Rebel Genius

by Michael Dante DiMartino

He dreaded to speak about the other night, but maybe if he told Pietro, the master could shed some light on what was going on.

  Pietro must have sensed Giacomo’s hesitation. He placed a comforting hand on his back. “It’s important you tell me.”

  Giacomo took a deep breath. “The night before I came here, I had a run-in with a Lost Soul. Two, actually. When I tried to get away, one of them stabbed me. I didn’t think I was going to survive. But then I was swallowed up by some kind of storm, like the one that just came out of the mandorla. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. But the pain was definitely real. It was so bad, I wanted to die. And then suddenly the storm passed. I woke up back on the street, and my wound was mysteriously healed. That’s when my Genius showed up.” Once he had finished, the lump in his throat dissolved and he felt more at ease.

  Pietro stroked his long beard, considering Giacomo’s explanation. “I don’t understand how, but I believe you’ve accessed the Wellspring.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A dimension of sensation. Every color, sound, smell, flavor, and texture originates in the Wellspring. It is the universe’s source of creative energy.”

  “You make it sound like a good thing, but it feels horrible. Savino was right, I could’ve killed Milena, or collapsed the villa on top of all of us.”

  “Creative energy is wild and untamed.”

  “Obviously! And I have no idea how to control it!”

  “With practice, you can learn.”

  “So you’ve mastered the Wellspring?” Giacomo asked hopefully.

  Pietro shook his head. “I wish I could tell you I had. But even the most talented artists only harness its power every now and then, in moments of pure focus. That’s when ideas and creativity flow effortlessly and masterpieces are created.” Pietro scratched his bald spot. “However, that’s strictly a mental experience, you understand. What’s puzzling is how you’ve been able to tap into the Wellspring on a physical level.”

  “I’d rather not tap into it again on any level.” Giacomo searched for Mico and found him hiding in the space between two casks of wine.

  “You’re scared,” Pietro said. “I understand. But don’t let that fear stop you from exploring your creative power.”

  “Even if it might kill me, or someone else in the process?” Giacomo snapped. He took his Genius in his hands and pulled it out. “Come on, Mico. We’re leaving.”

  “Wait—”

  But Giacomo was already halfway up the stairs.

  “Step into the fear!” Pietro called after him. “Or someday, you might regret not taking that journey.”

  Giacomo raced along the main hall, Pietro’s words still lingering in his head. Aaminah’s healing viol music streamed through the villa. Part of him wanted to check on Milena, but he was too ashamed to face her right now.

  He careened out the front door and stumbled into the courtyard, the breeze cooling his sweaty skin. Mico jumped from his hands and flew loops, chirping happily. After being confined in the cellar, the open air was a relief to them both.

  Giacomo had his hand on the front gate when Aaminah caught up to him.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, a concerned look on her face.

  “I don’t know,” Giacomo said. “Back to the sewers, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what I did.”

  “Milena’s going to be fine, I promise.”

  But Giacomo wasn’t so sure. He slumped against the gate. “She’s never going to forgive me.”

  “Of course she will.”

  “Even if she does … I think coming here was a mistake.”

  Aaminah twirled her braid with her finger. “You know … when I first got to the villa, I felt the same. Like I didn’t belong. For days, all I could think about was running away, back to the countryside.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Luna did. She loved being here. And when she met Milena’s and Savino’s Geniuses, it was like she’d been reunited with long-lost relatives. I realized she needed other Geniuses to thrive. And I needed other people.”

  “If I left, everyone would eventually forget I was ever here,” Giacomo said. “Savino and Milena would never miss me.”

  “I would.” As soon as Aaminah said it, her eyes darted away. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  Giacomo softened. She seemed to have the skill of knowing the perfect thing to say.

  Aaminah’s gaze followed Luna and Mico as they wove through the air, playfully chasing each other. She smiled, exposing her crooked front tooth. “Plus, our Geniuses seem to be hitting it off. You can’t tear them apart now.”

  Giacomo gave a halfhearted nod. “Okay…”

  Aaminah held out her hand. “Come on.” He took it and let her lead him back inside.

