by Tarr, Judith
“No doubt. My existence itself, for that matter, could be reckoned a blasphemy.” Alf moved toward the warmth of the brazier, stirring the coals to new life, adding a fresh handful. The ruddy light limned his face, deepening the hollows beneath eye and cheekbone, turning the smooth youthful features to an ageless mask. “You may still ask us to leave, and we’ll go without complaint. We never meant to presume so long on your hospitality.”
“I told you not to talk about it. Besides, if you left, Brother Oddone would be prostrated. He wants to do a statue next, I think. Saint Raphael the Healer.”
Alf smiled almost invisibly. “Maybe I’ll be its first miracle.”
“Not likely. Oddone is claiming that honor for himself. He swears he hasn’t had a cough or a shiver since Saint Benedict’s Day.”
“I’m glad of that. You should cherish him. Brother Prior; he has a rare and wonderful talent. Nor will he live long, even with Saint Raphael’s help. God’s hand is on him.”
“I call it consumption,” Giacomo said harshly, “and I’m anything but blind to it. The truth is that Oddone says you cured him. He’s convinced that you’re an archangel in disguise.”
Alf laughed with genuine mirth. For an instant he looked a boy again, the shadows held at bay in the deep places of his eyes. “Brother, you ease me, you and your beloved artist.” From the bed he took what apparently had brought him there, the folded cloak. He bowed to Giacomo, smiled at Jehan, and turned to go.
The Prior held up a hand. Alf paused, brow lifted. With a scowl of frustration Giacomo waved him away.
24.
Now he would do it. Now he would tell her. Now she would know what he was.
Nikki made a litany of it, striding blindly through streets grown familiar, as oblivious to both marvels and commonplaces as any Roman born. His nose and his feet between them took him past the tavern to the scrivener’s shop.
There his feet would go no farther. He could not mount the stair. He could only stare into the shop, realizing very slowly that the pale gleam within was candlelight on Uncle Gregorios’ bald head. The scribe was at work over a heap of documents.
“Behind again,” he said by way of greeting, “thanks to all the uproar with the marriage contracts. Did you hear? No? Herminia Capelli was to marry Pietro Brentano, which was much to the advantage of both families, and which was very much to the taste of the bridal couple. But she was a widow with a young son, and there were properties settled on her on the boy’s behalf; and someone somewhere had found an irregularity in the contract of that first marriage, which affected the inheritance and possibly the legitimacy of the union itself. Now if the marriage was improperly sealed and the boy improperly conceived...”
Gregorios’ words washed over Nikki, sharp yet soothing, demanding nothing but a nod now and then. Nikki moved about the cramped confines of the shop, attacked a sheet of parchment with pumice until it took on the sheen of raw silk, trimmed the pens laid in a box for the purpose, scraped smooth the wax tablets Gregorios used for jottings and for teaching the pupils who came to him in the mornings to learn a little Greek.
One tablet bore nothing but row on row of staggering alphas; in spite of himself Nikki smiled. New pupil, surely. He almost regretted the stroke that smoothed the tablet into waxy anonymity.
The voice had stopped. Gregorios, with his usual finesse, had ended tale and document together; he held a stick of wax to the candle’s flame, gathering each scarlet droplet on the bottom of the parchment. Nikki set in his hand the heavy notary’s seal; he nodded his thanks.
There was little in his face to suggest his kinship with Stefania. He was a little shorter than Nikki, neither fat nor thin, with a square-cut face and a strong blunt nose. As if to make up for the bareness of his head, his brows were thick and black and long enough to curl, beetling over the sudden blue gleam of his eyes; and his beard, though sheared short, sprang forth with a will and a vigor all its own.
He looked mildly alarming, yet somehow, like Stefania, he struck Nikki with his perfect rightness. He could not be other than he was.
For a witch’s fosterling, Nikki was dismayingly forgetful of the power of names. Even as he named her in his mind she was there, holding back the curtain that concealed the inner stair, regarding them with a total lack of surprise.
Her relief was an undertaste as sweet as honey, a deep swelling joy to see Nikephoros there, healthy, holding her uncle’s seal. Where he belonged, she almost thought. But not quite.
