The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  The same thing was bothering Lion. On this level plain the torches and movement of an attacking army should clearly be visible. There was nothing. No army. No horses. No catapults or other war machines. Nothing.

  Nothing but Mandara being devoured by flames.

  Lion saw Sanchia when they were within three miles of the city.

  She was plodding slowly, blindly down the road and, if the illumination from the burning Mandara had not lit the countryside with unusual clarity, the troop would have ridden her into the ground.

  “Sanchia!” Lion held up his hand to halt the troop and reined in Tabron. “Dio, what’s happened here?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She kept walking, her gaze fixed on something he couldn’t see. Her brown velvet gown was torn, filthy, her hair a wild tangle of grease and soot.

  “Sanchia.” Lion dismounted and strode toward her. “Are you hurt?”

  She kept plodding forward.

  Lion stopped before her and grasped her shoulders. “Santa Maria, answer me. Are you hurt?”

  Her blank gaze finally focused on his face. “Lion?” she whispered. “I thought you were dead. I thought everyone was dead but Damari. It’s not right that he should live, you know. He shouldn’t be allowed to live when everyone else in the world is dead.”

  “Everyone isn’t dead, Sanchia. You’re alive.”

  She looked at him in wonder. “No, I’m not. Damari killed me just as he did everyone else. Caterina, Marco, Piero, Bianca.”

  Agony tore through him as his gaze went over her head to Mandara. “All dead?”

  “Of course,” she said, surprised that he should ask. “Everyone is dead.”

  He felt the tears sting his eyes even as he shook her. “You’re not dead, Sanchia. We’re both alive.”

  “That’s right, you’re alive. You told me.” She suddenly stiffened, her eyes going wide with horror. “No!” She tore out of his grasp and backed away. “Don’t touch me. Are you mad? The plague …”

  Lion went icy cold. “Plague? You said Damari, Sanchia.”

  But she had turned and was running wildly back toward Mandara, the skirts of her tattered gown flying behind her.

  Lion pounded after her. “Cristo, Sanchia. Stop. No one is going to hurt you.” He drew even with her and grabbed her in his arms. “Sanchia cara—”

  “You don’t understand.” She was struggling desperately to free herself. “I’ll kill you. I don’t want to kill you. Only Damari. Let me go!”

  The tears were now running unashamedly down Lion’s cheeks. “Cara, no …” He drew her closer, his hands feverishly stroking her sooty hair. “Shh …”

  She abruptly gave up, slumping against him. “It’s too late anyway. You’ve touched me. Even Damari was afraid to touch me. Medusa …”

  He caught her as she swayed, collapsing into unconsciousness.

  The bitter odor of smoke was gone. Now the air was pervaded with the odor of wood and something fruity, yet musty.

  Sanchia opened her eyes to see Lion bending over her, bathing her forehead. Dusk enveloped them. The only light piercing the dimness was the sunlight pouring through two small windows high above her. Dust motes danced in the dual brilliant streams of sunlight and she gazed at them in dreamy fascination.

  Two dancing sunbeams …

  Lorenzo had said that about Bianca and Marco, hadn’t he? But those sunbeams were no longer dancing; they lay still and quiet in the chapel.

  But was there a chapel? Would the stone have withstood the heat of the flames that engulfed Mandara?

  “Fire …” Her throat was raw, and it hurt to speak. Had she been screaming? She had felt the screams welling up inside her, but she believed she had kept them from coming out.

  “No more fire, Sanchia,” Lion said gently. “You’re not in Mandara any longer.”

  “Where?”

  “The winery.” He smoothed the damp cloth on her temples. “You remember the winery?”

  “Yes.” She looked around and could discern the shadowy outline of a huge wooden vat and oak casks in the dimness.

  “Keep covered. It’s cool here.” He pulled the blanket over her and she suddenly became aware she was nude beneath it.

  Lion was without clothes, too, she realized in bewilderment. Strange.

  “Do you know who I am?” Lion asked.

