Not in the cathedral, though. I'd find God and the Lord playing dice together behind the altar before I found Giovanni anywhere near the place. I went back out into the sunshine, made sure I had my eagle medallion, and went for a walk in the university district.
Giovanni doubtless had a favorite tavern as a student, but I didn't know which it would have been. I went to the tavern where I used to meet Michel; Placido and Ulisse both spent time there, so chances were good Giovanni had as well. I bought two cups of wine and took them to a table near the back. Drinking one, I stared across the table, thinking about Giovanni.
He'd hate this place now, I knew immediately. He'd mock all the students drinking cheap bad wine and choking down the half-burned meals this tavern served. Well. It couldn't be helped. I took a sip of my own cheap,bad wine, and thought about how useless it had been to come here.
Over on the other side of the tavern was a slightly built young man, very young. Brushing past him, another student spilled his wine, laughing at the young man's protest. I was reminded of Giovanni's story about being bullied by Placido, but this young man—boy— just sank back down in his chair and gently righted his now-empty wine cup, his head bowed.
Giovanni wasn't drinking that second cup I'd bought, so I picked it up and made my way over to the young man's table. “Here,” I said, and set it down in front of him. “A replacement.”
“Thank you,” the young man said, gaping, and as I left, I could hear was that really and what was she doing here buzzing at my heels.
I went for a walk along the river, thinking of the night I'd sat on the bank with Mira. I sat down to watch the riverboats make their way up the river. It was a warm day, and I could smell sewage and rotting weeds. The idea of talking to Giovanni, of asking a dead friend to carry a message for me, suddenly seemed absurd, and the “offering” of wine even more so; I was glad I'd given it to the student.
Well, let's think about this logically. I rested my chin on my arms. Mira could not be in Cuore: I'd reached that conclusion a long time ago. If Mira had been in Cuore, she would have heard about my trial in time to take some action—she would have sent me a message suggesting that I turn her into the Servi, most likely, and if I hadn't, she'd have turned herself in. Or she'd have mounted a rescue attempt. Since she hadn't done any of those things, I knew she was not in Cuore.
It's a big Empire, I thought. And an even bigger world. But Mira ran away once before, to Verdia. “I was born in Verdia,” I remembered her saying. “I felt like I belonged there.”
But where within Verdia? Not the conservatory, surely not. Somewhere along the riverbank, I could hear music—someone was playing a trumpet. The trumpet made me think of Bella, and I rubbed her cross between my thumb and forefinger.
The Cantatori. Of course. Mira would have needed somewhere to hide, and she wouldn't have wanted to go through the mage-sickness alone. She was still a talented musician, and she had always loved the Old Way music. There would have been a place for her among the Redentori musicians who continued to play and dance after the war. And in addition to the new outposts along the border, the Cantatori had a household in Pluma.
I'll go to Pluma, I thought, standing up and brushing off my clothes. It can't hurt to go look. I thought, just for a moment, that I smelled winter jasmine, but when I turned my head to sniff the air, it was gone.
∗ ∗ ∗
For my trip to Pluma, I decided to disguise myself as a man again. As a woman violinist in men's clothing, I was recognizable to far too many people as Generale Eliana, and I longed for some privacy. But I was thoroughly accustomed to men's clothing; disguising myself as a man sounded easier than putting on a dress.
I still had my clothes from my days with the Lupi, but they were threadbare and stained from ground-in dirt. I had new clothes made, simple clothes of plainer fabrics than my court clothes, and new boots. I purchased extra strings for my violin, and took the case down from a shelf and oiled the leather. I tucked Giovanni's letter in the case along with the letters from my parents.
I told Lucia that I was going to Verdia, but not who I was hoping to find. We had dinner together the night before I left. She was cheerful, but her new responsibilities were weighing on her heavily. Dismantling the Servi would take time, and Lucia was already sick of the job. She picked at her meal and pushed her food away with a sigh and a rueful smile. “I'm hoping to move to Verdia myself, once I'm done with this,” she said. “It may take a while, though. At least six months. Maybe a year.”
I nodded. I thought it would take longer than that.
“I don't blame you for leaving,” she said. “You'll have to write to me sometimes, though, to make me laugh.”
“I'll try.”
She smiled, and just for an instant, I saw the light in her eyes that I'd seen in Ravenna.
“Don't stay too long here,” I said. “You weren't meant for this.”
“None of us were,” she said, and the light faded like a dying ember.
