by Rice, Anne
When it came time to leave the house that night to find our resting place, I discovered Bianca asleep in my studio on a long silken couch.
“Oh, but you’re too lovely,” I said to her, kissing her hair tenderly and squeezing her beautifully curved arm.
“I adore you,” she whispered, then went on with her dreaming—my fine and wonderful girl.
On we went to the golden room in which our coffins awaited us. I helped Amadeo lift the lid of his coffin before I lifted my own.
Amadeo was tired. The dancing had wearied him. But he whispered something sleepily to me.
“What is it?” I said.
“When the time comes, you will do it, you will give Bianca the Blood.”
“No,” I said, “stop speaking of that, you’re infuriating me.”
He laughed his cold uncompassionate little laugh. “I know you will. You love her too much to see her begin to wither.”
I told him No.
And then I went to my rest, never dreaming that it was the last night of our life together, the last night of my supreme power, the last night of Marius de Romanus, citizen of Venice, painter and magician, the last night of my Perfect Time.
24
On the following night I rose as was my custom and waited the hour or so for Amadeo to open his eyes.
Being young he did not follow the sunset so quickly as I did, and the time of rising differs among blood drinkers even when age is not a question at all.
I sat in the gold-lined chamber, deep in my thoughts about the scholar named Raymond Gallant, and wondered if he had left Venice as I had advised him to do. What danger could he bring to me, I thought, even if he meant to do it, for whom would he incite against me and on what charge?
I was far too strong to be overcome or imprisoned. Such a thing was preposterous. The very worst that could happen was that if this man marked me as some sort of dangerous alchemist, or even a demon, I should have to take Amadeo and go.
But I did not like these thoughts, and so I chose during these quiet moments to believe in Raymond Gallant, to be fond of him and to trust in him, and to let my mind search the city around me to see if I might find a trace of his presence, which would displease me in the extreme.
I had only started this search when something utterly ghastly blotted out my reason.
I heard screams coming from my own house. And I heard the cry of blood drinkers! I heard the cry of Satan worshipers—the chant of condemnations—and in my mind’s eye I saw my rooms filled with spreading fire.
I beheld Bianca’s face in the minds of others. I heard the cries of my boys.
Quickly I threw off the cover of Amadeo’s coffin.
“Come, Amadeo, I need you,” I cried in this frantic, foolish moment. “They’re burning the house. Bianca is in danger. Come.”
“Who is it, Master,” he said, flying up the steps beside me. “Is it Those Who Must Be Kept?”
“No, Amadeo,” I said, taking him under my arm and flying to the roof of the palazzo, “It’s a band of demon-worshiping blood drinkers. They’re weak. They will burn by their own torches! We must save Bianca. We must save the boys.”
As soon as I reached the house, I realized that they were attacking it in unimaginable numbers. Santino had realized his crazed dreams. In every room there was a zealous assailant putting to the torch whatever he could.
The entire house was filled with fire.
As I rushed to the top of the main stairs I saw Bianca far below me, surrounded by the black-cloaked demons, who tormented her with torches as she screamed. Vincenzo lay dead before the open front doors.
I could hear the shouts of the gondoliers pleading with those inside to come out.
I dropped to the bottom of the stairway, and with the Fire Gift burnt Bianca’s young and blundering attackers, who all but tripped on their black robes as they went up in flames. Some I could only force away with physical blows because I had no time to direct my powerful gifts.
Quickly I carried Bianca through the thick smoke and out onto the quais. I heaved her into the arms of a boatman who at once moved to take her away.
As soon as I turned back to save the screaming boys, a host of black-clad monsters surrounded me and again I burnt them with the Fire Gift, battering at their torches clumsily as I did.
The house was everywhere in chaos. Statues fell over the railings. Tapestries were set ablaze and paintings smoldered, but the boys, what could I do to protect the boys?
