Shadowheart

  "I will," he said with soft certainty—with something nearly like pleasure. "It is what I am made for."

  There was no warmth in that pleasure, only a keen energy, a force that delighted in the game of life and death. She was not sure if it even mattered to him in that moment what came of it, if Monteverde were won or lost—it was only the game itself that counted for him now.

  And it was best that way. If she had frantic prayers and words of dread and love locked up inside her, she would keep them there, out of his sight and hearing. She stood straight and silent, committing to her mind the look of him, the shape of him, the stark curve of his cheekbone in the fire’s red glow.

  "I am yours," he said. He looked into her eyes, but it was like a chant, a motto spoken by rote, without tone or meaning.

  "I know it," she whispered.

  He turned from her to the door and left the room without farewell, so silently that it seemed he had never been there but for the scent of cold he left behind.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The only thing that kept her sanity was her grandfather’s book. It was called a history, but it was more. It was a voice that began in the mists of the past, in times that seemed as old as the lake and the mountains, speaking of the foundation of Monteverde in an assembly of all the people of the valley to elect a single ruler, because they were tired and sickened with quarrels and wars among themselves. It told of the choice of the green mount, where only a sainted hermit had ever lived before, as the impartial center of a new republic; it told of the building of the city and the discovery of the mines.

  Elayne sat in one of the very chambers where Prince Ligurio had once written—reading of how he had studied and traveled the lands of Monteverde and collected the memories of his people and inscribed them on the spot, so that his work would be as truthful as he could make it. There were stories of miracles and amusing tales of animals; there were legends and facts, and her grandfather was scrupulous in noting which he believed true and which he thought were fantasy.

  She felt as if she sat at his knee and listened to him, as if she could hear the very sound of him speaking to her. While the snow fell outside and she swallowed fear in every breath, it seemed almost as if he did speak to her, purposely—as if he had gathered here all that he might have taught her if he had lived to do it.

  His history was not like most she had read, a long catalog of wars and generals. He wrote of the wars that had battered Monteverde, yes, the hard struggles to keep the republic independent of Frankish and Lombard invaders, but he wrote too of the achievements in laws and charity that had accumulated over the centuries. He wrote of the dissention and factions that grew as the noble houses began to war among themselves, of how the council disintegrated under pressure from outside and in. He told of how the first Ligurio—her own ancestor and his—had fallen on Monteverde in its weakness and conquered the city, the final destruction of the republic in favor of a Lombard tyrant.

  "And if a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand," Prince Ligurio wrote, in the words of Saint Mark. "And if a house is divided against itself, neither can it stand."

  D’Avina was quiet outside on the Lord’s Day, the grinding of the miners’ tubs silenced, the houses and street mantled in snow. As she read, Elayne drank a cordial of hippocras wine, flavored and sweetened with spices. Dario had tasted carefully of it before she drank, then left it for her warming by the fire. She remembered the last snow she had seen, from outside the window of Lady Melanthe’s solar. She had been in misery then over losing Raymond’s favor—what a small childish hurt that seemed now, and yet she had thought she would never heal or smile again.

  Raymond was a good man, a devout knight, obedient to his liege and the church. There was not much chance, Elayne thought, that he would die unshriven and hellbound. She had a moment of intense longing for the sunlit days of Savernake Forest, for the heartaches of an untried girl. For someone to speak to openly of all her dread and uncertainty. In the night she had begun her monthly courses, a sure sign, Libushe had taught her. She carried no child, and the depth of her relief and sorrow for it filled her with miserable guilt.

  But she had only the book of Ligurio’s words, and as she turned to them again, and read, she slowly began to perceive the dream he had for Monteverde.

  * * *

  By late evening Nim was in a mood of relentless play, bounding from one corner of the chamber to the other, up over the high bed, dragging the richly embroidered pillows to the floor. The young dog had been out with Dario twice, but he did not like to leave his post for long, and refused to take her again. Elayne sacrificed one large gold-threaded tassel that the pup had already chewed off the bed—no doubt worth a year’s living to one of the miners here—and used it for a toy to save the fine carving on the back of the door from Nim’s raking claws.

