by Alma Katsu
Adair stood at the foot of the bed, watching Lanore sleep—at least, it seemed as though she was sleeping—and wondering what was happening wherever she was. Was she safe? Had she found Jonathan? Perhaps she was lying in the pompous fool’s arms at that moment. He pushed the thought from his mind; no, she’d promised that she was not looking to rekindle her old romance, and for some reason (perhaps the fleet look of disquietude she gave him when she’d made the promise), he was inclined to believe her. It had been several weeks since he’d cast her into this trance and honestly, he was surprised that she hadn’t returned yet.
By this time, relations with Terry and Robin had deteriorated to the breaking point. Waiting on tenterhooks for Lanore’s return, each minute more fraught than the last, meant that he had no patience for distractions, which included the girls’ interruptions. They’d gotten the message, eventually, and now stomped sullenly about the fortress like Clydesdales, or got drunk at night and stayed up playing music, shrieking and laughing and behaving as though there were a party going on—anything to prompt a response from him, even an angry one. He refused to rise to the bait.
He blocked out as much of their noise as he could and remained with Lanore, pacing in her tiny room and watching for a sign. The only thing he wanted to do, however, was to hold her, aching for the reassurance of her physical presence, but he felt constrained from doing as he wished by the girls’ obnoxious behavior, which undoubtedly had been their intent.
It wasn’t until one night, when there had been a long silence in the dead hours, that he thought it was safe enough, and he took his chance. After bracing a chair against the door, he climbed on the bed and hugged Lanore close. He was amazed anew at how small she was, how fragile. Her toes came only to his shins. Her body was so narrow. He ran his hands over the parts of her that were exposed to him and thrilled at the rose-petal tenderness of her skin. He brought his face close to her neck, drinking in her scent, and that tiny bit of intimacy only made him want her more, made him shudder with the great physical potential inside him, like a tsunami rippling over the ocean and reaching for shore. He was seized with the desire to relieve his longing by coupling with her unconscious body. It wasn’t as though Lanore would be surprised if he told her when she awakened what he’d done, he thought. Knowing him as she did, she’d probably expect it of him. She’d excuse his base behavior and yet . . . he knew she’d be disappointed. It would be a bit of the old Adair resurfacing, the demon who frightened her so, proof that he hadn’t been exorcised completely.
He rolled away from her, closed his eyes, and reached for his member, already full and heavy with need. Pressed against her on the bed was enough of a connection for what he had to do, and he was able to bring himself to climax quickly. His relief was short-lived, however: he felt his hard-earned peace dissipate like mist, to be replaced with an aching sadness. He was, after all, still alone, and she was still lying next to him like an effigy on a tomb.
He went to the window and saw the entire island was in sleep. Even the goats were huddled together under the pine trees, their heads resting on their knees. A mist seemed to have settled over the island, covering everything in a thick white fog, as palpable as cotton batting.
Adair went downstairs, past the dining room, where he found the two women passed out at the table, a number of empty wine bottles strewn between them. He put on his greatcoat and went outdoors. It was wintertime, but aside from the biting wind whipping in from the sea, it didn’t seem like winter on the island, which was too far south in the Mediterranean for frost or snow. As Adair stood staring at the water with his hands thrust in his pockets, he thought that he would like it to look like winter. What was the coldness he felt in his heart, if not winter?
Without saying a word or even thinking about it too strenuously, he made the temperature fall. A frosty veil of white started to bloom over the black rocks. Plumes of breath rose over the sleeping goats. Where the sea met rock, a ring of ice began to form, then spread out to the sea, until the island was encircled by a huge disk of thick ice. Adair tried not to be surprised, because he knew that—in some way that wasn’t clear to him but was nonetheless undeniable—he’d willed this change to happen.