As soon as I burnt one ring of monsters there came another, and from all sides the condemnations:
“Heretic, blasphemer, Marius, the idolater, Marius, the pagan. Santino condemns you to burn.”
Again and again I knocked the torches aside. Again and again I burnt the intruders. Again and again I heard their dying cries.
The smoke blinded me as it might have a mortal. The boys were roaring in panic as they were carried out of the house and over the rooftops.
“Amadeo!” I called out.
From above, I heard him desperately call to me.
I ascended, yet at every landing they accosted me and I found myself whipping around and playing the same game of force and Fire Gift as rapidly as I could.
“Amadeo, use your strength,” I called out to him. I could not see him. “Use the gifts I’ve given you.” I could only hear his cries.
I set ablaze those who crowded close to me. I could see nothing but the creatures burning, and then more torches thrust towards me as I hurled them back.
“Do you want to burn!” I declared, seeking to threaten them but no lesson of power stopped them.
In their fervor they came on.
“Santino sends you his holy fire. Santino sends you his justice. Santino claims your pupils. Santino claims your fledglings. Now it is time for you to burn.”
All of a sudden and indeed, it was all of sudden—there did come the fatal circle of some seven or eight of them swift enough to plunge the fire at me so that it caught all of my garments and my hair.
Against my body itself this fire burnt, swallowing my head and all of my limbs.
For one slight moment I thought I shall survive this, this is nothing, I am Marius, the Immortal One, and then there came to me in a fury the horrid memory of the blood of the Elder in Egypt set afire by a lamp, burning with lurid smoke on the floor of my room.
There came a memory of the blood of Euxodia in Constantinople, bursting into flame on the floor of the shrine.
There came the memory of the Druid god in the grove with his black burnt skin.
And I knew in the next instant, without memory or thought, that my blood had been fatally ignited—that no matter how strong my skin or my bone, or my will, I was now burning, burning with such pain and such speed that nothing could keep me from being destroyed.
“Marius,” Amadeo cried out in terror. “Marius.” I heard his voice like a bell.
I cannot say reason drove me in any direction.
I did know I had reached the rooftop, and the cries of Amadeo and the boys were moving far off.
“Marius,” cried Amadeo one more time.
I was blind to all who still tormented me. I was blind to the sky. In my ears, I heard the old God of the Grove on the night of my making telling me that I was immortal, that I could only be destroyed by the sun or by fire.
For life, I reached with all my remaining power. And in this state, I willed myself to reach the proper railing of the roof garden and to plummet down into the canal.
“Yes, down, down, into the water, under the water,” I said aloud, forcing myself to hear the words, and then through the fetid waters I swam as fast as I could, clinging to the bottom, cooled and soothed and saved by the filthy water, leaving behind the burning palazzo from which my children had been stolen, in which my paintings had been destroyed.
An hour, perhaps longer, I remained in the canal.
The fire in my veins had been quenched almost immediately, but the raw pain was almost unendurable, a
nd when at last I rose it was to seek that gold-lined chamber where my coffin lay.
I was unable to walk to this room.
Fearfully, on hands and knees, I sought the back entrance of the house, and managed by means of both the Mind Gift and my fingers to unlatch the door.
Then moving slowly through the many chambers I came at last to the heavy barrier which I had made to my tomb. For how long I struggled with it I do not know, only that it was the Mind Gift which finally unfastened it, not the strength of my burnt hands.
At last I crept down the stairs to the dark quiet of the golden room.
It seemed a miracle when at last I lay beside my coffin. I was too exhausted to move further, and with every breath I felt pain.
The sight of my burnt arms and legs was stultifying. And when I reached to feel my hair, I realized that most of it was gone. I felt my ribs beneath the thickened black flesh of my chest. I needed no mirror to tell me that I had become a horror, that my face was gone.
