Kushiel's Scion (106 page)
I smiled. "Good."
As it transpired, he had a certain knack for it. In the days that followed, the upper level of the Tadeii villa was transformed into a bastion. Stairways would be sealed, doors barred and blockaded. A hail of arrows and scalding water would rain down from the balconies. If Lucca held, the villa would hold.
At least for a time.
Everywhere across the city, others were doing the same thing. For a trade city, there was precious little trade afoot. No one could enter or leave, and Gallus Tadius had put a halt to trade among those merchants who were trapped here. I had to own, he was even handed in his approach. All goods that were confiscated were shared alike. Anyone caught hoarding was put to death. It only happened twice. Both times, the offenders were strung up on a gallows in the central square.
It was an effective deterrent.
"Hear me!" Gallus roared, riding back and forth before the second swaying corpse. He pointed his finger at the gathered crowd. "Lucca stands. And while it stands, no one, not the least among us, man, woman, or child, will starve while there is a handful of grain to share." He gave his death's-head grin. "And share you will, on pain of death."
There was no word from Terre d'Ange, no word from Tiberium, no word from the Unseen Guild. On occasion, I caught sight of Canis when our squadrons passed. We began training with thrusting spears. Once, we skirmished together, although he was some distance down the opposing line from me. I could barely see him for the rain. He seemed to acquit himself well. Afterward, I saw a couple of his fellows slap his back in approval. A few of ours complained that the deaf-mute had a heavy hand. And then Gallus Tadius changed our orders, and we began training in the city streets, each squadron assigned a specific section.
It kept raining.
The water in the moat kept falling.
I went to see Helena Correggio.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
I was received graciously in the Correggio household.
Gaetano was elsewhere when I called upon the palazzo, but Helena's mother, Dacia, greeted me with a deep curtsy. "Your highness," she said. "We owe you thanks beyond words."
She was a tall, elegant woman with kind eyes, and I liked her immediately. Indeed, whatever madness had befallen Lucca, the women bore it with infinitely more grace than the men. Then again, their dead had not been tyrants and mercenary soldiers.
After brushing off my polite demurral, she escorted me into a salon and went to summon her daughter. A servant arrived with a carafe of watered wine and a plate of dates; the height of hospitality during the siege. I ate a date and sipped sparingly at the wine, mindful that it was a portion of someone's daily ration. More days than not, I felt hollow with hunger.
Within a few moments, Helena arrived.
It surprised me, knowing what I did of Caerdicci culture, that we were allowed to meet unchaperoned. And then I remembered that Helena was a married woman, and no longer a maiden. Whatever virtue the Caerdicci place in virginity, hers was no longer at issue.
It was awkward at first. Although we shared a common bond, we were strangers to one another. We spoke of desultory matters; the siege and its effects, mostly. It was Helena who cut through the awkwardness and went straight to the heart of things.
"Will you tell me your story?" she asked. "The true story?"
I hesitated. "My lady, why do you want to know?"
Her hands were clasped hard, fingers working unconsciously. "I know the tale my nursemaid told me; the tale of the Bella Donna and her missing child. My father told me that it wasn't true, that it was only women's foolish superstition making something false out of politics and intrigue. It's not, though, is it? Not only that. I want to know the true story."
"I don't speak lightly of it," I said.
She knotted her fingers. "I don't ask lightly."
And so I told her.
At another time, in another place, I might not have done it. I cannot say. She seemed so young to bear the burden of my dark tale, with her shining, baby-fine hair and her clear blue eyes. But she bore her own burden of betrayal and lost innocence behind those eyes, and once I began to speak, the words kept coming. I told her of being raised in the Sanctuary of Elua where my mother had hidden me from the world, all unwitting of my own parentage. I told her of my own abduction by slave-traders, of being sold to the merchant Fadil Chouma. Of travelling to Menekhet, where Chouma sold me to the Âka-Magus, the Drujani bone-priest.
Daršanga.
I told her only that it was a foul place with a mad ruler who did terrible things. It was enough. I told her that some died and others lived and all of us kept despair at bay one minute, one hour, one day at a time. And I told her how Phèdre came into the midst of it, bearing an impossible gift of hope. How Phèdre and Joscelin rescued us, and the zenana rose up and overthrew the garrison. How I had learned who I was.
Helena listened to it all without comment, drinking in my words as the parched earth drinks in water. When I had finished, we sat for a moment in silence together.
"So it is true," she murmured at length. "In a way. True and not „ true.
"Most stories are, my lady," I said.
