The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  ‘Emilio’s union with Medea was in turn a torture to me. Seeing him with his younger, pretty wife was a splinter I’ve never been able to rid myself of.’ She sighed, passing a weary hand over her face. ‘The things we do for politics – for duty,’ she added, looking genuinely miserable.

  ‘If you had truly loved Emilio you would have married him,’ he countered.

  The duchess laughed in his face. ‘Are you so naive?’ An able riposte. ‘A romantic without any sense of the real world?’

  Dino sidestepped this: ‘Is it not more practical to pursue the one you love? Failing to do so only ends in regret –’ he chewed his lip a moment ‘– which in turn is self-defeating.’ These words sounded solid to his own ears, yet he knew he lacked conviction. What did he know of pursuing love?

  She struck back: ‘Of course I loved Emilio, but love is for paupers and scoundrels, perhaps poets in their happier days.’

  Dino had hated her for that, cut back: ‘And your own unhappy marriage to Duke Prospero? Surely that resulted in your affair with the capo?’ The words rang like steel, and the duchess took a step back. Dino pressed his advantage, keen to maintain the momentum.

  ‘Might you be married to Emilio this very day had you followed your heart? Instead you’re burdened with a halfwit lover who only craves the position you could award him.’

  The duchess withdrew, disarmed, and threw up her hands.

  ‘The affair is mutually beneficial.’ Each syllable struggled past the tightness of her smile, neither of them believing the words she formed.

  The Orfano pressed in for the coup de grâce. ‘I know full well the capo has journeyed to the coast with Anea. Not out of a sense of duty, but in a fit of pique.’ He shook his head. ‘You refused to marry him. Again.’

  Salvaza set down the rapier on the varnished floor, clapping slowly, glowering behind her hands. ‘Your sources are rich indeed, and well informed.’

  ‘I have no sources. The whole castle speaks of nothing else, my lady.’

  Not beaten, the badly wounded duchess responded one last time: ‘Promise me one thing.’

  Now it was Dino’s turn to shrug.

  The duchess pressed on all the same. ‘Promise me that, if you find love, you’ll not let anything come between you – not duty or station or expectation. You may be my opponent, Dino Erudito, but I wouldn’t wish my fate on my most hated enemy.’

  Dino watched the duchess leave the training chamber, unsure of who had really won; certainly they both bled freely. Achilles had no answer for him, wrapping a tail about himself protectively.

  49

  Ravens Returned

  – 29 Agosto 325

  Dino was well acquainted with the location of Duchess Prospero’s apartment; he’d spent a score of nights eavesdropping there. The duchess had never concerned herself hiring soldiers; small need when she’d entertained the capo all these years. Now her protector was absent, and with him the protection of House Fontein. Dino approached with stiletto in hand, confident none would prevent him. It would not be such a great task to kill a sleeping person, he lied to himself. One simple thrust then pull the sheets over eyes full of shock and accusation. There would be fleeting seconds of struggle, but they would pass.

  Clocks across Demesne announced the hour, eleven muted and discordant chimes. He welcomed the din, knowing it would cover the sound of his footsteps and the betraying groan of floorboards. With every step his hatred swelled; every corner turned summoned a vision of death. First Abramo, a knife in his throat, face down in the long grass. Then Marcell, head coming apart in a welter of crimson. He’d seen the face of Margravio Contadino all too often in his nightmares. It waited in the darkness, etched behind his eyelids. And finally Massimo, bleeding out among the roses with his perfect smile. Dino’s lip curled in a snarl, the fragments of his heart grating together. All these deaths the consequence of one letter, the work of Salvaza Prospero. He gripped the dagger more tightly. He could kill Salvaza Prospero. He would kill Salvaza Prospero. He must. Massimo had not cried out for revenge with his dying breath, but there would be no solace while Medea Contadino stalked Demesne. It were as if she she walked beside him now, a taunting Erinyes, her words the judgement of the Dirae.

  The Orfano lingered by a window in the corridor, waiting for the light beneath the duchess’s door to darken. The lattice of glass at his shoulder revealed stars. Clouds edged into view, snuffing out its perfect silver until only a sliver of the moon remained, lambent and muted. The light beneath the door was extinguished. The killing beckoned.