Inside the house, Adair continued his vigil. He moved a chair to the foot of the bed so that he could watch Lanore from a different angle. He brought a blanket from another room and spread it over the first one, fearing that she might feel a chill now that the air had gotten colder, though he suspected that she didn’t feel a thing. As he sat watching her, with a sigh he released the coldness in his heart, and as soon as he did, the temperature began to creep upward. The goats awoke, tossing their heads to shake off the enchantment. Before long the ice that had gripped the shore began to groan and break apart, chunks of it drifting into the sea.
Watching the ice break apart made Adair feel uneasy, however. He had begun to feel a presence gathering on the horizon. Whatever this presence was, it was malevolent. It stalked outside his field of vision, beyond his reach, like a wolf or jackal pacing and sniffing the air. It was testing the outer limits of Adair’s reach and would come in closer once it felt confident. He had no idea what the presence might be, or why he felt this strong sense of foreboding, but there it was, just as he felt there was a connection between the girls and the long-dead sister witches.
He worried that it could be the queen coming for him. There was a chance that Lanore’s entry to the underworld had gotten the queen’s attention and now she was amassing her forces, preparing to capture him and drag him to hell to face the punishment he’d eluded for so long. If it weren’t for Lanore, Adair would take measures of his own and leave the island. But as it was, Adair felt like a sitting duck, impatient with being helpless.
That night, Adair once again barricaded the door to Lanore’s room and settled in with her. He fitted himself against her on the bed, cupping his hand over the one of hers that held the vial, and then cleared his mind so that he might drift into sleep. Darkness fell on him swiftly, and as heavily as a hammer.
VENICE, 1262
The next day, Adair could hardly wait for midnight. He’d spent the daytime hurriedly copying out as many pages as he could from the blue book, until his hand cramped and his fingers were heavily stained with ink. As much as he regretted the loss of his treasure, he hoped to get something much better in return: a mentor. Oh, of course the man he met last night might be a pretender and a charlatan, but Adair didn’t think that was the case. If he was half as learned as Adair suspected, Adair had decided to try to convince him to take him on as an apprentice. At the very least, he hoped the old man would let him peruse his books on the occult. If owning even one book of secrets had made Adair this happy, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have access to an entire collection. The sacrifice of the peacock book was a minor thing compared to the possibility of finding a knowledgeable mentor and gaining access to such an accumulation of occult knowledge.
By midnight, most of the doge’s staff was asleep, even the guard at the gate in the back of the courtyard, and Adair had no difficulty sneaking out of the palazzo. Energetic with anticipation, he dashed through cobblestone alleys and over bridges until he came to the Plaza Saint Vincent. The old man had not been kidding when he said Adair would be able to pick out his house without assistance: one house alone dominated the square, and it was conspicuously well lit for the hour. Two lanterns hung in front of the massive oak doors, and chinks of light coming from deep inside the house shone through all the closed shutters.
Adair was met at the door by a footman, who led him on a trek through the palazzo and all the way to a wing at the back of the house. They finally came to a large, heavy door. The servant held the door open but only nodded at Adair, indicating that he should proceed alone, the door closing at once behind him. The room might as well have been in a deep dungeon, it was so dark and cavernous, though it was lit as well as could be by two huge candelabras standing on tall pedestals. The room obviously served as a study, two of its
long walls covered with book-laden shelves. Adair had never seen so many books in his life, not at the doge’s palace, nor in any of the rooms of his father’s castle. For a moment, all he could do was gawk. It was like seeing his dearest wish come true. To be able to afford so many books, he figured the old man must be rich beyond measure.
It was then that Adair noticed the old man standing behind a high lectern, reading from a large book. He was slightly more modestly dressed that evening than the first time they’d met, now wearing a tunic with a full fur collar and gold embroidery at the neck and sleeves. He was using a piece of glass to magnify the words on the page, and took his time finishing what he was doing before looking up at Adair.
“You made it, I see. And you have the book?” he asked, reaching out with one massive, leathery hand. Adair took the package from under his cloak and approached the lectern, offering it up.