  Elayne threw the tassel and played tug until finally it rolled under the bed. Nim was almost too large to follow it. The pup bowed down as far as she could, her head and shoulders under the bed-frame, her white plumed tail curled up over her back as she struggled to reach the golden toy. Then suddenly she pulled back, her eyes alert. She abandoned the tassel and bounded to a window, scrabbling at the base of the wooden seat. Her deep-throated bark seemed to rattle the glass lights.

  "Hush! Hush!" Elayne sat down on wood as cold as stone, trying to quiet the enthusiastic pup. Nim could not decide if she were more interested in clawing at the base of the seat or jumping halfway into Elayne’s lap. Elayne finally let her scramble up, heavy paws sinking into Elayne’s stomach, a warm furry bulk in her arms.

  Nim put her black nose to the open window crack, trembling all over as she sniffed at the cold air flowing in. Elayne held her tight, to prevent her barking and just for the comfort of holding an innocent living thing close in her arms. Nim bore it for a few minutes of time, and then thrust her nose again to the window, batting at it with her paw. The glass swung open with a draft of freezing air. Nim barked and lunged, bracing her paws on the sill and staring down into the street.

  It was empty of people, but the snow had stopped falling. Under breaking clouds, evening light picked out the gold on the houses and glowed on the gray walls of Maladire. Nim barked again, the sound echoing in the street, taken up by distant dogs. A motion caught Elayne’s eye—she looked across at the tiny alley between two houses and saw Matteo staring up at them.

  He turned instantly away as Nim flew into a frenzy. Elayne jerked the pup back and locked the window closed. She ran to the door, but Dario was already opening it.

  "Your Grace, you must not let the dog—"

  "Matteo!" Elayne hissed, running to him. "He is outside!" She barely grabbed Nim back from flying through the door.

  Dario froze. "Where?"

  "In the alley across the way! Hurry! You’ll see his tracks!"

  The youth did not hesitate. He vanished out the door.

  Elayne flailed about the prancing pup, trying to buckle the dog’s leash onto its collar. She was pulling on her mantle, trying to keep Nim from grabbing the hem and make certain that she had the veil to cover her face, when the dog yanked free and ran back to the window, trailing the leash.

  Nim jumped onto the seat, circling and sniffing at it. Elayne thought there must be a mouse behind the wood; she called the pup and started toward her, then shrank back, smothering a shriek as the seat bumped visibly under Nim’s heavy paws.

  The pup leaped free. Without a sound the seat rose like the lid of a chest as Matteo crawled out.

  "Nim!" he whispered, falling on his knees while the puppy leaped all over him and licked his face. "Your Grace! I didn’t know you were in the town!"

  "Matteo." Elayne could not find another word in her throat. She strode to the window and looked down into the hole that emanated cold air and the scent of rock and dust. She could see the rough stone inside the wall, a single stair and hand-hold—the rest was blackness.

  "Oh, child," she exclaimed, "I’ve been so afraid f
or you! Where have you been?" Then she had a dread thought. "Did you find your father?"

  "Not yet!" He looked up at her, a brown-haired, gray-eyed boy with rosy lips and a pointed chin that gave him a fey look. His sturdy soft-soled boots and leggings were damp with melting snow. "But I have been nearly in the castle!"

  "You must not!" Elayne dropped her mantle on the floor. "Wait here for Dario."

  "No! He won’t let me go! He’ll stop me! Please, Your Grace, don’t tell him!"

  Elayne paused on the brink of speech. She fell on her knees beside the boy and took his small cold hands into hers. "Matteo! I don’t know how—I can’t—" She could not find words to tell him what Allegreto meant to do. "You must not go!"

  "I know I am Riata, and no one can trust me." He looked up at her with wide eyes, with a plea that tore her heart. "But please—Princess—"

  "It is no shame that you are Riata," she said. "Never think so."

