Votive

by Karen Brooks

  Her heart thudded in her chest and she worked hard to still the shaking in her hands, clenching them against her sides. At least her arm was no longer a problem. The unmistakeable aroma of beeswax tinged with an antediluvian odour filled her nostrils. Whether this rose from the canals or was a part of the ancient casa itself she could not tell. But it made her think of secrets and corruption all at once.

  Dripping candles flickered above them and, despite the barrenness of the corridor, Tallow marvelled at the luxury of burning so many at one time and during the day. They passed by closed doors and a huge staircase that both ascended and descended into dark spaces.

  They approached what Tallow knew was the portego – the major room of any nobile’s casa. Quinn would often snidely refer to their kitchen as their portego or the first floor as the piano nobile as a way of reminding Tallow of their place in the Serenissian hierarchy. They might have been citizens of the canal-city, but they were poor and lowly craftspeople only – mere popolani.

  Hafeza slowed her pace and, as they reached the doorway, held up her hand. Tallow obediently paused.

  Stepping to one side, Hafeza knocked sharply on the frame.

  ‘Ah, Hafeza, our guest is ready?’ Giaconda’s voice was accompanied by the rustling of her gown. All too soon, the doorway was filled with her presence. As she saw Tallow, her eyes widened and colour flooded her cheeks. ‘My, my, you have done very well, Hafeza. You have certainly exceeded my expectations.’ She looked Tallow up and down. ‘Your arm? You have removed the bandage?’ She raised a querying brow.

  A small voice inside Tallow warned her not to say what she had done; what she could do. ‘It wasn’t that bad after all,’ she answered.

  ‘Ah.’ Giaconda’s eyes lingered on Tallow for a few seconds longer. ‘Is that so?’ She turned to the slave. ‘Now, off to the mercato with you. I have left a list of our requirements with Salzi. Be sharp.’

  Hafeza bowed and silently slipped away through the maze of corridors and into another part of the casa. For a moment, Tallow wished she could go with her.

  ‘Well, Tallow, I don’t need to tell you how lovely you look. Papa will be pleased.’

  Tallow wasn’t sure if she was meant to reply. ‘Grazie,’ she said. Giaconda laughed.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Gia? Bring the ragazza in,’ called another voice. Tallow recognised the familiar timbre of Ezzelino Maleovelli – the man with the eyes of a hunter. She repressed a shudder.

  ‘Coming, Papa!’ Giaconda held out her arm. ‘Please, allow me to escort you.’ Tallow rested her hand lightly on Giaconda’s glove. All at once, a melange of images collected in her mind. She saw satin sheets, creamy lace pillows, milky flesh, and long, raven hair spread over lush breasts. Men’s faces, their lips leering, their teeth full of food, their chins covered in grey stubble wobbling, ornate masks hanging askew, hairy hands and gnarled fingers groping, probing. Handsome, bare-chested men with thick hair appeared side-by-side with decrepit old men with sunken, loose paunches and bow legs. Soldi, golden ducats and silver lire poured through delicate fingers over dewy skin and dripped onto beds. She tried to draw away, but Giaconda prevented her by placing her other hand over Tallow’s and squeezing it tightly.

  ‘Stop that right now.’ Giaconda’s voice was low but deadly. Immediately, Tallow stopped extracting.

  ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean …’

  It had happened automatically – again. Her cheeks were aflame; she felt warm and uncomfortable. She wanted to wriggle out of Giaconda’s grasp but, strangely, she also wanted to pull the woman close to her and not let her go.

  ‘You are never to do that to me again, do you understand?’ Tallow could not mistake her words. ‘You are never to practise your arts upon me or Papa, Hafeza, or anyone under this roof, is that clear?’ She neither looked at Tallow nor sounded angry. Tallow simply nodded. ‘Good.’ She straightened herself and removed the restraining hand from over Tallow’s.

  ‘The moment we pass this threshold –’ she nodded towards the doorframe that separated the wood of the corridors from the elegant terrazzo flooring of the portego. ‘– you will no longer be Tallow Pelleta, the candlemaker’s apprentice, is that clear? It’s to be as if Tallow never existed.’

