The Blessed

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Piero broke off and fully turned to study Hasani, trembling and wide-eyed in the corner. The man stared into the distance, as if watching a troubling scene play out before him. His breathing was shallow and fast.

  The small priest pulled Gianni to a halt, not wishing their movement to disturb the seer’s vision. Patiently they waited for Hasani’s vision to come to an end. Never before had they witnessed their friend in the midst of one.

  When it ended, Hasani slumped against the wall.

  Gianni took a step toward him, but the tall man was already righting himself. He glanced at Piero and Gianni and then looked away, as if embarrassed at having been caught. How long had it gone on? Could he control it at all?

  “You must draw what you have seen,” Piero said.

  But Hasani was already on the move. They trailed him upstairs, to the count’s private hall, to the desk, parchment, and ink that Gianni knew Armand had given Hasani permission to use at any time.

  “Is it all right, man?” Gianni asked. “To watch you work?”

  Hasani ignored him, already pulling the stopper out of the ink.

  “I would take that as approval,” Piero said with a dry smile.

  He was clumsy at first, eager to get the drawing down, as if fearful he might forget what he had seen. They soon saw that there were three drawings, and Hasani did a rough outline of one, moved to the next, then the next.

  Gianni eyed Piero. They could not yet make anything out of any of the drawings.

  Hasani moved the other two drawings to a side table in order to dry without smearing, and set upon the first with amazing skill and speed. In short order, Gianni could make out Abramo, with his eye patch, walking with two cardinals, men Gianni did not know. “Mayhap Boeri can identify them,” he whispered to Piero.

  “We must warn these men of the evil in their midst,” Piero said.

  “Mayhap they are already one with him. We must tread carefully.”

  Piero groaned. Even after all they had seen, discovered, witnessed, it pained him to see Christian brothers potentially deceived and in league with the enemy.

  In minutes, the second drawing was taking more shape: a giant of a man, hovering with the hilt of a sword in both hands, ready to pierce another on the ground with full force. As Hasani added facial features, he paused and glanced briefly at Gianni. Sweat dripped down his black temples and down his neck.

  The giant was Ciro, the knight who had taken Hasani captive in Venezia, stolen the papers he carried that declared him a freed man. The one who had haunted them in Siena, nearly taken them down on Amidei’s dark isle. The leader on the pier, who had ordered the archers to send their arrows flying toward Gianni, piercing Piero instead. A man close to both Amidei and del Buco. The same man who had threatened Daria again and again.

  “Still alive, it seems,” Gianni growled, kicking out his chin, urging Hasani to move on, do what he must.

  Hasani dipped his quill in the ink, glanced at Gianni again, and completed his drawing.

  The man on the ground was Gianni, wounded, his own sword several paces away. Gianni stared at the illustration for several minutes, unmoving.

  So this was how it would end for him? Dead by Ciro’s sword?

  He laughed hollowly. “Do I not even deserve Amidei’s own blade? Vincenzo’s? Will the Lord not honor me in death with an equal opponent?”

  “Cease,” said Piero. “Do not continue that train of thought. You do not know what will happen before this moment”—he paused to tap the drawing—“nor after it.”

  “Look at it, Father,” Gianni said bitterly, waving at the parchment in agitation. “You, a holy man, may not recognize a death blow, but I do.” He pounded his chest. He wanted to live . . . live to get through this with Daria and the others and see them all to a time of peace. He wanted to return to Italia with Daria, to know a life with her that did not include constant danger. He wanted . . .

  He turned away, hiding the sudden tears in his eyes. Rune and Basilio’s deaths were too recent, the threat too real. Hasani had seen them struck down as well, before it happened . . .

  “My son, Hasani also saw me ‘die’ at the hands of our enemy. Remember Ambrogio’s description of me upon the cell wall? As it was seen, it occurred. I was struck by those arrows, but the Lord, in his great mercy”—Piero paused to cross himself—“saw fit to restore me to you all. Mayhap you will find a way as well. Mayhap God has shown this to you so that you shall be ready to avoid Ciro’s death blow.”

