Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  She stood with her back to it for a moment, holding the lamp against her skirt. She half-expected to find the chamber empty, after Dario’s warnings of how easily he could escape. But Allegreto was there—he lay propped on a cot beside the rough wall, bare-chested but for the sling and a dressing around his torso, watching her through slitted eyes.

  He didn’t move, or speak. When she saw the heavy chain on his ankles, she wished that he had escaped.

  "I’m sorry," she whispered.

  He said nothing.

  "I can’t let it go as you intended," she said, and sounded foolish even to herself. "I’m sorry for this. But I cannot. Do you understand?"

  Still he did not reply, but turned his head a little, as if he couldn’t look at her.

  She held herself against the door, quelling a frantic urge to turn and fling it open and insist that they remove the chains. At least the chains.

  "Put down the light," he said. "I can’t see you."

  Quickly she set the lamp on the floor and moved away from it. "Did they leave you no candle?"

  He made a sound of bitter amusement. "I’m a prisoner, Elena."

  She stepped in front of a little arched wall shrine with a crude painting of Madonna and child inside it—the only thing in the room besides the cot. "I didn’t mean for you to be treated as a common criminal. It’s near to freezing in here. I’ll have them bring a furnace and some blankets."

  He only looked at her, a lift of his dark lashes over his perfect sullen mouth.

  "Dario thinks Zafer might try to kill me," she said, all in a rush.

  "He will not," Allegreto said.

  Elayne took a step toward him. He seemed to reject her without moving, a faint shift back against the wall, that subtle withdrawal from any contact.

  "I’m not certain what to do next," she said.

  He lifted his eyebrows. His lip curled. "You don’t expect me to help you."

  She clasped her arms around herself and turned away.

  "I couldn’t help you if I wished," he said. "You said the truth. You have no allies. You must have none—most particularly not me."

  "I know," she said desperately. "I know."

  The simple Madonna had a blank, wide-eyed expression, as if a child had painted it. Elayne felt as stupid and stiff as the dull figure, with no words for the tangle of feelings inside her.

  "If they vote for Riata tomorrow, I’ll see that you escape," she said suddenly, with no notion of how she would do it. "You can go back to the island. And I can join you there."

  She heard him exhale a long breath. The island seemed a paradise to her now, a distant vision of safety.

  "That won’t happen," he said. "They will choose you."

  She made a little shake of her head, half-turning, afraid to look at him.

  "The things you said out there—they love you for it already," he said. "Is it not what you wanted?"

  She wanted only to go to him and touch him and make certain again he was alive. "Did Philip’s leech see well to your wounds?" she asked, still not looking toward him.

  "I’ll heal. I always heal."

  She looked at the curve of his shoulder, the bandages lit by the soft gleam of the lamp. They had given him clean woolen hose, but his hands were still stained with blood. She went to him and knelt down on the floor before him and took his unwounded hand into hers. The fetters rattled as she pressed her forehead against his fist. "I could not do else!" she cried. "I know you can’t understand."

  He let her hold his hand, but he didn’t open his fist. She turned his wrist and kissed his hard-closed fingers.

  "It’s not to take Monteverde from you," she said. "Can you believe that? I don’t want to rule; I never wanted it. I don’t know how. But I can’t let it be torn asunder."

  She lifted her face. He looked down at her. An ironic smile touched his lips. "You know how to rule, my lady. If you didn’t, I would not be here."

  She bowed her head and pressed his hand to her mouth. She tasted blood and smelled the cold scent of steel. "I thought he killed you. I saw his blade—I thought you dead then."

  "Not yet."

  She gripped his hand with an unhappy sound. "Why do you always speak so?"

  He gave a heavy sigh and relaxed his fingers open. He let her kiss them. He lifted his hand and brushed her cheek with icy fingertips.

  "I want to tell you something," he said. "I want to tell you about your grandfather."

  Elayne looked up at his face.

