by Rice, Anne
But where was Bianca?
“Show me her face,” I whispered, directing the mysterious Mind Gift by the sheer simplicity of my voice.
No picture came to me.
I shut my own eyes, which gave me exquisite pain, and I listened, hearing the hum of the entire city, and then begging, begging of the Mind Gift that it give me her voice, her thoughts.
Nothing, and then at last I hit upon it. Wherever she was, she was alone. She was waiting for me, and there were none around her to look upon her, or talk to her, and so I must find her in her silence or solitude, and at last I sent out my call to her.
Bianca, I am living. I am monstrously burnt as I’ve told you. As you once nursed Amadeo, can you extend your great kindness to me?
Scarcely a moment passed before I heard her distinct whisper.
“Marius, I can hear you. Only direct me. Nothing will frighten me. I will bind up your burnt skin. I will bind up your wounds.”
Oh, this was wondrous comfort, but what was I planning here? What did I mean to do?
Yes, she would come, and would bring to me fresh garments with which I could conceal my miserable flesh, and perhaps even a hooded cloak that my head should be concealed, and even a Carnival mask for my face.
Yes, all that was most true, she would do it, but what then when I found I could not hunt in this miserable state? And what if, hunting somehow, I discovered that the blood of one or two mortals meant nothing to me, that my injuries had been too great?
How then should I depend upon this tender darling to assist me? How deep into the horrors of my debility should I allow her to come?
Again I heard her voice.
“Marius,” she pleaded with me. “Tell me where you are. I’m in your house, Marius. It is much destroyed but not entirely. I wait for you in your old bedchamber. There is clothing here that I have gathered for you. Can you come?”
For a long while I did not answer her, not even to comfort her. I thought upon it in so far as one can think when one is feeling such pain. My mind was not my mind. Of that, I was certain.
And it did seem to me that in this great distress I could betray Bianca. I could betray her utterly were she to allow. Or I might only take from her some mercy, and leave her finally with a mystery which she would never understand.
The betrayal would be the more simple thing, obviously. The alternative, to take her mercy and leave her with a mystery, that would demand immense self-control.
I did not know whether or not I had such self-control. I did not know anything about myself in my misery. I remembered my long ago vow to her, that she would always be safe as long as I was in Venice, and I shuddered in agony envisioning the strong creature I had been on that night. Yes, I had vowed forever to protect her for the care she had given Amadeo, that she had saved him from death until I could come at sunset and take him out of her arms.
What did it all mean now? Was I to break that vow as though it were nothing?
And on and on there came her calls like prayers. She called to me as I had called to Akasha.
“Marius, where are you? Surely you can hear me. Marius, I have soft clothing for you that will not harm you. I have linen for your bandages. I have soft boots for your feet.” She wept as she spoke. “Marius, I have a soft tunic of velvet for you. I have one of your many red cloaks. Let me bring these things and come to you, and I shall bandage you and assist you. You are no horror to me.”
I lay there listening to her weeping, and then finally, I made up my mind.
You must come to me, precious one. I cannot move from where I am. Bring the clothing which you described, but bring also a mask, and you will find plenty of these in my closets. Bring one that is made of dark leather and decorated with gold.
“Marius, I have these things,” she answered. “Tell me where I must come.”
I then sent her another strong message, quite infallibly identifying the house in which I lay, and told her how she must come inside, find the door made of plated bronze, and then knock.
I was exhausted from the exchange. And once again, I listened in quiet panic for the sound of Santino’s monsters, wondering if and when they would return.
Yet in the eyes of Bianca’s boatman I soon caught an image of her coming out of the burnt ruin of my house. The gondola was on its way to me.
At last, there came the inevitable knock on the bronze door.
With all my strength I began my slow progress up the stone stairs.
I placed my hands upon the door.
“Bianca,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
“Marius!” she cried out. She began to sob. “Marius, I knew it was you. It was no trick of my mind. You’re truly alive, Marius. You’re here.”
I was aroused by the scent of her blood.
“Listen to me, precious darling,” I said. “I was burnt as you cannot imagine. When I open this door a very small space, you must give over to me the clothing and the mask. Do not seek to look at me no matter how curious you may be.”
“No, Marius,” she answered, her tone resolute. “I love you, Marius. I’ll do what you say.”
How plaintive were her sobs as they suddenly broke through. And how strong the smell of blood inside her. How hungry I was.
With all my strength, my blackened fingers managed to loosen the latch, and then I opened the door a small space.
The scent of her blood was as painful as all else that I suffered. I thought for a moment I cannot go on.
But the badly needed clothes were thrust at me, and I knew I must take them. I must somehow move to my restoration. I could not sink back in agony for that would breed but more agony. I must go on. Here was the mask of black leather, decorated in gold. Garments for a ball in Venice, not for one so miserable and ghastly as I.
Leaving the door with its small opening, I managed to dress myself fairly well.
She had brought a long tunic rather than a short one, and this was wise, for the stockings I might never have managed to put on. As for the boots, I was able to slip my feet inside them, much as this pained me, and the mask I tied to my face.
