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The Illusions In Between

Page 8

by J M Robison


  The courtyard is completely cobbled, though grass defies the obstructions and grows between the stones. It appears to be a nice place, not like the imaginative dark underground chamber I’ve been fearing.

  The Italian opens the door, and we step inside.

  Chapter Twelve

  Darik

  I sweep in and out of death, grasping onto images and sounds and jam them together to form a picture that will explain reality to my fevered mind. So far, I’ve gathered that I’m Saint Ivo and I’ve told my mother to stir soup with my boot.

  The image makes no sense. I throw it out and try again.

  Temperature constantly changes on my forehead, from hot to cold to hot. Something is smoking. Then I stop smelling, feeling, or seeing anything, and die again.

  Some unknown time later, for some unknown reason, I open my eyes, eyelashes scratching against the cloth lying over my face. Something heavy on my tongue clinks against my teeth. I sit up in a panic and spit it out, the cloth falling off my face. A florin drops into my lap, shiny with my saliva. My entire body is covered with a giant sheet. I’m naked beneath. That, with my suspicions with the coin, make me believe I’ve been covered with a death shroud.

  I press a hand to my chest. I’m breathing. Or at least, I think I’m breathing. Maybe I just don’t realize I’m dead. My fuzzy head struggles to tell the difference. I look at my wounded hand. It’s been cleaned but otherwise unbandaged. The bleeding has stopped, scabbing over. No need wasting bandages on a dead man.

  I don’t know why I’m alive. I’m certain I died because at one point I looked at my dead self lying on this bed. Could’ve been a dream. I’ve no idea. I vaguely remember praying to Saint Ivo. Suppose divine interference gave me a second chance. Now I think back on the prayer to remember what I’d promised I’d do in exchange for my life, and panic when I fear I’ve promised to remain celibate and enter the priesthood.

  Two seconds into this thought and I laugh in relief. Who am I kidding? The priesthood would never accept me. I’d once used a table cross as a weapon against a Camorra who had pushed me up against a wall to knife my throat open. I put his eye out with the cross because I literally wanted the Camorra to see Christ’s love for us. Sacrilege, all the same, the priests would say.

  I place the florin on the bedside table, undecided whether someone thought it a joke so I’d have currency to give Charon in payment to cross me over the River Styx or if someone still holds that belief and did it in all seriousness.

  My clothes are neatly folded on the chair next to me. They even look as if they went through a rigorous washing. I hop off the straw mattress and shove both legs into my black leggings.

  A gasp behind me makes me spin my head around to the arched doorway where Ferdiano stands in his temple smock.

  He’s pale, pressing a hand into his chest. “Jacobella said you’d died. I was coming to…” He leans closer as if to see me better, blinking rapidly. “Hemlock.”

  “Dead? Truly? For how long?”

  “Since yesterday morning. You weren’t breathing. Heart stopped…you were dead.”

  “Well…I came back to life, then. I said a fervent prayer to Sant’Ivo, asking for a second chance.” I wink at him. “Guess I still fall under his protection.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then you explain it.”

  He shakes his head as if unwilling to believe in a miracle given by the very saint in whose temple he works. “Fine. Ivo saved you,” he says without conviction, but fails to provide a different possibility. “But Ivo won’t save you again if you go back to the very thing that almost killed you. I don’t even have to ask what happened.”

  “No one else is going to replace me.” I funnel both arms into my shirt. “If I don’t interrupt the human trafficking, will you do it?”

  “My heart aches for those girls, too, but the problem is so massive that a rescue here or there isn’t going to change anything.”

  “It changed the lives of those eight girls I rescued.”

  He shakes his head. I know he knows I’m right, though he clearly finds my vigilante style still idiotic since I get so little in return for my massive life-saving efforts. Since my mother died–and having been abandoned by my father since age eleven–if I don’t give myself a reason to live, then someone else will. And around here, someone will.

  He seems intent to watch me forever until human sounds in the chapel beckon him to investigate, and he turns around. He walks out of the small room I suspect is his, since I see his personal effects on the shelf and desk.

