Seduced by Pain (24 page)

"In our
hidden world, perhaps, but not in the regular world. To them I'm just his
widowed sister who is forced to work as a mid-wife, while he is the great and
rising physician to the wealthy." We'd had this conversation too many
times to count, but Elizabeth never gave up.

Her eyes
narrowed, and I knew what would come next. "Marry Philip. You know he'd
have you in a heartbeat if you but gave him the slightest indication you wanted
him in that way. Then we'd be real sisters and we could live here together and
do the work we were meant to do."

I would have
given almost anything to live that reality, but it wasn't to be, and Elizabeth,
who believed the world could be anything we chose it to be, would never
understand. "I have to go. I'll see you soon."

I draped my
leg over the horse and left my friend behind as she ushered the new mother and
babe into her home. The pull of their lives, of that home and the safety and
freedom it would afford me was strong. But I didn't love Philip in that way,
and knew that I never would. Even still, our friendship and deep caring might
have been enough, if not for the other who waited for me in the near future. My
heartstrings had already bound to his, sight unseen, and I couldn't change the
course of our destiny, I could only hope to shape it enough to save at least
one of us from a fate worse than physical death.

Andriy Zorin

21 October 1519

"What is the city but the people?"

—William
Shakespeare, Coriolanus

Venice stank.
Like most cities, it stank of the people that populated it. The smell of dung
and dead things spilled from the canals—appropriate, in a way. The canals
were, after all, the roads of Venice. Roads had horseshit. The canals had
people shit.

They had
barges too, packed with goods by day and festive drunks by night, and Gondolas.
The boats, sharp and flat like blades of grass, streaked through the water,
carrying ladies who enticed the men with their flesh, and Gondoliers who
recited poetry old and new. Even when the streets were empty—but of
course, they were never empty—winged lions and griffins listened on,
forever etched in stone by the meticulous hand of an artist. Some statues had
been forged from bronze, others stolen. They say the Horses of Saint Mark came
from Constantinople. The armies of Venice sacked the city during the fourth
crusade and dragged the horses back to their city, placing them on the terrace
of the façade of the Basilica, where they forever graze. The city had statues
and boats and colors and foods as various as the seasons. And this season, the
fall wind touched everything with a slight chill, like the air from a window in
a stuffy room. It was quiet nice.

It didn't make
up for the shit.

I rubbed my
nose and walked across Piazza San Marco, a town square so unlike the winding
streets of Venice and so full of human. Before me stood Saint Mark's Basilica
at nightfall. Seldom did a Venetian vessel return from the Orient, without
adding to the Basilica clumps of some ancient building, as if it were a castle
made from sand and not from stone. Lead-covered domes topped the chapel, and
marble carvings and columns, older than the structure itself, covered the
interior brick walls. Four roman emperors, the Tetrachs, held each other in the
south west corner. Five round-arched portals led the way inside. Frozen in
stride, the Horses of Saint Mark looked down upon me with their old eyes, as if
saying, "
You do not belong here.
You are not wanted."
They were right. But when anyone other than me
is right, they are wrong. I entered the house of god. The Nephilim Tribunal lay
within.

"They
will not want to see you." Ezio strode beside me and clutched his coat.
Only nerves drove a man to hold things so close.  Only nerves turned a man's
fingers bone-white. "We should go back to the country, maybe Florence, no?"

I shook my
head, still walking. "The election is here, not in Florence."

"That's
the problem, my friend."

"If you
wish, you may wait for me out here." I gestured at the interior dome and
the mosaic above.

Ezio
harrumphed. "You know that'll never do, my friend. Wherever you go, I
follow."

"And I'm
glad to have you with me." I clapped him on the shoulder and walked behind
the columns on either side of the inner dome.

The choir
lofts were empty at this late hour, and only two men walked upon the floor,
whispering prayers to their god, heads clutched in their arms. As they wandered
out of sight, I traced my hands down the wall and found a loose piece of
stone.  With a hard push, it sunk in, and a stone door opened, revealing
stairs going down under the Bascilia. They led to the Tribunal.

"I have a
bad feeling, my friend," Ezio whispered.

I grinned and
descended the stairs. "Let's hope it goes away then. You wouldn't want to
lose your appetite. I hear the feast tonight will be… how would you say it?
Fantastic."

"What
feast?" Ezio followed me, each step a heavy thud, as if he carried a
burden on his shoulders.

I suppose I
was a burden. "Prince Dante is getting married tonight."

"And we've
been invited?"

I smiled my
secret smile. "Not exactly."

"But we're
still going to go."

"You know
me too well."

We arrived in
the Under Dome. Here, not murals, but paintings draped the walls, and
torchlight told their tales. At the end of the hall, three doors stood under
marble arches, all a different kind of color.

Obsidian,
darker than the night sky, plated the archway on the right, and sapphire
banners hung from its teeth-like spires. Black steps rolled out from the
doorway, swathed in sheen, yet the door itself devoured all light, as if the
mouth of a gluttonous beast. The air hummed, and it seemed to growl at me.

The archway to
the left glittered. It was gold, all of it, as if an empire had melted down its
wealth and poured it over the auburn door. Crimson banners guarded the way
inside. The Court of Sunrise kept their riches within.

Color split
the central archway, lathering the left side in gold, casting the right side in
black. The banners followed form, red on the left, blue on the right. It was
beautiful. It was The Court of Twilight and seat of the High King.

Sunrise,
Twilight, Nightfall. I would rule them all.