  Hasani grunted, gaining their attention as he sketched, fast and furiously, a driven man. He completed two more figures in the drawing, beyond Ciro and Gianni, near a tree. The tiny muscles in his cheeks and the veins along his neck bulged as he worked, adding detail. Drops of sweat fell from his brow to the drawing, smearing it a bit.

  But they all could clearly make out the two figures.

  It was Abramo, with one hand around Daria’s slender throat.

  The men all paused for several long moments. “And so our battle will continue with Amidei as well as with the Church,” Piero muttered.

  Gianni swallowed hard, trying to get past the disappointment. He could endeavor to defend Daria all he wished, but all their lives were in God’s hands. Was this their end? Daria strangled by Abramo? Himself eviscerated by Ciro?

  Piero reached up and pulled down on Gianni’s shoulder. “God has not seen us all this way to watch us die. I tell you, this is not the end.”

  Gianni ignored him, unable to tear his eyes from Abramo’s gloved hand upon Daria’s throat, her eyes, wide in terror . . . when they had saved her from the isle, she had borne bruises upon her neck, made by that same hand . . .

  “Gianni de Capezzana!”

  He glanced at the priest. “I tell you,” the short man repeated, inserting himself between the drawing and the knight, pushing him a step backward, “this is not the end of the story. It shall serve us as a warning. Nothing more. Do you not see? We have an advantage. God has shown us how dire this moment will be. Who is missing in this picture? Who?”

  He moved away so Gianni could once again look upon the drawing. He noticed more details. Rocks and cypress trees more common to Italia than this dry and arid land they abided in now. But the priest was right. There was no sign of . . . “Vito. Ugo. Hasani. You. Gaspare . . . any of the others.”

  “So any of us might yet come to your aid.” The priest tapped the drawing with a stubby finger.

  “Unless we are alone, separated somehow.”

  “Which we shall not let happen.” He took the bigger man by the shoulders, attempted to shake him. “Faith, man. God is asking you to dig deep again, into the depths of his courage, valor, promise. Hope. Battle against this darkness,” he said, waving backward at the illustration. “But prepare for what is to come. We must see this warning as a gift, always a gift.”

  Gianni lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes wearily. Daybreak was only a few short hours away. Daria most likely already slumbered upon their bed . . .

  “Shall we show this to Daria, too, then?”

  Both men looked at him with alarm, shaking their heads.

  “She would be furious if she were to find it and know we kept it from her,” Gianni said.

  “She would be nearly incapacitated once she saw it,” Piero said firmly. “You know how she fears being taken by Amidei again. We have enough work to do in simply preparing her to see him, in the flesh, in Avignon. He is there, as Hasani has seen, working his magic among the lesser cardinals.” Piero glanced back at Hasani and nodded in relief. “Nay. You see Hasani is in agreement. He knows when it is right to share his drawings and when it is not.”

  Hasani was hovering over the third illustration, waiting. At last they realized that he waited for them to depart.

  Neither man spoke as they left the room and then parted company in the hall, both lost in thought.

  If Hasani did not want them to see the third, just what would it depict?

  Gianni gently opened the door t
o the luxurious quarters Count Armand had assigned them. A fire had burned down to coals, no longer giving off much heat. As expected, Daria was deep in slumber, lying on her side. Gianni raised his candle, letting the flickering flame wash his wife’s curve and contour. Her hair lay in curling waves across the pillow behind her, having escaped her sleeping cap. Her breathing was soft and steady, peaceful. He undressed and slipped hurriedly from the cold of the room under the feather-filled blanket, just behind Daria.

  Carefully, he moved to mirror the bend of her legs, so that she was cupped, enfolded by his body. He moved a tendril of hair aside and slowly, gently kissed her neck, the very neck he had to protect, somehow, some way.

  She stirred, moving sensuously before him, and then awakened with a gasp, springing away from him.

  “Daria?” he asked in concern.

  She was at the edge of the bed, facing him with eyes wild in fear.

  “Daria, ’tis me. Your husband.”

