Votive (13 page)

Lowering himself in, he marvelled at how temperate it was, how soothing. If it wasn’t for the fog, and the absence of birdsong and animals foraging, he could have been in the foothills of the Dolomites over summer, rather than in the Limen.

After a while, he got out of the water and dried himself. It was so quiet, peaceful. Dressing slowly, he wondered how long he’d been gone. Without the sun, moon, or the bells of the basilica tolling the hours, he had no idea. There was nothing here to mark time. Flinging the drying sheet over his arm, he returned to the rock face they’d descended earlier. He found a small patch of grass, spread his towel out to dry, and let his thoughts run awry.

A noise above disturbed him and he leapt to his feet. A few pebbles were dislodged from the path and fell, striking him.

‘Watch it!’ he cried out.

‘Mi dispiace!’ said a deep voice.

The owner, a man leading a fine-boned chestnut mare, descended the last section of the trail and joined him.

‘Ah, you must be the new Rider,’ said the man and thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Cristoforo.’

Afraid lest the welcome prove to be a mistake, Dante took the proferred hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Dante Macelleria –’

‘No!’ said Cristoforo, squeezing Dante’s fingers. ‘Do not reveal your last name. That’s the privilege of the Elders alone to use. No allegiances here, no class distinctions, no
houses or bloodlines. Only Riders.’ He grinned, to take the sting out of his words.

Dante withdrew his hand and nodded solemnly.

‘You’ve been bathing?’ asked Cristoforo, nodding at his wet hair, the drying sheet spread on the grass. Dante nodded. ‘Come, pick up your belongings and walk with me. I have to take Castana to the corral.’ He indicated his horse. ‘She’s missed her friends.’

‘You’ve been away?’

‘Sì. I think a long time. I certainly feel it.’

Dante studied him out of the corner of his eye. He looked younger than the Elders but older than Alessandro. His brown hair had streaks of grey, as did his beard.

‘Where have you been –’ began Dante, and then stopped. ‘I can’t ask that either, can I?’

Cristoforo threw back his head and laughed heartily. Dante’s heart lightened. ‘Vero. You cannot.’ He slapped Dante on the back. ‘And I will tell you this now, for nothing, Dante who-so-casually-reveals-his-family-name. Neither can you reveal to whom or to what you’re pledged – your Bond. Do not speak of it. Some will try to draw it out of you. But no matter who asks, do not tell. That’s your secret, the only secret you’ll truly be able to keep here. Or so they say.’

Dante frowned. ‘My Bond is not normal …’

‘So I have heard.’

Dante’s eyes widened. ‘How could you?’

‘Ah, news travels fast. There are Riders moving through the mists as we speak relaying what has happened. We are being recalled for the conclave – to hear the Elders’ decision over what Katina has done. Over you, I gather, as well. It will take the equivalent of weeks to gather everyone. I just happened to be near home. I am sorry
that your entry into the Limen has been tainted by this, signor – it’s not your fault.’

‘So others keep saying. Well, Debora and Alessandro. But I am not afraid to bear the consequences,’ said Dante, thrusting his chin forward.

Cristoforo just grunted and arched an eyebrow at him.

They reached the edge of a crude paddock framed by a wooden fence. There were at least a dozen horses standing listlessly, the miasma swirling around their bodies. Cristoforo opened the gate and led Castana inside.

Dante watched him release the saddle and slide it off. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Depends what it is.’

‘What were you, you know, back in Serenissima? What did you do?’

Cristoforo flashed his teeth. ‘It may surprise you to learn that I was an apothecary.’ He slapped the satchel that swung over his hip. ‘I still collect herbs and plants. Riders are not immune to sickness or injury, though it’s rare. I do what I can. Sometimes –’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I try. There are things out there,’ he said, gazing into the mist, ‘that hunger for us. And their need grows.’

Dante followed his gaze and shivered.

Before Dante could pose the question on his lips, Cristoforo snapped back to reality, turned away and began to wipe down Castana, using long, even strokes. ‘Serenissima was the same,’ he said, picking up the conversation again. Dante had to think what he meant. ‘Only fools believe they are immune, that they’re safe.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘Serenissima?’ Dante nodded. Cristoforo considered the question for a second. ‘Not as much as I thought I would. At first I did. But not for long. I missed my wife, my children. I missed the feel of pillows beneath my head when I slept; I
even missed sleeping – and eating and drinking. But faster than I would have thought possible, my desire for these things faded. I came to enjoy what the Limen offers.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Time.’