Traveling as “Daniele,” a musician who had served with the Lupi but was now returning home to Verdia, I took a riverboat back down the Anira River. On several occasions, I saw people covertly using witchlight; I hid my own smile and said nothing.
Toward the end of the trip, I roused briefly one night and heard someone speaking quietly out loud; propping myself up on my elbow and squinting in the dim light, I saw another passenger kneeling, her hands raised up to pray to the Lady. I ducked my head down as she glanced around nervously, and I thought that she was nearly as covert and frightened as the Redentori I'd accidentally encountered in Cuore. I felt a strange twinge, a longing that I had never felt sitting in church at the conservatory. I wondered if God always made Herself known in the hidden places, or if it was simply that I felt most comfortable seeking Her there.
The refugee camp outside of Pluma was gone. I stabled my horse and then made my way to the former inn that was now the household of the Cantatori in Pluma. The door was answered by a young woman who quickly invited me in when she saw my violin case. “I'm looking for someone,” I said. “A young lady who I think might have joined your order.”
She sent me to the office of the local head of the order, a young woman named Prisca who was addressed as “Dean.” Though Prisca wore the red sash of a Cantatore who had served with the Lupi, I had never met her. She was young, only a few years older than me, and a little awkward in her own authority. Her bassoon rested on a stand in the corner of her office. “I am pleased to welcome you, Daniele,” Prisca said. “What is the name of the lady you are looking for?”
“I'm not sure if the name I know is her real name,” I said. “She's about your height—gray eyes and dark hair. She plays the violin and she might have been sick when she first arrived.”
Prisca studied me for a moment and then turned abruptly to look out the window. “You might be describing Bella,” she said.
“Bella?” My voice cracked and I swallowed hard.
“Isabella. One of the other violinists shortened it to Bella, and it seemed to suit her.”
I nodded. “I don't want to intrude if she doesn't want to see me. If you could tell her—” I considered my words for a moment. “Please tell her that Daniele is here, but if she doesn't want to see me, I will leave and not bother her again.”
Prisca nodded. “I'll go find her.”
I was too nervous to sit while she was gone. If Mira was not here, I had no idea where to look next. Well, that wasn't true. I could go down to the wasteland again and try the border outposts; she might have gone down there, trying to undo some of the damage she caused with the Circle. I went to look out Prisca's window. It opened onto an interior courtyard; a gray-robed man was watering a small herb garden. His robes were unbelted; he had not served with the Lupi. A breeze through the window wafted the scent of winter jasmine to my face.
The door clicked shut and I turned, and saw Mira.
She had gained a little weight since the last time I saw her—which was go
od, because when I saw her at the enclave, she looked half starved. She wore unbelted gray robes. Her face was pale, and I feared that she was steeling herself to tell me to go away. But then she said, “Eliana,” her voice cracking, and crossed the room in two steps to grab me in a tight hug.
I pressed my cheek against her shoulder, feeling the scratchy wool of her robes, her hair brushing against my neck.
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered. “By the time I heard about your trial, about Giovanni, it was too late.”
I nodded, not able to speak.
“You were right, you know,” she said. “Some things are stronger than magefire.”
I pulled back to look into her eyes. “You once asked me to go with you,” I said. “That day at the conservatory,when you tried to convince me to jump over the wall and go. Will you come with me now?”
“Where?” Mira asked.
“I don't care,” I said. “As long as it's with you.”
Mira smiled, and her gray eyes lit like witchlight. “Minstrel life is hard,” she said. “We'd never know if we'd be sleeping in a bed or under a bush; some nights we might even go hungry.”
“I've slept under a bush, and it wasn't so bad,” I said. “I've gone hungry and survived. We could be free, my love. We could see the world together.”
Mira pulled my face to hers and kissed me. I could smell winter jasmine and rainwater; her fingers laced in mine and she squeezed my hand like the hilt of a sword. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears; beyond that, I could hear the wind in the trees outside the window, and the sound of a trumpet.
“Come with me,” I whispered.
“I will,” Mira said. “The world will be ours.”
About the Author
Naomi Kritzer grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, a small lunar colony populated mostly by Ph.D.s. She moved to Minnesota to attend college; after graduating with a BA in religion, she became a technical writer. She now lives in Minneapolis with her family. is her second novel. Please visit her website at http://www.naomikritzer.com.
TURNING THE STORM
A Bantam Book/January 2003
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2003 by Naomi Kritzer
Cover illustration © 2003 by Franco Accornero
Map by Hadel Studio, Inc.
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