  “But I’m taking a break from all this sacred geometry stuff,” Giacomo said. “I’m sticking with charcoal and paper. It’s a lot safer.”

  6

  DUKE OBERTO

  The wind whipped Zanobius’s face. He grasped huge handfuls of silver feathers with all four fists, his cloak flapping like a ship’s sail in a storm. He kept his gaze up and resisted the impulse to look down. If he focused on the star-filled sky, he wouldn’t fall. At least that was what he told himself.

  In front of Zanobius, his master straddled Ciro’s neck, staff tucked securely in the crook of his arm. He looked from side to side, studying the ground far below.

  Duke Oberto’s castle should be close, Ugalino’s voice said.

  When they had first made camp, after leaving the art dealer, Zanobius had asked his master about the duke.

  “You said you were familiar with him. Have I met him also, but don’t remember?”

  “No, I visited him nearly twenty years ago, when I was still searching for how to create you. His collection of esoteric knowledge proved crucial. But I haven’t spoken to him since. I should have known he was after the Sacred Tools as well.”

  “Is he a friend?”

  “He’s a greedy man who refused to accept his station in life,” Ugalino said bitterly. “I didn’t leave his castle on pleasant terms.”

  “So he won’t be happy to see you again?”

  “Doubtful. But he will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.”

  “Why?”

  Ugalino didn’t provide an answer and Zanobius didn’t press any further. If his master wanted him to know, he would tell him.

  For the next several nights they flew north. Ugalino preferred to travel after the sun set. There was less chance of being spotted, and Ciro needed the days to recuperate.

  Zanobius’s thoughts were interrupted by his master’s voice. We’ve arrived. Get ready.

  “Ciro, dive!” Ugalino shouted.

  The Genius plunged, letting out an ear-piercing screech. Zanobius’s stomach heaved.

  Before they could land, a streak of flaming light shot past Zanobius, inches from his eye—a fire-tipped arrow. A second one embedded in the Genius’s side. Ciro screeched again. At the same time, Ugalino let out a pained groan and rubbed his thigh.

  Careful not to fall, Zanobius reached down and dislodged the shaft, patting Ciro’s feathers to put out the flames.

  Ugalino pushed his Genius into a full dive, forcing Zanobius to look down, where a dozen more fiery arrows shot toward them. Ciro heaved his massive wings and flapped them, generating a powerful gust that batted the projectiles off course.

  Ciro accelerated toward the castle, a pentagonal stone fortress sitting atop a pillar of raised earth, ringed by a moat. On two corner towers, archers dipped their arrowheads into barrels of black pitch and touched them to standing torches. They nocked the arrows and launched another volley.

  Flames whizzed past Zanobius on both sides. One shaft thunked into his shoulder. His cloak burned, but he didn’t even wince. He yanked out the arrow like it was an annoying splinter and tossed it away.

  Ciro swooped low and Ugalino leveled his staff at the first to
wer. The diamond mounted atop the weapon’s handle glowed. Ugalino made a series of short, sharp strokes, as though the staff were his paintbrush and the sky his canvas; sparkling strands of white light launched from the diamond. They spiraled through the air and erupted where the archers stood, throwing them off the tower.

  Ugalino targeted the second corner, but this time the archers knew what was coming. A split second before the tower exploded, they leaped away and dove into the murky moat.

  Ugalino steered Ciro over the open courtyard. The Genius flapped its giant wings and slowed its descent. Before they touched down, Zanobius jumped off Ciro’s back, eager to meet the ground below. His four bare feet smashed into the stone slabs with a sharp crack. Helmed swordsmen, draped in chain mail and covered in plates of armor, fenced in Zanobius, their blades ready to cut him down. He whipped off his cloak. Beneath it, he wore only a swath of red linen around his waist. He saw no point in hiding what he was from these men.

  Zanobius raised all four arms and took a defensive stance. Through the slits in their visors, he saw the swordsmen’s eyes swell with fright as they took in his hulking white form: his four arms and four legs and the tattooed purple circular patterns across his chest and back.

