The Illusions In Between

by J M Robison

  I inhale through my broken nose and scrub both hands across my face. “No. Just tired. Been a long two days.”

  Silence from across the fire. “Indeed it has.” When the conversation doesn’t revolve around to something we are both comfortable talking about, she lies down and turns her back to me.

  I do the same, trying to ignore the heavy breathing coming from the tunnel where Zadicayn and his wife chose to…sleep. I’ll ask her when I wake up, I promise myself. I’d rather bear the hurt of rejection than bear the pain of never having asked. I don’t fall asleep for a long while, long enough to watch Zadicayn exit the passageway and approach me.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Zadicayn

  I walk toward the Italian, who sits up. I can’t imagine why he’s not asleep yet when even my three-month-old son is.

  “Come with me,” I say in a quiet murmur. “I need a translator.”

  He blinks several times and rolls to his feet, shrugging into his tunic and pantaloons. He nods. I lead him down the passageway, careful to walk around a sleeping Brynn and my two children.

  Once we are out of earshot, Darik asks, “Where are we going?”

  I light a fire ball and hold it in front of me for light. “To speak to the Pope.”

  Darik snorts and shakes his head. “The…Pope? Like in, Pope Pius?”

  “Yea.”

  He plods beside me, head down. “You do know you can’t just waltz into the Vatican and talk to him, right? He doesn’t receive special audiences.” His accent clings to every word.

  “He shall.”

  “What are you going to talk to him about?”

  “Ye said the man who kidnapped my wife is a cardinal at the Vatican. Ye can’t convince me the Pope was not involved with it.”

  Darik makes a disagreeing noise but doesn’t voice anything, and the subject drops.

  We turn left and skirt over a fallen column. “Have ye told Joseara yet?” I ask.

  “Told her what?”

  He fell for my bluff because his pause before his response forced into a tone of false question confirms my suspicions.

  “That ye fancy her.”

  A longer pause. “I’ve only known her two days. I don’t know why you think I fancy her.”

  “She embraced ye when we all arrived back here. Joseara and Jaicom both had their backs to the fire, but ye were the only one facing inward, not sleeping. Am I wrong to assume my assumptions upon thee?”

  I take his silence as a retreat out of the topic. I debate whether I should tell Joseara. Knowing her, she’d have no clue Darik was attracted to her. She doesn’t think anyone would be, because of her face. Best to let Darik confront her. If he ever will. We’ll leave as soon as the Fae Arch is complete.

  We exit the building onto the square where I…dueled is not the right word since Carlo was suspended in the air the entire time while I slammed his body and comprehension with magic. I’d like to use the word defeated. It feels comfortable, but I can’t trust it until I know for sure.

  We travel in silence the rest of the way beneath the drizzling rain. It’s hard guessing the time with the bleak overcast, but it’s not solid dark anymore, so I trust the sun has since risen.

  I follow Darik, who takes us down narrow roads between tall buildings. Street feuding persists in patches, so it takes us a long, roundabout way to arrive in what Darik named Saint Mark’s Square. The square is actually a circle, formed by Greek pillars and crowned with statues of saints frozen in the single position which encompassed their entire life.

  We cross the breadth of it. Darik approaches two men dressed like court jesters, though armed with halberds instead of juggling balls. They stand so still I’m not entirely sure they are real.

  Darik looks at me. “These are the Swiss Guard. They’re bodyguards to the Pope, and keep vigilance on the rest of the Vatican. What do you want me to tell them about your audience with the Pope?”

  I untuck my tunic and rip off a strip with my teeth. Communicating the spell, the cotton threads transform into a wooden stick.

  “Whoa…” Darik breathes.

  Now having the full attention of the Swiss Guard–who grip their halberds more tightly–I spell a hunk of ice to grow on one end of the stick and seed a tiny candle flame on the other. The ice won’t melt, and the fire won’t consume the stick.

  I hand it to Darik, who stares at it, awestruck.

  “Show the guards. If my suspicions art correct, they shall know what to do.”