  “Lion.”

  Relief lightened his expression. “And what happened at Mandara?”

  How could she forget? How could anyone forget. “Plague.” She was suddenly jarred into full wakefulness. “Get away from me!” She sat upright and tried to slide farther from him. “Plague!”

  “Be easy. I’ve been with you here for over a week.” Lion said gently. “If I’m fated to fall to the disease then I’m already infected.”

  She looked at him, stricken. “A week?” She closed her eyes. “Dear God, why?”

  “Why did you stay in Mandara to care for those I loved?”

  “I was there.”

  “And I am here. Open your eyes and look at me, Sanchia. Do I appear ill or racked with the disease?”

  She opened her eyes. He looked strong and vigorous in spite of the lines of weariness and sorrow she saw in his face. “Sometimes it doesn’t happen right away.”

  “And sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. Was everyone stricken in Mandara?”

  “It seemed as if they were.” She shook her head in confusion. “There were a few that were not ill but, as I said, sometimes it takes more time for one or the other. I don’t know if any lived or not.”

  “I think it likely some survived, if the fire didn’t kill them.”

  The fire. “Damari and his men set the fire. I watched him do it but I couldn’t seem to move. Then it came to me that if Damari lived, he could do this again. I couldn’t let him repeat such a monstrous act. So many died … Did I tell you about Piero?”

  “Yes, you told me everything.” Lion’s eyes glittered brightly in the dimness of the room. “You raved and ranted until I thought I could not bear to hear any more. I believed you would very likely go mad.”

  “Perhaps I did. I keep seeing—”

  “No,” he said fiercely. “You will heal in mind and you will heal in body. I will not lose you, too. Do you hear me? You will heal!”

  The passionate force of his voice almost convinced her he could hold both death and madness at bay. Poor Lion. He had lost so much. His family. His ships. His home.

  She had thought she was incapable of feeling ever again, but to her surprise she felt a faint stirring within her. She looked away from him. “Why do we have no clothing?”

  “I burned the clothes you were wearing and the ones I had on when I found you.”

  When she looked at him inquiringly, he shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time. I know nothing about plague.” He paused. “I bathed us both in hot water every day and clothing would have just gotten in the way. It seemed a sensible precaution to take. When you swooned I told Lorenzo and the men not to come near us and brought you here to the winery. They’re encamped beyond the vineyard. Lorenzo comes every day with fresh food and water and sets it outside the door.” He nodded at a pile of blankets against the wall. “I’ve boiled those blankets and dried them in the sun. If you like, I suppose I could fashion you something to wear from one of them.”

  “Soon.” She felt no discomfort in either Lion’s nudity or her own. More than her clothing had been stripped from her in the past weeks. “How long are we to remain here?”

  “Another week. Then, if neither of us falls ill, it will be reasonable to assume you did not carry the plague.”

  “Reasonable.” She looked at him and found herself suddenly shaking. “There’s no reason or justice connected with that monster. It strikes the good, the innocent, the strong. Caterina—” She choked back a sob. “Forgive me. I know it must hurt to have me speak of her. She was your mother, and she—”

  “Hush.” He was suddenly holding her in his arms, his fingers tan
gled in her hair as he rocked her back and forth in an agony of sympathy. “I know she was not kind to you. She meant well—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Sanchia whispered. “I loved her, too. We became so close those last days that when she died it was almost like losing Piero again. I loved her.”

  “I wish I had said good-bye to them,” Lion said hoarsely. “I should have taken the time to say good-bye. If I had known—”

  Sanchia felt something warm and wet on her temple. If. The eternal word of regret. Sanchia’s arms slowly went around his shoulders to comfort as well as take comfort. Caterina had said something about regrets that she must think about and then share with Lion and Lorenzo. But not now. The pain was too fresh and new. Later there would be time enough.

  Why, she was thinking about the future, she realized with astonishment. Perhaps she was beginning to believe that Lion could in some magical way keep the Medusa from taking them both.

