoth he had built on the shores of the Dhoon Sea, he had been a pragmatic man, too, and knew that the Naren nobles who dwelt in the Black City would grow tired of the towers and the beggars in the streets and would long for a place of clean air and tall trees. The hills of Locwala had been untouched for generations, and to cut down one of its trees or improperly dispose of something on its roads was still a crime, punishable by death. Even Archbishop Herrith, de facto ruler of Nar in the wake of Arkus’ death, upheld those laws. It was said that Herrith considered Locwala a sacred place, a place that God Himself had told Arkus to set aside, and no one in the Black City, faithful or loyalist, had a mind to question the decree. Locwala belonged to them all, and they were content just to know it existed.

Lorla reached out from the back of her pony and snatched a dried leaf from a branch. She knew all about the rules of Locwala, but didn’t think a single leaf would matter. It was a dead leaf, anyway, like all the leaves this time of year, and it crackled in her hand, providing little entertainment. Locwala was beautiful, but she had been riding through it for a full day now and had grown tired of the hills and tree-lined avenues. Phantom, the pony she had ridden out of Goth, trotted quietly beneath her, following the caravan.
Ahead of them, Enli sat sternly atop his black warhorse. He had grown very distant in the last weeks, and Lorla wasn’t sure about him anymore. He was still kind to her in his own brusque way, but he hardly spoke at all anymore. Since leaving Dragon’s Beak, Enli had changed. He was agitated now, distant and snappish with his men, the ones with the crossbows who stayed very close to him.

Lorla missed Dragon’s Beak. She missed Nina and all the books and having a room of her own to sleep in. She missed exploring Red Tower and her brief friendship with the duke’s daughter, but most of all she missed having some place—any place—to call home. It had been a long ride from Dragon’s Beak. Enli had paid for inns and beds when they were available, and they had been well fed, but even the good roads to Nar were treacherous and tedious, and not at all restful for such a small girl. And that’s exactly how Lorla saw herself these days—a small girl. Despite her nearly adult years, she was a child really, just a pawn in the game the Master was playing. Enli had already told her what to say and do when they reached Nar, and he had scolded her when she asked if she could see the war labs again.