The Blessed (10 page)

She prayed that God would begin his healing work now, cutting out each limb of the tumors, eviscerating them open, digging out the poison, capturing it, pulling it from the man's body, and knitting together his bones and muscles and sinew where there would be vast holes. Anette's voice came down low, and then slowly, steadily edged into the upper reaches of a perfect pitch that gave Daria chills up and down her arms as she worked.

Then suddenly, Anette stopped.

Daria opened her eyes and saw what had given the countess pause. The angels . . . at first it was as if a line of candles was casting a warm glow about the room. Eventually they took form, and Daria could see them as well as the others. Tessa stood in the corner of the room, eyes wide and tears running down her face.

They were taller and broader than Gianni, so brilliant in the clarity of their white that Daria could barely stand gazing upon them. At each window, an angel stood on guard, looking out into the dark night. They were safe, so safe in this room, even with forces of evil just steps away. Because God's own were here to protect them.

“Daria,” Gianni said in a low whisper, eyes alight in awe.

“I see them, Gianni. Vito?”

“I see them, too, m'lady. 'Tis a pity the priest isn't here.”

Daria smiled. “Oh, he knows that God's warriors are here, one and all.”

Those angels on the inner circle, five in all, stood between and about Lord Devenue's bed. One looked to Daria, his face a marble masterpiece of frightful, fearsome beauty. She could barely tear her eyes from him, but he gestured forward, to Dimitri, wanting her to complete her work. Daria glanced to the others. They, too, stared at her and down to Lord Devenue, faces alive with anticipation.

“Lord Devenue . . .”

“If I didn't believe before, I most certainly do now.”

“If you didn't believe before, this would not be transpiring.” She closed her eyes again, calling upon the heavenly hosts, upon the Holy Spirit, to aid her in her cause. Her hands traced the mammoth tumor to the side of Lord Devenue's head, praying that God would take it from him, destroy it, bit by bit by bit . . .

Anette gasped and again, Daria opened her eyes. Dimitri was unconscious, but beneath her hands, it was as if her fingers were of a stone from the fire, and the tumor butter melting at her touch. She leaned closer to the man and could feel an angel on either side of her, leaning in, watching, almost as wondrous as she at what was transpiring. Daria pressed down on the apex of the largest portion of the tumor, and within minutes, it was flattened, Dimitri's skull again in proper proportion. She reached for the fingers of the tumors, slowly flattening each tendril, as if she were a potter and Dimitri's skull mere clay.

Anette laughed then, watching in wonder, crying incessantly. She tried to sing, but the tears caught in her throat. That was when they heard it. Heavenly realms picking up her note and carrying it to such heights that Daria thought it might kill her to listen to such perfect, majestic beauty. She prayed for several minutes over Dimitri's head, asking the Lord to eradicate it of illness, to cleanse him, to knit him back together, healthy and whole.

Then she moved to his torso and hovered over the areas that radiated angry heat, as if defying her presence, or the Lord's presence. It was as if the cancer wanted to stay, like an angry lion defending his dead prey as tomorrow's sustenance. But she stood her ground, leaning harder into the tumors there, sensing their exact dimensions again, as she had on Dimitri's head. She stood there and felt heat move from her fingertips, countering and then surpassing the cancer's heat until it succumbed and receded, slowly, ever so slowly.

Daria searched Dimitri's chest for any further sign of the illness, but could find no more. Could it be so simple, so quick? She opened her eyes with a smile of gratitude on her lips and gazed in wonder at the angels within Dimitri's room. But they were already disappearing, becoming a wave of warm light again until nothing was left but the flickering candles at each window.

She rose and walked after them as if she could capture them, contain them until she had enough of looking upon their holy visage. Their exit left her feeling breathless. But they were gone.

“I was not the only one who just witnessed that,” Vito said flatly, hand on chest, face pale.

“Nay,” Gianni said. “We all saw it. The Lord's own were here. Here in this room with us.”

“Daria,” Anette said in little more than a whisper.

Daria turned and looked back to the bed.