  "I knew him well, Elena. While I was still beardless, he used me to protect Melanthe. After your own father was murdered, and Ligurio was growing feeble, he made an accord with Gian for me to come into the citadel. I played the eunuch, so that I could sleep beside her, and act her lover." He had no expression as he looked down at her and let his fingers trace down her cheek. "She suffered me, because Ligurio said she must. But she despised me. Everyone in the citadel did. And feared me for what I could do."

  Elayne held his cold gaze, pressing his hand between hers, trying to warm him. She could feel his ring still on her finger.

  "Only Ligurio gave me welcome there," he said. "He taught me there was another kind of man beyond my father. That there was something in love that was not wholly dread. That there was reason in the world. And kindness. He taught me alchemy and astrology. He gave me a way to be something beyond what my father made of me." He scowled, his mouth hardening. "When Ligurio died, I went down in the pit under the citadel, where I knew no one would come, and wept until I was sick with it."

  He sounded angry. He lifted his hand away from her and rubbed it across his mouth, the fetters clashing.

  "I see him in you," he said. "I read his book. I heard what you said out there. We’re all Monteverde first." He dropped his hand with a chinking noise. "But you can’t do it while I live, Elena. Not I, and not Franco. There can be no point to rally around that is not Monteverde. Tell Zafer to slay Franco tonight, and then let the guard step away from the door long enough that a Riata can get to me. There’s one somewhere now, awaiting his chance."

  "No," she whispered in horror.

  "You came to ask my help. That’s all the help I have to give you."

  She pushed away from him. "No."

  "It will happen anyway," he said. "Do it now, and you’ll be safe."

  "Safe!" she cried. She stood up and turned away. "Do you think I care so much to be safe?"

  "I care for it," he said quietly.

  She shook her head.

  "It would be a favor to me." His voice grew harsh. As she looked back at him, he lifted his hand and gripped the chain in his fist. "I’ll die like this. You know it. Let it be sooner than later."

  "You will not die," she said fiercely. "It’s only for a little while, until you and Franco agree that your houses will cease this vendetta. Then I’ll set you both free."

  He laughed, an echo in the cold stone room. "Are you mad?"

  She let out a deep breath. "Perhaps I am mad," she said. She walked across the small chamber, standing before the shrine. "You asked me once, what choice you had. You said Cara had no answer for you." She blinked down at the crude painting, the awkward child and misformed mother, the colors gray and chalky. She turned to him. "This is my answer."

  He stared back at her. Then he closed his eyes as if he had seen something that he could not bear. He shook his head and sat forward, leaning over his injured arm with a deep grimace. He sat with his head bowed. When he lifted his face, he had a helpless look. "Elena, he’ll kill me. I’ll be in Hell and you won’t be there."

  Her eyes began to blur. She did not move. "I won’t let that happen."

  "How will you stop it?" He swung himself upright, standing with a clatter of the manacles, holding the sling against his chest. "Give me the ring." He reached for her hand. "You cannot be seen wearing Navona’s motto."

  Elayne covered her fingers, but he caught her arm, his grip hard and cold.

  "You’re Monteverde alone now." He dragged
at the gold band, yanking it over the bone without mercy as she tried to pull back. She gave a cry of pain and dismay. The door flung open, with Dario standing in it, his hand on his dagger.

  Allegreto glanced at him and stepped back, holding his hand away in clear withdrawal. He nodded toward the young man. "She’s safe," he said coolly. "But don’t let her from your sight again."

  * * *

  "Where’s my son?" Franco Pietro struggled from his cot and fell on his knee, clashing the fetters. He dragged himself upright against the wall. The wound on his thigh still seeped fresh blood through a bandage. "Is he alive?"

  "He is alive, and safe," she said. "Do not fear for Matteo."

  He paused, breathing through his nose. The scar below his eye patch was livid purple as he watched her warily. He glanced at Dario standing behind her.

  "Have you thought on what I said?" she asked. "That I mean to return to the houses what is rightfully theirs, as in my grandfather’s day?"

  "I heard what you said." He held himself on the wall with one hand. "You said more than that."

  "Yes. And meant it. If the people elect you tomorrow, then I have no intention to gainsay them."