  Tallow swallowed. ‘Sì. But … if I am no longer Tallow, who will I be?’

  Giaconda turned to her then and, using one satin-bound finger, tilted Tallow’s chin so she could look her straight in the eye. ‘Someone completely different.’

  Tallow frowned and lowered her eyes.

  ‘From this moment forward, you will forget who you were, who you pretended to be. You will forget your old life and the people who filled it.’ Tallow drew her breath in sharply before exhaling quietly. Forget them, forget him, she told herself. I cannot …

  ‘To mark your new life, you will take on a new identity.’

  Tallow’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh.’

  Giaconda smiled. ‘Oh, indeed.’ She gently closed Tallow’s mouth. ‘Henceforth, you will be known as my father’s ward. For that, you need a new name. Not only will you have the protection of ours – Maleovelli, a name as old as The Golden Book of Serenissian nobiles itself, but we will bestow upon you another. The name by which others will come to know you as well.’

  Before Tallow could ask what that was, Giaconda swept her into the room.

  ‘Signori,’ she declared loudly, ‘may I introduce the new member of our family?’ She released Tallow and stepped to one side.

  ‘I present to you Signorina Tarlo Maleovelli.’

  ‘OPEN YOUR EYES.’ The command was soft but firm.

  The young man resisted. Memories of great pain, gut-wrenching screams, tears, and impossible heartache were lodged somewhere deep inside him. Yet he also felt oddly detached, as if the feelings didn’t belong to him, but to another person or lifetime. Hence, when asked to look upon the world, he hesitated. There was a peculiar comfort in that, in retaining control. He was afraid that if he opened his eyes, everything churning inside would flood to the surface and overwhelm him. But he could not remain inert either.

  ‘Dante? I know you can hear me. Come on.’

  He squinted. Dull light hit him in the face and he screwed his eyes shut again. God, it hurt. Everywhere hurt. But now that he’d started, he might as well continue. He wanted to see where he was and who owned the urgent voice that had been calling him over and over. He tried again. Warily, he peered through his eyelashes. Grey shadows flitted before his vision. A face swam into view.

  ‘Thank the gods! Ciao. Welcome back.’

  Squatting beside him was a woman with long, tawny hair streaked with grey, large amber eyes scattered with silver flecks and a wide, generous mouth. It broke into a smile, her face folding into lines. He found himself smiling back.

  ‘Where am I?’ His voice was scratchy, unused. He cleared his throat. He spurred his limbs into cooperating with his desire. Flat on his back, his hands scrambled in what was a mixture of dirt and stones. Directly overhead was a tree. It cast neither shade nor foliage.

  ‘Ah, now that’s a long story.’ The woman slowly rose to her feet, towering over him, hands on her hips. It made him feel diminished. He half-lifted himself off the ground, leaning on his elbows to support his weight. His head spun, forcing him to stop. Vague shapes flitted at the edge of his vision. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Where was he?

  ‘Suffice to say,’ she continued, ‘you were closer to death than anyone who lives has a right to be.’

  Dante tried to absorb the information, tried to organise his thoughts. They were scattered like leaves in a storm.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Katina Maggiore.’

  Dante regarded her carefully. She wore tight-fitting pants made of animal hide and a full-sleeved shirt, gloves, a waistcoat and a coat. Blood soaked the front of her shirt and he wondered if she was badly wounded. She didn’t appear to be. A dagger hung from one hip and a riding crop from the other. Thigh
-high boots completed her ensemble. If it hadn’t been for the blood and the grass stains and dust on her pantaloons, he would have thought her dressed for Carnivale, so masculine was her attire. Behind her, a loosely tethered horse snuffled through a small patch of uninviting grass. Katina and her mount were the only splashes of colour against a slate background.

  Dante blinked, trying to clear his head. It felt thick, his thoughts jumbled. He glanced down at his torso. His shirt was ripped and there were bloodstains splashed all over the front. He looked back at Katina’s shirt. Whose blood was it? He didn’t feel injured. He rolled his tongue in his mouth and found a coppery aftertaste. He glanced at Katina and back to the horse and his pulse quickened. Memories poured into his head. Fear gripped his chest. His throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe. He raised a trembling finger as he tried to get to his feet, but his body wouldn’t cooperate; his legs collapsed under him.

