The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series)

by Annmarie Banks

  “Nadira.”

  “Yes?” she heard herself answer.

  “I am pleased you have found me.”

  “Who are you?” Where?”

  “You have crossed. You are with us now.”

  Nadira blinked, she was surrounded by light, more intense than the candles, but she could see nothing. “Where?”

  “Here, of course. There is no ‘where’. You are always where you are. You have come at the bidding of others, however. This does not please me. I wanted you to come alone.”

  “Who is with me?” Nadira asked, confused. There was no one she could see, no one else she could hear.

  “You have tendrils of malice entwined in your heart. You must break those bonds before you travel any closer. We will not allow their pollution here. Go back. Tell them what they want to know. Truth carries with it a powerful weapon. Whatever will be, will be. It is not of your concern. You will not be harmed by truth”.

  Nadira was not ready to go back. “Wait, please. Tell me, what is my concern?”

  The voice paused so long Nadira feared she was gone. The sound of little bells tinkling as if on a breeze soothed her mind. The voice spoke again, but softer this time.

  “Come to me. Come to me at Elysium. You will see me there in the earth. Release them. I will tell you what you want to know. The White Hart kneels before you.” The voice faded with the light. The room came into her vision around her, the table the couch, the book; all materialized as solid objects surrounding her, protecting her. She looked up. The faces of the cardinals were dangerously white. The pope himself was a deathly shade of gray. Absolute silence blanketed the hall, and even Di Marco looked shocked and shaken. The once tall candles sputtered at their nubs. Two had burned completely down to nothing but molten wax.

  “What?” she asked. Her voice sounded thunderously loud in that cavernous room. She glanced down. The book was open to the last page. The words, in Hebrew, danced across the page. “The spots are still here with me,” she thought. One of the younger cardinals at the end of the table pushed his chair back with a loud echoing scrape, as though he would stand. Instead of rising to his feet, he collapsed under the table with a thump. His neighbors bent down to attend to him, but the other cardinals turned their eyes back to Nadira crossing themselves in a flurry of hands. The pope was the first to speak.

  “Do you know what you said to us?” he asked, trembling visibly.

  “No, Your Holiness,” she answered honestly. “I have no memory of it. Did I not read the book as you required?” She glanced at Di Marco, who had sunk to her couch beside her. He did not return her glance, but stared off into space, his face devastated. Icy fear began to creep up Nadira’s arms, yet did not the woman’s voice tell her not to fear?

  The pope took several deep breaths until his face became pink again. Then he brought himself to his feet, though still clutching the back of the throne he spoke to the table.

  “This book will be burned. You will not try to salvage the stones on the cover. No one will pull a single page from its binding. None of the gilt will be peeled, cut or torn. I want this entire book destroyed down to the very elements of which it was made. When it is burned, the ashes, stones and gold will be thrown into the sea. Upon pain of death and eternal damnation, my order will be followed.” He turned to Di Marco, whose eyes now bloodshot and bleary, were raised up at the pope’s face. “You will see this done, as I decree that no priest shall ever touch this cursed tome. I will have guards on you to report to me when it is finished. So it shall be, Amen.”

  The cardinals began coughing, some reached for water, others wine. Water was splashed in the face of the fallen man. The pope nodded and the door was unbarred. Servants poured in after the summons and began to escort their shaken masters to their rooms with great candles on high sticks. Di Marco gathered the book into the box with which he had brought it. He had not spoken a word, his face never recovering from the shock of whatever she had said. Nadira would ask him later. Now the pope was staring at her with a strange expression. He looked at her as though he had tasted something particularly vile.

  “And you…”

  Di Marco looked up quickly. “Your Grace?”

  Pope Alexander stared down at Di Marco and Nadira for a long moment. When he spoke, it was low and steady, full of extreme self-control. Nadira held her breath. “Take her to your house. Keep her there until you hear from me. Let no one see her. Let no one speak to her. Get her out of this holy place immediately.” He sagged against the table, a trembling hand to his eyes. The Holy Father lifted his arm and pointed to the doors where servants waited with candles to escort Nadira and Di Marco away.

  Reluctantly Di Marco pulled back from the wrapped box containing the book. One hand lingered on the wrappings, and the other reached blindly behind him for Nadira. She placed her hand in his and stood, watching, as the pope swept through the doors taking three of the servants with him. Di Marco hugged her to him tightly.

  She squeezed his hand, “What did I say? Why are they so upset? Is the French king coming now? Are we in danger?”

  “Oh, Nadira,” he turned around so she could see his haunted face in the dim light. “It could not be worse. No doubt you told the truth, yet it was not what they wanted to hear.”

  “I am not being sent to the prison, though. Surely had I said something truly wicked I would be carried away in chains,” Nadira paused. “I am to go to your house, sequestered. Is this not true?”

  “There will be pressure on the pope to have you burned. He does not want to lose you, however. I fear he plans to use you again in secret for his own purposes.” Di Marco lifted the remaining candlestick and pulled her behind him toward the doors. “I saw it in his eyes.”

  “What did I say?” Nadira insisted, pulling on his sleeve. “You must tell me.”