The cloak was of generous proportions and with a hood, which I cherished. I was soon covered from head to toe.
But what must I do now? What should I tell this angel of a young woman who stood in the chilled and dark corridor outside?
“Who has come with you?” I asked her.
“Only the boatman,” she said. “Did you not say come alone?”
“Perhaps I said it,” I answered. “My mind is clouded by pain.”
I heard her crying.
I struggled to think. I realized a harsh and terrible truth.
I could not hunt on my own because I wasn’t strong enough to venture forth from this place with any of my old gifts of speed or ascent and descent.
I could not rely upon her strength to help me in the hunt because she was entirely too weak for it, and to use her boatman was foolish if not downright impossible. The man would witness what I did, and he knew that I resided in this house!
Oh, how mad it all was. How weak I was. How very possible it was that Santino’s monsters might return. How important it was for me to leave Venice and seek the shrine of Those Who Must Be Kept. But how could this be done?
“Marius, please let me in,” she said softly. “I’m not afraid to see you. Please, Marius. Let me come in.”
“Very well,” I said. “Trust in me that I won’t harm you. Come down the stairs. Make your way carefully. Trust in me that whatever I tell you is the truth.”
With agonizing effort, I pushed the door open sufficiently so that she might come inside. A faint light filled the stairway and the chamber below. It was enough for my eyes. But not for hers.
With her delicate pale hand she groped her way after me, and she could not see how I crawled with my hands resting heavily again and again against the wall.
At last we had come to the bottom of the steps, and there she struggled to see, but she could not.
“I’m here, Bianca,” I said.
I knelt down, then seated myself on my heels, and gazing up at the torches that hung on the walls, I tried to light one of them with the Fire Gift.
I directed the power with all my strength.
I heard a faint crackling and then the torch kindled and the light exploded, hurting my eyes. The fire made me shiver, but we could not endure without it. The darkness had been worse.
She raised her tender hands to shelter her eyes from the brightness. Then she looked at me.
What did she see?
She covered her mouth and gave a muffled scream.
“What have they done to you?” she asked. “Oh, my beautiful Marius. Tell me how to remedy this and I will.”
I saw myself in her gaze, a hooded being of burnt black sticks for neck and wrists with gloves for hands and a floating leather mask for a face.
“And how do you think that can be done, my beautiful Bianca?” I asked. “What magic potion can bring me back from what I am now?”
Her mind was in confusion. I caught a tangle of images and memories, of misery and hope.
She looked about herself at the glittering golden walls. She stared at the shining marble sarcophagi. Then her eyes returned to me. She was aghast but unafraid.
“Marius,” she said, “I can be your acolyte as surely as Amadeo was. Only tell me how.”
At the mention of Amadeo’s name my eyes filled with tears. Oh, to think this burnt body had within it the blood of tears.
She dropped to her knees so that she might look directly into my eyes. Her cloak fell open and I saw the rich pearls around her throat and her pale breasts. She had worn one very fine gown for this enterprise, not caring how its hem would catch the dirt or the damp.
“Oh, my lovely jewel,” I said to her, “how I have loved you both in innocence and guilt. You don’t know how much I have lusted after you, both as monster and man. You don’t know how I’ve turned my hunger from you when it was something I could scarce control.”
“Oh, but I do know,” she said. “Do you not remember the night you came to me, accusing me for the crimes I’d committed? Do you not remember how you confessed your thirst for my blood? Surely I have not become since then the pure and simple damsel of a children’s tale.”
“Perhaps you have, my pretty one,” I said. “Perhaps you have. Oh, it’s gone, isn’t it? My whole world. It’s gone. I think of the feasts, the masquerades, the dancing, it’s gone, all my paintings burnt.”
She began to cry.
“No, don’t cry. Let me cry for it. It was all my doing. Because I didn’t slay one who despised me. And they have taken Amadeo prisoner. Me, they burnt because I was too strong for their designs, but Amadeo they took!”
“Stop it, Marius, you rave,” she said fearfully. She put out her hand and touched my gloved fingers.
“Oh, but I must rave just for a moment. They took him and I could hear him begging them for explanations, and all the boys, they took the boys too. Why did they do this?”
I stared at her through the mask, unable to imagine what she saw or read from this strange artificial countenance in her heated mind. The scent of her blood was almost overpowering and her sweetness seemed part of another world.
“Why did they let you live, Bianca, for surely I had not come in time?”
“Your pupils, those were the ones they wanted,” she answered, “they captured them in nets. I saw the nets. I screamed and screamed and screamed out of the front doorway. They did not care about me except to draw you on, and what could I do when I saw you but cry out for your help against them? Did I do wrong? Is it wrong that I’m alive?”
“No, don’t think such. No.” I reached out as carefully as I could and squeezed her hand with my gloved fingers. “You must tell me if this grip is too strong.”
“Never too strong, Marius,” she said. “Oh, trust in me as you ask that I trust in you.”
I shook my head. The pain was so terrible I couldn’t speak for a moment. My mind and body both were pain. I could not endure what had befallen me. I could not endure the hopeless climb which stood before me and my future self.
