The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  ‘Pity you couldn’t intervene.’ He addressed the blissful saint in a whisper. ‘He was right here at your very feet, within arm’s reach. There were few more noble, more selfless, more dutiful in all of Demesne. None more beautiful in Landfall. Not to me, anyway.’ So much blood. The memory of it stained him even now.

  ‘But it’s the nature of prayers to fall on deaf ears.’ His lip curled, fingers clenched into fists. ‘Anyone who says different is dreaming.’

  If the saint took offence she didn’t show it.

  ‘Do you know what I’ve been praying for?’ Dino turned at the voice and found himself face to face with Medea. She was wild-haired, attired only in a silk nightgown of midnight blue, damp with sweat as if from fever. The gown clung to the recesses of her spare body, thin with grief. Her eyes, always a store of kindness amid the harsh realities of Demesne, harboured only darkness. She’d woven a rose stem around her forearm, the thorns puncturing her soft flesh. Tiny rubies of blood glittered on olive skin. Her hand clutched a stiletto, the ricasso etched with the house motto, a word on each side of the triangular blade, each a foundation of the Contadino way.

  Dovere. Lavoro. Fedelta.

  Duty. Labour. Loyalty. The watchwords of those who toiled in fields.

  ‘My lady.’ Dino sketched a bow and realised how ridiculous they must look.

  ‘Do you know what I’ve been praying for?’ she repeated, a faraway cast to her eyes, deeply unsettling.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘I’ve been praying for Salvaza to die.’

  Dino was addressing someone who looked like Medea but at heart was a stranger. Were any of them the people they had once been? Hadn’t grief and suspicion wrought parodies from the proudest, tragedies from the honest?

  ‘Sometimes I dream of strangling her,’ continued Medea, ‘or putting out her eyes with my thumbs.’

  Dino swallowed, struggling for words.

  ‘Other times I think of knives, or swords, or axes. A beheading would not be so very grotesque, certainly not for the architect of Emilio’s murder.’

  ‘We can’t be sure tha—’

  ‘It was her letter that summoned him.’

  ‘Forgery is not so very difficult to—’

  ‘In her own hand.’

  Dino’s thoughts conjured Stephania in the courtyard the very hour they’d departed for the foolhardy rendezvous. He hoped she’d not been party to her mother’s plans. Medea took a step forward; the acrid tang of the unwashed assailed him.

  ‘I want her dead, Dino. And I want you to do it. I don’t care how.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could acquire poison without arousing suspicion.’ Dino retreated a step. ‘Not after Duke Fontein.’

  ‘I said I don’t care how. If she wakes with a dagger in her heart all the better.’ Medea came closer still. ‘At least people will know that to cross Contadino means death.’

  ‘My lady, Medea, listen to yourself. These aren’t the words of a Contadino, they’re not words you’d even dare whisper.’ He retreated another step.

  ‘I thought you at least would have the stomach for this.’ The disdain in her voice was unbearable. ‘Are you not capable? Have you not killed?’

  Dino thought back to the many raids of the last few months, the raiders he’d slain. He thought of the single Myrmidon he’d killed in the depths of the sanatorio, mashing his head against the wall until he stopped moving. He thought of Duke Fontein, eyes rolled back in his head, mouth agape, poison slowing his heart.

  ‘I’ve killed. But never women. And rarely in cold blood.’

  ‘Do you think me cold, Dino? Feel my skin, Dino.’ Medea proffered an arm, thrust it forward, a weapon. ‘Do I feel cold to you? Do I?’

  Dino made no move, as if contact with her might infect him with the darkness she carried.

  ‘I’d say not. I’ve been consumed by a fever. I mean to have my cure by way of Salvaza Prospero’s death.’

  It was as if a malignant spirit had expelled Medea Contadino’s soul, taken her over. Dino scarcely recognised the gaunt apparition, much less her murderous entreaty.

  ‘Will you kill her?’ she pressed.

  ‘There’s no sense to it. She’s not a danger any more. Salvaza is just as at risk as the rest of us.’

  ‘I don’t care for threats to come, I care for justice. I want justice for Emilio.’

  ‘What you’re speaking of sounds a lot like revenge.’

  Medea showed no sign of having heard him.

