Votive

by Karen Brooks

  He rose to his feet and stared out the window. Dante watched as rain trickled down the pane. It reflected against Signor Vestire’s face, making it appear as if he was crying. ‘These are troubled times, Dante. We all have to be careful. Let’s not forget the man who was asking after Katina a while back. A suspicious fellow if ever I saw one.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

  Dante had been unnerved to discover someone had called at the taverna more than once asking for Katina by name. How did he know she would be here? Who was he? Why hadn’t Katina said anything about him? It made Dante uneasy.

  ‘But this –’ continued Signor Vestire, waving towards Katina, ‘this is different. Sometimes we have to throw caution away.’

  Dante placed his hand against Katina’s forehead. It was burning. He didn’t understand what the Morte Whisperers had done but, whatever it was, it was killing her.

  ‘Allora,’ said Signor Vestire. ‘Do I fetch the dottore?’ He squatted beside Dante and patted his leg.

  Dante’s eyes were itchy, his body ached with tiredness and he was heartsore. ‘Fetch him as soon as you can. Please. Let’s hope he can do something.’

  Signor Vestire took one last look at Katina’s pallid face, his lips a thin line, and left the room.

  THE DOTTORE CAME EVERY DAY for over a week. No matter what he did, getting broth between her lips, applying cool herbal compresses to her face and arms, Katina grew worse. Dante fretted, alternating between pacing the room and sitting beside her, clutching her hand, wiping her face, watching her waste away. He refused much of the food Signora Vestire brought, and when he slept, it was either on the bed by Katina’s side or slumped in a chair that he dragged over, his arm draped across her. Sometimes, in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he could feel her fingers in his hair and his mind would wander, imagining he was a boy again and Zia Gaia was beside him.

  Occasionally, Katina would awake and try to speak. Her eyes would fly open, but her senses wandered in a different realm. Before long, she would fall asleep again and could not be roused.

  Dante knew that if they didn’t find a cure quickly, then the benefits of Elder Maggiore’s diet would be meaningless; their Bonds would be for nothing, for how could an Obbligare Doppio work if there was only one Rider left to carry it out?

  Each day, as Dante became accustomed to being in Serenissima again, it wasn’t only Katina who occupied his mind. The pull to find Tallow became stronger. He longed for her; he knew she was in the city and every inch of him wanted to begin the search, to see her, touch her and, he thought, taste her lips. He began to dream about her, vivid, powerful dreams that left him confused when he woke. He would look around the room expecting to find her there beside him, only to see the burning grate and the outline of Katina, lying still in the bed.

  Katina dreamed too. He would watch her tossing and turning, a frown marring her brow, Tallow’s name on her lips. He wondered if that was what was keeping her alive, because he could think of no other reason.

  Afraid to leave Katina’s side lest she require him, needing to find Tallow, Dante was torn. A man divided. He remained in the room, sitting by the bed or gazing out the window. The rain had been replaced by snow. Carnivale was in full swing, and outside, locals would wander by masked and full of high spirits. He saw tumblers and dwarves, courtesans and nobiles, the crowds increasing as the day wore on and night fell – carrying torches, assembling in the campo outside the taverna, with their drinks clutched firmly in their hands, their breath long whispers of white against the darkness. Celebrations continued into the night – the rumblings of conversation, music and laughter would carry through the floor from the bar below. It only served to depress Dante further. It wasn’t that he wanted to participate so much as he wanted Katina to be well enough so that he could use the cover of Carnivale to begin his search. No-one questioned strangers moving between quartieri during Carnivale. Why, even the Cardinale’s men had to allow some leeway at this time of year – or so Signor Vestire claimed.

  ‘Why don’t you at least go downstairs?’ Signor Vestire would ask over and over. ‘My daughters will sit with Signorina Maggiore.’ His two young daughters, twins, had been constant visitors to the room. Sweet-faced and wide-eyed, they barely spoke, awed by the presence of Bond Riders. They delivered food, medicines; emptied chamber pots, replaced drying sheets, brought fresh water with pretty curtsies and shy, fearful smiles.

