by Diane Nelson
Turning to face Matteo, Andreas intoned, "…may I deserve nevertheless eternal joy," as his superior adjusted the long thin vestment over his narrow shoulders. The words stuck in his throat. 'Eternal damnation' seemed more appropriate to his situation.
Matteo muttered, "Where did I put the maniple?" as he searched through the pile of vestments on the cot. "Ah, found it." He turned to stare solemnly at Andreas but pride flecked his eyes with gold.
"Dammit, can you help me with this?" Andreas tightened the rope holding the vestments in place.
Laughing Matteo said, "Don't forget the words."
"Yeah, yeah, continence…" he grimaced, "and what was that other thing?"
"Chastity."
"Right."
He ducked his head as the older man settled the heavy chasuble over his shoulders. Matteo smoothed his unruly hair back behind his ears and said softly, "It's just a traditional saying, Andy." Concern creased Matteo's face.
Andreas knew he'd been distant, moody, using the excuse that he needed meditation after the trials of his mission. Although his injured ankle was largely mended, the medics had recommended removing the pins and subjecting him to the machinations of their torture devices to strengthen the bones. He had welcomed the discomfort and painful rehabilitation.
Matteo leaned down and brushed his lips, his hand cupping his chin gently. It was all he could do to not cringe in revulsion. The last thing he deserved was this man's affection in light of his monumental failures … and the secrets he now harbored in his soul.
Secrets he must carry to his grave.
"Are you ready?"
He wasn't but he followed Matteo into the corridor prepared to lie through his teeth. But about what he wasn't sure.
****
The Three were the last to take their seats. Andreas knelt on the hard marble dais, head bowed in respect. Once more he faced the full Council, something few operatives ever encountered in their short working careers, let alone twice in succession.
He had no idea why he merited such attention. The debriefing had been, at best, perfunctory, the half-truths he'd spewed sufficient to allay concerns about his lack of detail. He'd had what the scribes called 'continuity issues' but he managed to gloss over the more glaring holes in his recitation, alluding to the rigors of the flight from the Habsburg territories and concerns over the failing health of the Sisterhood's operative.
Matteo rose and said, "Please take a seat, Father."
He moved to comply, carefully arranging his vestments. The chasuble lay heavy on his shoulders and he longed to remove the unwieldy garment. Sweat pooled on his brow and ran in rivulets down his back. The maniple lay across his lap. He briefly considered using it for its intended purpose, to wipe away sweat, but decided against giving them the satisfaction.
He glanced at his superior but the man was in quiet conversation with two of his colleagues. There was nothing about Matteo's demeanor to give him pause, yet an undercurrent of suspicion lay like a pall over the proceedings. As usual he listened with only half an ear while the scribe reviewed the documents, reading his statement in measured tones—a mere formality as the fifteen members would have fine-tooth combed every phrase, searching for inconsistencies.
He'd allowed for a sufficient number to give his story credibility. What he could not account for were outcomes.
That's why he was here.
"Can you please tell us…"
"…and what happened after…"
"How can you be sure…"
With flat tones he fielded each question, keeping his face blank, preparing for the summary statement. Matteo would not be accorded that privilege, given their acknowledged relationship. He'd gone into the proceedings aware of that fact, yet it left him with a feeling of disquiet. These men were masters of innuendo. Matteo's special spin might have been all he needed to lay this matter to rest once and for all.
His stomach sank when the head of The Three rose and walked behind the row of chairs on the dais, circling the bench and approaching his position. He quickly bent his head to mask his dismay.
Instead of stopping in front of Andreas, the stocky prelate walked over to a projection table where a tech stood ready with a remote.
"I'll take that…" The prelate reached for the remote, then turned and waved Andreas to join him.
Somewhere off to his left a voice instructed the attendants to clear the room. For a moment he could swear everyone held their collective breaths until the final soft swoosh as the chamber doors sealed.
The prelate said, "Well then," and clicked the remote.
The image danced and wavered, too pixelated for clarity. The prelate cursed and adjusted the gain, but the projection stayed out of focus.
"Does anybody know how to use this damn thing?"
Matteo jumped down from the dais and took the device away from the frustrated man. With deft fingers he altered the settings, then handed the device back to his superior. The prelate grunted his thanks and waved Matteo back to his seat. His superior moved past him, a hand lovingly brushing his back. The small gesture gave him a measure of comfort.
It was immediately dispelled when he turned to the holographic image. Blood drained from his face, leaving him light-headed and nauseous. He doubted he was the only one.