  “Monster!” a man to his right called out.

  “Freak!” yelled another.

  “Abomination!” hollered a third.

  Zanobius snarled, their words wounding him more deeply than their blades ever could.

  Ignore their insults, his master whispered. They will never appreciate how truly unique you are. They don’t deserve to exist in the same world as you. End them.

  Zanobius lunged at the nearest man and seized his gauntlet, crushing his wrist. The sword clattered to the ground as the man’s painful howls mixed with the crunch of metal and snap of bone. With one arm, Zanobius hurled the man across the courtyard, where he fell in a heap against the wall.

  Three swords slashed; three of Zanobius’s hands reached out, catching the blades. He disarmed his attackers, then flung their weapons back at them. Two of the men dove out of the way, but the third took steel to the leg.

  Though the cuts Zanobius sustained were painless, a thick, gray liquid oozed from his palms. His skin squeezed itself together and the wounds instantly closed.

  The last two guards circled him, one striking from behind and the other at his chest. Zanobius dodged and turned, clamping his massive hands around their helmets. The metal buckled in his vise-like grip as the men screamed for mercy. He knocked their heads together and let them drop with a thud.

  Ugalino strode past the mound of bodies and struck the heel of his staff on the stones. A luminous white cone formed above the diamond on the handle. He thrust his staff at the castle’s doors and light spiraled out, boring a large hole through the thick wood.

  Zanobius followed Ugalino into the castle and down a wide hallway, where he gazed in wonder at all the wealth. Each room he passed was filled with ornate furniture, giant glazed vases, and tapestries so big Zanobius looked like a child next to the monumental figures woven into them. Humans seemed obsessed with collecting material things, he observed. Especially rich ones. But for what purpose? How many gold-framed mirrors did a man need before he got sick of looking at himself?

  Zanobius glimpsed his reflection in one of the mirrors, his uniformly pale skin punctuated by his piercing blue eyes. He moved on, breezing past painting after painting, until one caught his attention. As his master continued down the hall, Zanobius looked fixedly up at the canvas.

  What he noticed at first was all the stars. It looked like an exact replica of the sky Zanobius gazed at night after sleepless night. In his head, he drew lines connecting a group of stars, making the shape of a tiger. Another grouping took the form of a bear.

  At the top of the image, a man with long gray hair hovered in the clouds, looming over the earth below. With his right arm, he reached toward the earth, holding a large drafting compass. The tip of its long leg touched the earth and several bright circles spread out, like ripples in a pool of water. In his left arm he held a long straightedge and a pencil.

  His master’s voice called to him: Zanobius, I have someone eager to meet you.

  Ugalino approached, along with a man whose face was covered in wrinkly skin—Duke Oberto, Zanobius assumed. Over his hunched back, he wore a long red cloak embroidered with gold and silver thread that sparkled in the torchlight. As he came closer, Zanobius realized the man’s wrinkles were actually scars that cut deep grooves across his face, like he’d been horribly burned in a fire.

  “You should have sent word you were coming,” the duke said to Ugalino. “I would have ordered my men to stand down and—” His voice dropped away as soon as he laid eyes on Zanobius.

  The duke stared, but not with the horror and anger Zanobius was used to. No, this man’s eyes looked hungry. Like he’d been starved for weeks and Zanobius had just arrived with a platter of roast duck.

  “I’d heard you were successful, but to see your Tulpa with my own eyes…” The duke turned back to Ugalino. “May I?” he said, gesturing toward Zanobius.

  Ugalino nodded. “Of course.”

  Let Duke Oberto observe you, his master instructed. He is weak of mind and spirit. Make him feel important, and he’ll give us what we want.

  Zanobius stood like a statue as Duke Oberto circled him, examining his flesh up close. The duke dragged a withered finger across his chest, tracing one of the many circles designed into his body. The duke poked and prodded him, murmuring, “Mmm,” and, “Ah, I see…,” as if he were reading from a letter. The duke stared up into Zanobius’s eyes. He was so close now, Zanobius could see that he was missing most of his teeth. The few that remained were so decayed they looked like they might fall out at any moment. His body was so ravaged, it was impossible to determine his true age.