  I jam on my boots.

  “This mother is abandoning her child.” The voice floats out of the chapel and through the open door to the room I occupy.

  I sheath the stiletto–the same one that poisoned me–up my tight sleeve and exit the room with the intent to slink unnoticed out of the temple. The visitors who have claimed Ferdiano’s attention in the chapel I enter are a man and a woman, though her dress is not of Italian fashion. The man holds a blue bundle in his arms. The woman watches him speak to Ferdiano, pale and silent.

  “Oh?” Ferdiano inquires. “Oh, that is…quite unfortunate. Might she provide a reason?” He looks at the woman.

  “Out of wedlock,” the man snaps. “I’m her guardian and forbid her to keep it.”

  Poor girl. I watch this exchange with sadness. I know too well how it feels to be abandoned. I bet the mother wants to keep it. I look at her, but aside from looking worried and scared, I see no signs of sadness. Odd.

  Ferdiano reaches for the blue bundle. “You have found a good home. Sant’Ivo will care for the child.”

  The man hands the bundle to Ferdiano.

  This exchange causes a reaction from the mother. She shrieks, reaching for her baby, but the man claiming to be her guardian hauls her away from Ferdiano and the baby.

  “Stop! I want my baby! What are you doing?” Her shouting echoes into every crevasse of the vaulted ceiling.

  English? I perk. I haven’t heard English since my English father left me. Why isn’t she speaking Italian?

  Despite her heels dug into the floor, she’s dragged out of the temple, fighting her male companion the entire way, screams melting into sobs. I look at Ferdiano, who shares my unspoken question.

  A nagging sensation claws the back of my heart. A glimmer of my prayer to Ivo echoes to the forefront of my thoughts. The guardian of the girl closes the temple door behind him.

  The nagging sensation drives my feet forward. I open the temple door and look into the courtyard touched with first light. The English woman sobs, fighting to break free from her male companion, shouting, “Zadicayn!” at the top of her lungs every other breath, as if it’s a call for help.

  They exit the courtyard. I follow.

  Walking briskly as if wanting to beat the encroaching sun, the man crosses the street and turns right onto Via di Pasquino. He keeps his grip on the English woman, who’s finally gone limp with defeat, dragging her feet, so the man yanks on her arm to force her to keep pace with him. I huddle in the shadows along the walls of the buildings, but he doesn’t look over his shoulder once.

  They travel about half a kilometer, passing the Congregation Dell S Oratorio di Filippo Neri, and I cannot guess where he might be taking her. I imagine it can’t be far since the man doesn’t call out to the carriage driver who just passed him. The flat walls of the buildings constructed in the curve of the corners we follow force edges to jut into the narrow road, so rooftops on both sides nearly touch above us. I’ve jumped those same rooftops before.

  The road we follow ends at Sant’Angelo’s Bridge. I halt abruptly, realizing where he’s taking her. The ancient Roman causeway hulks across the Tiber, winged angels in baroque dramatization anchored to pillars on both sides, holding either crosses, weapons, or folds of fabric, as if to say they’d bless you, kill you, and bury you. Like they did to Jesus. The bridge leads to what was once Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, then a prison for Giordano Bruno, now a vacant, loote
d hull re-christened as Castel Sant’Angelo.

  The man and his English prisoner woman march across the stone bridge. There’s nowhere to hide on the bridge with the dispersing shadows, but I cannot see any direct harm to me following them in an open manner. I come out of hiding, stuff my hands in both pockets, and follow.

  The man stops in front of the castle’s curtain wall, directly in front of the door double-looped with chain. He keeps his back to me, though one hand–a bandaged hand–keeps the woman in his custody. His other hand sways in the air around him with elaborate flares and delicate motions with his fingers.

  I keep walking toward them, a plan coming to fruition with every step. I’ll ask if he knows the way to the nearest pub, inquire about his lady, and maybe get a better understanding for–

  He scoops the English woman into his arms, and both of his feet lift straight off the ground.