  Darik turns to the guards, and I see the realization click in their eyes. One breaks protocol and snaps his eyes to me. I pull my amulet out of my tunic and dangle it with a grin.

  “Seguimi, mago,” he says. He lifts the butt of his halberd off the ground, turns, and walks away.

  “He says to follow.” Darik looks at me. “How did you know he’d react like that? I thought for sure he was going to kill you for heresy.”

  I step past Darik, after the bright yellow and blue-striped uniform of the guard. “Ye shall know every intimate detail in a moment.”

  The guard takes us through doorways, up and down stairs, until I’ve lost track of how to make it out again. We pass more jester-dressed guards, none of them even turning their eyes to us as we pass. We come upon a courtyard, squared in on all four sides with no obvious way in or out. Not for the public, then.

  I know our journey approaches a close when we enter a chamber with glossy marble floors and biblical frescos winged across the ceiling and robed high on the walls. Fit for a king’s Grand Hall.

  The glossy floors and pontifical hues of religion on walls and ceiling continue down the corridors, up stairs, to the final door we pass through into a sitting room of sorts. A square rug touches eight padded chairs around its edges.

  “Attendere qui. Il Papa sarà a breve con te.” The guard leaves, closing the door behind him.

  “We are to wait.” Darik folds his arms and looks hard at me. “I know I told you Carlo was a cardinal, but that doesn’t mean the Pope was involved. To what purpose?”

  “We shall see.”

  Darik paces a moment, then slumps into one of the chairs and closes his eyes.

  The door opens. I face it, feet spread. Arms folded. Darik snores.

  The Pope steps in.

  Pope Pius IX, if I’ve been correctly tracking the predecessors of the church who want me dead. Not that I recognize his face, but the humble white robes and white skull cap. He closes the door behind him, slowly. I suspect the dread he must feel about facing the man whose wife’s kidnapping he orchestrated. It speaks volumes that he did not pull his bodyguards in here with him. Us alone together. If Pius speaks English, I’ll let Darik sleep. He likely does, to sway Queen Victoria into the faith.

  He faces me, clasping his hands in front. “I am to blame.”

  His piety enrages me. A pulse throbs in my temple. “Ye had Carlo kidnap my wife?” I’m so choked up with rage I can’t speak, with all the words fighting in my mouth. I’ve never murdered before, but in this singular moment, the rage I feel toward the Pope is double-fold what I felt for Carlo last night.

  “Please, sit.”

  “No.”

  He nods once and pads toward me with steps so small I cannot see his legs move beneath his robe, appearing to glide across the floor. He passes me without concern and sits in a chair next to Darik and his slack mouth.

  Pius rests both hands on his knees, back straight. “I am to blame for Carlo.” He keeps his eyes closed, mayhap, so he won’t see the sinful admittance depart his holy lips. He opens them. “But Carlo is to blame for your wife.”

  I stand rigid, forcing calm into my breath so I can hear this out. My next words were going to be the accusation that he kidnapped my wife to force me to Rome so they could purge the world of my magic like they nearly succeeded six years ago. Now I don’t know what accusation to make. Pius looks at me, waiting.

  “Ye knew Carlo was a Black Magician?”

  “Men are not perf
ect, so long as they breathe. Even me, though I still hope I’m better than most.”

  “The Holy Father himself asking for help from Satan’s Own?” I throw the accusation without any proof. There is clearly much more here than what I have yet seen or heard–his calm patience proves it–but as far as I’m concerned, the admittance he did make for Carlo being his fault directly connects to Pius orchestrating my wife’s kidnap.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Pray tell, explain it to me, and then I shall explain to thee the same point I explained to Carlo last night.”

  Pius does not appear moved. More humble, rather. I can’t shout my hate upon a humble man. Though the moment he deviates, he’ll see the endless reaches of my soul. God shall damn me, certain, but preferred over me damning myself.

  “Carlo’s magic,” Pius begins, “is no different from the magic of the Fae Wizards we used to borrow help from a few hundred years ago.”