The old man slipped the deerskin off, then held the book up to examine it under the light from the candelabras. He flicked through the pages, pleased. At length he said to Adair, “It’s a lovely book, wouldn’t you agree? And a very rare one. Do you know the provenance of this tome?”
Adair shook his head.
“If you did, doubtless you would’ve fought harder to keep it.” The old man gave him a cunning smile, pleased with himself. “It was reportedly made by a French monk who was a secret devotee of the occult arts during the Capetian reign, prior to the time of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The church has a very long and intimate relationship with the occult,” he said, clearly delighting in his new possession, the way a man might extoll the virtues of a superb wine or a good spouse to whoever is within earshot.
Now happy, the old man reached into his robes and held out Adair’s coin purse and proceeded to tell Adair about himself. His name was Cosimo Moretti. He was born the son of a common farmer in the principality of Naples, but over the course of many years had been able to distinguish himself as a knight in service to the prince, fighting his way out of poverty. For his entire life, however, he’d had a secret burning interest in the dark arts. For instance, on every campaign, he would seek out old crones, midwives, and herbalists, charming or paying them, whichever was necessary, to find out if there was an actual witch living in their midst. Such information was not readily shared with strangers—particularly one of the prince’s men, who more likely than not would turn the witch over to the authorities—but occasionally he struck pay dirt. In this way, albeit very slowly, he accumulated a good deal of knowledge about not only the dark arts but its renowned practitioners.
Once he became too old to fight in battle anymore, he put away his sword, sold his estate, and left Naples, trekking to Venice to study with a very powerful magician. Cosimo recalled with a chuckle that he had to camp out in the courtyard in front of the magician’s palazzo for three weeks before the man would even speak to him. “Can you imagine! I was quite aged at this point, a gray-bearded old relic prostrating myself in the man’s doorway like a beggar! Luckily, I was plenty hardened from years living on the battlefield and the inconvenience meant little to me.”
“And how long were you able to study with this mage?” Adair asked, breathless.
“A decade. He was very old by the time I met him, and it was a miracle that he lived as long as he did. As the man had no heirs, I inherited everything, including this house and the magnificent collection of books of secrets that you see here.” He gestured to the towering walls of shelves, burgeoning with books of all sizes and shapes. “I’ve added to it steadily whenever the opportunity arises, making my own contribution to his life’s work.” What remained unsaid, however, was what would happen to the collection on Cosimo’s death. Adair wondered if the old warrior had a family that stood to inherit everything.
Adair imagined that Cosimo had to know what burned in his heart, that he hoped the old man would take him under his wing, just as the mage had done with Cosimo. One thing bothered Adair, however, something he needed Cosimo to clarify.
“There is one thing I wish to know, sir, and perhaps you can explain this to me. . . . You call yourself a magician, while I study the art of alchemy, and yet here we are interested in the same book of secrets. How can that be? Do you consider yourself an alchemist, too?”
Cosimo smiled, although there was little comfort in his expression, as he had the cold, reptilian smile of a lizard. “I was wondering if you might ask me this. In truth, I know little about the world of alchemy. But I do know that there appear to be many similarities between the two practices. I’ve seen what great magicians are able to do by fire and cauldron, and I have been told that alchemists employ these same means. I know the ingredients witches use, and I have been told that alchemists use the same kind. And what of the ends that both magicians and alchemists seek to achieve? Some would say that the things a skilled alchemist can do are no different from witchcraft, no different at all.”
He came down from the lectern and clapped a hand to Adair’s shoulder. “So I don’t know the answer to your question, young squire. Perhaps this is what you are meant to discover on your journey.” His eyebrows shot up as he spoke, and paired with the reptilian smile, he was quite a daunting sight.
The formal invitation Adair hoped for was not to come for several more weeks, not until he’d sat by Cosimo’s cauldron on a couple occasions, watching silently as the old man measured and stirred and pointed to recipes in ancient books. And it would be another month of skipping Professore Scolari’s lectures in favor of long fireside talks in Cosimo’s palazzo before the old man would give Adair free reign among the books of secrets, allowing him to copy out whichever recipes he chose. Adair began to spend every possible minute at the palazzo, sometimes staying the entire evening and rushing through the alleys of Venice in the minutes before dawn to return to the doge’s house, so the servants wouldn’t see that he was missing from his bed.