  I don’t blink the entire time I watch the man levitate up and over the castle’s curtain wall.

  I slap myself to restart my lungs and heart. “I…what?” My brain can’t fit the two pieces together, so it’s either abandon all attempts at understanding or go mad over the many unexplained mysteries of the world. I’m stuck in limbo to do either, standing for an inordinate amount of time in front of Castel Sant’Angelo.

  I don’t hear screams during that time. And neither man nor woman make an appearance again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brynnella

  He might as well have covered my eyes because I don’t understand what I see.

  We land in a courtyard surrounding the circular dome, blocked from the outside by a square curtain wall. An angel statue stands above the dome, though I cannot tell if the sword in his hand is in the motion of being drawn or sheathed. With the vengeance I feel in my heart, I decide he’s drawing it.

  The Italian keeps a tight grip on my arm, though he doesn’t need to. I follow without resistance, my heart left at home and my soul handed to a stranger not more than an hour ago. Levi is safer there, I force myself to believe. And I can make it back to that place. It’s not far from here.

  The Italian approaches a door and speaks Latin, his voice echoing off the heavy concrete wall. After his echo dies, I become aware of my own heartbeat, which has been fluttering since we landed outside Rome’s walls. Anxiety makes me weary. I want to sleep.

  The door opens, seemingly of its own accord. He drags me inside. A scratching sound to my left yields a flame birthed inside a lantern. The space I stand in lights up; the narrow view of the stone interior I see within the reaches of the lantern were built with the purpose to outlast the race which constructed it. The lantern barely touches the nearest wall, but the Italian escorts me forward with practiced knowledge.

  I lose track of our way, though we go deeper underground by ways of stairs and corridors. We enter a large space, frequently lived in from the chairs, makeshift beds, and shelves with foodstuffs. Except that’s not where my final resting place is. My eyes tunnel-vision on the barred door swung open in front of a cell.

  “I won’t escape,” I blurt out; getting impenetrably locked makes this horrible ordeal scathingly real. My heart races.

  But he doesn’t believe my lie. He points to the cell. “Get in.”

  I press both hands to my face and back away, shaking my head. A heated dare pulses through me, of running and hiding and eventually making it out of this place. Zadicayn will never find me here.

  His eyes narrow. He steps toward me.

  “My husband is stronger than you think,” I roar. “He’ll rescue me and kill you for what you’ve done!” I’ve yet to see Zadicayn kill anyone, but screaming the word at the Italian’s face fills me with hope. I’ve leaped at a guess for why I’m here: we’re in Rome, where the pope lives; the same pope who keeps his church hunting for Zadicayn. With me in the church’s custody, it’s a sure-fire way to draw the last Fae Wizard out of hiding.

  I’ve pestered the Italian my entire incarceration with questions he has yet to answer. This new statement, however, apparently breaks the last of his patience–or he’s more willing to dump answers on me now that I’ll be locked in a secure place he can walk away from because he whirls on me.

  “He won’t be strong after I take his blood!”

  I watch an ugly mixture of jealousy and triumph turn the corner of his lips upward.

  Emotions flood my heart and head. I’m slow to process what that means. “Why his blood?”

  He points to the cell. “Get in.”

  I panic. I’m a single answer away from bolting, despite his magic. “Why do you want his blood? How much?”

  He grabs my arm and pushes me into the cell. I fight–kicking and slashing with my nails–but he backs out before I make contact and slams my door with an ancient clatter of metal against stone.

  “All of it.” He scoops the lantern off the floor. Light and human disappear into the underground gloom.

  I have a thin mattress and wool blanket, but I don’t sleep. If I don’t escape, Zadicayn will come here, and they will take him. And there will be no bringing him back to life this time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zadicayn

  I can’t help it. The instant sunlight glows beyond my closed eyes, I open them. Still six years later, and I still can’t bear being in the dark for longer than I have to. I think it shall take three hundred and twenty-four years of sunlight to cure that.