We approached
the center door, and a figure, leaning against the wall, covered in armor both
gold and black like its charge, shifted the spear on its shoulder. It spoke
with a woman's voice, full of honey and subtlety, like a Goddess. "Why
have you come here?"

I decided to
call
it
a she
,
and she deserved a bow. "My
lady, I am Andriy Zorin, heir of Erebus, son of Nightfall. I am here to claim
my seat on the Tribunal."

She-Goddess
snickered and unclasped the chainmail over her mouth. The dark red
lips—she had to be of Sunrise—made a pleasant sight, and I started
to notice the curves of her armor, woman's curves.  "Call me The
Watcher. The last man to call me a lady died a very unpleasant death."

"How
unfortunate."

"For him."

I imagined The
Watcher drive a spear into a man's gut and rend it free, spilling bits of
intestines on the marble, and my own stomach clutched as if in defense. "Did
the man try to get past you?"

She puckered
her lips as she paused, and my hands got a little hotter. If the rest of her
body matched that mouth, she was beautiful indeed. "He tried to court me."

I made a note
to never court The Watcher. "May we pass?"

She shook her
head and pushed off the wall, speaking with an edge not directed at me. "Prince
Dante is receiving his trial."

"And you
can't interrupt such a momentous occasion. I completely understand." I
creased my eyes and softened my voice, as if sharing words between friends. "However,
it would be a shame if Dante was elected. There are such better candidates."

Even more
anger filled her words. "I agree. Tiberius should win, but the old fool
isn't even running. So Dante will win almost uncontested, and he has no respect
for the old ways."

"No
respect."

"The pig
thinks he can have anything he wants."

"Anything
he wants."

"He
should have never have even been made Lord of Sunrise."

No one had
told me that little detail. "It is frowned upon for a Lord to seek the
Twilight Throne."

"Exactly.
They say he communes with the church, you know, and The Pope."

More news. I
rubbed my chin and said nothing.

"If he's
elected, our entire faith will go to the mud."

I used my soft
voice, laced with passion, again. "Our faith is stronger than that. Isn't
that right Ezio?"

He jumped, as
if from sleep, and raised a weary fist halfway in the air. "Yes. Our faith
is stronger."

"Stronger!"
I roared.

The Watcher
shook her head. "What is it with you? Please be quite. There's a ceremony
going on in there."

"My
apologies. I just get so invigorated." My hands waved back and forth as if
in real shame. I didn't feel it. I couldn't remember the last time I had. "How
much longer are the proceedings?"

The Watcher
sighed and slouched back against the wall. "Hours. And I'm here on
ceremony, not for actual protection."

"A waste
of skill, though not of beauty."

The Watcher
frowned. I forgot: don't court The Watcher. So I did my shameful act again.

The frown
faded. "You can wait."

"Thank
you. I understand. You can't let us in."

"No."

"But you're
not here for protection."

"No."

"Only on
ceremony."

"Yes."

"So if we
were to… "

A smile crept
on The Watcher's lips and a gleam entered her eyes. "I think I'm going to
take a nap." She slouched lower on the wall and lowered her head.

And we walked
on through.

***

The Throne
Room reflected its exterior, torn in half by two factions and their colors. The
first floor stretched long and wide, covered in a black and gold carpet, lined
with suits of armor on either side. The second and third floors held balconies
from which you could view the hall. Members of the Tribunal used it while
making judgments. Those pleading, or on trail, used the first floor and seemed
puny amidst the vast hall. At the far side, a circle engraved with glyphs and
cycles of the moon marked the carpets end and the place where the elected High
King would ascend to the throne. No other way could The Twilight Throne be
reached. It had been carved from obsidian and gold fused together, with a base
like giant rock, and the mixture hung suspended in midair, a shimmer of white
heat around it. If a Nephilim flew close by, their wings would burn off. Some
say, they'd never grow back.

Unless, you
were the High King. Then you'd stand within the circle of glyphs, the Moon
Dial, and a path of stairs would rise toward the throne. The white heat would
not touch you. The seat would not graze you. And you… you would rule all of
Nephilim.

***

I would be
king. No matter what The Watcher thought, Prince Dante would not go
uncontested.

He rested on
one knee at the center of the hall, no doubt accepting the trial he would have
to perform to prove his worth. Whatever it was, the Tribunal spoke of it no
longer. Instead, they turned their gaze to me.

A voice like
parchment, thin and old, drifted from a second balcony. "Who comes here?"

In this hall,
hundreds of feet below ground, the air squeezed around me and drained my lungs,
leaving the smell of smoke behind. My muscles tightened. A hint of sweat
touched my brow. I was about as deep in a city as you could be. At least it
didn't smell so bad.

I put on my
biggest smile and sauntered to the center of the room. As my face reached the
light, gasps dropped from the balconies.

"Count
Zorin." The old man spoke again, and I could see him now, above me.
Tiberius. Pale skin, full of lines and grooves like wet bred, clung to his
hollow eyes. Whatever hair he once had on his head, had transferred to his
beard, which ran past his waist and twisted in thick, rope-like cords. Black
robes veiled his body, though by the looks of his veined hands, it was a slim
thing, worn away by age. Not many Nephilim showed long years, but those who did
often displayed cunning and intelligence. They had sought out immortality at
their old age, and they had found it. Tiberius had not only found it, but
become the Lord of Nightfall as well.

I flung my
hands on my hips. "I have returned, my Lord. Please, show me to my
council-seat."

Tiberius' face
betrayed no emotion. Not when he didn't want it to. Then… he laughed. "You
dare claim a seat among us, whelp? Your father would weep in his grave."