Adair thought he had his double life under control. Granted, he barely spent any time in Professore Scolari’s lectures, but he had found a tutor whose teaching was more to his liking. If Zeno were to send a servant to Adair’s room in the middle of the night, the jig would be up, but Adair was pretty sure that the doge had ceased to concern himself with his ward’s comings and goings, if he ever had in the first place. As far as Adair was concerned, his exile to Venice was going far better than he’d ever expected.
So he was understandably surprised when he was summoned to the doge’s study one Sunday afternoon. It was one of those rare times that his host was alone: usually it was impossible to see the doge except with his horde of advisers, officials, nobles, and merchants, who were all petitioning him for some favor or consideration. This afternoon, however, Adair found Zeno by himself in his study, sitting behind a desk piled high with scrolls.
Adair bowed low before him, waiting in this excruciating position until the doge acknowledged him. Zeno wore a tight black velvet cap to warm his near-bald skull, but the cap made him look a little like an infant and spoiled his usually intimidating appearance. He looked down his large, hooked nose at his ward. “Stand up, boy, and take that chair. I need a word with you.”
Adair obeyed, his nerves dancing.
The doge fixed him with a dry stare. “How long have you been living in my household, cel Rau? Refresh my memory.”
“Nearly eight months, my liege.”
“Your father prevailed on me to take you in because, he claimed, you had a burning desire to become a physician.” Adair squirmed in his chair as Zeno rolled up the scroll he’d been looking at. “Professore Scolari tells me that you have been noticeably absent from his lectures. I wish that I could say ‘of late’ but he informs me that this has been the case for quite some time. Is this true, or is the professor mistaken?”
Adair hung his head. “No, my liege. The professor is not mistaken.”
“Well then, perhaps you can tell me what you’ve been up to, if you’re not attending your classes, so that I may answer your father’s missives and not commit the
mortal sin of bearing falsehoods?” The doge studied Adair through his steepled fingers.
“I have found a tutor of my own liking. I have been attending his lectures,” Adair admitted.
Zeno raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is that so? And tell me, what is the name of this mysterious professor? Come, come, if there is a better physician to be found in the city of Venice, I should know his name. Out with it.”
Adair blushed. His only desire was to get out of the doge’s presence without giving up his secret studies. “Forgive me, your grace, for my attempt to deceive you. There is no other physician; the truth is that I find my interest in medicine has waned, to the point where I question whether I wish to pursue further study or not.”
Zeno smirked, as though he’d known he’d been right all along. “I could not care less about your interest in medicine, I only wish to know where you have been spending your time in the evenings, if not with Scolari. Out with it: Have you been out gambling away your father’s fortune, or idling your time away in a brothel somewhere?”
Adair’s throat tightened. There was no lie that the doge would not be able to verify. Zeno had spies everywhere. He was left with only one option: Rossi. “The truth, then, my grace: I have been keeping company with Bishop Rossi. He made me see that my religious education has been lacking—so heavily influenced by the Eastern Orthodox Church, as it has been.” That was his trump card; he knew the doge would consider it a personal victory if he could turn the near-heathen Hungarian nobleman into a proper Roman Catholic.
Zeno leaned forward in his chair. “So—been spending time with Rossi, have you? I find that surprising, cel Rau, given what your father told me about your attitude toward the church.”
“His church, the orthodox church.” Adair was surprised at how nimbly the lie sprang to his lips. “I knew almost nothing about the Roman church before coming here. There is a Roman Catholic priest in our court, but he is kept to the fringes, treated as a heretic by the other clerics, as you might imagine. I never spoke to him, and so I had no understanding of the Roman church at all. Whereas Bishop Rossi—”