  “Fae Wizards are not–”

  His voice, though soft, cuts me sharply off, as if an unseen prompt compels me to listen. “All magic–wizards, magicians, necromancers–are all sin, according to God. Whether it comes from Diablo or the Fae, it matters not, for it does not come from God.”

  “Ye speak as if ye know how my magic works.”

  “The Pontiff maintains all ancient records. A few: the Urbino Bible, Plautus’s Comedies, two hundred twenty leaves of Byzantine theological texts…and the Historicis Descripta Fae Illusion. It’s vague, but enough tells us your blood powers the amulet, and both are needed to harness magic.”

  I’m mightily disturbed that someone wrote down the workings of Fae magic. Suppose any good historian would. “Then add to it ye must also speak Faery, for without that language, the Fae shall not understand ye to grant magic.”

  “It shall be done. I suspect there was more to what Carlo read, but he was too eager.”

  I get the feeling Pius is intentionally avoiding the heart of the issue. Forcing my patience, since he clearly saw hell in my eyes when he entered? ‘Twould be something the Catholic head of the church would do. This thought is proven right when he looks directly at me and smiles. We stay like that for a full stretched minute, his patience dueling my hunger for answers.

  “Too eager, ye said?” Arms folded, I tap fingers along my arm.

  “Too eager. Carlo has only been a cardinal since January. He’s well learned, ambitious, and came highly recommended. So, I made him a cardinal. Only after I laid the red beret on his head did he corner me in my garden and show me the power he had over his demon.”

  His smile hardens, fingers pressing down on both thighs. “That was the day I learned about Black Magicians, the Illuminati, and Fae Wizards. Carlo knew about the ancient texts scripting the vague details of Fae Wizards…in the Vatican’s own library! I confess there is still much in that library I do not know about. But Carlo knew. Only cardinals, me, and explicitly invited guests can go into that library. Carlo became a cardinal to gain access to the library and learn about you, your magic, and how to take it. Because, I suppose, your magic is far more superior than his?”

  I nod slowly, flexing my patience to wait for him to get to the answer I want.

  “He learned it all as much as he could. He taught the Illuminati about it. Even devised a plan to do it. Their over-arching plan was to take control of the Catholic Church. They had already started. Carlo threatened to use his demon on me if I did not sign his edicts as if I had written them if I did not make this decree or that decree…Being unfamiliar with magic, I could not know the full scope of what he could or could not do, so I obeyed him. And prayed.

  “The Illuminati planned to steal the Fae Wizard’s magic. The only problem was–though they had heard about a Fae Wizard in England six years ago–they could not pinpoint your location. They knew you had made an appearance in Bristol, so they homed in on there, but without success.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed hard through my nose. My duel in the gypsy camp.

  Pius steepled his hands in front of him, fingers pointing to the floor. “I told them where to find you.”

  My eyes fly open. A spell hums on my tongue and prickles my blood. Listen, an impression tells me. “Ye best rush with thy explanation,” I warn.

  I’m satisfied when he bows his head, though it’s not in shame. A heave of his shoulders bespeaks it is a relief. He lifts his head. Grinning. “I told them where to find you, so you could free me.”

  My fingers stop their restless drumming on my arm. Anger bleeds out of me, coaxed so by his voice beckoning a calm. It certainly keeps Darik soundly asleep, a throaty snore shuddering out of his sharply exposed throat.

  “Carlo took your wife.” Pius shakes his head. “I had no idea he would do so. As soon as I found out, I fasted for her safety and your strength to see Carlo through and show him the error of his ways.”

  Anger curls back under my skin. “It’s because of you, I had to.”

  He nods, naked to my accusations with no attempt to dress himself. “I prayed to God for deliverance. I felt that God had sent you.”

  I have to clench my fingers over both arms to lure my anger back. His humble tone and faithful convictions turn my rage into slippery elm. I was the pawn in someone’s prayer. A pawn in the Pope’s prayer. I don’t know how to handle that sensation. “The Illuminati now know where I live. They shall always want my magic. My family will never be safe from them. Thy church has already killed me once for it.” I wish he’d interrupt to give me a reason to shout louder.

