Votive

by Karen Brooks

  As if sensing my thoughts, he moved out of my reach. ‘No, you’re not going to do that!’ He shook a finger at me.

  I frowned and sat up straight. I wouldn’t have dared put my hands upon him and was astonished he thought I would. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked, to cover my confusion.

  ‘Well, Zonia, that was her name, Zonia Cucitta, she would use belladonna – not the way I was accustomed to employing it, of course, but as part of her toilette.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sì. Many women did. They would pound down the flower, the root – all parts – and turn it into a liquid then, they do the most strange thing of all. They would place drops of it in their eyes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In order to enlarge the pupil – to make their eyes brighter and more shiny.’ He put the plant back down carefully. ‘It got me thinking –’

  ‘That perhaps I could use it in the same way.’

  ‘Esatto,’ he said, pleased. ‘What do you think?’

  By way of an answer, I reached for the belladonna again. Its swollen buds resembled the sky before a storm. Locked within them was something equally dangerous and wonderful. I would know what that was.

  Baroque remained still.

  I pressed the flower of the belladonna between my fingers. Viscous ooze escaped and stuck to my fingertips. My pulse quickened. Baroque was right. There was something there. A property that, if used in just the right way …

  Abandoning my earlier caution, I tore the plant apart, dropping it into the enormous wooden mortar ready for grinding. I’d cleaned the vessel thoroughly yesterday, but even so, I could detect traces of feverfew and beyond that, the original ash tree from which the mortar had been carved.

  I pounded furiously for a few seconds before being overtaken by the sensations running up and down my arm, the icy tingle along my spine. I was repulsed by what I sensed – a desperate longing within the plant itself to be released, to sigh into an unsuspecting system and weave its spell. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and kept grinding.

  After five minutes, I became aware of two things: firstly, that my shoulder was aching with almost unbearable intensity and secondly, that Baroque was standing beside me, peering into the smooth velvet potion I had created.

  ‘What do you feel?’

  I put down the pestle carefully and cupped my hands around the bowl of the mortar and shut my eyes. This time I didn’t hesitate, but dived into the sensations emanating from the vessel.

  Waves of relaxation swept over me, making the tension fall from my body. The tightness in my shoulder eased. I searched further, allowing the essence of what I’d mixed to mingle with my system. My skin began to grow cold and my eyes to burn. I screwed them shut as tears fought to escape. I wanted to focus on the contents of the bowl. Broken images of women, laughter and huge, glistening pupils spun behind my eyes.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Baroque and snatched the mortar out of my hands, dumping it on the bench with a thud. Some of the liquid splashed onto the surface. Baroque jumped out of the way.

  ‘What? What is it? I asked, my eyes flying open and the tears I’d been withholding pouring down my cheeks. I couldn’t see properly. ‘Oh, my eyes are stinging!’ The candlelight, the dimness and Baroque’s face were all blended. I went to wipe the back of sleeve across my face and then remembered my handkerchief. I dabbed at my cheeks and eyes.

  ‘You’ve gone deathly white.’ He examined me intently. ‘By God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tallow!’ He sometimes used my old name when he was excited. ‘Your eyes.’

  ‘What do you –?’ I began, but he dragged me out into the courtyard and over to where the light was the strongest. His earlier tenderness with me forgotten, he took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up into the light.

  ‘What? What is it?’ I was scared, blinking rapidly to alleviate the burning, wanting to screw up my eyes, shut them against the sunlight, but I wanted to know what was wrong more.

  Baroque let go of my face and began to laugh. He slapped his thighs. ‘Sì, sì, sì!’ He did an awkward dance around me, looking like a jester at Carnivale.

  I began to smile. ‘Did it work? What is it?’ I pressed my fingers gently against my eyelids. The pain was subsiding.

  He pulled me over to the well and made me wait while he lowered the bucket and filled it, heaving it to the top. He unhooked it, water sloshing over the sides, and banged it on the ground, losing even more on the cobblestones. ‘Look for yourself,’ he ordered.