A quick smile flickered over her face, so fleeting it was barely there. "I prayed to her," she said. "When Lucius told me he wouldn't marry me, that he was going away to Tiberium instead. I snuck out beneath a new moon. I went to the crossroad before our home, where we make offerings to the lar compitale, and I buried three blue beads beneath a cobblestone like my nurse told me." She drew up her knees, hugging them. "I prayed to the Bella Donna to find a way to save me from Domenico Martelli da Valpetra and let Bartolomeo and me be together."
"You should have been more specific," I said wryly.
Her eyes widened and a startled laugh escaped her. "Oh, Bona Dea!" She stifled her laugh with her hands. "It's not funny. But when I saw you, I was so sure…"
"I'm just—"
"I know," Helena said, growing somber. "I do. But it's true, too, isn't it? True and not true. Do you think… do you think the gods always answer our prayers like this? Sideways?"
"Mayhap." I smiled. "That's a good way of putting it."
She smiled back at me; a real smile. It faded, though. "I'd take it back if I could." She rubbed her knees. "If it meant bringing Bartolomeo back."
"It's not your fault," I said gently. "Valpetra's a cruel, greedy man. He wanted Lucca and he was bound to act on it, Helena. Your prayers had naught to do with it."
"Didn't they?" She rubbed harder. "Bartolomeo died because he loved me. I wanted to die that night. I did. But I was afraid, and Valpetra promised… he promised he would spare my parents if I did what he said. So I did." Tears filled her eyes. "Oh gods! I should have let him kill me. If I had any courage, I'd take my own life and join Bartolomeo."
"Helena, no." I knelt on the floor beside her couch and eased her hands into mine. "It would only break your mother's heart. None of this is your fault."
"It feels as though it is," she whispered.
"I know." I nodded. "You'll carry guilt like a stone in your belly because a bad thing happened to you. I don't know why. I don't know why we do that. Mayhap because it's easier than acknowledging that the world can be cruel and unfair, and the gods only answer our prayers sideways at best."
Helena sniffled, but her eyes were intent through her tears. "How do you live with it?"
I sat back on my heels. "You just do. Day by day. It gets easier to bear. You accept the gift of your life with grace and try to be worthy of it." I squeezed her hands. "Does that make sense?"
"Some, yes." Freeing one hand, she touched my bruised cheek, a touch as delicate as the brush of a moth's wing. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't saved me, would you? I heard about what Valpetra told the D'Angelines who came for you."
I shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me." Her face was grave. "I'll try to be worthy of it."
We gazed at one another a moment too long.
Long enough for me to realize I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss away her tears, to soothe the ache in her heart with gentle words. To let her know that love is a trust, a sacred thing, that no debasement can besmirch it, that no betrayal can destroy it. To give her a haven, to offer her protection. Ah, Elua! I yearned for tenderness.
"I should go," I murmured, pulling away.
Her voice broke. "Please, don't!"
"I have to." I stood up, and she followed. "Helena…"
"I know. It's just…" She scrubbed away the marks of her tears with fierce determination, though a fresh onslaught stood brimming in her eyes. "What was it you said about a stunted tree?"
I touched her hair. It felt as silken-fine as it looked.
"Asclepius came to me in a dream," I said to her. "At his temple. We spoke of wounds. He told me to bear the scars with pride. He told me, 'Even a stunted tree reaches toward the sunlight.' You shine very brightly behind your tears, my lady. But I fear this is the only gift we are meant to give one another."
She closed her eyes, new tears falling. "It's enough."
I nodded. "It is."
I felt lighter when I left the Correggio household; all at once melancholy, yet lighter and strange within my own skin. Peace. I was at peace with myself. I hadn't felt that way since I'd left Balm House, healed of the aching wounds of my adolescent desires. The rain-washed streets of Lucca seemed uncommonly beautiful to me. All throughout the city, people were going about their daily chores, striving for normality. They were cold and hungry and frightened, but they were surviving as best they might, quarreling and living and loving. I wished I could protect them all, fold them all within my arms.
A vast tenderness filled me.
I have been blessed in my life, I thought. For as much darkness as I'd endured, there had been brightness, too; brightness beyond telling. If I died here in Lucca, my life would not have been lived in vain.
In the central square, I dismounted. Heedless of the curious glances, I stooped and touched the cobblestones. I bowed my head, my damp hair hiding my face. "Blessed Elua," I whispered, "I am in your hand. If you have sent me here for a reason, let me serve you well. Mighty Kushiel, accept your reluctant scion's prayer. If I may serve as the instrument of your justice, wield me as you will."
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