  Finally, two weeks after Carnivale began, Signor Vestire’s insistence that he have a break grew and Dante capitulated.

  First making sure Katina was settled, and that one of Signor Vestire’s daughters would remain, he had a quick wash, changed his clothes and went downstairs. Small, the taverna seemed big in comparison with the confines of the stuffy room upstairs and Dante appreciated the illusion of space as well as the strange faces, chatter and the smell of wood smoke, vino and hot bread and cheese – platters of which were spread over a few tables. He settled on a vacant stool by the bar under the nose of Signor Vestire who, without a word, placed a wooden cup brimming with red vino in front of him followed by a small plate of cold pigeon, a tiny bowl of olive oil, and steaming, freshly baked bread. Dante drank gratefully, saluting Signor Vestire first.

  He ate slowly, enjoying the warmth of the fire. While the close press of bodies concerned him at first, after his second cup of vino he no longer cared so much. He shifted on his stool so he could discreetly check out faces and listen in on the many conversations that were taking place. Discussion ranged from the fussiness of customers who demanded almost invisible stitching to the latest fabrics and furs, samples of which had been given freely by a new ambassador’s men. He heard the names Farrowfare and Waterford, but they were unfamiliar and he quickly dismissed them, trying to hear any news about the Cardinale and the Chandlers Quartiere – the one place he wanted to go but knew was forbidden to him.

  Dante tuned in and out, listening to the good-natured banter, observing the patrons; noting how, as the evening wore on, masks slipped from faces or were pushed up foreheads. Anonymity was not so important to these people, not when the good times they had were shared with friends.

  Signor Vestire appeared with the vino flask, ready to tip more into Dante’s cup. Dante went to stop him when something caught his ear.

  ‘Signorina Dorata, they’re calling her. All she wears is gold. They say all the nobiles are besotted with her!’ A middle-aged man with a slashed doublet opened to reveal a generous paunch and a mask dangling from one ear leant over a table of goggle-eyed men.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ asked one man, staggering over from another table into the group. There was laughter as they held him upright. ‘I saw her riding in a gondola with another beauty. She’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Hair like the evening sky, skin like melted snow –’

  ‘Melted snow?’ said another man, slapping his drunken companion on the back. ‘How can one’s skin be like melted snow?’

  ‘Because you want to stick your tongue into it!’ quipped another. Raucous laughter followed.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give to be her tailor – working with golden fabric – designing for her. What I’d give to know who got that commission.’ There was much nodding and chinking of mugs after that statement.

  Dante turned back to the bar, musing over the name. Signorina Dorata. How odd that someone should be given a title so like that he’d bestowed on Tallow. Dorato, he called her – his little golden boy. All because of her strange glasses, the ones she would wear to disguise her eyes. It seemed so long ago. Another lifetime. He looked down at his hands, gripping the mug. They possessed fresh scars, given by knives, swords, and angry trees. His youthful calluses and burns had been replaced by a warrior’s roughness. And now a new courtesan bore Tallow’s old name. Katina was right. Serenissima was not the same place; he was not the same person he once was. What had happened to Tallow, he pondered. Had she changed too?

  With a silent laugh, he took a swig of the d
rink, forgetting his earlier conviction not to have more. Courtesan, he scoffed as he replayed the men’s conversation. A whore by any other name.

  He wondered if there were any there tonight; if he might be able to acquire their services. His stool creaked beneath him as he twisted and cast a look around the room. Gazing through the haze of wood fire and tobacco smoke, he became aware he was being watched. In a far corner, near the main door, he spotted a man sitting by himself. A group was close by and he’d arranged his chair to appear part of them, but Dante could tell he wasn’t. He wore a mask so large it covered most of his face. The slits glittered, and Dante knew they were fixed on him.

  Dante frowned. It was time to leave. He downed the last of the drink and was about to stand when he felt a tugging at his elbow.

  ‘Signor, signor.’ He looked down. It was one of Signor Vestire’s daughters. ‘The lady …’ her dark eyes were wide with fear. ‘You must come quickly. She asks for you.’