  The clocks chimed again, their dull clamour announcing midnight and the last day that Duchess Salvaza Prospero would draw breath. Fingers sought the iron key within his jacket. It had long lay unused, a forgotten item in a dish on Stephania’s mantelpiece, buried beneath other oddments. The key represented a way home for an estranged daughter, a gesture of reconciliation from a parent who had long since given up hope. Stephania’s growing disgust with her mother had ossified, the key remaining forgotten by all. All except Dino, who had palmed it during a seemingly innocent visit.

  The lock clicked, oiled hinges silent as Dino pushed the door open with velvet-gloved fingertips. Fortune was smiling on him, it seemed. The sitting room was much as he’d imagined it, lavish and baroque. Soft furnishings in violent fuchsia were subdued by the darkness. Thick curtains, undone in tiny increments by moths and vermin, held back the night. It was trove of objets d’art, every surface bearing treasures ornate and unique. Statuettes stood beside porcelain, nestled amid pottery, under canvases that showed pastoral idylls. The paintings were a cruel hypocrisy to Dino since the duchess had only ever held disdain for those in the fields. Now Dino would repay the feeling.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar. If the duchess was afraid of assassins she erected no obstacles to them. She may well have instructed the capo in the arts of love, but he’d failed her with lessons in security. Dino padded into the room unchallenged by lock or guardian, taking in the scene. Her chamber was every inch a boudoir, at once feminine and gaudy, a maiden’s dream of romanticism that had failed to mature. Dino sneered. It resembled a room from a fairy tale, yet the kiss he bestowed would not awaken the sleeper. She lay on the bed. A candle remained lit, burned down to a stub on the cabinet beside her. A single rose wilted in a slender vase, thorns brown and sharp. Dino blinked and saw Massimo on dry white gravel, watched over by an uncaring saint. The icy fingers of Medea’s revenge curled around Dino’s spine, forcing the air from leaden lungs.

  An open book lay beneath Salvaza’s hand, the other at rest on her considerable breast, swaddled in silk. Brunette curls spread across the soft cream of the pillow. The great economic heart of Demesne at rest, dreaming of riches and intrigues, or perhaps of simple survival.

  A single pearl lay on the bedside cabinet bathed in the guttering glow of the candle, an eye filmed with rheum. Dino knew with certainty why this one remained alone: he’d given its match to Stephania. He’d all but forgotten the misplaced earring at the cemetery. His desire to find the owner of the jewel had been occluded with each death and act of violence. The tiny weight of gold and pearl stared back at the Orfano, further proof of Salvaza’s treachery.

  Sweat spread itself across his palms, making his velvet gloves damp. The stiletto was now an extension of him, heavy in his grip, heart the same in his chest. He whispered Massimo’s name, drawing up the weapon in two hands, spreading his feet wider than the breadth of his shoulders. The killing blow needed to be perfect. He swallowed in a dry throat. The moon gleamed from the blade.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  The point of the stiletto wavered as Dino’s eyes sought the source of the sound. A raven perched on the window ledge, tar black and full of muscular purpose. If the bird woke the duchess, she might scream or, worse yet, beg for her life. He had no wish to hear Salvaza’s plea.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  Dino’s eyes flicked up again. Another raven had alighted on the window ledge, but this was a
minor consideration beside the apparition that caught his eye. Framed in mahogany was a perfect portrait lit from the side by golden candle light. He knew it to be a looking glass but his was not the reflection that stared back. Lucien regarded him from the glass, ashen-faced. They’d always shared a resemblance, but the likeness now was uncanny: the locks of his hair an echo of Lucien’s own, the same leanness of limb, a liquid grace in each movement. Even the cut of his jacket.

  If not the weapon.