The head of The Three nodded respectfully and said, "Reverend Mother. Kind of you to join us today."
The woman smiled warmly and replied, "My pleasure, Jules. It's been too long."
'Jules'? To his knowledge no one, absolutely no one, had ever spoken with, let alone seen the Church's head. Apparently he'd been wrong. He risked a backward glance at the rest of the Council members. Only the remaining two members of The Three were not in a state of shock—everyone else sat with mouths agape.
Andreas fought the urge to step behind the prelate, out of line of sight. Flight was not an option, though it crossed his mind.
The man he now knew as 'Jules' continued the exchange of pleasantries, directing the woman's attention to each member of the Council. She nodded to each in turn, then said firmly, "I understand you have good news and bad news for me."
"Um, yes." He gripped Andreas arm, anchoring him in place. "We've secured an accord with the competing factions, each allowing oversight." That was clearly the good news.
"But not disarmament…?" The woman looked both displeased and resigned with the state of affairs. Jules looked like he agreed with the woman's assessment.
Regretfully, the man answered, "Yes, Madam, but under the circumstances, perhaps the most logical outcome."
The woman asked Jules, "Is this the one?" and focused her attention on Andreas.
The man called Jules released Andreas' arm and backed away, leaving him to face his judge, jury and executioner alone.
"Tell me…"
****
The morning air still held the bite of autumn, Andreas' breath hanging in a soft grey mist as he panted from the exertion of carrying Veluria through the dense forest.
They'd run the horses to exhaustion, finally resorting to staggering through the woods on foot. Andreas' bare feet ached from the cuts and bruises but he knew his discomfort was nothing compared to the pain that Veluria silently endured. He'd been aghast at the amount of blood she'd lost, the back of her dress sodden. Not for the first time he wished he'd stayed and killed the bastard who'd violated her rather than delegating that task to Nicolo de' Medici.
He needed to find shelter and food, yet the district remained devoid of human habitat, not even a stray sheep herding cabin to offer respite from the elements.
Tenderly he laid the frail form on a nest of pine needles. She shivered, still unconscious, and he sensed her life force draining away.
An opening to his right gave promise to a break in the endless tract of pine and rocky soil. They'd been on a downhill slope for hours. He prayed he'd find a village, a stream, something that would offer up a smattering of hope.
****
"But you are certain that th
e assassination was carried out?"
"Yes, Madam. As I said, I procured transport and continued on to Tuscany." He paused, trying to recall the exact sequence of events.
"And…?"
"The woman, Veluria, was … damaged. Beyond my capacity to help." He allowed tears to moisten his cheeks. "She was brave to the end, Madam. You and the Sisterhood can be proud of her contribution."
Reverend Mother gave him a strange look, a mixture of sadness and regret. Shuffling on the dais reminded him he needed to continue.
"I stopped at an inn close to Florence. The news had already arrived. The death of the Duke, the de'Medici boy. Of Nicolo I had no information other than lack thereof, so I assume he still lives."
Lived. His head ached and his ankle still throbbed. Somehow he suspected the woman was not buying any of it.
Jules interjected, "That would be consistent with our current situation."
Reverend Mother ignored him and went on, "What I do not understand, gentlemen, is why we still have perturbations. With Carlos' path to Holy Roman Emperor unchecked, we should have seen a reversal in the oscillations..." she stared pointedly at Jules and demurred, "…unless, of course, your mathematicians were wrong?"
Shrugging the man said, "It is still an inexact science."
"Hmm, yes, I suppose it is." To Andreas she spoke so softly he strained to hear the words, "Thank you. At least she was not alone at the end," but the look she leveled at him chilled him to the marrow.
Jules barely had a chance to mutter, "Madam…" before the image faded. Andreas knew the collective sigh of relief was not imagined.
****
"We destroyed the avatar as you requested." Matteo sounded relieved, for good reason. For him, it was an insurance policy that Andreas could not return to that time and place. With a sigh he asked, "Are you sure about this, Andy?"
Matteo pulled him into an embrace but he shrugged the man away, the thought of his superior extending any kindness turning his blood cold. He zipped the small valise and slung it over his right shoulder.
He and his conscience had a journey of discovery ahead of them.
"I'll be here when you want me, boy." The pain and sadness in the man's voice cut like a knife.
Andreas shouldered his way through the door without a backward glance. The whispered, I love you, trailed behind him, a ghostly shadow of the passion he'd once felt but would never experience again.