  He only nods. “The church doesn’t understand magic. I didn’t either until this January. You are not bound to a demon like he was. I realize that now. I realize the difference, and I apologize for my predecessors for doing what they thought was right–though they were misinformed–and killing your kin. But I know apologies won’t bring back the other Fae Wizards, or even forgive myself for being responsible for Carlo kidnaping your wife. So, I ask you, what can the Catholic Church do for you?”

  Earnest brown eyes implore me. I hold their gaze, flicking my eyes to gold. “Decree to thy church in Valemorren to cease their hunt for me so I can live as a free man out of hiding.”

  “It shall be done.”

  “Prove it.”

  “In one month’s time, the priest in Valemorren will receive my decree to stop seeking your amulet. I’ll make the priest show it to you. Have faith that will happen,” he says, for he must see the distrust in my face, “for I can’t stop you from coming back to Rome and scrambling my brain as you did to Carlo’s.”

  “I didn’t scramble his brain.”

  He leans back. “You misjudged your display. I watched from my balcony. Guests at the hotel around Piazzo Navona reported seeing horrific things, all saying they had to turn away and not watch. And pray they were not next. They rushed out and picked up Carlo’s body. Someone recognized him as being a cardinal, and they brought him here. Carlo has yet to remember his name, how to speak, or even chew food.”

  I’m stunned. I just wanted to scare him, not scare his own name out of his body. I struggle between rejoicing with the knowledge that the Illuminati won’t come after me again, and with shame for having done such devastation to another person.

  He kidnapped your wife and child. And for that, I don’t feel a wit bad for him.

  I grin and tilt my head to the side. “Ye should have heard him pray.”

  A snort escapes Pius, but he recovers, if somewhat bashfully. He resumes humbleness. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Zadicayn Eldenshod. But, before you leave, I hope your rage toward me has been satisfied so you can leave with no more hard feelings or regret. I wish for you to walk out of here with a soul purged of all your hurt and anger. If you do not think you can do that at this moment, then I pray, compel your rage and hurt upon me so you, my son, can be free.” He reaches both hands, palms up, toward me.

  I take a step away from him, rage dwindling away as if his words had popped a hole in my heart and everything
drained out. “As long as thy decree comes to Valemorren freeing me, I shall remember this moment no more.”

  He pulls his hands back into his lap and stands. “Thank you again, Zadicayn, for freeing me, for freeing the Catholic church of Diablo’s grasp. You may leave when you are ready. My guards stand outside the door to escort you out.” He turns to the door and walks out as slowly as he entered.

  I slump in a chair, riddled with shock and joy. I want to laugh to make sense of them both. I’ll further ponder the complications on my way home. I’ve got to get back and tell Brynn the good news.

  “Darik.” I shake him.

  He snorts. “Huh?” He sweeps the back of his hand along his mouth and rubs his eyes. “The Pope’s not here yet?”

  “He’s come and gone already.”

  “What? You didn’t wake me?”

  “He spoke English. Ye needed thy rest.”

  He stands, growling. “What did you talk about? Was he responsible for your wife’s kidnap?”

  “I shall explain on the way.”

  * * *

  I talk as I walk, wanting to run to Brynn and embrace her with the good news of what the Pope promised. But I keep an even pace with Darik, who wanted to question each statement. He’s less willing to accept the Pope’s plight.

  We enter the underground chamber. It’s void of anything living, but the Fae Arch is complete. Between the two white arms of the arch spreads an expansive view of green rolling hills.

  Darik stops short. “Where did they all go?”

  “Eudora escorted everyone through. With everything that’s happened, they are safe in the Fae Realm on their way home. I’ll catch up.”

  Darik presses the back of his hand to his teeth and bites down. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  I knew he was pining for Joseara, but I didn’t see the full scope of his bond with all of us until this moment. I was now a free man–from the church, and most certainly from the Illuminati. But in the event either of them changes their minds, I could use more soldiers in my army.

  I clap him on the shoulder. “Ye act like ye had no intentions of coming back to England with us. Was I wrong?”