  Lucien had never been without a blade, though he’d never wield something as mean as a stiletto. He’d sneer and call it for what it was, the tool of an assassin. Dino looked down at the sleeping duchess and took in a shuddering breath, keen to be free of Lucien’s condemnation.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  Once again his gaze was drawn to the window. Now a handful of ravens stared back, accusatory and truculent. Why had they chosen tonight to return? Dino failed to ignore the looking glass and Lucien’s sneering disapproval, withering under that terrible judgment. What would the older Orfano think if he were here now? Hadn’t Dino himself nearly been killed in his bed by assassins as a youth? And now he stooped to the very tactics of his enemies.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  The reflection shook its head, distaste sketched in the set of its mouth, eyes hard and accusing. Disappointment showed in the set of the shoulders. The reflection offered no disparaging words, had no need to. Dino was fully aware of Lucien’s verdict.

  Assassino. Murderer.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  The room spun. Dino struggled to remain standing. His breath faltered, pulse fluttering, uneven. Was this sorcery or had he succumbed to the madness that had claimed Anea? Would he know if he’d slipped over the edge of sanity into the abyss of paranoia and suspicion? Why, after all these years, did Lucien appear now? Dino unravelled beneath the weight of questions, yet one more remained.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  Would Massimo have approved of killing women in their sleep? The reflection shook its head once more. Dino’s grasp on the stiletto faltered, and he lowered his arms, turning away from Salvaza to sit on the side of the bed.

  ‘Guido? Is that you?’ Her voice was a whisper. He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer for the knot of frustration and loathing tied at his throat.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Panic now, her sleepy whisper giving way to alarm.

  He had no reply for her. Struggling to sit upright, he held down racking sobs. He had fallen so far.

  ‘Dino? What are you doing here?’

  He turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder through the red-tinged film clouding his sight. Tears blossomed from misshapen ducts, spilling scarlet down his face.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ she gasped.

  ‘Not bleeding. Weeping.’ His voice was the rasp of cemetery gravel. Thoughts turned anew to the rose garden and of Massimo.

  ‘Why are you here?’ No trace of the arrogant, smirking, assured Duchess Prospero, just a woman of middle age attired in nothing but silk and fear.

  ‘Retaliation,’ replied the Orfano. ‘For Emilio. And Massimo.’

  ‘You’re here to kill me?’

  ‘It was your letter, your handwriting, your work.’

  ‘I was blackmailed, Dino, I swear …’ Silence crowded in about them. The candle flickered, the flame drowning in wax.

  ‘So you admit to writing the letter?’

  ‘Yes, but I never meant for Emilio to be killed. We were lovers once, after all.’

  ‘I know. You told me, but that hardly makes a difference in Demesne.’

  ‘I still cared for him,’ she remonstrated.

  ‘But you wrote the letter.’

  ‘Yes, at the insistence of …’

  He had yet to face her, the stiletto a cold weight in his hand, bloody tears wet on his face.

  ‘Who made you lure Emilio to the ambush?’

  ‘I’ve never met him. He calls himself Erebus.’

  Dino twisted around so fast the duchess flinched away, pressing herself against the headboard. Her eyes were frozen on the point of the stiletto, one hand at her throat, the other held out to ward off his wrath.

  ‘Erebus?’

  She nodded. ‘Please don’t kill me. He threatened to kill Stephania unless I …’

  The candle flickered and died. A long moment passed as Dino considered the revelation, shrouded in darkness. It made murder no less repulsive. He fumbled on the cabinet and lit a new candle, then resumed his seat at the edge of the bed.

  ‘You sent Emilio to his death to protect Stephania?’

  Another nod. ‘Erebus began writing to me months ago. At first he promised support for Duke Fontein and myself. We were anxious Anea was going to launch this republic of hers and leave us with nothing. The duke was ever opposed to her taking power, especially from such a young age. It was he who recruited the three assassins.’ Her eyes drifted to the stiletto in his hand.

  ‘And then Anea stripped Lady Allattamento of her holdings,’ said Dino, ‘confirming the worst of your fears. The end of the nobili.’ He could see the tapestry of causality woven together in front of him.

  The duchess nodded again. ‘Fontein decided more action was needed but died before he could put any plans into place.’

  ‘And then the Domina stole your plaything, and you were bereft of allies.’

  ‘The Domina?’ Salvaza’s face creased with incomprehension.