  "And if they don’t?"

  She gave a slight shrug. "If it’s Navona they choose, then I suppose you’ll fight him to the death, and let Monteverde bleed. If it’s I—then there will be the same election in the city and all the towns."

  "You are mad, girl," he said.

  Elayne smiled bitterly. "So I’m told."

  He shifted, lifting his lip in a grimace of pain. "What is this hold you have on Navona?" he demanded. "I’d be dead by now if he had his desire."

  "Indeed, you would." She made a dry sound, not quite a laugh. "But he appointed me his conscience."

  "Madness!" Franco said, with a bewildered shake of his head. "If I had not seen it!" He squinted at her. "You don’t intend to ally with him?"

  "No," she said firmly.

  Franco Pietro looked at her with doubt. "He abducted you."

  "He did," she said.

  "I suppose you can have no love for him for that."

  "It was vile, what he did."

  The cot creaked as he lowered himself onto it painfully, his injured leg thrust out before him. "Did he force you to bed?"

  "Yes," she said. "But there’s no child of it." She stared at him, refusing to lower her eyes.

  "God succor you, Princess," he said. His voice softened a little. "It was ill-done. I should have sent my own escort for you."

  "Perhaps," she said. "I will bear the shame. You need not make it a public concern, but I tell you because I wish you to have such truth as matters."

  He gazed at her, his head tilted a little aside. "You’re a remarkable woman, for one so young."

  Elayne wanted to laugh in irony. Her ring finger throbbed, aching, but she held to a perfect and cool countenance. "My godmother Lady Melanthe taught me a little of what is required to rule."

  "To rule!" he said ruthlessly "You suppose you can rule? As a woman? A mere girl?"

  She glanced down at his chains and up again. When she met his look, his one eye squinted and he lifted his eyebrow.

  "Aye, you have me, for now," he acknowledged. "Unless Navona is behind all this in secret."

  "What would it gain him?" she asked. "He had his plans, until I prevented him. And you know what they were."

  He pressed his hand over the wound on his leg, shifting with a grunt. "It was you who stopped Matteo from—" He looked down at his hand. He began to breath harder. "My own son," he said viciously. "He set my own son to murder me!"

  "He did not. Matteo schemed to do it himself."

  He flung his head up. "No, that’s a lie!"

  "Matteo hates you," she said bluntly. "I’ll bring him to tell you to your face, if you wish. That’s why we were in the fortress, because I’d chased him to prevent him from such a deed, when he told me what he planned. Navona did not know of it. You know he would make no such stupid errors of his own accord."

  "Navona. God wither him, and let dogs eat out his heart!" Franco’s voice was shaking. "My own son!" he shouted, slamming his fist to his chest.

  Elayne took a step forward. "Listen to me now," she said coldly and softly. "It’s Navona’s doing, but it is your doing as well." She stood over him, her jaw taut. "It’s the sum of what Riata and Navona have come to. It is hate for the sake of hate, and fear for the sake of fear. You sit there and grieve and rend your breast for yourself, when it’s Matteo who knows nothing of love but that he should kill for it! You’ll reap what you sow—did you suppose you could escape it? That you could hound the house of Navona to death and feel no retribution?"

  He glared at her. "He stole Matteo from me."

  "As Riata stole me!" she hissed. "An infant, from a nunnery. And well you know why."

  He narrowed his one eye at her. "It was my father who did so."

  "It may be that his sin is visited on you and your son, then, by God’s justice," she said. "I don’t care. Leave that vengeance in His hands." She stood back, drawing a breath. "It’s time to leave such things and heal ourselves. I’ll bring Matteo with me to you, so he can see you and begin to know who you are in truth. His love for Navona is a child’s devotion, because he was afraid, and too young to understand."

  Franco’s broad shoulders slumped a little. "You’d bring him?" He touched the eye-patch and then gripped his torn tunic.

  "Not now. Not like this. When I can. But I’ll keep him safe until then."

  He sat looking down at the floor and shook his head. "In truth—it seems that I have some debt to you."