He could have cried aloud. He should have fled.
Gregorios muttered something about supper, and was it that late already? He squeezed past Stefania, trudging up the steep narrow steps.
She poised, alert, ready to bolt. A blush came and went in her cheeks. Her voice was more trustworthy; she kept it light and easy. “You look well, Nikephoros. You’ll stay for supper, of course; even if Uncle could forgive you for refusing, Bianca never would.”
He stepped toward her. She held her ground. He set his hands on her shoulders. Did she tremble? He was frightening her; she thought he might, after all, be ill.
No, he said. No, Stefania.
She was staring directly at him. She did not see. He kissed the lid of each beautiful blind eye. Very gently he set his lips to her forehead. Milady philosopher, I fear, I very much fear—
“Love is natural and inevitable.” She said it a little quickly, a little breathlessly.
On whose great authority do you make that pronouncement?
“My own.” Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair. She envied what she saw as his wry calm. “No doubt you’ve often found it so. Natural; inescapable.”
He shook his head slowly, not denying anything, struggling to do what he must do and say what he must say. It was all framed and ready. Stefania Makaria, you can’t love me. You don’t know what I am. I’m a liar; I’ve deceived you. These very words are false, not words at all but purest witchery. I’m a witch, an enchanter, a shaper of spells. I was born a cripple, deaf and mute, and so in spite of my sorceries do I remain. I’m never the lover you deserve.
He got only as far as her name. Stefania—
She pulled free from him, but far more from a swelling desire. To kiss him there, where one black curl fell just athwart his forehead. To kiss him there, where hair mingled with young downy beard, curling against the arch of his ear. And to kiss him there on the fine modeling of his mouth, just where he would be warmest, except for—
Where did a maiden ever learn such things? Surely not in Aristotle!
She thought she had spoken unawares, he in response. Her cheeks were scarlet. “Come up to supper,” she said, “before it gets cold.”
He reached again. His hand fell short. Wait, yes, and tell them all, test them all, take all the pain at once and have it over. He snuffed the candle and followed her out of the shop.
Bianca was full of senile nonsense. Stefania was chattering incessantly and to no perceptible purpose. Gregorios overrode them both at intervals with words that meant nothing.
Nikki must have nodded, smiled, responded properly; no one seemed concerned. His body fed itself hungrily enough to satisfy Bianca.
He tasted nothing. Maybe he grew a little drunk. They had brought out the Falernian for him, and his cup was always full.
The pup appeared somewhere between the serving of the fish and the consumption of its last morsel. For that final bit was cooling in Nikki’s fingers and the needle-teeth were disposing of it with a good will, their owner curled comfortably in Nikki’s lap.
He seemed to have been there for a goodly while. A handsome pup; a thoroughbred, or Nikki had never learned his way around a kennel.
Except for the eyes. There was something wrong with them. They could see very well indeed, no doubt of that. They were bright with intelligence, alert to every movement.
They were silver. They were gold. They were pupiled like a cat’s.
Like a cat’s.
Nikki gripped the wriggling shape. Where d
id you get this pup? he demanded across the currents of conversation. Where did it come from?
His tone brought them all around upon him, amazed. “Why,” Stefania said, “he came to us. Haven’t you been listening? He found me, or more properly my basket, in the market. He introduced me to his companion. Poor woman, she looked as if she’d been locked in someone’s dungeon and then turned loose to beg, but she spoke to me in Latin, and it turned out that she was a philosopher, too. She came home with me, she and the imp; she’s very ill or she’d be down here to—”
Nikki never heard the rest. He was already gone.
oOo
The bed was Stefania’s, demure in its blue coverlet. Anna lay in it in the deep sleep of exhaustion.
She was a little thinner than he remembered, maybe; not that she had ever had any more flesh than a bird. Her skin had the sallow tinge it always had when she stayed too long out of the sun. Even in sleep her mouth was set tight.
The pup scrambled out of his slackened grip and onto the bed. Unlike any other young creature Nikki had ever known of, he did not pummel Anna into wakefulness; he met Nikki’s stare and said very clearly, You are my uncle. Mother told me. I saw you in her thoughts—the one with the basket and the fish. She’s full of you.