Dante pondered that for a moment. ‘For what?’

‘For whatever one wants.’

‘Do you have a partner?’ asked Dante, deliberately avoiding looking at Cristoforo, but running his finger along the wooden railing of the corral.

‘Sì. I have three people I share my life with.’

‘What are their names?’ When Cristoforo didn’t immediately answer, Dante’s eyes flew to his face. ‘Mi dispiace. I’m not allowed to ask that, am I?’

Cristoforo laughed. ‘No.
That
you’re allowed to ask. It’s always best to be certain about relationships in a new community. You don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’ He folded the horse blanket and rolled it tightly before he replied. ‘Their names are Sandro, Regina and Maria. Our home is the one that carries the sign of the apothecary.’ He signalled somewhere in the distance.

Dante nodded. He hadn’t noticed it on his way through Settlement, but he would look for it in future.

‘Have you always been together?’

‘In here? Not always. Not all of us. I was with Regina first, but then, Sandro came and finally, we asked Maria to join us. Now, I barely remember time without them, even when I have to return to Serenissima. They are my family. My old one has long passed.’ He fell silent. Dante hoped he hadn’t upset him.

Cristoforo finished his ministrations and slapped Castana on the rump. She whinnied and trotted over to join the herd. He closed the gate and began strolling back to camp. Dante fell into step beside him. They walked through
the barren trees and dry bush skirting the perimeter, circling back around the marshland that deceptively sprouted dull green shoots on what appeared like firm ground. But it also burbled and spat, exposing its treacherous composition. A light breeze sprang up, nipping at their clothes and bringing with it the fetid odour that haunted the marsh. It didn’t bother Cristoforo, but to Dante, it smelled like death – like what he’d smelled back in Serenissima as he lay on the Ponticello di Mille Pietri. He screwed up his nose and picked up his pace. Cristoforo chuckled, understanding what prompted this unexpected burst of speed.

When they reached the tents, Cristoforo stopped. ‘Here we must part.’ He regarded Dante for a moment longer before offering his hand again. Dante clasped it. ‘Buona fortuna. I think you’re going to need it.’

‘Grazie, Signor,’ said Dante, realising he’d been dismissed.

He turned away and ambled back through the tents. At least he’d met one person prepared to talk to him, despite all the secrecy. And he’d learnt some valuable things. He wasn’t to reveal his surname, ask where Riders went when they left camp or about Bonds. Especially about Bonds. But he could ask about partners.

An image of Tallow filled his mind. Her dark tangled hair, those amazing eyes and her soft mouth. He tried to shut her out, but she kept returning, skipping along the edges of his consciousness just as she used to skip along the fondamenta. He smiled. How could he ever have believed Tallow was a boy? He remembered that time back in his uncle’s shop. The way they’d huddled together on the floor, the feel of her slender, firm fingers against the back of his neck, the way she’d looked at him with such longing. Warmth flowed through his body, making him catch his breath. How could he have known she wasn’t?

He also thought of Katina. What commitment did she have to Tallow that she would risk both her reputation and life for the Estrattore? He shook his head. No doubt, he would soon find out.

‘Can’t keep away from trouble, can you?’

Dante pulled up short. To his dismay, the man called Santo strolled towards him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dante swallowed. Not only had his walk brought him near the cave entrance, it had taken him into the company of the man who had tried to kill him. He looked around for the guards he’d seen earlier.

‘No-one to help you now, is there, ragazzo,’ spat Santo.

‘Signor, I do not seek trouble,’ said Dante, with a small bow and tried to keep walking. A hand clutched his shoulder and spun him round. A pair of ice-blue eyes glared into his. Santo dug his fingers into Dante’s flesh.

Dante inhaled sharply as the pressure increased. ‘What do you want?’ He refused to be cowed by this man. ‘What have I done to offend you?’