“They were here as witnesses,” Anette said, stroking Lord Devenue's head and face. He still slept, but his head was once more in perfect proportion. The light of the Holy Spirit shone through Anette's eyes. “They were here to witness the miracle of healing. And sing of it in the heavens. Can you hear it, m'lady? Can you hear it?”

And in the distance, as if the tiniest sound at the threshold of human hearing, Daria could still hear the strains of a heavenly chorus.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“CARDINAL, Cardinal,” the man said urgently, shaking Cardinal Boeri awake.

He sat up, head in hand. “What? What is it?”

“Your slave, Cardinal. He is mad, drawing with his own blood upon the walls! He screams as if bearing a demon. We fear he'll break his wrists, the way he pulls at his irons!”

Cardinal Boeri rose and hurriedly pulled on a robe. Bishop di Mino came into the room, already dressed, and met his gaze with equal concern, having overheard the whole conversation. Together, the men left the cardinal's guest quarters and hurried down to the stables, where Hasani was being held.

It was not screaming that met their ears but the deep, aching tones of grief. The big, black man sat in a corner, his robe torn as the men of old used to do in mourning, rocking back and forth, weeping. Cardinal Boeri ventured inward, shaking off the bishop's warning hand, raising his lantern high to see the walls, strewn with blood.

“I . . . I know this place.” The Pont du Gard, an ancient Roman aqueduct that spanned the sprawling Gardon. It had once aided the Romans in bringing water to the city of Nimes, and in recent times it had been converted to a bridge.

His eyes scanned the other figures in the drawing. Even clumsily drawn in blood with the end of a stick, he could easily make out Daria d'Angelo, Gianni de Capezzana, the priest, and others in the company of the Gifted. He did not know two men and a woman beside them, but they looked oddly familiar. Who were they? Who—

Cardinal Boeri's eyes stopped at the figure on the end. This was a knight he knew. He had seen him more than once in the company of Gianni, Daria, and the rest. His face was distorted by the pain, an arrow in his chest.

The cardinal looked to Hasani, and the man stared back at him in agony. “So you are their seer,” he said bluntly. “Honestly, man, I had no idea.” He knelt down beside him, staring into Hasani's eyes. “How long until this transpires?” he asked, waving toward the bloody wall.

Hasani stared back at him, the whites of his eyes bloodshot from weariness? Or tears? For a long moment, Cardinal Boeri did not believe he would answer, confirm what he knew.

But then Hasani shrugged.

He beat his chest once and pointed, as if to say,
I must go, go now.

Cardinal Boeri stared at him a moment longer. “It is not far, this place. I cannot depart on the morrow—I have an audience with the pope. But we can go the next day. At first light.”

Hasani rose, regal and menacing even in chains, as if he meant to make them go within the hour.

“At first light,” Cardinal Boeri said evenly. “You do not know whether this will transpire today or on the morrow or a month from now, correct?”

Hasani continued to watch beneath a furrowed brow, not answering. The cardinal took that as agreement.

“I am here on your behalf, Hasani. I am here to argue for the safe passage of your own Daria, my former captain, Gianni, and the rest. They head in our direction even now.”

Hasani's eyes shifted, and he raised his chin, hope alight in his eyes.

“Yes, they escaped Amidei's isle and have followed the path of the glass map here, to Provence.”

Hasani studied him, frowning. The cardinal could see him wondering how he knew of the map, how he knew so much of the Gifted.

“I know much of your group, Hasani. Of Daria being a healer. Gianni, your man of faith. Piero, with the gift of wisdom. Gaspare, the fisherman . . . he must have the gift of miraculous powers, right? I've heard tell that he commanded the skies to rain, and commanded them to cease, and nature heeded his call. Is that true?”

Hasani looked away, unwilling to betray his friends.

Cardinal Boeri began to pace. “I know of the healings throughout Toscana. I surmised that your lady must have healed Gianni himself, when all his men were killed. I know of the healing of the lepers off Venezia, the healings of others in the city herself.”