  ‘You … you …’ He formed the words in his head, but they would not, could not leave his mouth. Anger darker than night enveloped him; his vision dulled until all he saw were enormous steel-shod hooves bearing down on him and heard Tallow’s cry of warning …

  Tallow …

  ‘You’re, you’re … a Bond Rider.’ He pointed at her, his hand shaking. From inside his curled fingers, blood dripped to the ground. He stared at it, his eyes widening as he slowly opened his hand and saw the bleeding gash that divided his palm. He swung round, taking in the sky, the ground – the wisps of cinereous fog that hung from the trees like garlands, that hovered above the earth like mist over the canals in Serenissima; the scraggly limbs of the trees bowed with the grief of living in this damned place; the smell of rotting undergrowth that permeated everything.

  He was in the Limen. Slowly he looked back at his hand and in one painful blow realisation hit him.

  He was Bonded.

  Foreboding exploded into panic.

  ‘No!’ he shouted. This time he managed to get his feet. He grabbed the trunk of the tree to steady himself. ‘Why did you do this?’ He thrust his bloodied palm in Katina’s face. ‘Why did you Bond me?’

  ‘It was what I had to do in order to ensure you survived.’

  He stared at her in disbelief. It all started to come back. The bridge, the crowds, the huge horse, Cane and … Tallow.

  ‘Tallow,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She did something to me. I felt it. Where is she? You didn’t bring her …’ He scanned the area. The muted light made it difficult to see anything clearly. The world was a smear of pale shadows.

  ‘No, no. I didn’t bring Tallow.’

  ‘You tried to kill her,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘You tried to kill me.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, I swear,’ said Katina quickly, but she glanced away. ‘We were following …’ She stopped mid-sentence, her face revealing what she didn’t utter aloud. She changed tack. ‘Tallow is alive. I just don’t know where she is. Somewhere safe in Serenissima; if the gods are on my side,’ she added quietly.

  Dante swallowed his next words. There was something in Katina’s manner; something about her that registered with him. ‘You’re the cousin from Jinoa, aren’t you? The one who lived with Tallow for a while, bought her the glasses.’

  Katina gave a harsh laugh. ‘She told you about me?’

  ‘Yes, she told me how you helped her perfect her candles. Make them so sought after. How you gave her confidence and how you stuck up for her with Quinn. Then you left. Had to go back home suddenly. Family emergency. I believed her, even though I knew there was something about you she wasn’t telling. I never suspected you were a Bond Rider. She missed you terribly.’

  Dante sank back to the ground, resting the back of his head against the tree. He closed his eyes; his cheeks paled. Katina strode over to her horse and fumbled in the saddlebag, producing a flask. ‘Here, drink this – it will make you feel better.’

  Dante’s eyes flew open and he shot her a look of incredulity. ‘I don’t think that’s possible right now.’

  Katina gave a half-smile as he took the flask. ‘No, you’re right. But it won’t hurt either.’ She knelt beside him and gave a deep sigh. ‘Let me try to explain what happened.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Dante, first taking a cautious sip, then a longer one. ‘If I understand anything about Bond Riders, it’s that I suddenly have a great deal of time.’

  As Katina spoke, Dante hung on every word.

  ‘So, you see, when we failed to secure Tallow, to bring her with us, we had to flee. It was never meant to happen the way it did. It was meant to be … easy. What we didn’t account for were the effects of the Morto Assiderato on the popolani, what Tallow had done with her candles. That she’d drawn so much attention to herself …’

  ‘So, she really is a she?’ asked Dante, casually shifting his hair off his forehead.

  Katina nodded. ‘Oh, sì. She is. Pretending to be male was to protect her. There are those in Serenissima and beyond –’ she lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder; Dante found himself peering through the eternal gloom trying to catch the invisible eavesdropper ‘– who seek her.’ Katina’s face was troubled.

