The Grand Design (57 page)

“I’ll do my best for you,” he said gently. “I promise you that.”

The young queen rested against his chest. “I know you will. You’re the hero Prakna told me about.”

T
he snow had slackened into flurries when Prakna finally reached his home village of Chaldris. It was late in the day and the sun was low. Shadows darkened the water avenues and the spaces between buildings, and Prakna’s little conveyance drifted across Balaro Canal, bearing him home. As was customary, he stood in the jarl, ignoring the bench seat while the driver poled his way through the canal. The
seats were for children and old women. Men always stood in the jarl. And Balaro Canal was always choked with jarls. The little boats were everywhere, moored to docking rings and bobbing on the current. Chaldris was an ancient part of Liss, densely populated and well travelled. Prakna had been born here. It was where he had spent his life, when he wasn’t on the ocean, and every time he saw his village it brought a pensive smile to his face.

Like all of Liss, Chaldris was a thousand tiny islands, threaded together by canals and a network of stone bridges spanning overhead. One had to be very careful in the jarl. There were always bridges built too low, and tall men like Prakna often had to duck to avoid a broken skull. Other bridges, like the one they were approaching now, were so high only a bird could bang into them. Prakna gazed upward as the little boat slid toward his apartments. The bridge to his home was covered with lichens and vines, all overgrown and carelessly left untrimmed. J’lari had been a fine gardener once, but now she barely ever lifted a finger. Behind the bridge, the sun was shrouded in a swathe of clouds. Tiny snowflakes drifted down onto Prakna’s face. Along the narrow avenues and bridges, familiar people went about their business, occasionally waving to the returning hero, but Prakna hardly heard them. He returned their greetings perfunctorily, mostly out of duty, yet his eyes were locked on his apartments high above the village. By now J’lari would have heard the news. She would be expecting him. Prakna sucked his lower lip. It had been so long since he had seen her.

“Too damn long,” he whispered.

The jarl driver heard his words and turned puzzled eyes toward him. “Sir?”

“Nothing,” Prakna said. The man shrugged and returned to poling through the water. Prakna sighed heavily. In the pocket of his coat were all the letters he had written J’lari while on patrol in Nar. He had never
sent them, hoping to one day return and deliver them himself. When she read them she would be happy, briefly, and they would rejoice in his homecoming until the grief overcame her and she drifted back into her ghostly fugue. Once, J’lari had been a strong woman. Proud. Life had taken its toll.

He had already visited the cenotaph on the way home. The huge monument, erected to honor the dead of the Naren war, wasn’t far from Prakna’s apartments. The cenotaph had an island all to itself, and when it snowed, like it had today, the hush was remarkable. Even the youngest children seemed to sense the sanctity of the place. Prakna had purchased two small flowers and laid them down next to the granite monolith, along with all the others that had been dropped there this day, to honor Liss’ fallen. They didn’t harvest bodies in Liss. There was too little land to waste on graves. When a man or woman died, they were thrown into the ocean. That’s why the cenotaph had so much meaning. It was the only place for Lissens to grieve. Some had wanted to write all the names of all the men and women that had died on the monument, but then the monument would have been colossal. Ten years was a long time to fight. And too many of the dead were nameless. So the statue was nothing but a tall, granite rectangle, something like a giant headstone, carved with Lissen prayers and ornamented with flowers. The cenotaph was strangely beautiful in the snow. Prakna worshipped it. Besides the mementos his wife kept of their sons, it was the only thing Prakna had to remember them by.

Prakna had one more flower in his hand, a hearty, red dahlia he had purchased for J’lari. It had been very expensive, but the fleet commander’s face had earned him a discount, leaving enough in his pockets to pay the pilot of the jarl. Prakna shielded the flower from the cold, hiding it beneath his open coat. He was sure it would brighten J’lari’s day. When they reached the
dock of Prakna’s apartments, the pilot expertly guided his little boat to a stop, barely grazing the pier. He retracted his long, muddy pole and smiled at Prakna.

“Here you are, sir,” he said cheerily. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” said Prakna. He dug into his pocket for his last few coins, but the driver held up his hands in protest.

“No, sir,” he insisted. “No money. This was my pleasure.”

Prakna didn’t argue. He paid his fare with a handshake and departed the vessel, stepping onto the dock of his home for the first time in months. Up near the bridge he saw a single candle burning in the window. The tiny lights served as beacons for returning sailors. During the war, the whole village had glowed. And on those horrible days when a soldier didn’t return, when he died or was simply missing, the candle was extinguished, replaced by a black star. Prakna looked around at the windows of the apartments. A galaxy of faded, black stars winked back at him.

The jarl slowly slipped away from the dock, leaving Prakna alone in the lightly falling snow. He heard a chorus of voices in the buildings above him, smelled the familiar scents of good, home cooking, and his mind skipped backward to a time when those voices were of his family, and those aromas came from J’lari’s kitchen. Saddened, he pulled the dahlia out of his coat and looked at it. It was beautiful, the biggest the merchant had for sale, but a meager gift to a woman who’d lost two sons. Prakna loved J’lari very much. It pained him how little he could do to ease her loss. But he was just a man, and often he was gone, leaving her alone in the old, vacant home.

Ahead of him was a narrow stairway of quarried stone, zig-zagging up to his apartments. Prakna looked at it, suddenly afraid. When he had last seen his wife, she was pale like the snow.

“Time to be a man,” he reminded himself.

He stuck his nose into the flower, took a whiff for strength, and quickly galloped up the stairs. Determined to look happy, he plastered a smile onto his face. Whenever he returned, the fleet commander always got a rousing welcome, but today his friends knew enough to spare his privacy. When at last Prakna reached the bridge leading to his home, he noticed that the door across the span was slightly open. He paused in the middle of the bridge. The door opened wider. Prakna steeled himself.