  “I will. Let us get to a safe place first.” He pulled together his notes, stacking the crackling papers nervously then tucking his pen and ink kit into his sleeve. “They are all still so shocked they are not thinking properly or they would have taken my notes.” He took Nadira’s hand and pulled her toward the doors, nodding to the guard captain as he passed. Di Marco fairly dragged her down the long hall, the guards falling in to step on all sides of them.

  They were escorted through the evening drizzle to Di Marco’s carriage and then through dark and bumpy streets to his fine house. The guards walked alongside the carriage the entire distance, swords drawn, looking fierce in the cold rain. Nadira was glad to retire to the warmth of her room. She took off her clothes as quickly as possible before wrapping herself in the blankets of her soft bed. She lay there awake long into the night.

  Dawn broke heavy and dull. The sleet had turned to a steady rain, the houses of Rome all tinted the sickly gray of winter. Nadira turned from the great window, letting the heavy drapes fall to the floor. She pulled her dressing gown close around her, for the dreary sight had chilled her more than the air. She had been locked in her room eight days now.

  Her only visitor was a weary maid who took her chamber pot and brought her food and drink. Nadira remembered the prison dungeon of Conti’s tower and refused to allow herself any outwards sign of self-pity. A comfortable prison was still a prison. Di Marco had sent up a book for her to read, mercifully understanding her need for some kind of activity. She turned a few more pages. It was Plato. She sighed, pulled a chair to the window, and lifted the heavy drapes over the back of the chair. The light was poor, but she settled herself in for another day of reading and thinking. After a few paragraphs, she looked up again trying to remember the declensions and conjugations. She could see the general meaning, but the tenses were unclear. Will it have happened? Did it happen yesterday? She shut the book with a snap and rubbed her temples.

  What did she say to the pope and his cardinals? Nadira rubbed harder, as if she could physically bring the memory to the surface. Two days of pacing and thinking had not cleared her mind. Attempts to leave her body and soar through the thi
ck windows were unsuccessful. Going over the events of that evening bore no fruit. She pulled her knees to her chin and sighed again. Her memory stretched like a wasteland before her, the gnarled roots of the barren trees were her thoughts, and the blowing sands her emotions. Why was it blocked? The more she struggled, the farther her landscape retreated until finally it seemed she was looking through a reed at the ocean.

  The metallic click of a key in the lock of the door brought her up and over the edge of the chair. Nadira positioned her robe quickly as the door opened and Di Marco entered, followed by three maids and a manservant.

  “You have been summoned, Nadira.” He said perfunctorily. “My servants will get you a bath and some suitable clothing. You depart immediately.” With those words he spun on his heels and retreated, leaving Nadira with the servants, already busy in the wardrobe. She narrowed her eyes. Did Di Marco not look wretched? On the other hand, was this her mind projecting its inner desert onto the canvas of his face? She felt a flush of excitement tingle in her bones. Anything was better than this room. She hoped she never saw it again.

  Nadira was lifted up onto the front of a large charger that came for her, this time surrounded by ten armed men, all mounted. She felt small in their company. Each man was tall and blond, a contingent from the north. She glanced up at the man on her right. She could see the bottom of his chin, his beard a tangle of sandy-colored wires, his eyes hidden by the rim of his helmet. He smelled like smoke and sweat. Her hands had been bound lightly with a soft cord. This man on her right held the end of the cord easily as though she were a spaniel, and mounted behind her. Nadira had no intention of escaping.

  The other men took up positions on all sides of her. She knew that her life was not in danger. She puzzled a moment. How do I know? Condemned prisoners were rarely kept in warm rooms and fed fine food, nor were they given wine and fruit. Nadira had been dressed in lovely silks. She glanced down and the modest gown she was wearing today. It was a fine silk dyed a somber brown that matched her eyes.

  The weather was dry and still, the first in a week. The fine weather probably the reason today that she should leave her handsome prison. The party moved out past one of the northern gates. It was still early enough that there was little traffic in the streets. Nadira admired the fine road beneath her, looked carefully at the houses and shops as they passed. Rome was much bigger than any city she had visited before, and the sun was rather high in the sky before her party passed though the northern gate. Outside the city there were more people coming and going. Some were camped directly outside the gates, others moved by prodding a donkey heavily laden with baskets.

  Nadira absorbed the sights eagerly, famished for the outside world after her long confinement. The fresh breeze, laden with moisture from the recent rains, tossed her hair playfully, pulling locks from their pins and whipping her nose. The fine road was a pleasure to travel compared to some of the roads she had traversed due to the paving stones and deep ditches and they made good time. As the sun neared the tops of the trees on the western horizon, the lead guard veered off the stone and onto a dirt track. Nadira held on tightly to the saddle as her mount leaped the transition rather than dirty his hooves in the mire that had collected in the ditch. Behind her, the others also took position, almost single file on the narrow track. They were moving away from the setting sun, the long shadows pointing toward a cottage not far away.

  “Is that where we are going, then?” Nadira asked when she was handed down from the horse in front of the cottage. She was not surprised that there was no reply. Instead, the guard reeled her in and positioned her against his thigh as he knocked his pommel to the door.