  She panted and frowned, as if trying to force his words to filter through her foggy mind and settle her frightened heart. Slowly she stood up straight and pushed back the hair from her face, leaving a hand on her head. “Forgive me, Gianni,” she whispered, turning partially away, lost in thought.

  “ ’Tis I who should apologize,” he said, rising and coming around the bed to her. He opened his arms, waited for her to enter them, then held her close, letting his fingers massage her scalp. “Your mind went to him, yes? Our enemy?”

  She nodded.

  Gianni sighed and still held her. “He manhandled you. Abused you. But attempted tenderness as well? Seduction?”

  She paused, and then nodded again. It was a wonder they had been able to consummate their marriage at all, if images of such abuse were in his wife’s head.

  “Daria, my love. We must speak plainly, in order that you might be free of it. Did Amidei force himself upon you?”

  He held his breath, then let it out slowly as she shook her head.

  He took her face between his hands, waited for her big, olive eyes to meet his. “Did he try?”

  “Nay,” she said softly, taking his hands into her own. “He always said I must choose to be his servant in such a manner. It seemed important that I chose it willingly. That he would be more my conqueror, somehow. But he . . . he came to me . . . mayhap it was magic . . .”

  Seeing she was paling, Gianni led her to the edge of the bed and knelt before her, tucking her hair behind her ears and then taking her hands again, waiting.

  “In Venezia, in the Morassi mansion. Somehow, when I was changing for the dance . . . the contessa slumbered. I was changing, looking at my image in the mirror. And I thought it was you, Gianni.” Her eyes searched his, desperately asking him to believe her. “It was about then that I knew I was falling in love with you. And I was aghast at my own wanton nature, but I welcomed your touch. For you were in the room with me—I thought you had sought me out. I was staring in the mirror and you were behind me, touching me, kissing me on the neck . . .”

  Gianni furrowed his brow in confusion and shook his head. “In the mansion? I was seeking you, but—”

  “It was him,” she interrupted bitterly. “Abramo. Some magic trick, making me believe it was you at first. But it was his hands. His lips upon my neck.” She shook her head, shivered. “I know not how he accomplished it. When I looked back to the mirror, I saw his face, not yours. I screamed, and then he was gone.”

  “The Sorcerer,” Gianni said simply. “We know he was about. Undoubtedly it was he who caused the fire. And I’ve experienced his black magic as well. The way he seems to be present . . . as he appeared to you in Dimitri’s mansion.”

  “He was outside,” she said, staring at the candle, her eyes still lost in dark memory. Never had they spoken of that night, that night when she was lost to Gianni in Venezia. “I awakened in the water, the Canalazzo. The Morassis’ mansion was afire—”

  “Yes. I was looking for you, mad with worry,” he said, tenderly touching her face, anguished by the memories of his failure to protect her.

  “And he pulled me from the water and closed his hand upon my neck, until I could no longer breathe.”

  Gianni swallowed hard.

  “I clawed at his hand, but he knew right where to press. My vision swam . . . all I remember is the great flames of the house becoming like waving streams across the sky. And then I was gone. I awakened a prisoner upon his isle. Bound. Alone. So cold . . .”

  She looked back to him, noted his own anguish, and pulled him closer, so that their heads were together. “Forgive me, husband. Forgive me for dredging up such dark visions of our past.”

  “Visions of our past, but not so distant. Amidei remains near, seemingly intent on killing us if he cannot capture us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed soberly. “The abuse was meant as a means to sway me, beat me into submission, into doing as Abramo wanted. Denying him, then wounding him, there was the line in the sand. I do not doubt that if he gets the opportunity again, he shall try and kill us all.”

  Gianni avoided looking into her eyes, fearful she would see the note of foreknowledge within his own—afraid she would force the truth from him about what Hasani had forseen—frustrated that they could not flee this place, go east, west, anywhere there might be safety. Why them? Why now? Why must they be the ones to carry out such a mission? And yet, now that they knew what they did, the import of their task, how could they do anything but everything possible to succeed?