  ‘Isn’t that what you want? Justice.’ The repetition of the word hammered his resolve, shattering his resistance.

  ‘Of course. But—’

  ‘Well stop pouting in my rose garden and set to it.’

  ‘I just think that—’ He got not further.

  ‘There are scores of rumours circling you, Dino. None of them kind. Hardly the sort of rumours a man of your skills would want.’ Medea’s eyes gleamed. ‘But as an assassin …’ She smiled. ‘No one would dare speak ill of you.’

  ‘I’m not an assassin, Medea. I’m superiore. I teach, I don’t kill.’

  ‘You killed during the Verde Guerra.’

  ‘That was different, that was war.’

  ‘You killed when the men in grey raided Demesne and Santa Maria.’

  ‘I was protecting people, not seeking a fight.’

  ‘Who else, Dino? Who else has succumbed to the finest swordsman in Landfall? That’s quite a title for someone so reluctant to kill.’

  ‘I can’t just walk up to Salvaza and kill her in cold blood.’ His voice was all but a broken whisper.

  ‘I expected more of you, Dino. Did Emilio mean nothing? Didn’t Massimo die in this very place?’

  The Orfano looked down. Medea’s cruel petition had forced him back, his boots now planted on the very spot where his love had died. Dino looked up, fresh sweat prickling across his scalp, down his spine, on the palms of his hands.

  Don’t leave me, Mass.

  ‘We should consult Anea,’ he said, the words weak. The odious task would not be so easily deferred.

  ‘Anea is gone.’ Medea’s seething was replaced by a more forlorn tone. ‘You know only too well that she serves herself; she cares nothing for us.’

  ‘I can’t do it, Medea. I can’t. I can’t be an assassin for you.’

  Medea made no acknowledgment, turning away, gliding back to her apartment on naked feet.

  ‘There’d be no way of undoing such a thing once it’s done,’ he called after her, but she continued on her way. Dino looked down at the gravel beneath his boots, choking down the rage that kicked and roiled in his gut. He couldn’t kill Stephania Prospero’s mother, he couldn’t kill the woman who had engineered Massimo death.

  The finest swordsman in Landfall? Medea’s words haunted him long after she’d departed. That’s quite a title for someone so reluctant to kill.

  The evening summoned a blood-warm breeze as the sun drenched the horizon in scarlet and orange. Clouds burned magenta. The trees in the town sighed with discomfort, parched and browning leaves desperate for rain. The people of Santa Maria journeyed home from their travails, downcast and cowed. The taverns were watched by pairs of Myrmidons, mute and immobile. Customers seldom stayed long, keen to be among their families.

  Dino watched all of this from the roof of House Contadino, hunkered down with arms wrapped about his torso, belt weighted with sword and stiletto. The smaller weapon was plain and businesslike, undecorated and unrecognizable. The single-minded hatred that consumed Medea’s soul had infected Dino. He felt it spreading icy fingers through his chest.

  ‘Huh. Thought you were a gargoyle for a moment there.’

  Dino turned, wanted to smile by way of greeting to the messenger but managed only to chew his lip. He turned his eyes toward the horizon.

  ‘Hell of a thing Medea’s got you doing.’ Nardo’s hands fussed at his pipe, spilling twists of moonleaf.

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘Didn’t need to.’ The
messenger tamped the weed into the bowl of the pipe. ‘Only one reason a women deep in grief leaves her bed and comes to you.’

  ‘Am I so obviously an assassin now? Is this what the Domina has made me?’ The first question was spiked with anger, the second forlorn.

  ‘You’re whatever you choose to be, Dino. You don’t think of me only as a messenger, do you?’ He lit and dragged on the pipe and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I think of you as a father to those children. Luc will certainly need someone reliable like you in the years ahead. He’s going to be angry. He’ll be rash.’

  They waited, the messenger calm amidst his smoke, the assassin a coil of tension on the roof’s edge.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ Nardo cleared his throat and shifted his feet.

  ‘Only darkness, and that’s contingent on my friend there.’ Dino nodded toward the sun, gradually being consumed by the lip of the world.

  ‘Things are going to be more complicated when your friend there rises tomorrow.’ Nardo blew plumes of smoke out of his nostrils.

