The pope had warned him that the Luchesi woman was capricious – some said mad – and ran cold like Alpine snow one moment and hot like Vesuvius the next. There were rumors that the girl was Urban’s own bastard daughter – but Pablo thought that madness. The pontiff had not spent nearly enough time in Rome for such dalliances. Then again, only a few moments would really have been required of him…
“Will…will you hear my message?”
Lily folded her arms. She stood upon the dais adorned in apparel unlike any he had ever seen before. Something about it screamed royalty, and yet it was impossible to deny the dark reversal of a papal gown as well. In all flowing crimson and violet, she seemed like far more than a mere human.
“Otto,” she said, letting her hand fall on the brow of the man on her left, “My shield-bearer and protector. What say you?”
The man she had named Otto – Otto Signari, if the papal factotums had appraised him correctly – stepped forward, his blood-daubed ceremonial armor clanking as he stepped. He was a beast of a man, and his reputation both north and south of the Alps was such that Pablo found himself reciting the Ave Maria over and over in his head.
As though he were an animal tracking prey, Signari approached and sniffed at Pablo. It seemed as though Signari’s lower right jaw, like that of his matriarch’s, was missing, but when he spoke it became obvious that his face had merely been painted with cosmetics to appear that way.
“There can be no peace with men. Drain the life from his husk. Send his skull back to Rome. Let him serve the role of messenger that way.”
As though with a will of their own, Pablo’s hands reached up to fondle the crucifix around his neck. He took no other action, but merely closed his eyes waiting for the blow to fall. Instead, boots and gauntlets clanking, Signari returned to his spot on the dais beneath his matriarch. Lily’s face was inscrutable. She gestured at the man on her right.
“Cicatrice, my most trusted and beloved counselor. What are your thoughts?”
Cicatrice was as famous for his guile as his counterpart Signari was for his swordarm. It was rumored that he had been responsible for the rise and fall of three Burgundian dukes before leaving France for greater opportunities.
His body was tightly wrapped in a linen shroud, with only minor modifications made for the fact that he moved, unlike the corpse such a garment was intended for. On his hip a handbell tinkled as he stepped down from the dais. It was a noise Pablo recognized well, for he had heard it many times. It was the type of bell used to call for Last Rites.
“May I?” Cicatrice asked, pointing at Pablo’s chest.
Pablo found himself utterly unable to respond, transfixed by the other man’s face. Like Signari, his jaw was painted like a skeleton’s. But he also seemed to have a real deformity. His left eye was solidly red, and a vertical scar jutted from it, up into his forehead and down to the side of his nose.
Without waiting for a response, Cicatrice took hold of Pablo’s crucifix and lifted it off his chest.
“Take hold of it, will you, Brother Pablo?”
“I…forgive me?”
Cicatrice tapped at the cross.
“Place your hand on your cross.”
His hand shaking like a spastic’s, Pablo slowly reached up and took hold of the bottom of his crucifix, while Cicatrice held the top. Instantly, the other man hissed in pain, and smoke began to billow from his fingers. With the ease of a child plucking a bloom of honeysuckle, Cicatrice snatched the crucifix from Pablo’s neck, breaking the thick cord which held it there. As soon as Pablo’s hand was off the icon, the smoke ceased.
Cicatrice held the icon aloft, as it seemed to pain him no more.
“There, you see. A man of true faith. His essence will be as foul to us as plague water.”
“Cut off his head then,” Signari growled. “We don’t need to feed off of him.”
“Quiet, my pet,” Lily said,
“Will…will you hear my message?”
Lily folded her arms. She stood upon the dais adorned in apparel unlike any he had ever seen before. Something about it screamed royalty, and yet it was impossible to deny the dark reversal of a papal gown as well. In all flowing crimson and violet, she seemed like far more than a mere human.
“Otto,” she said, letting her hand fall on the brow of the man on her left, “My shield-bearer and protector. What say you?”
The man she had named Otto – Otto Signari, if the papal factotums had appraised him correctly – stepped forward, his blood-daubed ceremonial armor clanking as he stepped. He was a beast of a man, and his reputation both north and south of the Alps was such that Pablo found himself reciting the Ave Maria over and over in his head.
As though he were an animal tracking prey, Signari approached and sniffed at Pablo. It seemed as though Signari’s lower right jaw, like that of his matriarch’s, was missing, but when he spoke it became obvious that his face had merely been painted with cosmetics to appear that way.
“There can be no peace with men. Drain the life from his husk. Send his skull back to Rome. Let him serve the role of messenger that way.”
As though with a will of their own, Pablo’s hands reached up to fondle the crucifix around his neck. He took no other action, but merely closed his eyes waiting for the blow to fall. Instead, boots and gauntlets clanking, Signari returned to his spot on the dais beneath his matriarch. Lily’s face was inscrutable. She gestured at the man on her right.
“Cicatrice, my most trusted and beloved counselor. What are your thoughts?”
Cicatrice was as famous for his guile as his counterpart Signari was for his swordarm. It was rumored that he had been responsible for the rise and fall of three Burgundian dukes before leaving France for greater opportunities.
His body was tightly wrapped in a linen shroud, with only minor modifications made for the fact that he moved, unlike the corpse such a garment was intended for. On his hip a handbell tinkled as he stepped down from the dais. It was a noise Pablo recognized well, for he had heard it many times. It was the type of bell used to call for Last Rites.
“May I?” Cicatrice asked, pointing at Pablo’s chest.
Pablo found himself utterly unable to respond, transfixed by the other man’s face. Like Signari, his jaw was painted like a skeleton’s. But he also seemed to have a real deformity. His left eye was solidly red, and a vertical scar jutted from it, up into his forehead and down to the side of his nose.
Without waiting for a response, Cicatrice took hold of Pablo’s crucifix and lifted it off his chest.
“Take hold of it, will you, Brother Pablo?”
“I…forgive me?”
Cicatrice tapped at the cross.
“Place your hand on your cross.”
His hand shaking like a spastic’s, Pablo slowly reached up and took hold of the bottom of his crucifix, while Cicatrice held the top. Instantly, the other man hissed in pain, and smoke began to billow from his fingers. With the ease of a child plucking a bloom of honeysuckle, Cicatrice snatched the crucifix from Pablo’s neck, breaking the thick cord which held it there. As soon as Pablo’s hand was off the icon, the smoke ceased.
Cicatrice held the icon aloft, as it seemed to pain him no more.
“There, you see. A man of true faith. His essence will be as foul to us as plague water.”
“Cut off his head then,” Signari growled. “We don’t need to feed off of him.”
“Quiet, my pet,” Lily said,
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