But what grieved me far worse was that when I leant against my coffin and listened, I could hear the boys wailing, wailing as a ship took them to some distant port, and I could hear Amadeo pleading with his captors for some kind of reason. But no reason came. Only the chants of the Satan worshipers were sung to my poor children. And I knew these Satan worshipers were taking my children South to Rome, South to Santino, whom I had foolishly condemned and dismissed.
Amadeo was once more a prisoner, once more a captive of those who would use him for their evil ends. Amadeo had once more been stolen from a way of life to be taken to another inexplicable place.
Oh, how I hated myself that I had not destroyed Santino! Why had I ever suffered him to live!
And even now, as I tell you this story, I despise him! Oh, how heartily and eternally I despise him because he destroyed, in the name of Satan, all that I held precious, because he took my Amadeo away from me, because he took those whom I protected, because he burnt the palazzo which contained the fruits of my dreams.
Yes, I repeat myself, don’t I? You must forgive me. Surely you must understand the pure arrogance and utter cruelty of what Santino did to me. Surely you must understand the pure destructive force with which he changed the course of Amadeo’s journey.…
And I knew that this journey would be changed.
I knew it as I lay against the side of my coffin. I knew it because I was too weak to recover my pupil, too weak to save the wretched mortal boys who would suffer some unspeakable cruelties, too weak even to hunt for myself.
And if I could not hunt, how would I gain the blood to heal?
I lay back on the floor of the room and I tried to quell the pain in my burnt flesh. I tried only to think and to breathe.
I could hear Bianca. Bianca had survived. Bianca was alive.
Indeed, Bianca had brought others to save our house, but it was far beyond saving. And once again, as in war and pillage, I had lost the beautiful things I cherished; I had lost my books; I had lost my writings, such as they were.
How many hours I lay there I don’t know, but when I rose to take the lid from my coffin I found that I still could not stand. Indeed, I could not remove the lid with my burnt arms. Only with the Mind Gift could I push it and then not very far.
I settled back down on the floor.
I was too full of pain to move again for a long time.
Could I hope to travel over the miles to reach the Divine Parents? I didn’t know. And I couldn’t risk leaving this chamber to find out.
Nevertheless I pictured Those Who Must Be Kept. I prayed to them. Deeply, vividly I envisioned Akasha.
“Help me, my Queen,” I whispered aloud. “Help me. Guide me. Remember when you spoke to me in Egypt. Remember. Speak to me now. I have never suffered before as I am suffering now.”
And then an old taunt came back to me, a taunt as old as prayers themselves.
“Who will tend your shrine if I am not restored?” I demanded. I trembled in my misery. “Beloved Akasha,” I whispered. “Who will worship you if I am destroyed? Help me, guide me, for some night in these passing centuries you may have need of me! Who has cared for you for so long!”
But what good is it ever to taunt the gods and the goddesses?
I sent out the Mind Gift with all its strength to the snowy Alps in which I had built and concealed the chapel.
“My Queen, tell me how I may come to you? Could something as dreadful as this draw you from your solitude, or do I ask too much? I dream of miracles but I cannot imagine them. I pray for mercy, yet I cannot envision how it would come about.”
I knew it was vain, if not blasphemy, to beg her to rise from her throne for me. But was she so powerful that she could give some miraculous strength over the miles?
“How will I return to you?” I prayed. “How will I ever fulfill again my duties if I am not healed?”
The silence of the golden room answered. It was as cold as the shrine in the mountains. I imagined I could feel the snow of the Alps on my burnt flesh.
But slowly the horror sunk in.
I think I gave a soft, sad little laugh.
“I can’t reach you,” I said, “not without assistance, and how can I obtain that assistance unless I forsake the secret of what I am? Unless I forsake the secret of the Chapel of Those Who Must Be Kept?”
At last I climbed to my knees and struggled up the stone stairs very slowly; and painfully, I managed to stand, and with the Mind Gift, fasten the bronze door.
Safety, that was important, very important. I must survive this, I thought. I must not despair.