  ‘I warned Medea as much, but she won’t be turned from her course.’

  ‘And what of your course?’

  Dino pursed his lips. ‘I want Salvaza dead for Massimo. Being in the rose garden reopened the wound. I want her dead for Emilio, and Abramo, and Marcell. I’ve no doubt her hand bears the blood of Bruno too.’ Dino thought back to the night the farmer had given his life so that he might live. Was he not worth avenging too? Did he not deserve justice as much as any lord or swordsman?

  ‘When you list her sins in lives it’s difficult to mount a defence,’ replied Nardo.

  ‘And are you?’ Dino stood and pulled the stiletto from the sheath, his eyes settling on the point, which was bathed in the bloody light of the dying sun.

  ‘Am I what?’ The messenger frowned and blew out another jet of smoke.

  ‘Trying to mount a defence for Salvaza? Didn’t you stand here just this morning and say you wanted her dead?’

  Nardo looked away to the horizon, then nodded.

  ‘And do you still want her dead?’

  The messenger nodded again, then turned on his heel, entering the corridors of Demesne, back to the fatherless children placed in his care.

  48

  Recollection

  – Agosto 322

  The first assassination attempt came just six months into Dino’s tenure as maestro superiore di spada. A lone attacker gained entrance to the bedroom by an open window. What surprised Dino most was that the attempt was quickly followed by a poisoning, which also failed. More surprising still was that he was not the target of either.

  Anea had survived, but only just.

  The Ravenscourt descended into uproar. Demesne all but seethed with speculation, the people of Landfall fearing for their Silent Queen. When Dino’s fury abated he found himself adrift on a sea of worry. The students he trained were duly assigned to D’arzenta and Ruggeri. Neither protested, but their silences were equally strident. Dino’s desire to teach evaporated, his every waking thought now bent to one purpose: the safety of Lady Aranea Oscuro Diaspora. The months crawled along like a hound in summer heat, possessed of a similar temper and bearing a stench much the same. Dino was almost brought to his knees with exhaustion, unable to trust anyone besides himself. Virmyre, much concerned for the Orfano, suggested Anea visit San Marino at short notice. Such a visit would give Dino a much-needed reprieve by putting Lady Diaspora beyond the reach of assassins.

  It was on the third day of Anea’s absence that Dino received a missive. The note, asking for a fencing lesson, was delivered by an unfamiliar messenger in Prospero livery. He’d have dismissed the request had he not grown bored of idleness. Achilles padded about the apartment, tail swishing with reptilian restlessness. Dino regarded the note anew. That the author was Stephania Prospero decided him. He’d barely seen her since returning from the Verde Guerra. The opportunity to reacquaint himself was a welcome one. They had been close once. She had never cared that he was Orfano; that he made her laugh was enough.

  Dino left the apartment with a firm stride, savouring a relief he’d not felt since his appointment as maestro di spada. Achilles looked down from his shoulder, onyx eyes inspecting each guard they passed. Once in the training chamber the Orfano procured two rapiers, setting one by the door and unsheathing the other. He’d not used such a light blade in years, but soon recalled the parries and stances. Feet found their paces, muscles adjusted to the new weight, eye following the velocity of the strikes. He began to sweat, grinning with the exertion, unbuttoning his shirt, jacket removed on account of the heat. Achilles stared with indifference, perched on a practice dummy upholstered in dust.

  Dino was now eighteen and no longer a child. More than that he was a veteran of the Verde Guerra and maestro superiore di spada. Stephania was twenty-five. Older, certainly, but not outrageously so. The rapier flashed in the sunlight, reflecting back his distorted face along the narrow blade. He’d spent so much time committed to soldiery he’d not considered anything else. Didn’t men court women? Didn’t couples marry? Was he required to sleep in Anea’s armchair for the rest of his days? Or endure the loneliness of his bed?

  All of these thoughts stretched and coiled like sleeping drakes in sunshine. He pushed himself through another combination of thrusts and slashes, parrying imagined blows, forming ripostes. Dino was well acquainted with death – the creatures of the Verde Guerra had taken their tithe from Demesne – now he sought the bright spark of life.