You, said Nikki, could never be anything but Alf’s son and Thea’s. What are you doing in that body?
He inspected each paw, his belly, his back and the white whip of his tail. It’s my body.
You don’t remember— Nikki broke off. Cynan’s puzzlement was transparent. Nikki’s throat swelled shut. His cool curiosity had shattered over the roil of his emotions. Alf, he said faintly. Alf. For God’s love, Alf! His cry echoed in the void, unheard, unanswered.
The room flooded with unbearable brightness. Nikki flung up his hand against it.
“What are you doing, standing here in the dark?” demanded Stefania. She set the lamp on the table by the bed, gathering Cynan to her and scratching his ears until he groaned with pleasure. “Do you know this woman?”
Yes. Nikki was curt, lest he break and scream aloud. This is my sister. The one I told you of.
She blinked. “Are you sure?”
I know my own kin! He snatched Cynan and set him down with force enough to stagger him. Where were they when you found them?
“I was over by Sant’ Angelo in Pescheria when the pup started following me and begging me to notice him. Then he ran away and I went to Rocco’s to see if he’d found any new books, and the imp came back with Anna. I’ve told you the rest.”
I found her, said Cynan. Stop thinking I’m too young. I’ve got power.
Then tell me how, where, when— Nikki shook with eagerness, with fear. This could be a trap. Or an illusion; or a dream on the verge of becoming nightmare.
Cynan crouched on the coverlet near Anna’s hand, ears flat to his head. I can’t tell, he said in a very small voice. He won’t let me.
Who?
I can’t tell. Mother told me to, but he’s too strong. He laughed when he let me go. Cynan snapped viciously at air. I hate him!
That was all he would say, for all Nikki’s pressing. He bristled and cowered; he warded himself with both strength and skill, fierce in his terror.
Nikki could not torment him so. He cradled the small beast-body with its great fire of power, thinking calm and ease and freedom from fear. But behind it echoed a constant cry: Alf! Why won’t you come?
I have. It rang in the room, strong and sweet as the note of a bell. The door was too low for Alf’s height; he stooped to pass it.
Stefania’s eyes went wide as she looked up and up. Her breath caught once for the height of him; once again, sharply, for his face. He did not even see her.
Anna sat up with a high sharp cry. Cynan lunged savagely, slashing at the hand that stretched to him. Nikki swayed toward the witch-child, swayed back toward his sister, seizing her, shaking her as hard as he could bear to. She would not stop babbling. “I won’t go back. I won’t, I won’t!”
Anna, Nikki willed her. Anna, it’s Nikki. You’re free. Alf is here, see, he won’t let you go away.
“Not Alf. Simon, Simon Magus, I can’t bear—”
Alf shook her far harder than Nikki had, ruthless in his strength. “Look at me, Anna. Look at me!”
She had no choice but to obey. Her eyes glittered in the lamplight. Her face worked. “You—you aren’t—you can’t be. You’re dead!”
“Only half,” he said without humor. “Anna, is Thea—”
“Alive.”
“Alive,” he repeated, soft as a prayer. He drew a long breath. “Thank God. When Nikki called me, when I knew—I thought it was ended. She was dead. My son, my daughter—”
“Cynan is here.” Rigid on the floor, staring as if he could not stop, beginning to tremble.
Alf approached him slowly. He flattened. But he let Alf gather him up, the thin hands not quite steady themselves, the face and the voice carefully quiet. “Ah, child, are you afraid of me?”
Cynan moved within the curve of Alf’s arm, still staring. I remember, he said. I remember. He tried to make me forget. Quickly, with utterly unwonted timidity, he thrust his nose into Alf’s hand. You were there when the world was born.
Alf had had almost all he could bear. Nikki moved before he could break, too intent to be afraid, reaching to shake the steel-hard shoulder. You’ve got him back, he said forcefully. And Anna. The others are alive. We’ll find them soon. I know it.
“You’d better,” Anna said.
Bold though her words were, her hands faltered, reaching for Alf as if her touch would dissolve him into air. “It’s you. It is you. What are you doing in Rome?”
“Looking for you.”