  A man in drab vestments pulled the door open. Nadira did not know what kind of priest he was, though she was relieved that he was not in black and white. He looked at her with fear and curiosity as he took the cord from the guard and led her into the room. Nadira looked back as the door closed. The guards stayed outside. The cottage was small, only the one room. She and her minder were alone now. The walls were plain, the plaster colored a dove gray. Fine tapestries hung on all sides, and a prominent altar stood at one end of the room. Several chairs took up the rest of the space. Opposite the altar stood a low table and a larger chair obviously for whoever had called the meeting. Nadira turned around, looked up at the ceiling, then at her minder. He was staring at her with the same deliberation she had put to the room. She smiled at him. Immediately he lowered his eyes and blushed heavily.

  “My name is Nadira,” she said as sweetly as possible. The priest shook his head, turned his eyes on the nearest tapestry. She moved to sit in one of the chairs. The priest played out her tether to allow the extra distance. Nadira sighed and leaned back in the chair, twisting her wrists to reposition the cords along another track on her wrists.

  She heard their footsteps before she heard the door open. The simple priest pulled the door further and bowed as the men filed in. Nadira stood and curtseyed deeply, looking up through her hair to watch them come in. She counted ten before the door closed behind her. She could not stifle a twitch as she heard the lock turn. Nadira would not know the men sitting there by sight. Most were not churchmen. One very small and ugly man was dressed in exquisite taste. He was staring at her rudely. She recognized him from her journeys as the French King.

  She swept her eyes, head still bowed, upon them all, trying to feel their intent. There was another man, dressed in the fashion of easterners. She frowned. His face looked familiar, though no name came to her mind. He, too, was staring at her with unconcealed interest. None of the men spoke to her, though low murmurs filled the room with a hum, and all eyes were on her. Nadira remained standing, her hands bound in front of her, waiting. Though she tried very hard to stifle the feeling, deep within her an ominous note of fear began to pulse in her middle. She tried to calm herself, for she knew very well that fear numbs the mind and turns a man or woman into an unthinking beast. Did not the sweet voice she heard while reading the book tell her she was safe? Did she not immediately feel the warmth of security and peace wash over her? Right now, her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could not hear the words of the prayer.

  Her eyes jumped about the room looking for an escape hole like a hare pursued by hounds. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps that lovely voice was the voice of a demon. Perhaps she is now betrayed. When she began to tremble, she realized she had lost her battle with icy fear. Her mouth was dry, but her throat kept trying to swallow what was not there. She thought of Montrose. He is not here. The thought calmed her somewhat. This time she was in danger and not he. He is safe, she thought.

  Another wave of uncertainty swept through her as the members of this party lay their eyes upon her. She wavered, taking a deep breath. Is this a trial? Nadira did not know enough about trials to tell. There were no instruments of torture in evidence. She scanned the faces for a Black Friar. None wore the distinctive white robes and black cowl she recognized from Barcelona. Nevertheless, this is Rome. Perhaps the dress is different here. She felt the warm tingle that encouraged a foray into the hearts of others. This might not be the best time, she thought, but another thought intruded: When is a better time? Nadira blinked.

  One of the men stood and the room fell into an expectant silence. Nadira recognized one of the cardinals from the night she read the book for the pope. He was dressed in a more modest version of his vestments, and covered by a thick cloak. He glanced at her briefly before turning his back to her to address the room.

  “Sire,” he nodded to the garishly dressed little man, “Gentlemen. Tonight we gather to discuss what will be done with this woman, and with the manuscripts brought to us from Aragon. Not all of you were present that fateful evening, though no doubt you have heard of what transpired. Some of you may believe this woman is a witch sent by Satan himself to tempt the pope with words. Others may be coveting the means to achieve the results promised by this woman. Sire, I know you sent word that you desire to purchase her should her abilit
ies be proven. His Holiness is eager to hear your offer. I assure you, we will not leave this room until every man here is satisfied with a decision. I wish to introduce Father Matteo, late from Toledo, on a mission from God to strike at heresy and the enemies of the Church, and His Holiness’ legate a latere.”

  Nadira blanched. She had not seen Father Matteo come in. Like ice, her hands froze at the end of the tether; numbness crept up her arms to her heart. Father Matteo stood up. He was not wearing the black hood of his order, but strode to the front of the room in dazzling white robes. Nadira had not recognized him without the cowl. This gathering was not a legal event, but an ordeal nonetheless. It was, in fact, a secret trial. She scanned the faces again. When she moved her head, she commanded the attention of all the men in the room. The cardinal looked over his shoulder at Nadira and narrowed his eyes.

  “You will each be given a chance to examine her,” he said, still looking at her, “before placing your vote.” He turned back to the room. “Sire?”

  The king nodded to the man seated next to him, an old man with a full head of white hair and a snowy beard stood and cleared his throat with a slight cough. He wore a black robe with a heavy chain across his chest. Nadira stared into his eyes. He looked at her with some sympathy. She felt that he must be an advisor of some kind. The modesty of his dress in contrast to the others did not suggest nobility, but perhaps a learned scholar. She steadied herself for his questions.

  He addressed her directly in Latin. “Please tell me where you were born and who your father is.”