  “A bit roughly hewn and the extra limbs look rather tacked on, but this Tulpa is truly a masterpiece,” Duke Oberto said.

  Ugalino seemed to ignore the duke’s backhanded compliment. Zanobius tried to listen in on his master’s thoughts, curious to know if the duke’s critique had offended him, but he found only silence. When Ugalino didn’t want to be heard, Zanobius was left in the dark.

  “No wonder the Supreme Creator saw your Tulpa as a threat,” the duke said. “Imagine an army of creatures like this one, marching on Virenzia … She wouldn’t stand a chance!”

  “My intention was never to build an army.”

  The duke raised one of Zanobius’s arms and pressed on his biceps. “A mistake, if you ask me.”

  “Zanobius isn’t just some creature,” Ugalino said, his voice growing more intense. “He is a work of art, crafted with care and skill. He can’t be copied endlessly. Now, if we could—”

  “A million gold impronta,” the duke interrupted.

  Ugalino’s hand tensed around his staff. “I’m sorry?”

  The duke spun around. “I’ll pay one million for your Tulpa. Far beyond what even the finest paintings command on the black market.”

  “He’s not for sale,” Ugalino said firmly.

  “Two million,” the duke countered. “Now don’t be a fool, Ugalino. I’m sure you can whip up another if you want to.”

  Ugalino glowered. “As I’ve been trying to explain, one does not merely ‘whip up’ a Tulpa. Zanobius is one of a kind.” He leaned in and jabbed the duke’s chest with his staff’s diamond handle. “No amount of money will make me part with him.”

  “If you didn’t come looking for a buyer, then what are you doing here?”

  “I wish to acquire three rare objects, and the word is, you have black market connections across all three empires.”

  Duke Oberto smirked. “True. I can get you anything you want. Assuming you have the money.”

  Ugalino looked at the painting of the Creator. “I want those,” he said, pointing to the Compass, Straightedge, and Pencil.

  “Like your Tulpa, the painting’s not for sale.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t pretend to be clueless. I want the actual Sacred Tools.”

  Duke Oberto scowled. “I deal in the tangible world. The Creator’s Tools are a myth. I think our business is done. You can see yourself out.” The duke pushed past Ugalino and marched down the hall.

  Seize him, Ugalino ordered.

  Zanobius took hold of the duke, picking him up with all four hands. The man felt fragile, like his bones would shatter with even the slightest pressure.

  “Release me!” the duke demanded.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Ugalino shouted. “I know you’ve been searching for the Sacred Tools.”

  “I haven’t, I swear.” Sweat beaded across the duke’s forehead.

  “Then if you can’t be of service, what use are you?”

  Ugalino glanced at Zanobius. Crush him.

  Zanobius removed his two front hands from the duke’s shoulders and wrapped them around his head.

  “No, wait! I … I can help you!”

  The wealthiest always cave the quickest, Ugalino’s voice whispered. They have the least amount of courage and the most to lose.

  Zanobius eased his grip.

  “There’s a man in Virenzia…” the duke confessed. “A collector … He’s bought dozens of old maps, parchments, ancient tomes … He never outright said what they were for, but I’m sure he must be looking for the Sacred Tools too.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Baldassare Barrolo, the Supreme Creator’s Minister of Culture.”

  Ugalino ran his staff down the duke’s scarred face. “You look much worse than the last time we met.”

  “The tragedy of aging.”

  “I’d wager age has nothing to do with it.” Ugalino narrowed his eyes. “You never abandoned your experiments like I bid you to.”

  “Please, tell your Tulpa to let me go,” the duke appealed. “I gave you a lead on the Sacred Tools.”

  Ugalino shook his head. “I warned you what would happen if you insisted on pursuing this reckless, self-destructive path.”

  The duke’s frightened expression became defiant. “The Wellspring’s power shouldn’t be available only to those with Geniuses.”

  Ugalino took a step back. “Consider this an act of mercy. I’m saving you from yourself.” He turned and strode toward the door.