“J’lari,” he called softly. “Come out, love. It’s me.”

There was a trembling sigh before the door opened fully. J’lari stood in the threshold, her eyes wet and opened wide, her cheeks flushed. In her hair was a bronze braid, pulling back her golden locks, and a fine, lacy dress clung to her body, stirring in the breeze. The dahlia dropped to his side as Prakna stood on the bridge, unable to move. When J’lari tilted her head and smiled at him, it was as if the sun had come again and burned off all the haze.

“Prakna,” she choked. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. “Oh, Prakna …”

Prakna flew across the bridge and swept his wife up in a strong embrace. Staccato sobs overcame her and she melted in his arms, small and insubstantial. He put his nose in her hair and it was sweet; her breasts were warm against him. Fleet Commander Prakna closed his eyes and stroked J’lari’s hair, thanking God he was home again.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered in his ear. “I was so afraid.”

“I’m home now,” he replied. “I told you I’d be back.” He pulled himself free, then presented his gift. “For you.”

J’lari blushed like a child at the offering. She was over forty now, but when she smiled she looked like a woman half her age. She reached for the flower,
twirling it. A cold breeze blew on the bridge, but she seemed not to notice it at all, so taken was she by the dahlia.

“It’s lovely,” she said, her voice breaking. “Very beautiful.” Her hand brushed his cheek. “Like you, Prakna.”

Prakna took her hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips for a very long time. J’lari broke into sobbing laughter.

“Prakna …”

“Inside, J’lari,” he said with a smile. He gestured to the windows good-naturedly. “There are eyes out here.”

J’lari nodded and giggled. “Yes, you’re right.”

The curious eyes belonged to neighbors and friends, but neither wanted the moment spoiled. J’lari, her prize flower proudly in hand, led her husband into their home, the home he hadn’t seen for months. Prakna followed willingly. He had dreamt of this reunion, had pined for it and the touch of his wife, and though she still seemed a ghost to him, she was substantial and warm and he craved her greatly. Tonight, if seaman’s luck were with him, he would take her to his bed and love her.

Hours passed. Prakna reveled in his homecoming as J’lari moved about the house, making him comfortable. She was flawless, chatty like she was before the terrible occurrence, and Prakna wondered if his absence had given her time to recuperate, and to appreciate what she had left in life. They lingered over a perfect meal, drank good wine she had purchased for the occasion, and took the candle from the window to light their dinner table. The dahlia Prakna had brought for his wife was never far from her reach, and as they talked J’lari clung to it, admiring it constantly as she listened to him speak. Prakna had many things to tell
her. And J’lari listened raptly, watching her husband as he cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and enjoyed his wine with a starving man’s pleasure. Prakna ate until his stomach was stuffed and his belt groaned, and while J’lari cleared the table he spoke to her more, telling her about Nar and their plans for the Empire, and about Richius Vantran and his devouring revenge. And as Prakna talked to her he watched his wife, attuned to any signs of sadness. To his great relief, J’lari never broke into sobs. She misted a little when he gave her his letters, but those were good tears and Prakna brushed them away lovingly. J’lari sat and read them for a time. The candle had burned down to a nub, so Prakna got another and put it in the dish so she could read. Embarrassed, he laughed when she read aloud the most personal parts. But he was also a little drunk and tired, and though his stomach was full there was still a hunger in him. He watched her in the candlelight, wanting her.

It was very late when at last they retired. Prakna had deliberately avoided their bedchamber, but when she led him into it he saw that she had prepared it for them. The bed was fitted with their best lace coverings. There was a scent of perfume on the sheets and in the air, and the window shades were open wide, letting moonlight spill inside. Prakna shuddered when he saw the room. Since the deaths of their boys, they had made love only once, a disgusting episode that had been more like rape. J’lari couldn’t bear the act anymore. But the look of the room seemed to herald a change in her, and Prakna fought hard to still his thundering passion. She was fragile, still, he reminded himself. And marriage was more than just the bedroom.

“Prakna,” she said softly, leading him into the room. “Welcome home.”

Prakna said nothing. He didn’t want to talk, or hear anything that wasn’t her breath. Outside the window, the snow had stopped. Purple moonlight lit the town,
giving the canals a romantic twinkle. J’lari slipped off her shoes, then padded to the bedroom door and silently shut it. Prakna drifted to the bed. He sat down on the mattress and watched his wife, who stood before him, her lace dress clinging to her inviting curves. With her smooth shoulders and white skin, she looked like an angel, pure and breakable, too innocent for a cruel world. Prakna’s eyes narrowed, drinking her in. He counted up the months since he had laid with a woman and found a giant deficit.

“My love,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment made J’lari smile. Yet she didn’t dare to speak, to spoil the perfect silence. Prakna saw the faint fever of worry in her eyes, but only for a moment. Her hand went up and pulled the braid from her hair, sending it tumbling around her shoulders. She drifted across the floor to her husband. Prakna held his breath. Their eyes met before the hunger overcame him, and he put his head to her belly, feeling her heat through the silk of her dress. He pressed his lips against her, kissing her and pulling her near, and J’lari’s head fell back with a shuddering sigh.

Down he drew her, closer until she was on her knees before the bed. His fingers rummaged under her shoulder strap and pulled it down, and when he kissed her neck she trembled. She was a confection, sweet and irresistible, and the taste of her skin roiled through him, lighting him on fire. His mouth opened to suckle her nape and his hand cupped her head, holding it to him. J’lari’s body shook. Prakna ignored the tremors. Both hands were on her shoulders now, stripping down her dress, exposing her to him. He opened his eyes to watch himself work, saw her naked back reflect the moonlight.

Slowly. Slowly
 …