  Dante threw the cup down and followed the child from the room, taking the stairs two at a time, cursing himself for how much he’d drunk.

  He flung open the door. Katina was not alone.

  Standing over the bed, back to the door, was a cloaked and hooded figure. Dante raced to his scabbard and pulled out his sword. The little girl squealed and ran to a corner, cowering.

  ‘Get away from her,’ he ordered.

  The figure did not move.

  ‘Now!’ he said and stepped closer, his sword held before him.

  Slowly, the figure turned and threw back the hood.

  Dante gasped and almost lost hold of his weapon.

  Signor Vestire’s daughter yelped and went to run from the room.

  ‘Stop her,’ the figure said.

  Dante grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her back. The little girl struggled and began to whimper.

  ‘It’s all right,’ soothed Dante. ‘This is a friend.’ He looked at the elderly woman standing before him, with her white hair and pink cheeks. ‘You are a friend, aren’t you?’

  The old woman smiled, and bending down in front of the girl, took her hand. ‘Sì, indeed I am. A very, very old one.’ Dante watched as the little girl stared into the great silver eyes gazing into her own. He saw the fear leave her body. Her shoulders drooped and a smile replaced the panic. She threw herself in the old woman’s arms.

  The old lady hugged her and then released her. ‘Go and shut the door and then sit over there, cara.’ She pointed to a chair by the fire. The little girl did as she was told, her face shining.

  Dante watched the exchange and then put his sword back in its scabbard and replaced it on the table.

  ‘You’re an Estrattore, sì?’ he asked as the woman returned to Katina’s side. He joined her, kneeling by the bed.

  ‘Sì,’ she said softly and took Katina’s hand. Dante felt the power radiating from her.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly as he saw the colour return to Katina’s cheeks and her breathing become less laboured. Dante found his head cleared and his heart returned to normal.

  ‘My name is Constantina. Constantina Maggiore.’

  Dante looked from Katina to the old woman and back again, understanding registering on his face. ‘You’re the friend Elder Maggiore told Katina to meet. You’re the one who is going to help us.’

  ‘Sì,’ smiled the old woman. ‘When Katina didn’t arrive at the agreed meeting place, I was very worried. It was Elder Maggiore who told me to come here – to find you. I didn’t expect this.’ She turned to Katina. ‘She’s been attacked by Morte Whisperers?’

  ‘They tried to … enter her body. It was like they were devouring her.’ He quickly explained what had happened. ‘What have they done?’

  ‘They’ve tried to steal her life-force and, from the looks of her, they’ve almost succeeded.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. But it’s clear they didn’t want her to survive.’

  ‘Can you help?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I can see you already have. But will she be all right?’

  Constantina reached out and caressed Katina’s cheek. ‘She will be, once I return her to the Limen. I can only do so much here.’

  ‘Return her?’ he repeated. ‘You’re taking her now?’

  Constantina nodded.

  ‘Oh, thank God. I didn’t know what to do, whether to stay or go back with her. I was –’ Relief made the words rush out of Dante’s mouth.

  ‘Hush,’ said Constantina soothingly. ‘It’s all right. I need you to help me dress her, get her out of here. There’s a back way, sì?’ Dante nodded. ‘Bene. Can we send someone to bring her horse there?’

  ‘I will ask Signor Vestire myself.’ He didn’t wait, but dashed down the stairs, his thoughts scattered. Estrattore in the calles of Serenissima. That would be a sight to see. He hoped the Signori di Notte were not in the sestiere tonight.

  When he returned, Constantina was already halfway through dressing Katina, who stirred briefly. She blinked once, twice, and then her eyes widened and a small sob escaped. Slowly she reached out and touched the Estrattore, gently at first, then with an urgency that was frightening to behold. She held Constantina’s face between her palms, locking eyes with her in a silent communication. Dante watched them, wondering what was being said. Katina’s eyes slid over towards Dante before returning to Constantina’s. She nodded once and then burst into tears, throwing herself in Constantina’s arms. It was this reaction more than anything that both filled Dante with alarm and reassured him.