  There was no doubt Stephania was a light in the firmament of Landfall, sought after by many, but remaining distant due to her title. Dino liked her well enough, though thoughts of women seldom crossed his mind. Another button unfastened, he smoothed down his hair and made sure his sleeves covered the hated tines sprouting from his forearms. Politically it would be a sound partnership, winning over a worthy ally to Anea’s cause. Then anxiety struck him like a thunderbolt, suddenly aware he knew nothing of women, much less of seduction.

  The door on the far side of the chamber interrupted his thoughts, rattling and scraping in the silence of the summer afternoon. Dino blinked in surprise.

  Duchess Salvaza Prospero entered and took up the rapier so thoughtfully left by the door. She fixed the Orfano with a pout. ‘You could at least try to mask your disappointment, Dino.’

  ‘Apologies, Duchess. I confess I wasn’t expecting you and …’ The words ran down like a slowed clock.

  Another pout from the duchess, an insouciant shrug. She sauntered to the centre of the chamber, every swish of her hips a mocking challenge. Salvaza wore a simple riding skirt, good sturdy boots and a blouse that would not impede the motion of her arms. It was not in the mode of the gowns she so often wore – yards of rich fabric yet none providing much in the way of propriety. There could be no doubt she had dressed for a fencing lesson.

  Dino had been played. And he was not alone in noticing attire.

  ‘How you’ve grown, Dino. No longer the mischievous urchin of the House Contadino kitchens. Why, you’re almost undressed. I hope I’m not interrupting some assignation? Did you have some agenda beyond training this afternoon?’

  This was a curious reversal. He looked down to find himself sweat-dewed, chest visible. The duchess laughed, strutting a circle around him. Then the question.

  ‘Were you deceived by the handwriting of the letter?’ The duchess smirked. ‘Perhaps you thought the signee was Stephania instead of Salvaza?’

  There was no need to reply, only look abashed and fasten his shirt. The duchess responded by cooing behind one hand. Her laugh would have been irritating from one half her age; her giggle was at once grotesque and theatrical. She stepped closer, dragging one index finger over the sweep of his chest, causing the fabric of his shirt to go taut.

  ‘And may I ask what designs the Lord Dino Adolfo Erudito has on my daughter?’ Are they respectful? Political? Marital?’ A pause, a simper. ‘Carnal?’ She smoothed the fabric of his shirt,
favouring him with a smile at once cruel and lascivious.

  The Orfano said nothing, each question a white-hot knife pressed to his flesh. The plan to seduce Stephania now seemed as remote as it was ridiculous. Had the duchess planted the idea in his mind before entering? Might she be an enchantress with the power to shape thoughts? Dino stepped back beyond the range of lingering fingers and his own childish imaginings. He cleared his throat. Salvaza drew her rapier a few inches from the scabbard, studying the forte of the blade. She settled into a first position, drew and sighted down the length of the weapon.

  Then came the confession, each revelation a slash that threatened to cut him to the bone, leaving him bleeding across the flagstones of the training chamber.

  ‘I was married off to Duke Prospero at sixteen while very much in love with Emilio. I had to choose politics over the desperate yearnings of my womanhood. We courted in secret up to the very week of the wedding.’ She dipped her eyes a moment. ‘To this day I can’t be sure if Stephania was a child born of Prospero. Certainly she lacks any of Stephanio’s attributes.’

  Dino locked his eyes on the flagstones, looking for some way out, some way past the duchess. He drew his own rapier, the scabbard clenched in his left hand, ready to parry should he need it.

  ‘Emilio,’ she purred, ‘much tortured by the union, left for the fields of the Schiaparelli estate, keen to be free of Demesne. He did not return for three years. Not even for La Festa. When he finally returned it was as if Medea had been waiting for him. So began a long and careful campaign. She all but served herself to him on a platter, until he couldn’t but help notice her.’ A sour twist stole across the duchess’s lips. ‘Medea nursed his fractured heart, soothing his anger until life became bearable again.’

  Achilles stirred on the practice dummy, aware of Dino’s discomfort. The drake stretched, tail coiling. The sun made no concession; Dino felt as he were all but boiling. Still he gripped the rapier, and still Salvaza cast her secrets like thrusts and slashes that he could not avoid and would never parry.