  I shook my head at him and bent over obediently. At first the water fractured my face into hundreds of wavering lines. But gradually, it stilled. I stared into the depths and what I saw took my breath away. ‘I did it!’ I fell to my knees, my hands gripping the edges, and looked at what I had done.

  In the centre of my silver eyes, two huge black discs had formed – pupils. The silver had fled to the edges, looking almost grey against the onyx in the middle. I could not believe the transformation. Why, I looked almost normal.

  Baroque clapped his hands together.

  ‘What has given you cause for so much … joy?’ Giaconda’s voice cut over Baroque’s as she appeared at the top of the stairs. Holding the railing, she began to descend. Close behind her was Hafeza. Jacopo appeared as well. Seconds later, Signor Maleovelli emerged from the ground-floor offices, followed by the ever-present Salzi.

  ‘What’s all this commotion about?’ asked Signor Maleovelli calmly, tapping his way across the cobbles, stopping only when he was inches from where I knelt.

  Giaconda and Jacopo flanked him while Salzi and Hafeza remained in the background. Only Jacopo revealed his curiosity; he was doing his usual hand-wringing and his tongue moistened his lips. They stood around me, blocking the light.

  ‘Look at what she’s done,’ said Baroque, his hand gesturing to my face.

  I slowly raised my head.

  ‘My God!’ Jacopo stepped backwards, colliding with Hafeza. In one graceful movement, Giaconda knelt down and took my chin in her hands, her nails digging into my flesh. She twisted my face first one way, then the other, peering deeply into my eyes. For just a moment, I was reminded of Quinn and winced. She softened her hold. She stared and then turned to her father, allowing him to see for himself. ‘Papa, look.’

  Signor Maleovelli studied my face and then smiled. ‘Bene. Molto bene. Is the change permanent? Does it affect her abilities?’ He fired the questions at Baroque.

  ‘I don’t know, Signor. It’s only just happened.’ Baroque spoke in a measured way. I could hear the amusement in his tone.

  ‘I don’t think it’s permanent,’ I said softly. The stinging had almost stopped. I blinked a few more times. Giaconda grabbed hold of my face again.

  ‘No, her eyes are changing back.’ Her disappointment was palpable.

  ‘If she can do it once, she can do it again.’ Signor Maleovelli nudged me with his cane. ‘Your talent?’

  ‘I … I can still use it.’

  ‘Bene. Now, all you need to do is experiment with whatever it was you did until you can disguise your eyes for a much longer period.’

  ‘It was belladonna.’

  ‘Ah,’ Giaconda smiled. ‘Of course. How appropriate,’ she murmured, but didn’t elaborate. I didn’t know what else to say.

  Signor Maleovelli flicked his fingers towards Baroque. ‘Well done, Scarpoli.’ Without another word, he turned and limped back inside the casa, Salzi in tow.

  Giaconda let go of me and rose to her feet. ‘Tarlo, do not kneel on the ground like a peasant. Remember whose name you now carry.’

  I tried to stand up with as much elegance as I could muster, almost twisting my ankle on the zoccoli. ‘Sì, Signorina Giaconda. Mi dispiace,’ I said, dropping into a curtsy.

  ‘The candles Papa asked for, are they ready?’

  ‘They’re ready, Signorina,’ said Baroque.

  Giaconda gave us one last look before making a noise of approval. She took Jacopo’s proffe
red arm and sauntered back inside, as if nothing momentous had just occurred. Hafeza, after a shy smile, followed. I turned away from her.

  Baroque waited till they were all out of sight. ‘What has Hafeza done to deserve such a look from you?’

  I brushed down my apron. ‘Turns out you were right. I can’t trust anyone.’

  ‘I see,’ said Baroque thoughtfully. Then he changed the subject. ‘I knew if you delved deeply enough, you would find the means to effect your disguise! Belladonna.’ He started to usher me back in the workshop. ‘Come on. We’ll work on quantities and determine how much you can take. I am not going to have you ruin your eyes, no matter what the Maleovellis say.’ He disappeared through the door, muttering away.