Take this, Andreas. Keep it safe.
What is it?
The way home.
He fingered the strange device, the workmanship exquisite, each jewel in the crucifix cut to perfection.
Are you sure?
Yes.
He choked back the words. She could never know the depth of his despair. Instead he asked, Are you strong enough?
Yes, Andreas, I am strong enough for this.
The ancient Amalfi coast stretched with torturous curves to his left and right, the villages climbing the cliffs with wanton disregard for gravity and the passage of time. He leaned over the abutment and wondered at his fate and the fate of his world. If he cast this stone, would the ripples extend beyond his own time and space, to crash with unknown force against some distant shore? Or would he and all he knew fade into shadows, forever ephemeral, insubstantial…
In his heart he realized he cared little for the fate of a world that had already eaten itself alive with hatred. History would play out directionless, immune to the petty concerns of such like him and the others.
She had placed the ultimate test into his hands and bade him do with it as he willed.
Mounting the scooter he glanced to the south, the narrow road beckoning. Hesitating, he palmed the crucifix, the metal burning red hot into his rough palm, and made the sign of the cross, then threw the device into the waiting ocean below.
****
"Boy, it's good to see you."
Nico tried to hide his dismay. Cosimo lay on the large bed, his body wasting away with age and infirmity and grief. The news had arrived long before Nico'd been well enough to travel. Paulo had managed to spirit him to a neighboring duchy, one friendlier to the Medici family, where they had wintered and he'd regained his strength.
"I came as soon as I could, Papà." He sat on the edge of the bed and held his father's hand, the skin parchment thin and brittle to the touch. As brittle and cold as his heart.
The old man's eyes held a world of sorrow and regret. They spoke quietly of nothing in particular until Cosimo's lids lowered and he appeared to drift into sleep. Nico tucked the quilt about his father and rose to leave.
Huskily, Cosimo said, "Wait."
"Yes, Papà?"
His father's eyes darted to the window, the light growing dim with the setting sun. "I want you to tell the gardener to bring in fresh herbs for dinner."
"I'll tell Tomas to…"
"No, you, my son." He shot Nico an imperious look. "Now."
Shrugging, Nico mumbled "All right," and left the bedroom. He took the stairs leading to the rear of the villa and exited through the kitchens. The well-tended gardens looked the same, though he had trouble recalling where on the estate the vegetables might be located.
The slight downhill slope taxed his injured leg. He would probably walk with a limp for the rest of his days, though he could still sit a horse well enough. His fighting days, such as they'd been, were clearly over. Feeling as old as Cosimo looked, he wandered about the grounds, enjoying the late evening breeze.
In the shadow at the base of a hill he saw a small figure bent over a mass of greenery. Not wishing to proceed further he shouted, "Excuse me. My father wishes herbs brought in for dinner." Feeling foolish, he realized Cosimo hadn't said what kind so he hastened to add, "He didn't say what."
The woman rose and pushed a long dark braid off her shoulder. With her face still in shadow, she brushed her hands on her skirts but made no indication she understood the request.
Moving closer, he said with more irritation than he intended, "Did you hear me…?" but stopped abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.
She was the same, yet different, painfully thin, her pale skin stretched over prominent cheekbones, dark shadows lining her eyes with emotions he couldn't begin to describe. She'd pulled her glorious mane into a tight braid, accentuating the planes of her face and giving her an austere, almost untouchable demeanor.
Watching him limp forward, he could see the hope and fear race across her face, unsure of her reception, of his feelings after all that had happened.
He had refused this fantasy, skillfully locking it away, content to remain an empty shell. Yet she had defied fate, making a choice, a sacrifice he would never understand but would spend the rest of his life proving that she had not chosen in vain.
He scooped her into his arms, crushing her to his chest.
She whispered, "Are you strong enough…?"
"Yes," he husked, his heart in his throat, "I will be strong enough," then paused to inhale the scent of honey and lavender that was uniquely Veluria before murmuring, "…if you tell me what you want."
"You, Nicolo de' Medici. I want you…"
~The End~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nya Rawlyns has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
Website: http://www.idancewithwords.com
Her published works include:
Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven)
The Strigoi Chronicles: Penance, Fane, Michel
Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts)
Finish Line (novella)
Dance Macabre (short story)
Skin
The Guardians of the Portals
Sculpting David (Red Sage, novella)
Hunter’s Crossing (Red Sage)