  But she must not let her hopes rise, for that was another way the Medusa tricked and deceived, giving a little only to take away all. Sanchia would not allow herself to hope until she was sure the monster had passed them by and would not look over its shoulder to smite them down.

  Later that night, they sat before the small fire Lion had lit in the center of the winery. Lion had draped her in one of the blankets to protect her from the cold, and his arm around her formed another comforting barrier.

  She did not look away from the fire as she said haltingly, “I do love you, you know.”

  He stiffened and then his arm tightened around her. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I knew I loved you in that first moment when I thought you might also get the plague. I believe I didn’t realize it before because love was different from what I had thought it would be.” She gazed pensively into the flames. “It’s not sweet and gentle like the emotion Dante felt for his Beatrice, is it?”

  “No.”

  “It twists and turns and makes you ache with lust and then with tenderness, but still the love remains. Somehow I thought there would be …” She stopped, thinking about it. “A splendor.”

  “Perhaps there is splendor for people who have an easier path to tread than we.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They were silent.

  “I thought it important that you know I love you before we die,” she said. “I think we should—”

  “We aren’t going to die.”

  “Oh. Well, if we do.” She leaned her head back against his chest and closed her eyes. “No, it’s not at all like Dante said. I didn’t even think of you very often once Caterina and I set to nurse the dying in Mandara. Only now and then when there was time.” She paused. “But when I did think of you, it was with love. I want you to know.”

  “I do know.” Lion’s voice was thick as his arms clasped her closer still. “I know, Sanchia.”

  “Good.” She opened her eyes to gaze wistfully once again into the heart of the fire. “Still, it would have been quite wonderful if there had been splendor …”

  A week later Sanchia and Lion walked out of the half dusk of the winery into the full sunlight.

  Lorenzo was waiting with the reins of two horses in one hand, a pile of clothing for Lion in the other, and a smile on his lips for Sanchia. “Ah, how … interesting you look.” His gaze flicked to Sanchia’s hair before shifting to the coarse gray blanket Lion had slit in the middle and then slipped over her head to form a loose robe. “That garment has a kind of barbaric charm when combined with her wild red hair, don’t you think, Lion? Yes, she’d definitely be a fit mate for Attila the Hun.”

  She gazed at Lorenzo in wonder. He was behaving exactly as he had before. Everything in the world had changed since that time … except Lorenzo.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked mockingly. “Are your wits so dazed you cannot give me my proper set-down? I suppose I must make allowances for your recent ordeal. However, I hope you will not be long about it, or I’ll be forced to deprive you of my company. You know how I detest being bored.”

  He turned to Lion, who had discarded his blanket and was quickly dressing in the clothes he’d brought. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending the troop to Pisa with instructions for your steward to give them each a small sum to start a new life somewhere else.” His gaze went to the blackened stone of the walls of Mandara. “They obviously have no future here, and you have no immediate use for them.”

  Lion nodded. “You did well.” He pulled on boots. “Have you found other survivors of the fire?”

  “Only a handful. We quartered them in a field a few miles from here and as yet there’s been no sign of the plague among them.” He grimaced. “And we spent most of the week burying the bodies in the foothills we chanced upon when coming here. There were eighty-seven of them.”

  “The population of Mandara numbered well over a thousand,” Lion said. “Damari has claimed a high toll.”

  “What do we do now?” Lorenzo asked. “I admit I’m abysmally weary of sitting around and waiting for you two to rise like Lazarus from the tomb. Damari?”

  “Not yet. We go to Pisa. But first, I have to visit the survivors and see how all goes with them.” Lion swung onto Tabron’s back.

  Lion’s sense of responsibility again, Sanchia thought. There was no longer a Mandara, but as long as his people needed him he was ready to give. “Should I go with you?”

  Lion shook his head. “Sit in the sun and rest. Lorenzo and I will be back shortly.”

  “I’ve done little but rest for the past two weeks.”