  I paused and peered into the bucket again. I blinked. The colour had almost fled but for just a brief few minutes I’d possessed a pair of eyes from which people would not turn in fear or disgust. Dark like the night sky, they’d reminded me of someone else’s, someone who had once stared at me with such love and devotion; not in the calculated way that the Maleovellis just had, or as Baroque was wont to. I shook myself. This would not do. I fixed a smile to my face and tilted my head. In the doorway, Baroque waited.

  ‘When you’re ready, Signorina,’ he said drolly.

  ‘Sì. Vero. It’s true,’ I said, more to myself than Baroque as I passed him. ‘This will change more than my eyes. I think if I use the potion directly, drop it into my eyes as your lady would, instead of extracting, it will last longer. I will try that.’ My voice was confident, but my insides were quivering like the houses Jacopo made from cards. With practice, I could, if I was careful, enter the world of Serenissima.

  The puzzle of what to do about my eyes had been all that was ever going to prevent me from being seen in public; it was all that had been holding back the Maleovellis’ grand plans. Now that obstacle was all but removed.

  Baroque had been right: even something that on the surface seemed evil contained some good. Another lesson learnt.

  Not only had I solved a very serious problem, I had unwittingly engineered the next step in my education.

  DANTE WIPED THE SWEAT FROM HIS BROW and adjusted his stance. He lifted his sword in challenge. ‘Again,’ he demanded. ‘I want satisfaction.’

  Alessandro bent over, hands gripping his knees, his blade lying at his feet. ‘No.’ he panted. ‘I surrender. I don’t know how you came up with that manoeuvre, but you’ve bested me once more.’

  ‘Alessandro,’ reasoned Dante, ‘you can’t surrender. I haven’t drawn blood.’

  ‘Not this time.’ Alessandro scooped his sword off the ground and wiped his hand across his brow. Dark streaks marked his forehead. ‘But you’ve still managed to shred my shirt.’ He held it away from his body and groaned. ‘Are you sure you never learnt to fence in Serenissima?’

  ‘You keep asking me that!’ laughed Dante and, with practised smoothness, sheathed his sword. He ran towards Alessandro, giving him a friendly slap on the back. ‘I tell you, I never lifted a sword until I came here. I was a chandler … and not a very good one. You just don’t like the idea that you’ve had hundreds of years to practise and a novice beats you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe you as a novice, Dante, not anymore,’ said Alessandro stiffly, but the twinkle in his eyes belied his apparent offence. His eyes followed Dante as the young Rider strode to one of the numerous ponds that dotted the landscape. Kneeling at the edge, he unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head. He dipped his face into the water and threw handfuls over his chest. The water flattened his dark hair and trickled over his torso and arms. Alessandro noticed how sinewy Dante was becoming; his daily workouts with the sword and general hand-to-hand fighting with daggers and a battle-axe were changing him. While his skin had taken on the hue of the Limen, it lacked the sickly pallor that defined so many of the Riders. His shoulders had filled out, his back had hardened and his muscles were becoming more pronounced. The scars that marked his body were also healing nicely, even the large puckered one across his palm, the one Katina had given him.

  Alessandro couldn’t help the stab of betrayal that pierced him every time he thought about what she’d done, how she’d deliberately concealed her plans. He knew it was to protect him and Debora. But he’d thought their relationship was different, that they shared everything. He should have known better. Once the possibility of a Bond being fulfilled is realised, a Rider is subsumed. Everything else, even lovers, become secondary.

  Watching Dante revelling in the water, unaware of the looks of admiration and envy he attracted, he knew the young man had a role to play yet. What he feared most was that it might be all too brief. So much rode on what the Council would decide. That they entrusted Dante’s care to Alessandro and Debora and that Elder Dandolo himself had ordered Dante be trained was a positive sign, surely? Elder Maggiore had taken a particular interest in how Dante was being instructed, which also struck Alessandro as unusual.

  Alessandro wasn’t sure of anything anymore. All that had been solid was now as ephemeral as the mist that defined their existence.

  ‘How was the session?’ Debora emerged out of the shifting veils of fog and joined Alessandro, giving him a kiss before pulling at his shirt. ‘You don’t need to answer, I can tell. Another one ruined. It will take you ages to stitch this back together.’

  Dante waved to her and ducked his head in the water again.