‘Your being here is an offence! Isn’t that enough?’ Santo shoved him hard. Dante staggered and slammed into the granite wall, falling to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his back burning.

He held his hands up in front of him. ‘Signor. I understand that the Obbligare Doppio is a travesty and I will do all in my power to rectify this as soon as possible.’

Santo sneered. ‘You? You can’t fix anything. You have no power, hear me? You are nothing.’ Trapped against the mountain, Dante saw that Santo blocked his way.

‘Then why are you so afraid of me?’ asked Dante quietly.

Santo’s eyes widened then his face turned red. ‘Why, you little bastardo –’ He began to draw his sword.

‘Santo!’ Another man appeared. It was Stefano. Although
he was not quite as tall as Santo, he didn’t exude aggression, and his presence seemed to have a calming effect. Santo pushed his sword back into his scabbard and retreated a couple of steps.

‘What?’

‘What’s going on?’ Dante noticed Stefano’s refined accent, his bearing which – though he may never reveal his surname – indicated breeding.

‘Nothing, amico mio. I was just warning the new Rider to stay clear of the cave. If he doesn’t, he might find himself locked up as well.’

Stefano looked askance at Santo and then nodded his head in Dante’s direction. ‘He’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be around here. Didn’t Debora and Alessandro warn you?’

Before Dante could answer, he continued. ‘Where are they, anyway? New Riders aren’t allowed to just wander around the camp. It’s against the rules.’

More rules
, thought Dante. He had so much to learn if he was to survive. This was nothing like he expected. Nothing. ‘I simply went to the stream, to wash.’ He indicated the drying sheet flung over his shoulder and his damp shirt.

Stefano and Santo studied him, their eyes raking him, judging him. He could feel simmering anger and something else behind their gaze.

‘Come on, leave him alone, Santo. This is not your problem,’ said Stefano finally.

Santo frowned. ‘But I only want to help –’

‘Santo!’ Stefano snapped. Santo shut his mouth. ‘Now is not the time or place. We don’t want another failure on our hands.’ He aimed the word ‘failure’ straight at Dante, a weapon drawn without warning. ‘I fancy a tumble instead. Something I know can’t
fail
to please me.’

‘And where you’re the victor?’ asked Santo.

Stefano smiled in a way that made Dante grow very cold. They both waited to see if Dante would react. He knew they were looking for an excuse to attack him. Well, he would not give them one. He stood his ground, meeting their eyes, maintaining his silence.

After a moment, Stefano turned and walked away. ‘Santo?’ he called.

‘Give me a minute,’ said Santo and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, stepped so close to Dante that their noses almost touched.

‘You think you’re some kind of hero, don’t you? That your Bond will change the world, save the Estrattore? Oh, don’t look so surprised – it’s pretty obvious what your Bond is, what it’s about.’ He jabbed his finger into Dante’s chest, right over his heart. ‘Well, let me tell you, you’re not going to save anyone – not Katina, not the Estrattore. You’re not even going to be able to save yourself.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Dante through gritted teeth.

‘Because Katina’s never going to succeed, and now she’s dragged you into her mess. So you’d better make your choice, decide which side you’re on and fast, because if you don’t, someone else will make it for you.’

‘And would that be you, then?’

Santo pulled away and burst into laughter. ‘Me?’ He was genuinely amused. Dante tried not to look thrown. ‘Oh no. Someone much more committed than me, Dante.’ He leant in again, his lips almost touching Dante’s ear. ‘
Macelleria
,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done? Are you a Bond Rider or just a
human
? Time will tell. It always does. Even in here.’

He pushed Dante into the wall one more time for good measure before spinning round and striding away.

Dante stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why did Santo say his name like
that? If only the Elders were supposed to use it, then why did Santo deploy it so freely?

A chill gripped Dante as the meaning of Santo’s words hit him with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. He fell against the rock, allowing its coolness to calm his burning rage. An anger tempered by dread. Lost in history and the fugue that attended thoughts and memories of his old life, he struggled to find what he was looking for – the implication of his family name. Nonno Renzo was so passionate about their origins, so determined they would understand them. As chandlers, part of their task was to render fat from animals. In order to do that, you first had to kill them. They took their surname from a trade that gave their own some status.