She surged up outraged. “You left Rhiyana? You abandoned it when it needed you so much? Gwydion could dead by now. Aidan is dead. And you’ve been—”
Aidan is dead? Nikki seized her again, this time with real force, and no compassion at all for her bruised shoulders. How do you know?
“She doesn’t,” Alf said. He sounded weary but calm, in full control of himself. He would pay for that later, but for now Nikki was glad. “Your captor mistook my vanishing under Nikki’s shields for my death. Perhaps Aidan found a way to deceive him likewise.”
“I saw it. I saw him fall. Why weren’t you there?”
“I was commanded. I was given no choice.”
She turned her back on him. Nikki could have hit her. She could be unreasonable—she had been in prison, she had suffered, she did not know truly what she did. But this was cruel.
He settled for harsh words, driving each through the stony hardness of her mind. Gwydion sent him here. Now there’s no going back. The walls are too high and too hard, and that one waits between.
She whirled to face him. “What do you know of that horror?”
I’ve fought him.
That surprised her. “You?”
I. His temper seethed in his eyes, around the edges of his words. I know what his power is like. What of the man?
Anna began to shake. She could not stop herself. “I—I can’t—” She smote her hands together in a passion of frustration. As if a spell had broken, the words flooded forth. “His name is Simon. He’s a monk of Saint Paul. He could be Alf’s brother, the two are so like; but his power is beyond anyone’s measuring, and it’s mastered him. Is it true-did he kill Alun?”
Alf nodded once.
“I haven’t wept for him yet,” she said. “I wouldn’t give our jailers the satisfaction. There was another, a fat one, all complacent and cruel. Thea said he was the mind; Simon was only the hand.”
Alf sat on the bed, settled Cynan in his lap, reached for her hands. They came of their own accord, clasping hard, defying the set courage of her face. “Will you let me see?” he asked her.
She hesitated. It was Alf who asked. Alf. And yet… “Yes,” she gasped. “Quick. While I can still bear it.”
He took her face in his hands. His touch was light, his
gaze steady, clear as water. She leaned toward it; it closed over her head.
Fear vanished. Grief swelled, broke, faded. Anger shrank to an ember.
Too late she remembered. She did not want him to see—
His face filled the world. She had forgotten how young it was. She had never seen it so thin. Gaunt. Frightening, now that she had the wits to see.
Her finger traced his hollowed cheek; she pursed her lips. “Thea will be furious when she sees you like this.”
“As furious as you?”
He was mocking her, but gently, to make her smile. She caught a lock of his hair and tugged until he winced. “You’re too pretty, you know. Even with nothing on your bones but skin. Much prettier,” she added, “than Simon Magus.” All at once, with no warning at all, she burst into tears.
He gathered her into his lap, ousting Cynan, rocking her as if she were still a child.
As to him, she knew in the perfection of despair, she would always be. He had not seen what was there in her mind to see; he had no eyes for anything so ridiculous as unrequited passion. He looked on her with deep and purely fraternal concern, soothed her and healed her as he would any creature in need of his care.
Cynan offered no less, licking her hand and willing her to be comforted. She pulled the witch-child into her own lap, dividing her tears between his flank and Alf’s shoulder.
Her despair was seeping away. It was almost pleasant to let her body have its will, to let the tears fall where they pleased, with no care for her pride.
Nikki came to close the circle, walling out the world. He was brotherly indeed, a mingling of annoyance and compassion; he braced her, he strengthened her.
She straightened shakily. Both her brothers eased their grips. Cynan’s tail slapped her thigh. Still streaming tears, she laughed and hugged the damp wriggle of him. “You men; don’t you know enough to let a woman cry herself out?”
It’s wet, Cynan observed.
“So it is, imp. And so are you.” Anna freed herself from all the hands and rose with Cynan, reaching for a corner of the sheet to dry him.
oOo
Stefania had not understood a word of it. It was almost as if—somehow—there were four people talking. But it was only the three and the pup. And what they spoke of made no sense at all. Something to do with Rhiyana, with the Church, with prisons and madness and death; yet they could smile, laugh, jest through tears. There was nothing like them in her philosophy.