  ‘He’s very good,’ said Alessandro quietly, though his heart lightened to have one of his partners there. ‘I would swear he’s done this before.’

  ‘I know.’ Debora looked over towards their charge. ‘It’s like he’s born to this life. His body has adjusted faster than anyone’s I have ever seen. Even his horse skills – it usually takes weeks for a Rider and horse to properly bond. With Dante and Argento, it was merely hours.’

  ‘And he was so anxious, after what happened on the ponticello back in Serenissima.’

  ‘Until he saw her.’

  A slender silver mare broke away from the grazing herd and trotted over to where Dante knelt by the pond. She nudged him until he stood up and wrapped his arms around her neck and scratched her ears. They saw him slap her powerful flanks, running his hands over her smooth coat.

  ‘He named her for the Estrattore.’

  ‘How could he not, with that silver colour? She practically glows in the mist.’

  ‘Do you think it’s something to do with the Obbligare Doppio? That somehow, he’s absorbed Katina’s skills when they shared a Bond?’

  Debora shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s what the others are saying.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘They’re jealous, you know. Of what he can do – of how easily he’s adapted.’

  Alessandro followed the direction of her gaze. Clusters of Bond Riders cleaning weapons or grooming horses could be seen through the haze. Their tents rose like a swelling ocean. A few were turned to observe Dante. When they caught Debora and Alessandro looking at them, they hurriedly returned to their tasks. ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Alessandro wistfully.

  The thunder of hooves broke the relative calm. Alessandro and Debora spun round. Dante was immediately alert, his hand moving over the pommel of his weapon. Bursting through the trees came a mounted Rider. He pulled at the reins, the horse skidding to a halt sending detritus into the air.

  ‘We’re summoned to the palazzo,’ he cried. ‘The trial of the traitor begins.’ The Rider wheeled his horse and disappeared through the trees, the fog swallowing him in seconds. His voice carried as he made the same announcement over and over, mustering Riders to the Council of Elders.

  Alessandro and Debora exchanged a long look.

  ‘They’re calling her “traitor” openly now,’ said Alessandro grimly.

  ‘It’s as if they’ve already condemned her,’ agreed Debora.

  Dante pulled his shirt back over his head and joined them, Argento in tow. ‘They’ve made a decision then, have they?’ His great black eyes sparkled.

  ‘Sì
,’ whispered Debora. She reached for Alessandro, twining her fingers around his.

  Dante nodded gloomily. A rough hand gripped his shoulder.

  ‘Prepare yourself, Dante’ said Alessandro. ‘For it’s not only Katina’s fate that’s about to be decided.’

  Dante fell silent. His eyes grew distant.

  ‘Come on,’ said Debora, aware the other Riders were on the move. ‘Let’s get to the palazzo. Katina needs us now more than ever, no matter what the outcome.’

  DANTE SQUEEZED BETWEEN ALESSANDRO and Debora, sitting on one of the crude benches that lined the cave walls. As the brown-garbed Bond Riders filed past him, jostling for a seat, he was astonished at how many people there were. Looking around, he saw well over five hundred men and women grabbing chairs and stools and facing the long, stone table behind which sat ten sombre-faced men and women. Eight for each of the casas on Nobiles’ Rise and two extra to mirror the Council of Ten back in Serenissima. Bond Riders might eschew the titles that Serenissians so enjoyed – the hierarchy that ordained daily living – and pretend that bloodlines didn’t matter, but that didn’t stop them replicating it. Life in the Limen was governed by many rules, by petty power struggles and, he thought as he looked around, complex sexual ones as well.

  Most of the Riders cast virulent looks in his direction. Of those he’d encountered, none had spoken to him with the exception of Cristoforo – only he hadn’t seen him since the first day. Jealous lest he upset an existing arrangement or longstanding relationship, most ignored him, grateful the responsibility for his well-being and training had fallen to Debora and Alessandro. But whereas the Bond Riders had mostly been indifferent to him, Santo and Stefano had not. They didn’t talk to or threaten him again – not with words, not when they could do it with their eyes. So often he felt their gaze, boring holes of hatred into him.