  "It is," he said. "But I can be trusted. I have a plan that my father will not guess. Dario will think I can’t do it myself," he said, lowering his face shyly. "So I didn’t tell him. But I can!" He lifted his face with a childish excitement. "I found my way under the castle! I could even look a little into it, though I haven’t found the way inside yet. This warren connects to that building across the street, where they keep the silver. I know all the Navona tokens—I followed them—they’ve tried to block some of the passages, but there are others they cannot see. I can do it!"

  Elayne stared at him. "Do what?"

  "I can kill Franco Pietro," he said, his rosy face intense. "I know I am not yet grown, but my lord killed a man when he was no older than I. I heard him tell you so. I’ll kill my father for him. And then he will trust me."

  She closed her eyes. "Oh, God save, Matteo," she whispered.

  "Do not tell Dario, I pray you!" he said. "I only came because I saw you and Nim in the window, and I wanted—" He grabbed the puppy and hugged it to him. "If I should not return."

  "Your return is not at issue. You will not go," Elayne said sharply. "Do not think it."

  "Please don’t tell!" He let Nimue go. "I must do this! It is my only chance."

  "No," she said.

  "I will!" he cried, pushing out his lower lip. He scrambled to his feet. Elayne had seen a child attempting escape often enough to reach for his collar, but before she could grab him, he kicked her, a blow that struck her just below the throat so hard it knocked her back to the floor, all the air escaped her lungs.

  She gasped for air as she scrambled upright, but he was already into the window seat and dropping in one swift leap out of sight. Elayne gulped another breath and leaned over the black well. She ran to the door, but Dario was yet gone. She had no time to call on Donna Grazia. Nim stood over the opening, leaning her head down as far as she could reach, searching with her hind paw for purchase. With one light spring, she leaped into the hole, trailing her leash.

  "Avoi!" Elayne muttered frantically. The candle lantern by the door was already lit; she yanked it from the hook and held it down into the opening. She could see a set of stairs between stone walls, barely wide enough to pass, descending into shadows. Nim and Matteo were lost from sight.

  She gathered her skirts and put her feet over, sitting for a moment on the edge of the window seat. With a deep breath she let herself slip down, holding the lantern before her. Through openings of glass and horn, her candlelight bobbed on rough steps that were so high she had to sit upon each one to slide down to the next. The space was narrow enough that she could not turn, only look straight up to see that the wooden cover was still open above her. When Dario returned, he would at least know where to follow.

  By the time she reached the bottom, the rough-cut stone blocks had given way to a passage hacked into the mountain itself. Rock bulged from the walls, colored in rusty reds and strange vivid greens in the light of the lantern. The way led in three directions into utter blackness, one back toward the town and the others away.

  Before she had to choose which one to follow, Nim came trotting out of the dark, tripping over her leash. Elayne crossed herself with a prayer of thanks and reached down to grab the trailing lead. She ducked her head, avoiding the overhangs and the distorted walls, making her way as fast as she could in the direction Nim had come, with the puppy dragging her avidly ahead.

  It seemed an endless passage. She thought it led toward Maladire, but there was no way to trust her sense of direction. Sometimes she heard other footsteps, but she could not tell for certain if they were Matteo’s or only an echo of her own. The boy had no light, but he had been taught to move silently and hide well, she knew. No doubt he could make his way swiftly in the dark.

  At a fork, Nim did not pause but plowed ahead with her nose close to the floor. The pup stopped at a puddle, finding it a sudden fascination, but Elayne pulled her on and she sprang forward again.

  A bronze gleam flashed in the darkness ahead. Elayne stopped, lifting the lantern, while Nim tugged insistently at the lead. She moved cautiously forward. A door blocked the passage, a solid buttress sealed in the stone. The familiar imprint of the Navona motto—and the dogs and shepherd and bear—glimmered dully in the lantern-light.

  She drew a breath, set down the lantern, and crossed herself again for guidance. She was surprised that Matteo would know the secret key; she doubted Allegreto would trust the Riata boy with it. But Nim had pulled her unerringly down this passage. To go back now as far as the fork might mean to lose him entirely.

  The panel slid back smoothly on her first attempt at the opening sequence. She reached for the lock and started to turn it—then had a moment’s thought of all that Allegreto had tried to teach her of caution.