  “Tarry here. It will do you no harm and will save me worry. Lorenzo said these people ‘appeared’ to be free of the plague. I’ll not go close, but I don’t want you within miles of them.”

  Sanchia nodded in acceptance. Lion would go no matter what she said or did, and she had no desire to see the refugees from Mandara. The sight would stir too many memories of those last days. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Santa Maria, such meekness.” Lorenzo mounted his horse. “Where is your spirit, your tartness? What a disappointment you’re proving, Sanchia. And you, too, Lion. You have the settled air of a couple married a decade or so.”

  Sanchia’s gaze met Lion’s and the faintest smile touched her lips. In a strange way she felt Lorenzo was right. During their week of isolation together they had known only sorrow and fear and the need to comfort each other. The bond between them had toughened and yet become more supple, like fine leather after years of use.

  As if he had read her mind, Lion nodded imperceptively. “We’ll return soon,” he said as he and Lorenzo set off.

  Sanchia sat down on the bench beside the door of the winery and closed her eyes as she lifted her face to let the rays of the sun bathe her cheeks. The air was clean and sweet, and a feeling of peace gradually settled over her. With it came the strange certainty that the plague was gone.

  The Medusa had moved on.

  Lion returned alone two hours later. When she inquired into Lorenzo’s whereabouts, Lion shrugged as he reined up before her. “He’s gone to Mandara. God knows why. There’s nothing there but ashes and ruins. He said he had a whim to see it one more time before we left.”

  “A whim.” Sanchia turned to look thoughtfully at Mandara. She could not imagine anyone wanting to go back to that charred wasteland. Then, suddenly, she knew why Lorenzo had returned. “I have to go back too. Will you take me?”

  “No!” Lion turned to look at her in amazement. “Why, by all the saints, would you be mad enough to do that?”

  “Not madness. And not a whim,” she said soberly. “But I have to go back. There’s no danger there now. Not even the plague could have lived through the inferno.”

  “You can’t be certain.”

  “No, but I feel it so strongly.” She smiled. “It has passed us by, Lion.”

  “If you have to go, then I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” She held up her arms and he muttered a curse as he swung her
up before him on the saddle. “You can take me to where the city gates once were.” She settled herself back against him. “And wait for me there, as I waited for you here.”

  Lorenzo was sitting on his horse looking at the blackened ruins of the rose garden when Sanchia guided Tabron through the rubble to draw even with him.

  She flinched as she looked around the garden. The devastation of the town had moved her terribly when she was riding through it, but this ruin had much more emotional meaning for her. Where there had been flowering beauty there was now only charred bushes, blackened fountains, cracked benches. The wooden arch over the arbor had crashed down to bury the marble bench beneath, and there was no sign of the pretty garlanded swing where she had watched Bianca and Marco at play that first afternoon.

  Lorenzo didn’t look at her. “I don’t want you here.”

  “She did,” Sanchia said quietly. “She called me friend and held out her hand to me and said, ‘Come with me to my garden, for I don’t want to die alone.’ And I took her hand and we stayed here together and talked of many things until she could no longer speak sensibly. But even then she held my hand tightly and would not let it go until she was taken. I wrapped her in a sheet and dragged her to the chapel to lie with the others. I had to make her coffin with my own hands. She—”

  “Be quiet. I don’t want to hear this,” Lorenzo said hoarsely. “Leave me.”

  “I cannot leave you. What she said in this garden has worth and meaning for all of us. She said she had no regrets about anything she had done. She only wished that she had taken more time to nurture and appreciate the people around her as she had this garden.”

  “Is that all she said?”

  “No, but it was all much the same. Live in the rose gardens of life, live fully and well, and do not fear the thorns.” She paused. “She did say one more thing. But that was much later, when the pain had nearly crazed her and she no longer knew of what she spoke. She said, ‘I love you, Lorenzo.’ “

  He stiffened as if she had struck him. “She was … an extraordinary woman and my very good friend.” His voice was uneven. “Naturally, you will not repeat her words, as they could be misunderstood.”