Hasani rose, every muscle in his body tense, but the cardinal could not stanch the cascade of words from his mouth. The seer! Here! The Gifted were his!

“The doge told me of the legend of the glass map, how it came from Alexandria and was distributed among the seven main churches of Venezia. No one had seen them for several hundred years, but somehow the Gifted were given the clues to find them, yes? Hidden beneath a peacock in each church?” He let out a laugh of wonder. “As if Lady Daria's own family crest were in each church, right?”

Hasani leaned an arm against the stone wall and let his head droop.

“Did you think we of the Church would not notice your actions? Did you truly believe you could keep it covert? We know everything that transpires in our lands, keep close tabs on anything that might subvert our faithful. And the Gifted . . . I had been watching for you for some time.”

Hasani looked up at him then, across his rippled bicep, so that the cardinal could see only his steady eyes.

“Oh yes,” he said, pacing again. “I have a portion of your letter. The letter that may have been penned by Santo Paulo?”

Hasani's brow furrowed as he looked down at the cardinal.

“I purchased it from an antiques dealer in Constantinople, some thirty years past. I was a mere priest then, studying and serving in the old capital.” He stepped closer to Hasani. “I would like to believe that the Lord brought it to me because we were to somehow serve together, Hasani. It could not be coincidence that would bring Gianni into my service for years, a man who would become a part of the Gifted, and I, the man with a portion of the letter that foretold of his coming—six hundred years before he was born. It cannot be a coincidence that I am a cardinal able to travel here to Avignon, now, to assist in the defense of the Gifted so that they might be allowed to do what the Lord has asked of them.”

Hasani grunted and lifted a hand.

“Yes, they have already landed in Marseilles. Their intent is obviously to travel here and seek an audience with the pope. I am here to help them.”

Hasani searched him intently.

“What do you think will happen if they march in here, unannounced, unaided? The Lord's Commissioner would be immediately summoned. They would spend the next year on trial, harangued, interrogated, defending their actions without sanction of the Holy Church. They would be imprisoned, punished, mayhap even tortured by the civil authorities, of course, until they said the words the Commissioner wished to hear. Their only chance”—he raised a hand and stepped toward Hasani—“
their only chance
is if I help them make a way. I can tell of the wonders that transpired in Italia, their battle against the Sorcerer, a proven enemy of the Church and of Christians everywhere. I can introduce them so that their presence is not such a shock to His Holiness. I can make him see that the Gifted might be of assistance to the Church rather than a threat.”

Hasani looked away, thinking over his words.

“Lady Daria suffered enough nights as a prisoner, don't you agree?”

Hasani frowned in his direction.

“The doge learned she was severely whipped.”

Hasani moaned and looked to the ceiling.

“There is more, my friend. Amidei, our Sorcerer, already has inroads here in Avignon, forged years ago. Not only must I lay the groundwork to introduce the Gifted and win them support, I must also begin to dismantle Amidei's foundation so that we can take him down as well. Otherwise, the Gifted may be in as much danger in facing him with his increased influence as they are in facing the Church.” He walked to the door of the prison cell. “So you see, I must have this meeting with the pope on the morrow. To give it up will hurt our cause in multiple ways.” He glanced at Hasani's drawings on the wall. “If the knight is to die, he will die. Have you been able to change the winds of fate as of yet?”

Hasani stared at him and then hung his head and slowly shook it.

“Nay. I did not believe so. You can see the future, but you cannot change it, right? You are simply condemned to live through it.”

Hasani looked up and then lifted his hand to his chest, gesturing toward the heavy silver cross hanging from Boeri's neck. “Pie-o,” he tried, grimacing at the effort. He pointed again at the cross and said, “Fa' Pie-o...”

“Father Piero?”

Hasani nodded. “A-ay?”

“Alive? Is Piero alive? Why yes, I think so.” He studied the man. A wave of relief swept over his face. Had he had a vision that the priest would die?
Ah yes, the arrows.
“The doge . . . he learned that in escaping the isle, the priest took several arrows to the chest. Is that what you saw?”