  “Daria, I know not where this will lead us. If you and I shall ever share any semblance of a normal marital life. You know that I will do whatever possible to protect and guide you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said in response, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  “You know that I will forfeit my own life to protect your own?”

  She nodded.

  “But Daria, my sweet and lovely wife. We are here, together now, by the grace of God. By some miracle, you have bowed low to welcome me as your adoring husband. And I am thankful,” he said, kissing her hands, bathing them with his tears, “so utterly thankful that our God has graced us with this reprieve, this joy in the midst of the sorrow.”

  Daria leaned forward and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. “Gianni, faithful and true. No woman could ask for more from her husband. We shall trust our fate to the Lord. We are seen and watched over by his own angels. I shall strive not to forget it.”

  “Even now our enemy plays upon our fears. Our memories of the dark, hoping we will forget the light.” He shook his head in dismay, frustration. “I am weak, Daria. I, supposedly gifted in faith, faithless.”

  “Nay, Gianni. Speak not such untruths. Your faith is ever present and serves us well. You are merely still mortal.” She waited until he met her eyes and smiled. “Come, husband. I bid you come, now, to our bed. I want you and only you in my head when I feel kisses upon my neck. Come and make over my memory. Heal the healer.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Avignon

  To one he appealed through sin and deviancy, to another he appealed through rules and righteousness. It mattered not how they came, Abramo decided, as long as they came to him.

  Before arriving in the city of the pope, he had counted upon the support of three cardinals, already in debt to him in one way or another, all with a history of licentiousness that he could feed. In the week since his arrival, he had met with three more, two of which were more swayed by his rhetoric of restoring the Church to glory, of pulling in the faithful through the ascetic tones of rigorous rules and guidelines. Of controlling with severe punishment. To these three he went in a simple robe, his wealth evident only in a heavy emerald ring he wore upon his left middle finger.

  The last two, Cardinal Corelli of Pisa and Cardinal Gabriel Morano of Madrid, were exceedingly close to Pope Cornelius. Morano was his closest advisor, famous for swaying him to issuing several widely discussed edicts, one that protected the Jews in their quarter of Avign
on from daybreak to sunset—praised throughout the land in spite of how many cities treated their Jewish population; another that increased taxation throughout the papal realm in order to gain the funds needed to complete his new palace, and the last to put in place an indulgence—paid to the Church, of course—that would supposedly speed a loved one’s passage through purgatory and on to heaven in half the normal time. The indulgence was unique in that it paired both financial compensation and a pilgrimage to an established holy site at least a month’s travel away, which the good cardinal saw as aiding the pilgrim’s faith as much as the dead loved one.

  Nonsense and foolishness, Abramo thought. But if that was what the cardinal favored, he would help inspire more of it. Hard-nosed and given to ascetic punishment of the flesh, Abramo knew exactly how he would draw Morano in, first as confessor and guide, making him think he was forming Amidei’s mind and spirit, while all the time, Abramo would wind his fingers around the roots of the man’s heart, until the time of consequence came, and he could pull those roots as a puppeteer pulled his doll’s strings.

  Ah yes, Gabriel Morano was a difficult and challenging conquest. But the master had shown him exactly what to do, how to win him, own him. And if he won Morano, Corelli would undoubtedly follow. Then, with these six powerful cardinals in hand, they would be prepared for the Gifted to enter Avignon, and would take them apart by using their own precious Church. Stefani? Boeri? They would not be able to stand against them.

  Cardinal Morano entered the sitting room at last, and Abramo rose and bowed in deference, leaning forward to kiss the man’s ruby ring. He was dressed in the common red hat with wide brim and tassels that his contemporaries wore, but Abramo noticed there was no white ermine liner to his red cape, only simple, white silk. He was a handsome man, not much older than himself.

  “Your Eminence, God be praised that you would see me,” he said humbly, staring at the floor for a long moment, as if gathering his words. He did not look up nor rise. “I am a noble in need of a confessor and you, being a cleric of the highest standing, came to my mind as the perfect man for the task. Will you hear my confession?”