“We remain here together, you and I,” she said, “when surely there is much to be done to heal you. Let me serve your magic. I have already told you that I will.”
“But what do you truly know of it, Bianca? Have you truly understood?”
“Is it not blood, my lord?” she asked. “Do you think I cannot remember when you took Amadeo, dying, into your own arms? Nothing could have saved him such as that transformation which I saw forever after in him. You know that I saw it. I knew. You know that I did.”
I closed my eyes. I took my breaths slowly. The pain was terrible. Her words were lulling me and making me believe that I was not miserable, but where would this path lead?
I tried to read her mind but in my exhaustion I could not.
I wanted so to touch her face, and then believing in the softness of the glove, I did it, stroking her cheek. The tears welled in her eyes.
“Where is Amadeo gone?” she said desperately.
“South by sea,” I confessed, “and to Rome, that is my belief on it, but don’t question me now as to why. Let me say only that it was an enemy of mine who made this siege upon my house and those I love, and in Rome is where he dwells, and those he sent to harm me and Amadeo come from Rome.
“I should have destroyed him. I should have foreseen this. But in vanity I displayed my powers to him, and brushed him aside. And so he sent his followers in great numbers so that I couldn’t overcome them. Oh, how foolish I was not to divine what he would do. But what is the use of saying it now? I’m weak, Bianca. I have no means to reclaim Amadeo. I must somehow regain my own strength.”
“Yes, Marius,” she said. “I understand you.”
“I pray with all my heart that Amadeo uses the powers I gave him,” I confessed, “for they were great and he’s very strong.”
“Yes, Marius,” she said. “I understand what you say.”
“It’s to Marius that I look now,” I said again guiltily and sadly. “It’s to Marius that I look, for I must.”
A silence fell between us. There was no sound except the crackling of the torch in its sconce high on the wall.
Again I tried to read her mind, but I could not. It was not only my weakness. It was a resolute quality in her just now. For though she loved me, there were thoughts conflicting in her, and a wall had been thrown up to keep me from knowing what they were.
“Bianca,” I said in a low voice, “you saw the transformation in Amadeo, but did you really understand?”
“I did, my lord,” she said.
“You can guess the source of his strength forever after that night?”
“I know it, my lord,” she answered.
“I don’t believe you,” I said gently. “You dream when you say you know.”
“Oh, but I do know, Marius. As I have only just reminded you, I recall only too well how you came into my very bedchamber thirsting for my blood.”
She reached out to touch the sides of my face in consolation.
I put up my gloved hand to stop her.
“I knew then,” she said, “that you fed upon the dead somehow. That you took their souls, or perhaps only their blood. I knew then it was one or the other, and the musicians who fled that banquet at which you’d slain my kinsmen—they spoke of your giving my unfortunate cousins a kiss of death.”
I gave a low soft laugh.
“How very careless I was, and believed myself to be so masterly. What a strange thing. And no wonder is it that I have fallen so far.”
I took again a deep breath, feeling the pain all through me, and the thirst unbearably. Had I ever been that powerful creature who so dazzled many that he could slaughter a gathering of mortals and no one would dare accuse save in whispers? Had I ever …? But there was too much to remember, and for how long would I reme
mber before even the smallest part of my power was restored?
But she was staring at me with brilliant inquisitive eyes.
Then came from my lips the truth which I could no longer hide.
“It was the blood of the living, beautiful girl, always the blood of the living,” I said desperately. “It is the blood of the living and only the blood of the living and must be the blood of the living, do you understand? It’s how I exist and always have existed since I was taken out of mortal life by malicious and disciplined hands.”
She made a small frown as she stared at me, but she did not look away. Then she nodded as if to tell me that I might go on.
“Come close to me, Bianca,” I whispered. “Believe me when I tell you that I existed when Venice was nothing. When Florence had not risen, I was alive. And I cannot linger long here suffering. I must find blood to restore me. I must have it. I must have it as soon as I can.”
Again she nodded. She stared at me as firmly as before. She was shivering, and she brought up out of her clothes a linen handkerchief and wiped at her tears.
What could these words mean to her? They must have sounded like old poetry. How could I expect her to grasp what I had said?
Her eyes never wavered.
“The Evil Doer,” she confessed suddenly. “My lord, Amadeo told me,” she whispered. “I cannot play the game any longer that I don’t know. You feed upon the Evil Doer. Don’t be angry. Amadeo confided his secret a long time ago.”
I was angry. Instantly and completely, I was angry, but what did it matter? Hadn’t this dreadful catastrophe swept everything in its path?
So Amadeo had confided the secret to our beauteous Bianca after all his tears and promises to me! So I had been the fool for confiding in a mere child. So I had been the fool to let Santino live! What did it matter now?
She had grown still and was staring at me yet, her eyes full of the fire of the torch, her lower lip trembling, and a sigh coming out of her as though she was about to cry again.
“I can bring the Evil Doer here to this chamber,” she said, her face quickening. “I can bring the Evil Doer down these very steps.”