  I swing my legs off the bed and rush fingers through the top growth of my hair. My ponytail loosened during the night. A bar of soap to certain areas of my body wouldn’t hurt, so I leave for the garderobe.

  I return to Jaicom applying perfume on himself, though Joseara still sleeps. No sign of Varlith. His rented bed remains untouched. I wake Joseara, and she makes no special effort to ready herself for the day, except to put on her shoes. Jaicom takes the longest: polishing the buttons on his cuffs, tucking his white tunic into his pantaloons with deliberate care, and buffing his shoes with an oiled cloth he pulls out of his rucksack. I tell him I’ll see him at breakfast, and I go that way.

  We leave the establishment later than I’d hoped, though it’s to be expected with how many people I’ve brought with me. Outside the building, I see Varlith, curled into a tight ball with an arm draped over his face. He’s made a nest for himself out of torn cloth, food refuse, and mud. His robe has come open and exposes knees bending the opposite way. A woman walks by and makes the sign of the cross before she hustles away with deliberate haste. At least Varlith’s hat stayed on, concealing his horns. Otherwise, a gang of priests would be standing around, throwing buckets of holy water on him. I haven’t been to church in over three hundred years, but I can’t imagine the dogma has changed.

  I walk down the steps and tap my boot against his naked leg. Varlith wakes with a grumble and a snort, rolling onto his hands and feet and stretching with a wide yawn, exposing all his sharp fangs.

  Jaicom fidgets with his cane, jouncing rapidly from foot to foot as if struggling either to say something or refrain from saying it, all the while looking at the people walking down the road going about their daily business.

  “How much longer must I keep this terrible body?” Varlith stands, his robe hanging completely open. A few motions with my hands remind him to secure the robe closed with the sash, though the knot is loose and is bound to fall open again. I’m undecided whether I care anymore.

  I don’t know how to answer his question. I brought him along in the event a building needed to be crushed or an army of Black Magicians to be expired, so…“Sixteen or more nest sleeps.”

  He snorts, then his body stiffens, sniffing as his gaze turns toward a cat across the road, licking her paw. I grab his arm and pull him with me, followed by Jaicom and Joseara. Varlith keeps his head turned toward the cat until we’ve gone around the corner. I fear I’ve created an eating addiction for him.

  I pay for mine, Varlith, and Joseara’s train tickets and settle into our booth when the train arrives. Jo
seara sits deliberately by Jaicom–I’ll grudgingly consider it an improvement to her acceptance of him, despite her reason for refusing to sit next to Varlith. So I sit next to Varlith. He smells of mud muck and something else I cannot place. Like a horse, except he’s a dragon.

  The train whistles and chugs forward, steam filling up the station, men holding hats and women their bonnets. I wonder if the Italian man watching me yesterday made it on the train.

  “Well, this is jolly.” Jaicom removes his hat and sighs with the same satisfaction one might do en route to a vacation in Greece. “This adventure is not so bad, is it?” he enquires of us all.

  Joseara looks fixedly out the window. I fumble with my wedding ring. Varlith chews on the hem of his robe with a despondent, “I’m hungry.”

  Jaicom taps his fingers across his knee. “I’ll save that question for the return trip.”

  The French landscape rolls by us in green hills and flowered fields.

  “…Paris, and catch a train to Vierzon,” Jaicom is saying, though I only half listen. “And then rent chaises as become available? Tempted to buy horses. Will be cheaper. I’m tempted to cut my finger off to ask the devil to get us there cheaper.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I shall pay for travel,” I say. “I have Fae Wood enough to buy us passage there and back.”

  “If the Illuminati don’t follow us.”

  “That shan’t be a problem. Varlith shall burn them.”

  The dragon snorts. “You speak of this thing as if I can.”

  “Ye can.”

  He blows on his hand, then looks at me.

  “Please don’t set fire on us all, in either case.” Jaicom snaps his French newspaper as he turns the page.

  “How much French do ye know?” I ask him, eyeing the paper.

 

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