  She closed the lantern, leaving only the light from the punches in the lead casing. Holding Nim up close on the leash, she slowly turned the latch and allowed the door to swing open. A quiet, eerie melody and chant made the hairs rise on her neck. In the faint thin line of candlelight, a set of stairs led upward. There were unmistakable footprints on them in the dust, as if someone had passed this way recently more than once.

  Nim strained to go up. Elayne stood in the doorway, breathing a little easier as she recognized the sound of compline prayers from somewhere above. She did not think she was yet in Maladire itself.

  If Matteo had come this way, she had fallen well behind him. There was no loose stone, no way to prop the door. She judged it best to return to the widow’s house and Dario, who would have far better skill than Elayne at stealing through tunnels and walls in pursuit of a foolish and unhappy boy.

  Nim ceased her pull suddenly and came down from the step, her tail wagging. She gave a deep bark. At the same instant something hit Elayne hard from behind, out of the tunnel. She stumbled forward, cracking her knees on the first stair as a child’s figure lunged past her through the door.

  Matteo scrambled up the stairs like a silent cat. Elayne threw herself after him, managing to grab him by one ankle. He kicked and squirmed, but Elayne held on with the strength of desperation. She rose just enough to fall upon him with her full length, pinning him to the stairs as they struggled in silence while Nim danced around.

  The weak light winked out. With Matteo panting and wriggling beneath her and Nim snuffling at her shoulder, Elayne realized with horror that the door had closed behind them, with the lantern on the other side.

  "Be still!" she hissed in Matteo’s ear. "Matteo, Matteo, listen to me for the love of God. You must not go!" She wanted to scream at him, but she kept her words next to his ear. She wanted to plead with him to understand the hideousness of what he thought to do, but she had no time or reason to reach a child’s heart that had been twisted so badly. Instead she whispered, "Do you want your father’s men to catch Il Corvo? Do you care nothing for Zafer and Margaret? He is in there now to save them, and it will take every atom of his skill to do it. Every instant is a danger to him. To all of them. Do you understand? You cannot help, but only hinder. You cannot earn his tr
ust this way, but you might be the cause of his downfall. He does not expect you, or know what you intend—Matteo, I pray you, I pray you, do not put him in such danger."

  Her voice caught, for the unexpected strength of what she felt. Matteo ceased his fight, suddenly going limp beneath her. He lowered his head, his small shoulders shaking. "I want to help!" he whispered. "I only want to help."

  Elayne sat up carefully, making certain she did not lose her hold on him. There was a tiny amount of light from somewhere above; she could barely see the pale shape of his face as she pulled him close into her arms. For a moment he resisted her and then pressed his face to her shoulder.

  "I knew I couldn’t do it," he said brokenly. "I c-can’t do anything right. He’ll never trust me now."

  He does not deserve it, she thought fiercely. Allegreto never deserved such love, not for what he had made of this boy. But she did not speak past the ache of anger and fear and love in her own throat.

  As she held him, there came a sound, a huge low boom that seemed to reverberate through the very stone around them. Nim gave a nervous half-bark. The evening hymns ceased. Elayne turned to look up the stairs, clutching Matteo as the boy twisted to see. Above them was nothing but shadow. From a great distance shouts of alarm filtered down.

  "We must go back," she said urgently. She pulled him with her toward the door. He did not resist—the depth and strength of that sound was warning enough that something beyond their grasp had happened above.

  Elayne blindly explored the door, searching for a latch or carvings. But the metal was a blank wall under her hands. She could find neither handle nor symbols, and no way to force it open, not under all her strength.

  * * *

  From a spy hole under the parapet walk, Allegreto watched the drawbridge and the outer gatehouse burn, pouring black smoke against the last glow of twilight on the snowy mountains. One jostle of the two glass vials that he had carried through the tunnels to the bridge, and he would have seen Hell himself far sooner than he wished. But he was not yet blown to pieces, and the arrows shot by Philip’s best marksmen had ignited the powder of fulminating gold in a crack of thunder that echoed off the walls and soared instantly into flame along timbers anointed with resin and sulfur. The only known way out of Maladire was a sheet of unquenchable fire.