  "I’ll do nothing to harm you. I’ll protect you from Navona if I can. I ask that Riata makes no move against him either. I wish to reconcile the houses, and have peace."

  He lifted his head and gave her a curt nod. Without the scar and the patch, he would have been a handsome man, gray-eyed and fair-skinned like his son. "I’ll consider what you say. I promise you that much. I will consider."

  * * *

  The pile of stones lay before the dais, under three boards, one roughly chalked with a castle, one with a dog-and-bear, the third marked with a crude dragon shape. The rocks nearly obscured the castle drawing, tumbling down from the steep sides of the pile. Val d’Avina had elected Elena di Monteverde to rule.

  Elena. Not Elayne anymore. As she stood and accepted the oaths of the people, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle, she felt herself altered—as if with each murmured pledge, each kiss upon her hand, she lost Elayne of the summer fields at Savernake, of the island of Il Corvo, of Navona’s tower above the lake, and became another—a stranger—Princess Elena di Monteverde.

  Her finger still hurt where he had taken the ring. She could feel it, a slight throb with each pulse, a spike at her heart.

  Franco Pietro leaned on a crutch, scowling while the stones piled up. Allegreto stood silently, apart, both of them under guard and still manacled by hand and foot. Dario held fast to Elena’s side, scanning every person who came near, tense and alert to protect her.

  Couriers had gone out to the city. D’Avina was only one town, there was still the whole of Monteverde before her that must choose. She had written out the message to be read in the streets, using Ligurio’s words. She promised reunion, and a republic under her grandfather’s laws. She used his name with brazen authority; a return to a dream of better days.

  Philip had read it, and nodded once. "You’re a sweet-tongued rogue, Princess," he said with approval, and set his men upon the road. A message and a generous gift of her grandfather’s emerald-studded goblet went to the commander of the French condottiere lying at the pass to Venice, informing him courteously that Elena held the mint. Philip seemed to think that the Frenchman could reason from that to the strings of his purse, and would do so promptly.

  When she had greeted the people, down to the last broken beggar, she turned. "We will talk together now," she said, sweeping a glance over the two men under guard. "Come."

/>   To a thousand cheers and balls of snow that soared in the air and splashed against the ground, they left the piazza and walked under the heavy archway of the mint. They passed through walls ten paces thick into the inner court and the powerful mass of the mint itself, Phillip’s keys jangling as he opened guarded, lead-bound doors. They entered a chamber supported by carved arches and lined with chests, the silver hoard of Monteverde. The old bandit waited until Franco and Allegreto were inside, and then ordered his men out. Only Dario remained, standing behind Elena as Philip closed the door.

  She sat at the head of the broad table. She was tired, her insides shaky from spending the whole night in conference with Philip and Dario over how to proceed. She had a document before her, and pen and ink set upon the board. There was a seal of sorts hastily created from a Monteverde ducat attached to a stub of wood. She looked up at the two men before her. Neither of them had taken a seat at the benches along the table.

  "I give you joy of your victory, Princess," Franco Pietro said dryly, leaning one hand heavily on his crutch. "May you not live to regret it."

  Allegreto took a step toward him. The chain at his feet rattled. He stopped, staring darkly at his enemy.

  "We’re here because I wish to parley in private with both of you," she said, ignoring Franco’s words. "I don’t intend to release you until you’ve agreed to end the conflict between the houses of Riata and Navona."

  They were both silent, looking at one another with all the fondness and reconciliation they would feel toward toads and worms and pestilence.

  Elena allowed the hush to lengthen. She left them standing like a pair of refractory boys on either side of the huge cracked slab of tree trunk that formed the table. The light from a high window-slit fell down between the arches, as if it were a church. Finally she said, "What would be required, my lord, for Riata to agree to this?"

  Franco Pietro turned his look on her. "I don’t see how it can be done, Princess. I said that I ’d consider, but I don’t trust him. He’s tried to overthrow and murder me. You didn’t know his father, but Gian Navona’s malice bred true in his bastard whelp."