Then collapsing again and crawling down the stairs to the golden chamber, in the manner of something loathsome and lurid, I pushed doggedly against the lid of my coffin until it was open sufficiently for me to go to my rest.
Never had I known such injury, never had I known such pain.
A monstrous humiliation was mingled with the torture. Oh, there was so much I had not known about existence, so much I had not understood about life.
Soon the cries of the boys were gone from my ears, no matter how keenly I listened. The boat had carried them over the waters.
But I could still hear Bianca.
Bianca wept.
In misery and pain, my mind searched Venice.
“Raymond Gallant, member of the Talamasca,” I whispered, “I need you now. Raymond Gallant, pray you haven’t left Venice. Raymond Gallant of the Talamasca, please hear my prayers.”
I could find no trace of him, but who knew what had happened to my powers? Perhaps all had dwindled. I could not even remember clearly his room or where it had been.
But why did I hope to find him? Had I not told him to leave the Veneto? Had I not impressed upon him that he must leave? Of course he had done as I had told him to do. No doubt he was miles beyond the point where he might hear my call.
Nevertheless I continued to say his name over and over as if it were a prayer.
“Raymond Gallant of the Talamasca, I need you. I need you now.”
Finally, the approaching dawn brought a frigid relief to me. The roaring pain subsided slowly and my dreams began as they will do if I sleep before the rise of the sun.
In my dreams, I saw Bianca. She had her servants about her, and they comforted her, and she said:
“They are dead, both of them, I know it. They have died in the fire.”
“No, my sweet one,” I said. With all the power of the Mind Gift I called to her:
Bianca, Amadeo is gone, but I live. Do not fear me when you set eyes upon me, for I am badly burnt. But I live.
In the eyes of the others, I saw a mirror of her as she stopped and turned away from them. I saw her rise from her chair and move towards the window. I saw her open it and peer out into the dampness at the approaching light.
Tonight, when the sun sets, I will call to you. Bianca. I am a monster now in my own eyes and will be a monster in yours. But I will endure this suffering. I will call to you. Don’t be afraid.
“Marius,” she said. The mortals who gathered around her heard her speak my name.
But the sleep of the morning had come over me. I couldn’t resist it. The pain was at last gone.
25
When I awoke the pain was excruciating. I lay for an hour or more without moving. I listened to the voices of Venice. I listened to the movement of the waters beneath my house and all around it, and through the canals and into the sea.
I listened for Santino’s miscreants, in quiet dignified terror that they might yet be abroad in search of me. But they were gone completely, at least for now.
I tried to lift the marble lid of the sarcophagus and I couldn’t do it. Once again, with the Mind Gift I pushed against it, and then, with the aid of my feeble hands I was able to push it aside.
Most strange and wondrous, I thought, that the power of the mind was greater than the power of the hands.
Slowly, I managed to rise from this cold and handsome grave which I had fashioned for myself, and I did at last, after great effort, sit on the cold marble floor, seeing the glint of the golden walls through a bit of light that seeped into the chamber around the edges of the upper door.
I felt a terrible agony and weariness. A sense of shame overcame me. I had imagined myself invulnerable, and oh, how I had been humbled, how I had been dashed against the stones of my own pride.
The taunts of the Satan worshipers came back to me. I remembered Amadeo’s cries.
Where was he now, my beauteous pupil? I listened but I heard nothing.
I called to Raymond Gallant once more, though I knew it was in vain. I pictured him traveling overland to England. I called his name aloud so that it resounded off the walls of the golden chamber, but I could not find him. I knew that I would not find him. I did it only to be certain that he was far beyond my reach.
And then I thought of my precious and fair Bianca. I sought to see her as I had last night, through the minds of those around her. I sent the Mind Gift wandering to her fashionable rooms.
Into my ears there came the sound of playful music; and at once I saw her many regular guests. They drank and talked as though my house had not been destroyed, or rather as if they knew nothing of it, and I had never been one of them; on they went as the living do, after a mortal is taken away.