  When Katina tried to ask questions, Constantina put a finger to her lips. ‘There will be time for that later. Rest, cara mia.’ Katina fell silent and allowed Dante and the Estrattore to finish dressing her.

  Before long, they hauled her to her feet and were ready to leave the room. Once again, she’d fallen asleep.

  ‘You wait here,’ said Dante to the little girl who had sat the entire time with a beatific smile on her face. ‘Is she all right?’ he asked Constantina.

  Constantina gave a wise smile. ‘She’s fine. Just lost in happy memories. She won’t recall any of this.’

  Dante expelled air. ‘Lucky girl.’

  ‘Indeed. Now, help me get Katina down the stairs.’ Dante picked her up. She was light for such a tall woman.

  The noise from the bar muffled their descent. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they sneaked past the kitchen and through a small passageway and into a storeroom that had shelves for linen, bottles, leather flasks and fruit and vegetables. Haunches of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling. They ducked under these, Dante moving ahead. Constantina unlatched the back door.

  Snow flew into Dante’s face as he stepped out into the night. The wind whipped it in eddies around his feet and blew through his cape, inflating it above his shoulders. Helpless to control it, he tried to shield Katina from the worst. Thankfully, the weather kept revellers inside. Scudding clouds mostly obscured the moon.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked, the wind catching his voice and throwing it into the campo.

  ‘Over there,’ shouted Constantina, indicating a small calle off the main square.

  Dante pushed through the drifts. As they drew closer, he could see a horse, fully saddled, standing in the middle of the calle. Birrichino was also there, ready beside it. Signor Vestire himself held the reigns.

  ‘Grazie, amico mio,’ called Dante.

  ‘Do you need help?’ shouted the Signor, trying to be heard above the howling wind.

  ‘No, no. We’re all right.’ Dante swung round to check with Constantina, but she’d moved to her own horse and kept her head bowed.

  Signor Vestire gripped Dante’s shoulder on his way past. ‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he said, casting a suspicious glance at Constantina. He took another quick look at Katina. Dante nodded and Signor Vestire ran back into the taverna.

  Constantina mounted her horse. ‘Place her in front of me,’ she said. Dante lifted Katina into the saddle.
Katina stirred and tried to help. Constantina grabbed a hold of her waist and wrapped her arms and cloak around them both. ‘Grab Birrichino’s tether and tie him here,’ she ordered Dante, pointing to a metal ring on the saddle.

  With frozen fingers, Dante did what he was told. As he worked, Constantina spoke.

  ‘You have a duty to carry out. A Bond to fulfil. You must now work towards this and nothing else, do you understand?’

  Dante finished what he was doing and rested his hands on the horse’s neck. ‘I will. Katina and I, we’re mutually Bonded – we have an Obbligare Doppio.’ The horse pushed against him, trying to toss his hands aside. Birrichino whinnied as his mouth was pulled.

  ‘I know. Listen to your Bond, young Rider. Find Tallow. Watch and learn what you can about who is protecting her, for I have no doubt she is not alone – not after all this time. Someone is looking after her. We need to know what their intentions are, what they know of the prophecy. But do not approach her. Not until I tell you it is time or she is directly threatened. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sì,’ said Dante. ‘I know what to do.’ His tone was terse. He didn’t like being reminded by this Estrattore who had swooped in and taken control. Constantina raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be reminded, Bond Rider.’ Dante gaped at her in astonishment. Could Estrattore read minds as well? ‘Now, if you need me, go to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore and touch it. I will know you’re there and I will come.’

  The horse broke from his hold. Dante jumped out of the way.

  ‘What if I can’t find her?’ he cried. He reached up and grabbed the pommel, latching onto the horse, ignoring its jerking head.

  Constantina shook her head. ‘Haven’t you worked that out yet? Listen to your heart – do not be misled by your head. You will find her. You have no choice. Why do you think Katina Bonded you? It’s what you are pledged twice over to do.’