  Relief that Tallow lived replaced the ache that had sat like an anchor inside him since he awoke. Relief followed by despair. Tallow. She was what he’d suspected, what his family had uncovered – an Estrattore. Hunted, sought. By whom? Why? The Bond Riders were after her, her friends and neighbours and God knew who or what else. Where was she? His heart filled. She. Tallow was really a girl. No, he corrected himself as he recalled the soft swell of her breasts as she’d pushed his hands against them in those last moments they’d shared. She was a woman. His heart began to beat faster; heat filled his body. Agitation made his fingers move from his hair to his clothing before pulling at his lip. Soft lips, a tender tongue, blood, eyes, hair, Tallow … A low moan escaped. He was aware of Katina watching, waiting. He forced his hand to be still. She’d held him so close, whispered words he’d longed to hear, and at the same time …

  He’d known he was dying. He was so cold, so divorced from his corporeal self. Even the agony of his injuries had started to fade as he felt his spirit, his soul, whatever it was the padres called it, leaving his body. Then, as Tallow lifted his head and shoulders and crushed her mouth against his, something had shifted, changed. He’d felt light and warmth and, above all, love and strength, trickle into him. It had come from Tallow, but she didn’t seem aware she was doing it.

  And he’d finally told her he loved her. Months of repressed emotion had spilled from him. Thinking he was making a dying confession to a boy, no longer caring, simply wanting, no, needing to express how he felt, only to discover Tallow was a girl all along. Not that he cared anymore. You couldn’t help to whom you gave your heart.

  His soared until it hurt – a joyous hurt that he didn’t want to stop. She loves me back. At least he’d managed to tell her. She would know how he felt, carry him in her heart. Just as he would her – always.

  For eternity.

  He thought back to some of the escapades they’d shared, all through the autumn and winter months last year, before the Morto Assiderato had struck, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.’ It was so obvious now – the timidity, the softness, the gleam of excitement as they dared to cross boundaries; her faith in him. Her compassion.

  ‘Why would you? People’s eyes deceive them all the time,’ said Katina gently. He became aware of her studying his face and coloured. ‘They saw a boy where there was a girl and a human where there was an Estrattore. You know that at least, don’t you? That she’s an Estrattore?’

  Dante nodded. ‘I guessed. I just didn’t admit it to her. I was so worried that if I said I knew, she’d disappear on me. I … I challenged our friendship once. I didn’t want to do so again. She kept it a secret, so I did too. We all did – my family and, I suspect, the neighbours. Tallow didn’t know how many friends she had.’ He frowned. ‘She was beaten, you know – all her life – by Pi
llar’s mother, Quinn.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Katina. Something in her tone made Dante eye her cautiously.

  He let out a long sigh. At least Tallow had survived. She’d escaped the crowds and the Bond Riders. He would find her; they would be together again, he’d make sure of it. But, thought Dante, why did this Bond Rider help him when the other one so clearly wanted him dead? What was going on?

  Ask, he told himself. Ask her, dammit.

  ‘Why am I here? Why are you helping me?’ He gazed up at Katina, challenging her to contradict him.

  For a second Dante thought he saw something like sympathy upon her face, but it disappeared before he could be certain.

  ‘We always help our own,’ Katina said almost inaudibly. ‘You’re one of us now. Those who sought to harm you can no longer hurt you. That’s why I did it. I didn’t believe that killing you was right. Not anymore. Please.’ She held up her hand to stop the questions he was about to ask. ‘I cannot say anything else, not yet. It’s just that something is wrong and I need to find out what. I also need you.’ She raised her golden eyes to his. ‘Can you trust me?’

  Dante stared at her for a moment. Despite what had happened, something within him responded to Katina’s words, to her earnestness, to what lay behind it. He nodded.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and, sitting beside him, appeared to relax.

  They fell into silence. It was eerie, the way the woods around them made no noise. There was a slight wind, no birdsong, just the moist, heavy fog drifting listlessly through the trees. Dante shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

  Katina broke the quietness. ‘You were a good friend to her, weren’t you?’