  Dino wiped his bloodied eyes on his sleeve. ‘The capo was always a dog. He’ll serve any master who will feed him. For a time that was you, but you wouldn’t grant him a title, so he started sniffing around the Domina.’

  ‘What will happen to me now?’ The duchess’s eyes lingered on the stiletto blade.

  The Orfano shrugged.

  ‘Are any of us safe?’ she whispered.

  ‘Not with Erebus manipulating everyone, and I suspect he is. The Domina’s been receiving her own orders, ones running contrary to yours.’

  ‘Divide and rule,’ said Salvaza, pushing herself up from the bed and drawing a shawl around her shoulders.

  Dino stood and slunk toward the door.

  ‘You need to do something for me.’ The duchess had regained some composure, a note of steel returning to her tone.

  Dino couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter that escaped his lips. ‘You should be grateful to be alive. I was sent to kill you, remember?’ Dino looked down at the stiletto as if trying to convince himself it were true. He glanced back to the looking glass expecting to see Lucien, but the older Orfano had fled with the waking of the duchess.

  ‘But you didn’t kill me. You’ve always been the best of us, Dino. Wouldn’t you rather be protector than assassin?’

  ‘I think the proof is in the action, or inaction.’ Dino shrugged. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘Stephania, beyond the reach of this Erebus. Take her away. Take her to San Marino, and place her under the protection of Lucien.’

  ‘I can’t leave the Contadinos—’

  ‘Erebus has neutralised the Contadinos for the time being. Stephania has no one and stands for everything Anea was trying to achieve before she went mad. Erebus will surely kill her next.’

  The stirrings of purpose awoke in him and he was glad for it, glad to feel something other than the constant dread and grief of the last few months.

  ‘Save my daughter, Dino. Take her away from all this, from Erebus. And yourself too.’

  ‘I’ll need the letters from Erebus.’

  ‘I … I burned them. I burned all of them.’ Her mouth twisted. She wrung her hands and looked away.

  The Orfano laid the stiletto on a dresser near the door, his fingers lingering on it a moment before he looked up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the duchess.

  ‘I don’t need this any more.’

  50

  It Has a Name

  – 30 Agosto 325

  Dino hurried back to his apartment in House Erudito, listing in his mind what he would
take to San Marino. There was something pleasing about constructing a list: horses, saddles, feed, a sturdy cloak, a good loaf and some cheese, water and wine and so on. It was not the list that concerned him, but Stephania; she’d likely refuse to leave. A way to persuade her eluded him but she was open to reason at least. The same could not be said of Anea, but she was not the woman he had once known.

  His mind turned to the ravens and to Lucien’s ghostly appearance in the looking glass. He dismissed it as trick of the light and nothing more, the conjuration of a mind driven to extremes. Demesne had long been a breeding ground for infirmities of the mind. He pushed on, focusing on the task at hand. He’d put Stephania beyond the reach of Erebus. That the Domina was his puppet was without question, and by extension the capo. Dino wondered if he too was fulfilling some part of Erebus’ plan. No way to know for sure, he decided; only by leaving could Dino secure his own release from his machinations.

  Footsteps, hurried and uncaring, the runner choosing velocity over stealth even in the small hours of the morning. Dino tensed and drew his sword, but no sooner was the steel beyond its sheath than he was knocked to the ground. A dark blur careened into the wall with the impact but no curse or yelp sounded in the darkness. Dino snatched a glance from the dusty floorboards. He had not been the only assassin abroad at this hour. The figure regarded him, its face obscured by a veil. A short sword in a scabbard remained undrawn, for now.

  Dino forced himself up from the floor and retrieved his blade, a metallic tang of blood infusing his mouth as adrenaline presaged the violence to come. A veil could be worn by anyone, but Dino knew with certainty who looked from behind it: the Domina’s pet Myrmidon. He struggled to his feet, switching the blade to his right hand. The corridor would hamper his choice of attack. He found his balance and held out the sword, but the veiled man fled, swallowed by the gloom. The Orfano let out a long and emphatic series of curses that said much about the parentage of the departed assassin. With no opponent to face, Dino resumed his progress, keen not to be drawn away from his purpose: protecting Stephania Prospero.